Could i request one with patrick jane where the reader just joined the CBI and he kind of takes her under his wing like a mentor(?)
It could even be like where the readers oblivious to his advances even tho the whole team can see it and it just ends w smut and they get tgt
Love your patrick writing by the way its usually so so hard to find fics of him
The Final Lesson
Thank you so much for your request and for the kind words 🤍 it really means a lot, especially since I know how hard it is to find fics of him on here. I really hope you like it!!
Contains: smut, car sex, praise, dirty talk, teasing, fingering, piv, age gap (not specified)
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The transition from the academy to the CBI was supposed to be a rigorous professional milestone, but within forty-eight hours of joining Teresa Lisbon’s unit, your career path had detoured into the orbit of Patrick Jane.
He didn't just meet you; he appraised you, his blue eyes darting over your shoes, the way you held your coffee, and the slight nervous twitch of your pen. From that moment on, you were his shadow.
He took it upon himself to be your mentor, though his "lessons" usually involved dragging you to high-end tea shops or making you sit in silence for hours in the attic while he lay on his brown leather couch.
You followed him diligently, soaking up his advice on micro-expressions and the psychology of the "tell," completely unaware of the way his voice softened whenever he spoke to you or how often his hand would find the small of your back to guide you through a doorway.
The rest of the team watched the spectacle with a mix of amusement and exhaustion.
Cho would watch from his desk as Jane leaned over your shoulder to "help" you read a case file, his face so close to yours that he was practically breathing in your scent. Rigsby and Van Pelt had a running tab in the breakroom on how many times Jane would find an excuse to touch your hand during a briefing. Even Lisbon had given up on the "no fraternization" lectures, mostly because you were so genuinely oblivious that the lectures felt redundant.
You simply thought he was being a dedicated teacher, an eccentric genius who was finally sharing his secrets with a worthy protégé. You’d tell the team, "Jane is just being supportive," and they would share a collective, pained look.
The turning point didn't happen in the busy bullpen or the quiet attic, but in the cramped, velvet-lined interior of Jane’s Citroën.
The visit to the Victorian house on the cliffside had been brief and professional—or at least, as professional as any interview with Patrick Jane could be. You had finished questioning the witness, a nervous man with too many clocks in his hallway, and made your way back to the car.
A sudden, violent downpour had turned the California afternoon into a gray blur, forcing the two of you to pull over to the side of the narrow coastal road, only a few yards from the edge of the witness's gravel driveway. The house sat behind you, its porch light a dim, fuzzy amber through the sheets of rain that made it impossible to see the road ahead.
For once, Jane wasn't talking. He was leaning back, his head resting against the window pillar, his gaze fixed on you with a heavy, unblinking focus that made the air in the car feel thick.
You were busying yourself with the witness statement, your pen hovering over the paper as you tried to ignore the way his knee was firmly pressed against yours in the small space.
"You're doing it again," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to cut through the sound of the rain.
"Doing what?" you asked, not looking up. "I'm reviewing the motive. Like you taught me."
"No. You’re hiding," he countered. He reached out, his hand moving with agonizing slowness, not to grab the file, but to gently tuck a stray hair behind your ear.
His fingers lingered there, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin of your jawline.
"You’ve spent months learning how to read everyone else's secrets. Tell me, what do you see in here, right now?"
"I see a rainy car and a very long wait," you replied, your heart starting a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You kept your eyes fixed on the dashboard, terrified that if you looked at him, the fragile glass house of your "professional relationship" would shatter.
Jane didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, the scent of his cologne and Earl Grey tea enveloping you.
"I taught you better than that," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic register he used when he was peeling back a suspect’s layers. "I taught you to look past the surface. To see the pulse in the throat, the dilation of the pupils, the way a person leans in when they’re hungry for something they aren't allowed to have."
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the case file until the paper crinkled. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jane".
He let out a short, dry breath that was almost a laugh, but it lacked his usual mirth.
"Another lie. And a clumsy one at that." He reached out, his fingers grazing the underside of your wrist, hovering right over your racing pulse. He didn't grab you; he just felt the frantic thrum of your blood.
"Either I am a truly terrible mentor, or you are an absolutely miserable liar. Which is it?"
"I’m not lying to you," you insisted, your voice trembling slightly as you finally turned to face him. The proximity was dizzying.
It's not like you've never noticed his behavior before. You simply thought that was just Jane being Jane. He's charming, he's tactile, he walks into people’s personal space like he owns the floorboards. You thought you were just another person in his orbit.
You let out a shaky breath, looking down at where his fingers still hovered over your pulse.
As if reading your mind, Jane’s expression shifted, the sharp, analytical edge softening into something almost pained.
He didn't pull back; instead, he closed the remaining gap, his hand sliding from your wrist up to the crook of your elbow, pulling you just an inch closer. "You think I spend four hours a day in a drafty attic with just anyone? You think I buy expensive Lapsang Souchong for the office staff?"
He shook his head slowly, his eyes searching yours with a sincerity that stripped away all his usual theatrics. "I’m a consultant, not a saint. I don’t give this much of my time away for free."
"I thought you were being a mentor," you whispered, the word feeling small and inadequate in the heavy silence of the car.
"I was," he murmured, his thumb now tracing the sensitive skin of your inner arm. "Maybe I'm a bad mentor, indeed. A good mentor maintains boundaries. A good mentor doesn't spend his nights wondering if you're thinking about him as much as he's thinking about you." He paused, his eyes dropping to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back to yours.
You swallowed hard, the tension in the car so thick it felt like it was stealing the oxygen from your lungs. "Then you should have taught me how to handle that," you breathed, your voice barely audible over the rhythmic drum of the rain. "Because you left that part out of the curriculum."
Jane’s gaze softened, a flicker of something raw and remarkably honest breaking through his usual playful facade. He leaned in until the tip of his nose brushed against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Some things can't be taught," he whispered, his voice dropping to a velvet hum that made your pulse leap.
"They can only be felt."
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He closed the remaining distance with a sudden, fluid grace, his hand sliding from your arm to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back. When his mouth finally crashed against yours, it was a hungry, desperate claim that had been months in the making.
The kiss was a collision of suppressed tension and unspoken truths. It tasted of peppermint and the cold, damp air of the storm outside, but the heat of it was staggering. His tongue swept against yours with a possessive rhythm, silencing every logical thought left in your head.
You found yourself reaching for him, your fingers clutching the lapel of his charcoal vest to pull him closer across the center console. Jane groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, as he shifted to press you back against the seat.
The rain continues to lash against the Citroën, but the world outside has ceased to exist. The windows have long since fogged into a solid white veil, trapping the two of you in a space that feels too small, too warm, and dangerously charged.
Before you can even process the shift in the air, Jane reaches across the center console. With a sudden, fluid strength that catches you off guard, he hooks his hands under your arms and pulls you over the gear shift, settling you firmly onto his lap.
You straddle him, your knees pressing into the leather of the driver's seat on either side of his hips. The professional distance that defined the last few months hasn't just been crossed—it has been incinerated.
Jane pulls back just an inch from the kiss, his forehead resting against yours. His usual composure is gone, replaced by a frantic, jagged breath that matches your own. His hands, usually so steady and controlled, move to the hem of your sweater, his fingers lacing through the wool fabric. The "mentor" is nowhere to be found; there is only the man who has spent far too many nights imagining exactly this.
"Jane," you breathe, the name a broken plea.
His fingers graze your bare skin as he pulls the fabric over your head, discarding it into the shadows of the floorboards. The sudden contact of the cool car air makes you shiver, but his touch follows immediately, searingly hot.
His eyes meet yours, and for the first time, you see it all—the years of loneliness, the months of pining, and a pure, unadulterated lust that he no longer bothers to hide. His gaze scans you, his hands trailing over the lace of your bra, mapping out the reality of you.
"You’re fucking breathtaking," he breathes out, the words sounding like a confession he’s been dying to make.
Jane lets out a low growl, his hand sliding down your body and stopping where your jeans meet your hip. He doesn't rush; he kneads the denim-covered skin of your legs, his thumb grazing the inner seam of your thigh in a way that makes you feel like you could burst. It’s a slow, agonizing torture.
"Jane... don’t be a tease."
He lets out a dark, breathless chuckle against your neck. "Patience, baby."
His hand shifts up, sliding slowly between your thighs. You shudder, falling into him as his middle finger begins to circle the rough fabric of your jeans, pressing right against your heat. You gasp, grinding instinctively into his hand.
"Goodness," he whispers, his lips ghosting over your ear. "So needy for your mentor."
With a sudden, decisive move, he fumbles with the button and the zipper of your jeans. The metal teeth hiss open in the quiet car, and he rids you of the denim and your lace panties in one fell swoop, tugging them down your legs.
His fingers return, entering you at an abnormally slow pace—one finger, then a second—watching your face as you throw your head back. He stays focused on you, reading your expressions like he reads a crime scene. He can feel himself straining against his trousers, but he doesn't stop. He finds that sweet spot, his rhythm increasing as if he can read your thoughts.
"Jane, please…" you whimper.
"Tell me," he murmurs, his thumb dropping to your clit in slow turns. "Tell me what you want."
"Faster. Please."
He smirks, the brilliant consultant returning for one fleeting, wicked second before he obeys. He digs deeper, hitting the mark that sets your nerves on fire. Your hips buck into his hand, your fingers clutching at his charcoal vest until your knuckles turn white.
"That’s it," he husks, his forehead leaning against yours. "You gonna cum for me, baby?"
The pressure builds into a roar, a flame igniting in your core that leaves you sobbing his name. You come down hard, your body racking with the force of it, while he rides out the high with you, his fingers only slowing when you’re slumped against his chest, breathless and spent.
Jane's fingers are soaked, and you watch with a dazed, hungry intensity as he cleans them, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight is poison; it sends a fresh flood of desire through your brain.
Your mouth searched for his.
"I need... I need you," you gasp against his lips.
"I know, baby. I know," he replies, a wicked, triumphant grin curving his lips.
He shrugs off his jacket and vest, discarding them into the dark.
You fumble with his belt, tugging at his trousers. Jane watches you, letting out a dark chuckle. "Someone’s eager."
You look up through hooded eyes. "You’re the one who had to do this in the car."
He laughs, pulling your lips back to his. He cradles your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline as you work his pants down. When his cock springs free, red and pulsating, your breath hitches. You spread your legs wide in the cramped space, inviting him home as his cock brushes against your entrance.
"Say it," he whispers into your ear, his voice thick with a sudden, raw vulnerability. "I need to hear you say that you're mine."
"I’m yours, Jane" you breathe.
"Good girl," he mumbles, before filling you completely, a low groan escaping him with every centimeter. He stalls for a moment, letting you adjust to him, his heart hammering against your chest.
Then, he begins to move your waist, his hands guiding your body. He meets you there, his thrusts finding that sweet spot with a precision that only he could possess.
"Fuck," he shudders, his hands squeezing your waist, leaving marks that will surely need explaining.
You cry out as he snaps his hips faster, the sound of skin on skin lost to the rain outside. He watches you, his thumb finding your clit once more to match his pace, and the added sensation sends you over the edge for the second time.
You cling to his neck, your lips pressed to his shoulder as you come, and Jane follows seconds later. His thrusts turn slow and sloppy as he grunts out your name, officially coming undone inside you.
Neither of you moves. The silence of the car returns, broken only by the slowing thud of two hearts beating as one.
Jane lets out a soft, broken laugh, his eyes fluttering shut as he leans his forehead against yours.
"God," he whispers, catching his breath. "You’re... unbelievable."
He didn't pull away. Instead, he settled his arms around your waist to hold you securely against him. You remained perched on his lap, your legs still draped over his hips, the heat of his skin cooling against the damp air of the car as both your hearts finally found a steady rhythm.
He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the pulse point at your throat. "I should have done this sooner," he murmured, his voice returning to that melodic, playful hum, though it was colored with a newfound tenderness. "I would have saved myself months of agonizing over the way you chew your pen when you're thinking."
You laughed softly, shifting slightly on his lap, making him let out a small, satisfied huff. "You were agonizing? I thought you were just 'observing' me."
"Oh, I was observing," he said, pulling back just enough to look at you. He reached up, his thumb gently wiping a stray smudge of mascara from beneath your eye with a touch so delicate it made your breath hitch all over again. "I observed the way your hair catches the light in the bullpen. I observed that you're the only person who actually listens to my theories without rolling her eyes."
Jane nudged your nose with his, his blue eyes bright and strikingly clear in the dim light of the dashboard. He kissed your forehead, then each of your eyelids, his hands sliding up from your waist to cup your face.
"You know, this was technically a very poor use of CBI resources," he teased, his thumbs rubbing small, affectionate circles over your jawline. "Very unprofessional. Lisbon would have my head."
"You're the one who pulled me onto your lap, Jane. You're the one who started the lesson."
"And I’d do it again," he whispered, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious for a moment. He smoothed your messy hair back, his fingers lingering at your temple. "But as much as I enjoy the interior of this car... I think I'd like to see you somewhere where there isn't a steering wheel in the way and a witness's house across the street."
He tilted his head, that familiar, mischievous glint returning to his eyes.
"Come to dinner with me. Not a 'working' dinner where we talk about blood spatter and motives. A real dinner."
He gave your hips a playful, possessive little squeeze. "I want to take you somewhere where we can actually hear ourselves think, and where I can look at you for as long as I want without Lisbon giving me that look."
He paused, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "What do you say?"
"Sounds perfect to me," you whispered, a slow smile spreading across your face as you leaned down to close the gap between you.
Jane met you halfway, his hands sliding from your hips to the small of your back to pull you firmly against his chest once more. This kiss wasn't like the desperate, frantic one from before; it was slow, deep, and tasted of a quiet sort of promise. It was the kind of kiss that confirmed everything had shifted, in favor of something much more real.
You melted into him, your fingers tangling in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, the fogged-up windows of the Citroën still shielding you from the rainy world outside.
He pulled back just an inch, his lips lingering against yours, a soft, contented hum vibrating in his throat.
For a moment, the silence in the car was perfect.
Then, the shrill, persistent buzz of a cell phone on the dashboard shattered the atmosphere.
Jane groaned against your mouth, his eyes flickering shut in mock annoyance. He reached out with one hand, still keeping the other draped possessively over your waist, and grabbed the device.
The bright glow of the screen illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows over his features.
"It's the fun-killer," he sighed, tilting the screen so you could see it.
Lisbon: Jane, I know you’re 'mentoring,' but the witness says you've been parked in his driveway for forty minutes. Stop messing around and get out of there.
The Vane Gala was a sea of shimmering silk, expensive cologne, and enough ego to tilt the earth's axis. You stood in the center of the marble foyer, feeling every bit the "high-society designer" in a floor-length, backless gown of midnight-blue silk. It was stunning, certainly, but the internal boning was currently digging into your ribs with the persistence of a thumb-tack, and the sheer height of the stilettos made you feel like you were walking on a tightrope over a shark tank.
"You're walking too fast," Jane muttered, adjusting his cufflinks with a sharp, jerky motion. "A woman of your supposed status doesn't scurry. She glides. You look like you’re trying to beat a red light."
"And you look like you’ve sucked on a lemon," you hissed back, flashing a dazzling, fake smile at a passing socialite. "I am not 'scurrying.' I am trying to navigate three thousand square feet of polished marble in shoes designed by someone who clearly hates women. What is your problem? You’ve been picking apart my walking, my jewelry, and even the way I held my champagne glass for the last hour."
"I'm being thorough," Jane snapped, his eyes scanning the room with a cold, analytical precision that skipped right over your face. "Details matter, and you seem distracted. Perhaps your mind is still back at the bar?"
"My mind is on the mission, Jane. My ribs, however, are on the verge of snapping."
Behind you, Cho and Rigsby loitered near a tall sculptural vase, looking like two very bored, very dangerous pieces of granite in their fitted black suits.
"Do they ever stop?" Rigsby whispered, pretending to check his earpiece while eyeing a tray of wagyu sliders passing by.
"Jane’s in a spiral," Cho noted flatly, his arms crossed. "It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion, only the car is wearing a three-piece suit and the crash is made of passive-aggressive comments about chairs."
"I saw him staring at the hors d'oeuvres tray earlier like the shrimp cocktail had personally insulted him." Rigsby added, keeping his voice low as he pretended to adjust his tie. "He told the waiter the sauce was 'overly ambitious and fundamentally insecure.' It's a shrimp!"
"Ah, there you are!"
The smooth, oily voice of Julian Vane cut through your bickering. He approached with a glass of vintage port in one hand, looking every bit the predatory host. His eyes swept over you with a slow, appreciative greed that made your skin crawl even more than the corset did.
"My favorite guests," Vane purred, stepping into your personal space. "I must say, Sergio, your designer is the crowning jewel of this evening. That dress... it’s a masterpiece of architecture."
Jane’s posture shifted instantly. He didn't smile. He didn't play the part of the gregarious buyer. Instead, he stepped half an inch in front of you, his eyes narrowing. "It’s a dress, Julian. Let's not get poetic. And as for architecture, I find the most interesting structures are the ones with the most hidden secrets. Wouldn't you agree?"
Vane’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering between Jane’s dry, sharp tone and your rigid stance. "A bit blunt tonight, aren't we?"
"He’s just famished," you interrupted, forcing a melodic, lighthearted laugh that felt like gravel in your throat.
You reached out and grabbed Jane’s arm—hard. "And when he’s hungry, he loses his manners. If you’ll excuse us for a moment, Julian, I need to remind my partner of his etiquette."
"By all means," Vane said, looking intrigued by the friction.
The moment his back was turned, your smile vanished. You gripped Jane by his silk lapels and dragged him backward, hauling him behind a heavy velvet curtain near the balcony. The thick fabric muffled the sound of the string quartet, leaving only the sound of your frustrated breathing.
"Okay, out with it," you growled, pinning him against the stone railing. "What is going on with you? You’ve been insufferable and almost blew our cover in front of the target!"
Jane leaned back, the velvet curtain swaying behind him. The mask finally slipped, revealing a raw, jagged edge of resentment. "I merely find it fascinating," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration. "The way you lit up. He was 'the one that got away,' wasn't he? The tragic high school romance."
You stared at him, stunned. "Leo? You’re acting like this over-" You cut yourself off, narrowing your eyes. "I never told you he was an ex. How could you possibly know that?"
Jane gave a small, joyless tilt of his head.
"I didn't need you to tell me. I could tell the second he breathed near you. The way your pupils dilated, the slight elevation in your pitch, the specific way you leaned into his personal space. It wasn't just 'seeing an old friend'."
"You're jeopardizing a federal investigation because you saw me hug someone," you hissed, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
"Well, he isn't just someone, is he?" Jane’s voice dropped, turning sharp and quiet. "People don't look at 'just someone' with that particular mix of regret and fondness. You were looking at a version of your life that didn't involve crime scenes. You were looking at the 'what if.' And frankly, it’s a very dull 'what if,' but it seemed to hold your attention quite well."
"You’re completely wrong," you shouted-whispered. The corset was suffocating, but the look in his eyes was worse. "His family moved, we were kids, and we grew apart. That hug wasn't 'undying love,' Jane. It was just a nice memory."
Taking a deep breath, you feel the weight of vulnerability. "The truth is, even if I could go back, I wouldn't. I wouldn't change a single thing about where I am right now. Not even you."
You spun around, ready to shove through the velvet curtains and lose yourself in the crowd.
But you didn't even make it a step.
His hand shot out, his fingers locking around your wrist with a grip that was iron-clad and trembling. You stopped dead, the force of the pull nearly knocking you off those ridiculous heels.
"Jane—" you started, turning back with a reprimand on your tongue.
But the word died in your throat. Before you could finish, he yanked you back into his space. His other hand crashed against the small of your back, his arm hooking around your waist and pulling you flush against him so hard the air left your lungs.
The angst had vanished, replaced by a heavy, magnetic heat that felt a thousand times more dangerous than his anger.
He looked down at you, his face a mask of stripped-back honesty, his breath ghosting over your lips. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The way his fingers dug into your waist told you exactly how much he’d been holding back.
He began to lean in, his eyes fluttering shut, the space between your lips narrowing to a fraction of an inch.
Then you hear him. The voice was clear, warm, and unmistakable, coming from just inches away, on the other side of the velvet.
"Shit," you hissed, your eyes snapping open as you shoved against Jane’s chest, the romantic tension shattering into a million sharp, panicked pieces. "It’s Leo."
"Oh, for the love of..." Jane let out a frustrated, jagged breath, his forehead dropping against yours for a split second as he struggled to switch back from 'jealous lover' to 'cunning consultant.'
"If he sees me and calls me by my real name, the whole sting is blown," you whispered frantically, ducking lower into the shadows of the curtain. "We have to move. Now !"
The next twenty minutes were a blur. While you dodged Leo through the kitchen corridors, feeling the phantom heat of Jane’s hands still burning on your waist, Jane used the distraction to lure Julian Vane into the private server room. The "Alpha" was caught red-handed trying to wipe the bridge shooter’s payment logs, and Cho and Rigsby moved in with clinical efficiency to end the night.
In the aftermath, as the guests were being ushered out, Leo finally caught up to you. The cool night air was a relief against the lingering heat of the ballroom, but your nerves were still frayed from the adrenaline of the arrest.
"We meet again," Leo said, his voice a mix of amusement and genuine shock as he took in the scene. "I have to say, I didn't know you were a cop. That's a hell of a career pivot from what I remember."
"Agent," you corrected automatically, your voice professional yet weary.
"Agent," he repeated with a nod, a small, nostalgic smile playing on his lips. "Right. Well, look, as you already know, I just moved back. I'm starting my own architecture firm here. It's been a long road, but it's finally happening." He paused, stepping a bit closer into your personal space. "Now that the excitement's over... I’d love to catch up properly. What do you say? Do you want to go have drinks with me tonight? Celebrate the big bust?"
A few yards away, you felt Jane’s presence before you saw him. He was leaning against a squad car, his face a mask of careful indifference, but the way he was staring at the pavement told you everything. Eventually, he turned on his heel and walked toward the exit, his silhouette sharp and lonely against the flashing blue police lights.
"Leo, that's amazing about the firm. Truly," you said, turning back to your ex with a finality that felt like turning a key in a lock.
"But 'old times' are exactly where they belong. In the past," you give him a sincere smile. "Good luck with the business."
An hour later, you were back in your apartment. You had finally peeled yourself out of that midnight-blue torture device and into a soft, oversized t-shirt that felt like heaven against your skin. You were barefoot, leaning against the kitchen counter and enjoying the stillness, when a sharp, rhythmic knock sounded at the door.
You opened it to find Jane. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore, his sleeves were rolled up, and he was holding a brown paper bag that smelled heavenly of garlic and spices.
"I assumed you’d be hungry," he said, his voice quiet. "Since you skipped the gala sliders."
"How did you know I didn't go out with him?," you asked, stepping aside to let him in.
Jane set the bag on the counter, his eyes finally meeting yours with an intensity that made the room feel small. "I watched you say no from the parking lot."
"You stayed?"
"I had to make sure," he murmured, stepping into your space, his eyes dark and focused.
He reached out, his hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. This time, there were no curtains, no interruptions, and no ex high school sweethearts.
You didn't hesitate. You immediately crossed your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling into the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him down into your space until your heartbeats synced through the thin cotton of your shirt.
"You're a very difficult man to work with, Patrick Jane," you whispered, your voice thick with a mix of exhaustion and absolute certainty.
Jane leaned in, his nose brushing against yours, his gaze dropping to your mouth with a heat that felt like it could melt the marble counters behind you.
"And yet," he rasped, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips, "you’ve never been one for an easy assignment."
He closed the gap.
The kiss was deep, slow, and devastatingly sure of itself. It tasted of the cold night air he’d brought in with him and the sharp, electric heat that had been building between you two.
As your hands tightened in his hair, Jane let out a low, rough sound against your lips. Without breaking the contact, his hands slid from your waist to your bare thighs, and with a sudden, effortless surge of strength, he hoisted you up.
You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your world narrowing down to his scent and the friction of his body against yours.
He moved with a blind, practiced confidence, settling you firmly onto the cool marble of the counter, as his body stepped in between your knees to keep you tethered to him. He pulled back just a fraction of an inch, his breath hitching, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip.
"I believe," he rasped, his eyes dark with a hunger that had nothing to do with the Thai food sitting a few feet away, "this is exactly where we left things."
𓋰 Kai is just so cute ── you can't help but be a little mean...
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀nerd!휴닝카이 x bully!reader (f) bullying shy!kai reader is a little very nasty kinda perv!kai meandom!reader hair pulling humiliation kink she spits his cum back onto his face blowjob not proofread
nerd!휴닝카이 who ogles you in class, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets as he stares at you. bottom lip trapped between his teeth, pen gripped loosely in one hand, he's all but focusing on the lecture, completely in trance by the sight of you reapplying that sparkly gloss to your lips.
nerd!휴닝카이 who trails aimlessly behind you in the halls, still keep a respectable distance as to not raise any questions. but you notice, how could you not? he was being so painfully obvious. "hey, perv!" you whirl around, a sneer already plastered onto your face and kai stumbles to a halt.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"fuck are you looking at?"
he can't answer that, obviously, because how could he explain that he'd been following you to catch a glimpse of your ass in the short skirt you wear? his ears glow a bright pink when you approach, his gaze dropping to his feet to avoid your scrutinizing glare. you scoff, smacking your sticky lips together as you roll your eyes, "weirdo."
nerd!휴닝카이 who offers to do your homework for you. any means to get closer to you. and you let him with a shrug, dumping your textbooks into his lap before walking away, hips swaying dangerously with each step you take. kai brings the books to his nose, trying to catch your scent on them in vain.
nerd!휴닝카이 stalks you on social media, phone in one hand, cock in the other — he jerks himself off roughly, swallowing down the pathetic whines building in his throat. he swipes through picture after picture, innocent ones of you holding puppies, suggestive ones of you pushing your cleavage toward the camera — those always makes him cum right away.
nerd!휴닝카이 who follows you like a lost puppy, your finished homework in his arms as he tries to give it to you. but you're ignoring him? he's walked behind you like a shadow for ten minutes now, trying to grab your attention and failing each time. you're leading him down vacant hallways, finally slipping inside a small storage unit — and kai goes after you without question.
nerd!휴닝카이 doesn't understand why you're so upset. doesn't understand why you're shoving him up against the wall roughly and jabbing a finger in his face. "who the fuck do you think you are to approach me in front of everyone like that? you fucking loser." you seethe, and kai's cock jumps in his pants at the crude words.
nerd!휴닝카이 can't help but get so turned on by the way you talk to him, each insult sends heat straight to his groin and he has to reach a hand down to subtly try to adjust himself. but you notice, because of course you do. eyebrows shooting high on your forehead, the confusion lasts only a moment before your expression morphs into a sinister one.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"the hell? are you hard right now?"
that only makes him whine as he nods weakly, glancing toward the closed door like he was planning a quick escape route. but you won't let him off the hook that easily. the books are shoved to the floor as you take a step closer, breath so close that it mixes with his own.
nerd!휴닝카이 practically melts when you first kiss him, lips parting to allow your tongue inside his mouth without thinking twice. you're mean, biting on his lip harshly, pulling a pained gasp from his throat as he tries to pull back — only to be stopped by your fingers in his hair — tugging hard.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"pathetic bitch, you wanted this all along? is that why you wanted to help me? hoping I'd suck your tiny dick?"
kai wants to tell you no, wants to shake his head and deny the blunt accusation, but he can't. his cock throbs in his pants, hips jerking forward helplessly when your fingers hover above the zipper. you scoff, pulling away from his lips, now smeared with your sparkly gloss, "fine, have it your way."
nerd!휴닝카이 nearly sees stars when you take him in your mouth. the storage room is dark but he can still make out your face, peering up at him through the shadows where you kneel on the floor. your skirt has ridden up your thighs, exposing more of the skin he'd been so desperate to see all this time.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"you got a real tiny dick y'know?"
your lips are still stretched wide around him, tears glistening in your eyes when you force him deeper. "you barely reach the back of my throat." for a moment he can almost believe it, and the thought alone sends a shudder through him as he chokes on a moan, hips thrusting deeper into your mouth, causing you to gag around him.
"fuck, are you trying to kill me? you loser, can't even stay still for a blowjob." and kai nods helplessly, hands grabbing at your shoulders hard enough to bruise. his eyes are squeezed shut, jaw slack as he lets himself by shamelessly loud, not caring who might hear him.
nerd!휴닝카이 cums embarrassingly fast, cock twitching on your tongue before forcing his load down your throat with a whine. you don't swallow, and when you pull off you rise to your feet only to spit his release back into his face.
nerd!휴닝카이 moans at the feeling of his own arousal dripping down his chin, eyes bleary when they find yours. he doesn't move to wipe himself clean, doesn't even bother tucking his soft cock back into his pants as he stares at you with a lopsided grin. you only roll your eyes, already reapplying the gloss across your lips.
⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀"tell anyone about this and you're dead, you hear that, perv?"
then you head out of the storage unit, slamming the door shut behind you and leaving kai a spent, blissed out mess. his gaze flickers down to the books you had forgotten to bring with you, and he scrambles to gather his bearings — then he's rushing after you a second time that day.
🔮 preview. “You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
tw/cw. Mentions of porn and bdsm, unprotected sex, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, oral/pussy eating, praise, slight degradation, manhandling, fingering, overstimulation, foreplay, etc… I pet names: (hers) angel, baby.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.6k
🍭 aus. Non idol au, angel & demon au, enemies to lovers, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. So think of it kind of like the Disney movie about emotions, Inside Out, where the demon and angel view Mingyu’s world through a viewing station and speak to him through his subconscious to guide him one way or the other. Also, please note: I’m not religious, so my interpretation of angel!y/n warring with herself over temptation is simply an interpretation and a fanfic.
Prologue:
You can remember the day you first saw Mingyu as if it were only this morning. He was the sweetest child, visiting church with his family at age four. There was something so adorable about his all-white outfit, the slacks and button-up with a vest. He looked very devoted and very determined as he stood up and sang the church songs with his whole little chest.
That was the day you asked to be his guardian angel, and for a time, nothing had ever been so easy.
Mingyu is pure of heart in a way most humans can never even dream of being. Some kids have a demon on their shoulder from an early age, a pest to be dealt with and chastised by both angel and parent, but not Mingyu. It was just you and him, for many, many years, and you delighted in the fact that you had one of the best boys you’d ever met as your ward.
Many late-blooming children gain a demon when they enter high school, when they first try marijuana or alcohol against their own better judgment - it’s the work of the demon on their shoulder - but again, not Mingyu.
It wasn’t until your good boy was sixteen that things started to shift. His friends were all having their first sexual encounters, and they began to tease your perfect church baby that he was a virgin. Mingyu tried to pretend their words didn’t hurt, but you knew differently. Although you tried to push him in the direction of spending more time with other church children, Mingyu continued to hang out with these raunchy boys, as they were on his high school basketball team.
He held off valiantly from the compulsions of the deadly sins, but one cold December night, your perfect golden boy finally snapped and gave in to temptation.
The demon known as Wonwoo appeared the moment Mingyu first typed the words ‘porn hub’ into his cellphone, and in the darkness of Mingyu’s room, you met the man who would be your antihero for as long as Mingyu would continue to live.
And Wonwoo is a demon with a reputation. Whereas you like to cherry-pick your wards as the kindhearted humans who are pure of soul, Wonwoo is known for his ability to sniff out those who are easily tempted by sin. His last human was a sexual fiend, and he got addicted to OnlyFans. he lost his relationship and all of his money due to Wonwoo’s coaxing of the addiction. The man died prematurely while drunk driving, which is something of a success story for the demon who collected his soul in the end.
So why was this demon in particular here with you and Mingyu?
What had seemed like an easy task had become more difficult than you ever signed up for, and Wonwoo seemed to relish in the knowledge that he was here to contradict your every musing in Mingyu’s ear.
One:
“I hope you have your popcorn ready, angel,” Wonwoo grins, as the two of you hover in your between-worlds guardian posting. It’s kind of like an apartment, with two sides, the good and the evil, with a massive monitor to watch what Mingyu is doing at any given time. There are speakers for you both to try to persuade him into things, and your voices are what Mingyu might classify as opposing sides of his subconscious.
“Frat parties can be positive,” you insist as you settle next to Wonwoo. “Last time, he saved that girl who blacked out.”
“Yeah, the wild goose chase,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “He should have been hitting on girls and slamming jello shots, but instead, you convinced him to track down the girl’s dorm room, carry her all the way home, and make sure she was okay when she woke up hours later. He even held her hair back while she puked. Yuck.”
When Wonwoo knows he’s lost to you, he generally fucks off, goes back into his demon side of the apartment, in his demon room, or leaves altogether to complete other tasks.
Demons don’t need sleep, and technically, angels don’t either, but you’re a self-identifying lazy girl, and you prefer to have rest when Mingyu sleeps, rather than be twenty-four seven working like Wonwoo is. You wonder if his packed schedule is what makes him such a dick, but you also have seen the joy he takes in doing bad deeds, and you can only assume that when he’s not here with you in Mingyu’s head, he’s off pillaging and causing mischief elsewhere.
Wonwoo looks through Mingyu’s eyes, and he leans toward the communicator where he can send his words to your ward. “Get a drink,” Wonwoo insists. “Something fun. Something fruity. Something with way too much alcohol that’s masked with sugar.”
You sigh, also leaning forward. “We should start slow with some water.”
You can sense Mingyu’s inner turmoil as he makes his way to the kitchen, and that’s where he bumps into Hoshi and Seungkwan, both of whom are ruled by their inner demon.
“Hey buddy, want a drink?” Hoshi grins, cheeks pink, eyes clouded with booze.
“Reject him,” you say.
“Accept,” Wonwoo pushes.
“Sure, why not?” Mingyu grins, taking the cup of purple liquid. He downs it easily, and you sigh. So tonight will be a more indulgent evening, and you hate the way Wonwoo sits back with a smile.
“Score one for me, angel,” Wonwoo muses.
“The night is still young,” you huff.
Wonwoo leans forward again. “You know what goes good with alcohol? Cocaine. Or ecstasy. Something fun. Maybe molly.”
You’re flabbergasted. “Mingyu has never-”
“Now is the night to start, he’s at a frat party, with friends, and we know Vernon always has a bong on hand. Maybe weed, something chill.”
You hate him, and you spend the next two hours battling Wonwoo for dominance of Mingyu. Wonwoo wins when it comes to alcohol, but your sweet boy isn’t interested in drugs, no matter how much the demon insists it’s the perfect night to dabble.
And that’s when Mingyu first lays eyes on Kimi.
She’s a year younger than him, someone he’s heard about and seen a few times, but never talked to. She looks gorgeous, in a flowy top and jeans that hug her just right. You can sense Mingyu’s heartbeat quickening, and in his drunkenness, he’s even more susceptible to Wonwoo, who leans forward. “You should fuck her tonight, there’s never a time to be a whore like the present.”
“No sex, you like her!” you argue back. “Talk to her, get her name, look for longevity.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “A one-night stand with a girl like that? Who could think of something better?”
“Uh, maybe a relationship?” you snap.
“We don’t know anything about her!” Wonwoo yells. “And we don’t need to know.”
You lean back from where Mingyu can hear your subconscious pushings, glaring at Wonwoo. “What’s with you and rough, anonymous sex?”
“It’s the best way to have it,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening. “I think our Mingyu boy would love to try some of the things he’s seen in the porn I’ve pushed him to watch. You know, bondage, tying a girl up, all the good shit.”
“Consentually, of course.”
“With you here, it would always have to be consensual,” Wonwoo scoffs.
“You’re despicable.”
“I’m a demon.”
“Even demons have their limits.”
Wonwoo shrugs. “Not really.”
“Well, my Mingyu is a good person. He’d never stoop to your level.”
“Well, he watches the porn I want to watch.”
You click your tongue. Wonwoo convincing Mingyu to watch porn is always the worst, and it’s when you leave the viewing station. The demon can be particularly convincing when it comes to observing sex acts on Mingyu’s phone, but you know your good boy would never go further than simply watching. He’s not the type to ever act on some of the more raunchy ideas Wonwoo forces into his head.
No matter how hard Wonwoo pushes, you know your Mingyu.
And you’re thankful that by the end of the night at the frat party, Mingyu agrees with you that he’s now too drunk, and he retires to bed.
The viewing station goes dark as Mingyu drifts to sleep, and you stand up with a sigh, glaring at Wonwoo.
“You know, one of these days, you’re going to admit that you kind of like the whole bondage sex thing,” Wonwoo sighs.
“What?” you gasp.
“You always leave the room when he and I watch porn.”
“Because I’m a pure being! Because porn and sex go against what I stand for!”
“Porn and lust might be ‘anti-angel’, but sex is natural; it’s God-created. Humans are like any other animal, and they’re meant to have sex, to procreate,” Wonwoo says simply. “I know you’re loose on your whole ‘celibate until marriage’ ideals. When Mingyu lost his virginity, you were happy because it was soft. You might be an angel, but you don’t follow a strict code, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that you follow the bible to the letter. I’m just curious how loose your morals really are. You might think I’m here to test Mingyu, but I’m really here to test you.”
“And who do you think you are to test me?” you glare.
Wonwoo shrugs. “Just a demon who specializes in lust, a demon who took one look at you on Mingyu’s shoulder and decided, ‘you know what, I’d fuck that angel.’”
“As if that’s a compliment.”
“It is, most angels have sticks up their asses the size of the Empire State Building. And don’t get me wrong, you have a stick up yours too, I’m just curious if you’d want something else up inside of you at the same time.”
“I can’t believe you,” you groan, hating the way your body reacts to his sinister smirk, the slight floodyness of his hair, and the regal way he stares at you.
“You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
Two:
“Hold it, you’re not going anywhere,” Wonwoo grins, grabbing your arm as you’re about to leave the room, when Mingyu pulls up pornhub with Kimi on his mind.
“I’m not sitting here with you for this; it’s weird,” you insist, pulling yourself away from him, hating the way the cold of his touch lingers on your skin.
“Boys will be boys, let the man find some release,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening.
“Boys may be boys, but you were whispering in Mingyu’s ear all day that he should have a jack off session and think about ‘that chick from the frat party.’”
Wonwoo shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard to convince him.”
You let out a deep breath.
“Watch this,” Wonwoo leans forward so Mingyu can hear him. “Look up ‘rope BDSM.’”
“Oh my gosh!” You cover your eyes with your hands as Mingyu quickly follows through with Wonwoo’s suggestion.
“There’s something so sexy about having complete control of another person,” Wonwoo insists, leaning back and staring at you with dark eyes. “Admit it, you liked controlling Mingyu before I showed up.”
“It’s not remotely the same.”
“It is, sort of.” The demon shrugs. “You like control. I know you do. Because every time you don’t get your way, you have a little fit.”
“I do not!”
“Look at you, angel, you’re practically stomping your cute little foot right now.” Wonwoo lets out a chuckle, and you hate how attractive it is. “If you play your cards right, someday, I might let you have a little control over me.”
“What, like tie you up?” you scoff.
Wonwoo’s grin widens. “Does that excite you?”
“In your dreams,” you snap.
“Angel, we both know I don’t sleep. But I do imagine things, things about you…”
Your breath catches.
“I imagine what you sound like, what you taste like. I imagine the look in your eye when I have you immobilized and at my mercy. I imagine making you crack, making you finally admit that pleasure is exactly what it means in the dictionary; the feelings of delight, something you enjoy with every fiber of your being, something you’d beg for me to give you again and again.”
Your skin is heating with embarrassment, and it’s crazy to you that Wonwoo can say everything he just said with a completely straight face. He has zero shame in admitting the things he’s just admitted, and yet, you feel like the dirty one.
“I’m leaving,” you say again, more firmly this time.
“I won’t stop you; you have full control of yourself, and that’s what makes this interesting.” Wonwoo turns his attention back to the screen, where Mingyu is now in the throes of enjoying porn.
“You’re evil,” you snap.
“I’m a demon, it’s part of the job description,” Wonwoo says absentmindedly.
You fight the urge to stomp your foot, and with one last scoff of displeasure, you go back to your quarters, throwing yourself down onto your bed with a muffled scream.
Three:
It’s been a month of chaos. Wonwoo has become somehow even more dirty, and every time he whispers some sexual idea in Mingyu’s ear, his eyes are fixed on you.
You squirm when he mentions bondage, porn, rough sex, and more dirty things that are not for an angel’s ears.
And to make matters worse, you know that Wonwoo is imagining himself doing all of these dirty things to you. To be the object of sin and desire is new to you, and it brings an uncomfortable feeling to the pit of your stomach.
You grapple with yourself every night, unable to get Wonwoo’s voice out of your head.
The word ‘tantalizing’ has never had much merit for you, but now, you understand. Wonwoo oozes sex and intrigue; he makes your mind go to places it's never before visited; dark, lustful places that make your heart race and your skin tingle.
The little smirk that quirks onto his lips when he knows he’s irritated you has become burned into your mind's eye, and you can’t escape the shiny points of his canines, or the flash of black that overtakes his irises when he’s being demonic.
You can feel your resolve to stay true to your morals is slipping, and in its place is a growing need that’s threatening to overtake you, body and soul.
This is the power of a truly strong demon, and it both scares and excites you while you war with yourself.
Four:
After another long day of Wonwoo being raunchy, Mingyu finally goes to sleep. The viewer goes dark, and you stand up with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” you muse, “but I’m thankful you didn’t push for more porn.”
“He’s on a streak, you know,” Wonwoo smirks. “But I figured I could let you off the hook for one night.”
“Let my pure boy off the hook, you mean.”
“No, I meant what I said. You’re the one who has a problem with it, not Mingyu. He’s just a hot-blooded man who’s hardly had any good sex in his life. A bit of porn can’t hurt.”
You roll your eyes. “Scientists who study the interaction between porn and erectile dysfunction would beg to differ.”
“Human scientists.” Wonwoo’s smirk widens.
“I’m not having an argument with you, I’m off the clock.”
“Off the clock,” the demon repeats with a chuckle.
“Yes, off the clock, which means I also don’t have to deal with you anymore.”
“You enjoy ‘dealing with me.’” Wonwoo insists.
You scoff loudly. “In what diluted world can you come to that conclusion?”
The demon steps closer to you. “The world where I’m a demon who can read sexual energy, and lately, it’s been wafting off your aura like smoke. And where there’s smoke, well, there’s fire.”
“I think you should get your eyes checked,” you fire at him, your arms crossing over your chest in an effort to keep that ‘sexual energy’ contained.
“You’re such a virgin that it’s almost laughable,” Wonwoo tells you, his voice lowering. “Most angels don’t have the kind of lustful energy you do, virginity and all, but every being that exists is plagued by at least one of the seven deadly sins, angels included. It seems to me that your carnal desire is sex, which isn’t anything to be ashamed of. I’ve worked with angels who are greedy, angels who have a sense of divine wrath, but pride is the main trait I’ve seen. One could argue that all three of those sins are more disgusting on an angel than that of simply wanting to be touched, to experience one’s form to the fullest.”
Your mouth feels dry, and you lick your lips, unsure of what to say.
“Don’t worry, angel, I don’t need a response, not really. But… I would never defile an angel without her wanting it, so when I ask you this next question, I’ll need at least an enthusiastic nod if not a verbal ‘yes.’”
“What do you need to ask me?” you whisper.
Wonwoo is close enough to touch you now, and he reaches for your hand, tracing his thumb against your palm. Your mind is telling you to pull away, but you can’t. His touch is cold, but there’s something so nice about it…
“Can I kiss you?” Wonwoo asks, his words hanging in the air like a heavy smog.
You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but it does little to help, and you stare at the beautiful demon. Your body is screaming yes, but your mind is still plagued with trepidation.
“It’s a sin.”
“A kiss isn’t a sin, and besides, you’re off the clock, remember?” His smirk is just so beautiful, and you have to remind yourself that even though he’s a demon, Wonwoo was crafted by God’s own hands. “I think you can forgive yourself for a small misdemeanor, after all, humans are forgiven for much worse.”
“I…” Your heart is hammering in your rib cage, and never in your long life have you felt a desire like this.
“Or… I could wait,” Wonwoo sighs. “I won’t pressure you. I’m a demon, but I’m not an asshole.”
The idea of waiting even longer makes your skin tingle, and you can feel a frown of dissatisfaction appearing on your face.
“You can kiss me,” you say, and the words feel foreign on your tongue.
“Even though you hate me?” Wonwoo grins, cocking a brow.
“Even though I hate you.”
The demon lets out a laugh, dropping your hand in favour of grabbing your hips. He pulls you toward him, being shockingly gentle for a man who’s so outspoken about his taste for rough sex.
“Nobody has to know about this,” Wonwoo whispers as he leans closer. “Even angels are allowed to have dirty little secrets.”
“Then this will be our little secret,” you breathe, swallowing thickly as your hands instinctively go to his shoulder, tugging the demon even closer.
He meets your gaze as he slowly leans in, giving you all the time in the world to change your mind. But you’re in too deep now, and there’s no going back.
His lips press against yours gently, and your whole body is flooded with what you can only describe as pleasure, like a cool breeze wafting over you on an extremely hot day. You want more, and Wonwoo tugs you closer by your hips, his tongue snaking out to rub your lower lip.
Your mouth opens a little, a whimper escaping you as the kiss deepens. Wonwoo releases a low growl, and butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach from the sound.
Nothing in the world has ever made you feel this way, as if you’re glowing, and all because a dark being is tantalizing you toward sin.
With a gasp, you pull away, breathing heavily.
Wonwoo holds you, not pushing for more; he gives you mental space to analyze what’s just happened, while still keeping you physically close, like a protector.
It’s such an odd notion, the idea that a demon could be any sort of protection for an angel like you.
“I think…” You swallow thickly. “I think I need to have some time alone now.”
“I understand,” Wonwoo nods, his hands slipping away from your hips. “The ball is in your court, angel. Until you decide what you want to do, this is our little secret.”
“Our little secret,” you repeat like a mantra, but the words don’t do anything to help the anxiety building inside of you. It’s as if at any moment you could be struck down for impurity, except, even when you’re alone later, no hand of God comes to smite you.
You think carefully about what Wonwoo’s said, about all living things having their sinful, carnal desires, even angels.
Maybe this is natural, maybe this is okay… maybe.
Five:
You’ve been yearning for Wonwoo in a way you’ve never yearned for anything since your creation. It’s taking every ounce of your self-restraint to keep your distance from him, and Wonwoo’s not making any of it easy.
Every dirty whisper in Mingyu’s ear, every glance at you while he talks about sex, bondage, and porn…
It has your heart racing, your skin heating, and your core throbbing in a way that used to be foreign but is now becoming all too familiar.
“Should I push for more sin tonight?” Wonwoo asks as Mingyu gets ready for bed. “Or have you had enough?”
You groan, knowing that you’re wet from the day you’ve had. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He cocks a brow.
“I’m so tired of all of this.”
“Tired of fighting your own desires, you mean,” Wonwoo corrects, seeing right through you.
You hate that your ‘sexual aura’ is visible to him, hate that no matter how hard you try to fight it, Wonwoo will always know the truth.
And the truth is: you want this demon to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked. You want to get a taste of the sin he has to offer, the sin he claims other angels partake in secretly.
Why are you holding yourself back, holding yourself to a set of standards, if others in your angelic profession don’t?
“What are you thinking about?” Wonwoo asks, watching you carefully.
You release a deep breath. “Everything.”
“Sounds like a lot,” the demon chuckles.
“It is.”
“Too much for a sweet angel like you to carry on her own shoulders.”
You study his face, wondering if he’s being condescending or not.
“Being a demon is much easier. I don’t have to worry about anything,” Wonwoo continues, leaning back in his seat. “No rules, no standards, no fear. Just existence. Freedom.”
“I’m free,” you insist.
“Are you really?” Wonwoo grins. “Could have fooled me.”
“I am free! I’m an angel! I have the most freedom in the world!”
“Freedom to kiss who you want to kiss? To act on the desires that were literally built into you? Why would God have made you with the sin of lust if he did not intend for you to act on it? To torture you for your entire existence?” Wonwoo shakes his head.
“He bestowed temptation so his creations could rise above it and devote themselves to Him,” you insist. “It teaches spiritual strength and perseverance.”
“Whatever you say, little Miss Sunday School.”
You let out a deep sigh. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Wonwoo grins.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because it makes me want you even more!” you scream. “For a reason I can not comprehend, I want you. I want you for the teasing, for the chastizing, for this disgusting ego that I would never condone on a human ward. I want it. I want all of you. And it’s killing me!”
Wonwoo stands up abruptly, and you mirror him, heart racing in your chest.
You can’t believe you’ve just admitted all of it, all of the deep dark things you’ve been thinking about for weeks.
“An ego can be sexy,” Wonwoo says finally. “Although I’d classify myself as more of a prideful being than an egotistical one.”
“Ugh!” You throw your hands up, hating that his smirk is the most handsome thing you’ve ever seen, hating that he’s right.
“Tell me you want this again,” Wonwoo urges you, stepping closer.
“I want you! You already heard me say it!” Your skin is hot with irritation, both sexual and emotional, and you can hardly think straight.
“No, tell me you want this.” Wonwoo grabs your hand, tugging you to his chest. He looks down at you, his lips almost ghosting over your own.
“I want this,” you whimper, feeling defeated and broken.
You can no longer hold yourself back, and part of you doesn’t want to.
“I’ll be gentle,” the demon promises, bringing his mouth down to your throat, where he presses soft kisses that take your breath away.
“I thought you liked it rough,” you say, releasing a chuckle that brings your anxiety down.
“I also like pleasure. I’m prideful, not a narcissist. Tonight, your pleasure will come first.”
Your skin tingles, and you swallow a lump in your throat. You can feel your fear dissipating. Part of you had imagined he’d want to try bondage with you right away, so it’s a relief that he’s going to meet you at your level, which is… well, nonexistent.
You are a free being. And tonight, you will lose your heavenly virginity of your own volition.
Wonwoo begins to suck on a spot just below your ear, and it makes you moan. You throw your arms around the demon, tugging him closer.
One of Wonwoo’s hands slips down to your bum, squeezing you through your white pants.
God, he feels so good, and you focus on the feeling, pushing aside your racing thoughts.
You draw his lips to yours, and Wonwoo groans with pleasure, tugging you so you’re flush to his body.
Kissing him is like magic, and you get lost in it easily. Your core is wet, and you can feel your panties getting sticky, which is a tantalizing thought.
“Bedroom,” Wonwoo says, breaking the kiss.
Without missing a beat, the demon reaches down and lifts you bridal style. You gasp, clutching onto his shoulders and blinking up at him.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Wonwoo laughs. “As if I was about to take your virginity in a living room.”
He heads toward your side of the apartment, and he pushes the door of your bedroom open.
Your room is all creams and minimalism, a true safe space, and he pauses to look at it for a moment. He’s never been in your room, nor you in his.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nothing, it’s just… very different from my side of the space.”
“No whips and chains hanging on the walls?” you tease.
“How about no black onyx floors or dark colours.”
“Well, I am an angel,” you point out as he gently sets you on the bed.
“Yes, baby, the best angel I’ve ever met.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt. The most angelic.” Wonwoo climbs on top of you, and your legs spread instinctively as the demon looks down at you. “I’ve never met an angel who has never sinned. It’s endearing.”
“Will you still find me endearing after tonight?” you ask.
“I’ll find you endearing forever,” Wonwoo promises.
“Who knew such sweet words could come from a demon.”
Wonwoo laughs. “If anyone deserves sweet words from me, it’s you.”
“You’re just saying that to get me in bed.”
“We’re already in bed.”
“Good point.” You grab the nape of his neck, tugging his lips down to yours.
This verbal foreplay has become trite, and you’re ready for more, ready for all Wonwoo is about to give you.
For the first time, you taste desperation on his lips, and it excites you. He grinds gently down against you, and it’s the first time there’s been pressure on your core. Tingles of pleasure run through you as you tighten your legs around his hips, willing him to push harder.
Wonwoo groans, following through with your silent plea. He ruts hard as you kiss each other, stimulating your clit through your clothing.
One of his hands reaches up and grabs your breast through your white sweater, massaging you and making you gasp.
“Such pretty sounds,” Wonwoo whispers, biting your earlobe gently. “Can’t wait to hear you screaming my name.”
“Wonwoo,” you whimper, wiggling beneath him, eager for more.
He sits up, and with one tug, Wonwoo removes your sweater, leaving you in a cream bra.
“All white everything, huh?” he laughs.
“I’m an angel.”
“So you keep reminding me. You always wear such loose, modest clothing, but I imagined you’d be gorgeous under all these layers.” He licks his lips, his thumb teasing the lace of your bra. “Should I go slow?”
“Go medium,” you tell him.
Wonwoo lets out another chuckle. “That wasn’t one of the options.”
“Make it one of the options.”
He shakes his head at you, leaning down to press his lips to yours.
You thread your fingers through his raven black hair, mewling as he massages you through your bra. Your nipples are aching already, and there’s a sense of great relief when he finally takes your bra off.
“So pretty,” Wonwoo muses, kissing down from your throat to your breasts, where he captures one of your nipples in his mouth.
You whimper desperately, your entire body on fire with the pleasure.
“And so sensitive too,” the demon groans, gently dragging his teeth over your sensitive bud.
“Please,” you gasp.
“Please, what?” he looks up at you.
You let out a shuddery breath. “More.”
“Your wish is my command, angel,” Wonwoo teases, his hand gliding down your body. Deft fingers slip under the waistband of your pants, but he stays over your panties as he makes contact with your clit.
You writhe against the bedding, eyes clenched shut as foreign ecstasy washes over you.
He continues to suck on your nipple as he toys with your pussy.
“Soaking through your panties,” Wonwoo tuts. “My dirty girl.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, and you’re shocked that you like the way his words feel. It’s a sinful kind of praise, and it makes you dizzy as you watch him, anticipating what he’ll do next.
Wonwoo takes his time as he licks and sucks your nipples, playing with your pussy through drenched fabric.
It’s a relief when he finally tugs your pants down, leaving you in only panties.
Then, Wonwoo sits up, tugging his shirt off with one motion.
Your jaw drops at the view of his bare torso. He’s lean but muscled, and you wish you could trace the lines on his skin, but Wonwoo made it clear that tonight is about you.
“I’m going to eat you out now,” Wonwoo explains, as he sinks to the floor. “Bet you taste like nectar and sunshine.”
Talking about your ‘taste’ makes you shy, and you close your thighs, only for him to gently pry them open.
“Don’t be bashful, baby,” Wonwoo coos, pressing kisses to your skin.
“What if I don’t taste like nectar and sunshine?” you ask.
“I can already smell it on you,” Wonwoo promises, an attempt to be assuring, but now you’re talking about smell, and it makes you even more anxious. “You know what, let’s leave taste and smell out of this for now, okay?”
“Yes, please,” you nod, biting your bottom lip.
Wonwoo hooks his fingers in your panties, slowly dragging them down your legs.
The cool air of the room on your wet core makes you groan, back arching a little as you writhe against the bed.
Cold hands grab your thighs, confidently spreading you open.
“Just breathe,” Wonwoo reminds you as he leans forward and licks the entirety of your core lewdly.
“Shit!” you gasp, thighs quaking.
The demon chuckles. “That’s the first time you’ve ever swore.”
You slap a hand over your mouth, and he shakes his head at you, returning to his task.
Soon, you’re moaning through your fingers, and your other hand reaches down to grab at his hair, keeping his face buried between your thighs.
He eats you out like a starved man, ravaging your pussy with licks and sucks that have your head spinning in the best possible way.
And then Wonwoo begins to growl, and you’ve never heard anything so erotic.
Your own gasps and whimpers are filling the room, and you can feel something getting tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach.
“Wonwoo,” you pant. “I think… I think I’m going to cum!”
He releases a groan, and the vibration of it on your clit makes your legs shake. All of your muscles are tense, waiting for that final push-
Then you look down, and your eyes lock with his. His pupils are blown, and he looks absolutely demonic, but there’s something so incredibly sexy about this powerful demon worshiping you with his mouth on your core-
You cum like an electric shock, your entire body jolting, muscles releasing only to clench again as the waves surge through you.
You scream, grabbing at the bed sheets like an anchor as your orgasm overtakes you.
Wonwoo is unrelenting on your core, groaning and eating you messily, and it only makes the whole situation more erotic.
You’ve been to Heaven, but nothing has ever felt like this.
“Wonwoo!” you scream when the pleasure begins to feel like it’s too much, like you can’t contain or sustain this type of ecstasy anymore.
The demon pulls away immediately, looking up at you.
“Angel,” he breathes, “you’re glowing.”
“What?”
“You’re glowing,” he repeats. Wonwoo grabs your hand from the bed, lifting it so you can see that your skin is literally aglow.
“Is this normal?” you gasp in panic.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“And you fuck a lot of angels?” you snap.
“Not really,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “I find most of you to be too high-strung.”
“I’m high-strung.”
“But it’s endearing on you.” His thumb gently rubs your glit, and you jolt, releasing a gasp. “Glowing can’t be harmful.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure it’s just pent-up energy,” he muses. “Should I give you more?”
You take all of one second to consider his words before nodding. “More.”
Wonwoo nuzzles against your inner thigh with a laugh, and then he teases a digit between your pussy lips, gently sinking it into you.
You groan, your inner walls having never been touched before.
“So warm,” Wonwoo breathes. “So tight.”
He gently finger fucks you, teasing your hole open, and he brings his mouth to your clit again.
His pace is slow, and you know he’s letting you acclimate to the stimulus.
You can feel yourself dripping on his digit, and the slick is making it all too easy for him to work you open. Soon, he adds another finger, and you groan desperately, loving the slight stretch.
“Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I give you the real thing,” Wonwoo explains.
“Okay,” you whimper.
He returns to sucking on your clit, but he’s not being as gentle as he was before.
You can feel that tension building again, and with each slick sound of his fingers fucking into you, you know you’re getting closer to the edge.
Whimpers escape your lips, and you gasp when he crooks his fingers, hitting a spot that has your whole body coming alight with pleasure.
You’ve heard Wonwoo talk about the ‘g-spot’ before, and you’re pretty sure he just found yours.
Your toes are curling, muscles getting incredibly tight as his pace quickens.
“I’m close!” you cry out, grabbing the bed sheets again, your heart racing in your chest.
Wonwoo groans a sound of affirmation, and again, his noise of pleasure is what sends you over the edge.
Just like the first time, he works you through your orgasm, unrelenting, while the pleasure courses through you. You’re a throbbing, whimpering mess by the time Wonwoo pulls away, and you watch with shy delight as he licks his fingers clean, moaning at your taste.
“How did that one feel, angel?” he asks.
“So good,” you whimper.
Wonwoo stands up, looking down at your nude form.
“Ready for the real deal?”
“I’m scared,” you admit, seeing the outline of his cock through his pants.
“That’s natural,” Wonwoo breathes, undoing his belt. “And if you still want to change your mind…”
“No.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Let’s do this.”
Wonwoo pulls his pants down, and suddenly, his cock is slapping up against his stomach.
Your jaw drops at the sight of him. He’s long… well, you’re pretty sure he’s long, not that you have much to compare it to.
“That’s going to fit inside of me?” you ask.
“Angel, your pussy is wetter than a slip and slide, it won’t be a problem,” Wonwoo laughs.
“Just… go slow.”
“Not medium?” he teases.
“Wonwoo…” you groan.
“I’ll go slow,” he promises, now fully nude as he climbs on top of you. “Don’t worry.”
Wonwoo presses his lips to yours, and you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pouring all of your attention into the meeting of your mouths.
Wonwoo slowly begins to rut, teasing his cock through your wet pussy lips and bumping your clit. The grinding feels phenomenal, and soon you’re a moaning mess beneath him, your core aching to be filled.
As if he can read you, the demon reaches for the base of his cock, lining the tip up with your wet hole. His mouth moves to your throat, giving you space to speak if you need him to pause or slow down, but as his tip slips inside of you, you realize there will be no need for breaks.
Sure, the stretch is new, but it’s not bad.
In fact, your pussy is trying to swallow him up, and with each inch after inch, you feel more and more complete.
Wonwoo truly is your opposite, the yin to your yang, and it feels phenomenal to finally be connected like this.
“You okay?” Wonwoo asks, and you can see his muscles feathering, as if it’s taking every ounce of self-control for him not to let loose and fuck you stupid.
“Feels good,” you groan, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him further into you.
Wonwoo moans deeply, and a moment later, he’s fully sheathed in your wet core.
You both release sounds of pleasure together, and your lips meet in a fiery kiss.
You love tangling your fingers in his hair, and it makes him kiss you harder. He’s still fully inside of you, unmoving as your walls adjust, but soon, your own hips are rocking, and he takes the cue to begin to thrust.
The first movement is shallow and slow, and you revel in the drag of his cock against your inner walls.
You cry out, throwing your head back, and Wonwoo latches onto your throat, sucking and nibbling.
Your pebbled nipples press against his chest, and each movement toys with them.
You can feel Wonwoo everywhere. He’s completely commanding every one of your senses, and not a single thought is going through your mind except for one word: more.
His pace is increasing, and you get the sense that he’s reacting to your sounds, figuring you out based on your whimpering and whining.
You pull Wonwoo away from your throat by his hair, and you open your eyes, looking up at him.
God, he truly is the most beautiful being you’ve ever seen.
He’s truly a vision, lust-blown pupils and all, his hair a mess from where you’re tugging on it.
You breathe in each other, lips almost meeting but just separate, and the teasing makes everything more seductive.
Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, flipping you onto your side. He moves behind you, a cold big spoon as he enters you again. His breath is hot on your shoulders, and he takes the opportunity to gently bite your neck, making you gasp. You reach behind yourself, grabbing his hair again, which earns you a groan of pleasure.
His hand is on your hip, and he fucks into you desperately, adjusting your body ever so slightly, opening your leg a little so he can hit deeper.
“Wonwoo!” you whimper when his hand slips from your hips to your core, his fingers teasing your clit.
“That’s it, scream my name,” he grins, biting your earlobe and making you shiver.
“Wonwoo!” you say it louder this time, unable to contain yourself as he works you closer and closer to the edge again.
“Gonna cum on my cock, huh, angel?” he chuckles.
“Yes, I’m so close,” you whimper, pussy tightening around him.
“Not yet.” Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, and you whine, only for him to adjust you.
Now you’re sitting on top of him, with Wonwoo propped against the headboard.
“Why am I on top?” you ask, confused.
“Oh angel,” he licks your nipple, “just because you’re on top doesn’t mean you’re the one who is in control.”
His hands are on your hips again, and he lifts you slightly, allowing him to plow up into you.
You cry out from how deep his cock is hitting you, from the way he’s using you like a ragdoll.
You throw your head back, and his mouth latches onto your nipple. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the dark curls as he fucks you stupid.
Each smack down of your core on his cock has pressure on your clit, and you can feel that orgasm bubbling again.
You feel drunk, or, what you think being drunk would feel like. It’s a pleasurable dizziness, a mind numbing euphoria and a tingling that flutters through your entire body.
Wonwoo growls, and you know it’s a sound of affirmation, a sound to push you toward the edge.
A few more rough thrusts have you tumbling into ecstasy, your entire core clamping down on Wonwoo’s cock. Your head falls forward, your lips making contact with the crown of Wonwoo’s head as he also groans. He pulls off of your nipple, panting desperately as he holds you down, his cock burried in your throbbing pussy.
You know he’s cumming too, and feel his muscles twitching, his shoulders tight with tension.
And his sounds… nothing in Heaven or on Earth sounds the way Wonwoo does when he’s wrapped in pleasure.
Your entire body sings with delight as the two of you hold onto each other, jolting with the aftershocks of your extreme highs.
The two of you hold each other, breathing in one another.
Wonwoo leans his face against your breasts, and you cradle him.
You’ve never felt this close to anyone.
For a moment you can forget that he’s a demon and you’re an angel.
None of that matters right now.
Finally, Wonwoo pulls away with a sigh. “This changes things.”
“It does,” you agree.
“We’re bound together for as long as Mingyu lives, so… you better not decide you hate me tomorrow.”
You laugh. “You irritate me, but I don’t hate you.”
“I’m not going to stop telling Mingyu to pursue his sexual desires.”
“I never expected you to,” you admit with a sigh.
“And you’re… okay with it now?”
“As long as it’s consensual, fine, he can be as dirty as he wants to be.”
Wonwoo laughs, cuddling close to your chest again. “See, in this day and age, some sins like premarital sex are outdated.”
“We could debate that,” you laugh, running your hands through his hair.
“I think I would like that.”
“I feel like it would be a case of unstoppable force meets immovable object.”
Wonwoo chuckles, and you love how beautiful he is when he smiles. “Sounds like us.”
“But we can’t let our sexual escapades get in the way of doing our job for Mingyu,” you declare.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your work,” Wonwoo groans. “You’d probably bite my cock off if I tried.”
“Consider yourself warned.”
“Consider yourself worshipped.”
“Huh?” you blink down at him.
“You’re still glowing, angel.” Wonwoo plays with a piece of your hair. “It’s been a long time since a demon like me has had anything to look up to.”
“You look up to me?”
“In some ways, but don’t make this more of an embarrassment than it already is.” Wonwoo lets out a sigh. “You’ve reformed me… slightly.”
“Don’t tell me it’s the power of good pussy.”
“Great pussy,” Wonwoo corrects. “And no. If I’m being honest, I think you’ve been changing me for the better for a while, bit by bit.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
Wonwoo smiles. “And I’m just happy.”
“I can live with that.”
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! this one was fun, it was a little late to be posted because my puppy has a tooth infection and it's been a hell of a week. reminder! Patreon charges on the FIRST of every month, so if you're going to get my Patreon, just be aware of that, or wait until June 2nd :)
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🔮 preview. Your core tingles as you test the bindings on your wrists. There is truly so much he can teach you about the darker side of sex, the pain that turns into pleasure, the freedom of being completely immobilized and at the mercy of someone you trust to take care of you.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, bdsm themes, wrist bondage, pleasure dom!Wonwoo, oral/pussy eating, wonwoo has powers in this… including a long demon tongue, overstimulation, finger fucking, body/breast worship, squirting, dacryphilia (arousal from tears/crying), dirty talk, praise, multiple reader orgasms, etc… I petnames. (hers) angel.
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.6k I teaser wc. 140
🌙 starring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader
bonus
To your shock, Wonwoo isn’t pushy with you the way he’s pushy with Mingyu. He hasn’t said a word about the soft sex the two of you have continued to have for months now, and he hasn’t made you feel lesser than him for being vanilla either.
Wonwoo treats you very differently than he treats Mingyu, but you know that every time Wonwoo brings up rough sex in Mingyu’s ear, it’s because Wonwoo himself has an interest in it.
The demon has talked about being a sexual pleaser, and your need to please him has grown too. Can you really hold Wonwoo and yourself back from reaching another level by dabbling with the BDSM themes he’s so fond of?
Can you… condemn him to vanilla sex for as long as the two of you are connected through Mingyu?
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🔮 preview. “You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
tw/cw. Mentions of porn and bdsm, unprotected sex, multiple sex positions, multiple reader orgasms, oral/pussy eating, praise, slight degradation, manhandling, fingering, overstimulation, foreplay, etc… I pet names: (hers) angel, baby.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.6k
🍭 aus. Non idol au, angel & demon au, enemies to lovers, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. So think of it kind of like the Disney movie about emotions, Inside Out, where the demon and angel view Mingyu’s world through a viewing station and speak to him through his subconscious to guide him one way or the other. Also, please note: I’m not religious, so my interpretation of angel!y/n warring with herself over temptation is simply an interpretation and a fanfic.
Prologue:
You can remember the day you first saw Mingyu as if it were only this morning. He was the sweetest child, visiting church with his family at age four. There was something so adorable about his all-white outfit, the slacks and button-up with a vest. He looked very devoted and very determined as he stood up and sang the church songs with his whole little chest.
That was the day you asked to be his guardian angel, and for a time, nothing had ever been so easy.
Mingyu is pure of heart in a way most humans can never even dream of being. Some kids have a demon on their shoulder from an early age, a pest to be dealt with and chastised by both angel and parent, but not Mingyu. It was just you and him, for many, many years, and you delighted in the fact that you had one of the best boys you’d ever met as your ward.
Many late-blooming children gain a demon when they enter high school, when they first try marijuana or alcohol against their own better judgment - it’s the work of the demon on their shoulder - but again, not Mingyu.
It wasn’t until your good boy was sixteen that things started to shift. His friends were all having their first sexual encounters, and they began to tease your perfect church baby that he was a virgin. Mingyu tried to pretend their words didn’t hurt, but you knew differently. Although you tried to push him in the direction of spending more time with other church children, Mingyu continued to hang out with these raunchy boys, as they were on his high school basketball team.
He held off valiantly from the compulsions of the deadly sins, but one cold December night, your perfect golden boy finally snapped and gave in to temptation.
The demon known as Wonwoo appeared the moment Mingyu first typed the words ‘porn hub’ into his cellphone, and in the darkness of Mingyu’s room, you met the man who would be your antihero for as long as Mingyu would continue to live.
And Wonwoo is a demon with a reputation. Whereas you like to cherry-pick your wards as the kindhearted humans who are pure of soul, Wonwoo is known for his ability to sniff out those who are easily tempted by sin. His last human was a sexual fiend, and he got addicted to OnlyFans. he lost his relationship and all of his money due to Wonwoo’s coaxing of the addiction. The man died prematurely while drunk driving, which is something of a success story for the demon who collected his soul in the end.
So why was this demon in particular here with you and Mingyu?
What had seemed like an easy task had become more difficult than you ever signed up for, and Wonwoo seemed to relish in the knowledge that he was here to contradict your every musing in Mingyu’s ear.
One:
“I hope you have your popcorn ready, angel,” Wonwoo grins, as the two of you hover in your between-worlds guardian posting. It’s kind of like an apartment, with two sides, the good and the evil, with a massive monitor to watch what Mingyu is doing at any given time. There are speakers for you both to try to persuade him into things, and your voices are what Mingyu might classify as opposing sides of his subconscious.
“Frat parties can be positive,” you insist as you settle next to Wonwoo. “Last time, he saved that girl who blacked out.”
“Yeah, the wild goose chase,” Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “He should have been hitting on girls and slamming jello shots, but instead, you convinced him to track down the girl’s dorm room, carry her all the way home, and make sure she was okay when she woke up hours later. He even held her hair back while she puked. Yuck.”
When Wonwoo knows he’s lost to you, he generally fucks off, goes back into his demon side of the apartment, in his demon room, or leaves altogether to complete other tasks.
Demons don’t need sleep, and technically, angels don’t either, but you’re a self-identifying lazy girl, and you prefer to have rest when Mingyu sleeps, rather than be twenty-four seven working like Wonwoo is. You wonder if his packed schedule is what makes him such a dick, but you also have seen the joy he takes in doing bad deeds, and you can only assume that when he’s not here with you in Mingyu’s head, he’s off pillaging and causing mischief elsewhere.
Wonwoo looks through Mingyu’s eyes, and he leans toward the communicator where he can send his words to your ward. “Get a drink,” Wonwoo insists. “Something fun. Something fruity. Something with way too much alcohol that’s masked with sugar.”
You sigh, also leaning forward. “We should start slow with some water.”
You can sense Mingyu’s inner turmoil as he makes his way to the kitchen, and that’s where he bumps into Hoshi and Seungkwan, both of whom are ruled by their inner demon.
“Hey buddy, want a drink?” Hoshi grins, cheeks pink, eyes clouded with booze.
“Reject him,” you say.
“Accept,” Wonwoo pushes.
“Sure, why not?” Mingyu grins, taking the cup of purple liquid. He downs it easily, and you sigh. So tonight will be a more indulgent evening, and you hate the way Wonwoo sits back with a smile.
“Score one for me, angel,” Wonwoo muses.
“The night is still young,” you huff.
Wonwoo leans forward again. “You know what goes good with alcohol? Cocaine. Or ecstasy. Something fun. Maybe molly.”
You’re flabbergasted. “Mingyu has never-”
“Now is the night to start, he’s at a frat party, with friends, and we know Vernon always has a bong on hand. Maybe weed, something chill.”
You hate him, and you spend the next two hours battling Wonwoo for dominance of Mingyu. Wonwoo wins when it comes to alcohol, but your sweet boy isn’t interested in drugs, no matter how much the demon insists it’s the perfect night to dabble.
And that’s when Mingyu first lays eyes on Kimi.
She’s a year younger than him, someone he’s heard about and seen a few times, but never talked to. She looks gorgeous, in a flowy top and jeans that hug her just right. You can sense Mingyu’s heartbeat quickening, and in his drunkenness, he’s even more susceptible to Wonwoo, who leans forward. “You should fuck her tonight, there’s never a time to be a whore like the present.”
“No sex, you like her!” you argue back. “Talk to her, get her name, look for longevity.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “A one-night stand with a girl like that? Who could think of something better?”
“Uh, maybe a relationship?” you snap.
“We don’t know anything about her!” Wonwoo yells. “And we don’t need to know.”
You lean back from where Mingyu can hear your subconscious pushings, glaring at Wonwoo. “What’s with you and rough, anonymous sex?”
“It’s the best way to have it,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening. “I think our Mingyu boy would love to try some of the things he’s seen in the porn I’ve pushed him to watch. You know, bondage, tying a girl up, all the good shit.”
“Consentually, of course.”
“With you here, it would always have to be consensual,” Wonwoo scoffs.
“You’re despicable.”
“I’m a demon.”
“Even demons have their limits.”
Wonwoo shrugs. “Not really.”
“Well, my Mingyu is a good person. He’d never stoop to your level.”
“Well, he watches the porn I want to watch.”
You click your tongue. Wonwoo convincing Mingyu to watch porn is always the worst, and it’s when you leave the viewing station. The demon can be particularly convincing when it comes to observing sex acts on Mingyu’s phone, but you know your good boy would never go further than simply watching. He’s not the type to ever act on some of the more raunchy ideas Wonwoo forces into his head.
No matter how hard Wonwoo pushes, you know your Mingyu.
And you’re thankful that by the end of the night at the frat party, Mingyu agrees with you that he’s now too drunk, and he retires to bed.
The viewing station goes dark as Mingyu drifts to sleep, and you stand up with a sigh, glaring at Wonwoo.
“You know, one of these days, you’re going to admit that you kind of like the whole bondage sex thing,” Wonwoo sighs.
“What?” you gasp.
“You always leave the room when he and I watch porn.”
“Because I’m a pure being! Because porn and sex go against what I stand for!”
“Porn and lust might be ‘anti-angel’, but sex is natural; it’s God-created. Humans are like any other animal, and they’re meant to have sex, to procreate,” Wonwoo says simply. “I know you’re loose on your whole ‘celibate until marriage’ ideals. When Mingyu lost his virginity, you were happy because it was soft. You might be an angel, but you don’t follow a strict code, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that you follow the bible to the letter. I’m just curious how loose your morals really are. You might think I’m here to test Mingyu, but I’m really here to test you.”
“And who do you think you are to test me?” you glare.
Wonwoo shrugs. “Just a demon who specializes in lust, a demon who took one look at you on Mingyu’s shoulder and decided, ‘you know what, I’d fuck that angel.’”
“As if that’s a compliment.”
“It is, most angels have sticks up their asses the size of the Empire State Building. And don’t get me wrong, you have a stick up yours too, I’m just curious if you’d want something else up inside of you at the same time.”
“I can’t believe you,” you groan, hating the way your body reacts to his sinister smirk, the slight floodyness of his hair, and the regal way he stares at you.
“You don’t have to believe me when I say I want to defile you. I’ll prove it to you soon enough,” Wonwoo’s smirk widens. “You might be an angel, but angels aren’t impervious to sin. After all, demons were angels once, until they stopped lying to themselves and gave in to the carnal pleasures. We’ll get there, don’t worry. I might be a demon, but I can be patient.”
Two:
“Hold it, you’re not going anywhere,” Wonwoo grins, grabbing your arm as you’re about to leave the room, when Mingyu pulls up pornhub with Kimi on his mind.
“I’m not sitting here with you for this; it’s weird,” you insist, pulling yourself away from him, hating the way the cold of his touch lingers on your skin.
“Boys will be boys, let the man find some release,” Wonwoo tells you, his grin widening.
“Boys may be boys, but you were whispering in Mingyu’s ear all day that he should have a jack off session and think about ‘that chick from the frat party.’”
Wonwoo shrugs. “It wasn’t that hard to convince him.”
You let out a deep breath.
“Watch this,” Wonwoo leans forward so Mingyu can hear him. “Look up ‘rope BDSM.’”
“Oh my gosh!” You cover your eyes with your hands as Mingyu quickly follows through with Wonwoo’s suggestion.
“There’s something so sexy about having complete control of another person,” Wonwoo insists, leaning back and staring at you with dark eyes. “Admit it, you liked controlling Mingyu before I showed up.”
“It’s not remotely the same.”
“It is, sort of.” The demon shrugs. “You like control. I know you do. Because every time you don’t get your way, you have a little fit.”
“I do not!”
“Look at you, angel, you’re practically stomping your cute little foot right now.” Wonwoo lets out a chuckle, and you hate how attractive it is. “If you play your cards right, someday, I might let you have a little control over me.”
“What, like tie you up?” you scoff.
Wonwoo’s grin widens. “Does that excite you?”
“In your dreams,” you snap.
“Angel, we both know I don’t sleep. But I do imagine things, things about you…”
Your breath catches.
“I imagine what you sound like, what you taste like. I imagine the look in your eye when I have you immobilized and at my mercy. I imagine making you crack, making you finally admit that pleasure is exactly what it means in the dictionary; the feelings of delight, something you enjoy with every fiber of your being, something you’d beg for me to give you again and again.”
Your skin is heating with embarrassment, and it’s crazy to you that Wonwoo can say everything he just said with a completely straight face. He has zero shame in admitting the things he’s just admitted, and yet, you feel like the dirty one.
“I’m leaving,” you say again, more firmly this time.
“I won’t stop you; you have full control of yourself, and that’s what makes this interesting.” Wonwoo turns his attention back to the screen, where Mingyu is now in the throes of enjoying porn.
“You’re evil,” you snap.
“I’m a demon, it’s part of the job description,” Wonwoo says absentmindedly.
You fight the urge to stomp your foot, and with one last scoff of displeasure, you go back to your quarters, throwing yourself down onto your bed with a muffled scream.
Three:
It’s been a month of chaos. Wonwoo has become somehow even more dirty, and every time he whispers some sexual idea in Mingyu’s ear, his eyes are fixed on you.
You squirm when he mentions bondage, porn, rough sex, and more dirty things that are not for an angel’s ears.
And to make matters worse, you know that Wonwoo is imagining himself doing all of these dirty things to you. To be the object of sin and desire is new to you, and it brings an uncomfortable feeling to the pit of your stomach.
You grapple with yourself every night, unable to get Wonwoo’s voice out of your head.
The word ‘tantalizing’ has never had much merit for you, but now, you understand. Wonwoo oozes sex and intrigue; he makes your mind go to places it's never before visited; dark, lustful places that make your heart race and your skin tingle.
The little smirk that quirks onto his lips when he knows he’s irritated you has become burned into your mind's eye, and you can’t escape the shiny points of his canines, or the flash of black that overtakes his irises when he’s being demonic.
You can feel your resolve to stay true to your morals is slipping, and in its place is a growing need that’s threatening to overtake you, body and soul.
This is the power of a truly strong demon, and it both scares and excites you while you war with yourself.
Four:
After another long day of Wonwoo being raunchy, Mingyu finally goes to sleep. The viewer goes dark, and you stand up with a sigh. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this,” you muse, “but I’m thankful you didn’t push for more porn.”
“He’s on a streak, you know,” Wonwoo smirks. “But I figured I could let you off the hook for one night.”
“Let my pure boy off the hook, you mean.”
“No, I meant what I said. You’re the one who has a problem with it, not Mingyu. He’s just a hot-blooded man who’s hardly had any good sex in his life. A bit of porn can’t hurt.”
You roll your eyes. “Scientists who study the interaction between porn and erectile dysfunction would beg to differ.”
“Human scientists.” Wonwoo’s smirk widens.
“I’m not having an argument with you, I’m off the clock.”
“Off the clock,” the demon repeats with a chuckle.
“Yes, off the clock, which means I also don’t have to deal with you anymore.”
“You enjoy ‘dealing with me.’” Wonwoo insists.
You scoff loudly. “In what diluted world can you come to that conclusion?”
The demon steps closer to you. “The world where I’m a demon who can read sexual energy, and lately, it’s been wafting off your aura like smoke. And where there’s smoke, well, there’s fire.”
“I think you should get your eyes checked,” you fire at him, your arms crossing over your chest in an effort to keep that ‘sexual energy’ contained.
“You’re such a virgin that it’s almost laughable,” Wonwoo tells you, his voice lowering. “Most angels don’t have the kind of lustful energy you do, virginity and all, but every being that exists is plagued by at least one of the seven deadly sins, angels included. It seems to me that your carnal desire is sex, which isn’t anything to be ashamed of. I’ve worked with angels who are greedy, angels who have a sense of divine wrath, but pride is the main trait I’ve seen. One could argue that all three of those sins are more disgusting on an angel than that of simply wanting to be touched, to experience one’s form to the fullest.”
Your mouth feels dry, and you lick your lips, unsure of what to say.
“Don’t worry, angel, I don’t need a response, not really. But… I would never defile an angel without her wanting it, so when I ask you this next question, I’ll need at least an enthusiastic nod if not a verbal ‘yes.’”
“What do you need to ask me?” you whisper.
Wonwoo is close enough to touch you now, and he reaches for your hand, tracing his thumb against your palm. Your mind is telling you to pull away, but you can’t. His touch is cold, but there’s something so nice about it…
“Can I kiss you?” Wonwoo asks, his words hanging in the air like a heavy smog.
You try to swallow the lump in your throat, but it does little to help, and you stare at the beautiful demon. Your body is screaming yes, but your mind is still plagued with trepidation.
“It’s a sin.”
“A kiss isn’t a sin, and besides, you’re off the clock, remember?” His smirk is just so beautiful, and you have to remind yourself that even though he’s a demon, Wonwoo was crafted by God’s own hands. “I think you can forgive yourself for a small misdemeanor, after all, humans are forgiven for much worse.”
“I…” Your heart is hammering in your rib cage, and never in your long life have you felt a desire like this.
“Or… I could wait,” Wonwoo sighs. “I won’t pressure you. I’m a demon, but I’m not an asshole.”
The idea of waiting even longer makes your skin tingle, and you can feel a frown of dissatisfaction appearing on your face.
“You can kiss me,” you say, and the words feel foreign on your tongue.
“Even though you hate me?” Wonwoo grins, cocking a brow.
“Even though I hate you.”
The demon lets out a laugh, dropping your hand in favour of grabbing your hips. He pulls you toward him, being shockingly gentle for a man who’s so outspoken about his taste for rough sex.
“Nobody has to know about this,” Wonwoo whispers as he leans closer. “Even angels are allowed to have dirty little secrets.”
“Then this will be our little secret,” you breathe, swallowing thickly as your hands instinctively go to his shoulder, tugging the demon even closer.
He meets your gaze as he slowly leans in, giving you all the time in the world to change your mind. But you’re in too deep now, and there’s no going back.
His lips press against yours gently, and your whole body is flooded with what you can only describe as pleasure, like a cool breeze wafting over you on an extremely hot day. You want more, and Wonwoo tugs you closer by your hips, his tongue snaking out to rub your lower lip.
Your mouth opens a little, a whimper escaping you as the kiss deepens. Wonwoo releases a low growl, and butterflies erupt in the pit of your stomach from the sound.
Nothing in the world has ever made you feel this way, as if you’re glowing, and all because a dark being is tantalizing you toward sin.
With a gasp, you pull away, breathing heavily.
Wonwoo holds you, not pushing for more; he gives you mental space to analyze what’s just happened, while still keeping you physically close, like a protector.
It’s such an odd notion, the idea that a demon could be any sort of protection for an angel like you.
“I think…” You swallow thickly. “I think I need to have some time alone now.”
“I understand,” Wonwoo nods, his hands slipping away from your hips. “The ball is in your court, angel. Until you decide what you want to do, this is our little secret.”
“Our little secret,” you repeat like a mantra, but the words don’t do anything to help the anxiety building inside of you. It’s as if at any moment you could be struck down for impurity, except, even when you’re alone later, no hand of God comes to smite you.
You think carefully about what Wonwoo’s said, about all living things having their sinful, carnal desires, even angels.
Maybe this is natural, maybe this is okay… maybe.
Five:
You’ve been yearning for Wonwoo in a way you’ve never yearned for anything since your creation. It’s taking every ounce of your self-restraint to keep your distance from him, and Wonwoo’s not making any of it easy.
Every dirty whisper in Mingyu’s ear, every glance at you while he talks about sex, bondage, and porn…
It has your heart racing, your skin heating, and your core throbbing in a way that used to be foreign but is now becoming all too familiar.
“Should I push for more sin tonight?” Wonwoo asks as Mingyu gets ready for bed. “Or have you had enough?”
You groan, knowing that you’re wet from the day you’ve had. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He cocks a brow.
“I’m so tired of all of this.”
“Tired of fighting your own desires, you mean,” Wonwoo corrects, seeing right through you.
You hate that your ‘sexual aura’ is visible to him, hate that no matter how hard you try to fight it, Wonwoo will always know the truth.
And the truth is: you want this demon to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked. You want to get a taste of the sin he has to offer, the sin he claims other angels partake in secretly.
Why are you holding yourself back, holding yourself to a set of standards, if others in your angelic profession don’t?
“What are you thinking about?” Wonwoo asks, watching you carefully.
You release a deep breath. “Everything.”
“Sounds like a lot,” the demon chuckles.
“It is.”
“Too much for a sweet angel like you to carry on her own shoulders.”
You study his face, wondering if he’s being condescending or not.
“Being a demon is much easier. I don’t have to worry about anything,” Wonwoo continues, leaning back in his seat. “No rules, no standards, no fear. Just existence. Freedom.”
“I’m free,” you insist.
“Are you really?” Wonwoo grins. “Could have fooled me.”
“I am free! I’m an angel! I have the most freedom in the world!”
“Freedom to kiss who you want to kiss? To act on the desires that were literally built into you? Why would God have made you with the sin of lust if he did not intend for you to act on it? To torture you for your entire existence?” Wonwoo shakes his head.
“He bestowed temptation so his creations could rise above it and devote themselves to Him,” you insist. “It teaches spiritual strength and perseverance.”
“Whatever you say, little Miss Sunday School.”
You let out a deep sigh. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Wonwoo grins.
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because it makes me want you even more!” you scream. “For a reason I can not comprehend, I want you. I want you for the teasing, for the chastizing, for this disgusting ego that I would never condone on a human ward. I want it. I want all of you. And it’s killing me!”
Wonwoo stands up abruptly, and you mirror him, heart racing in your chest.
You can’t believe you’ve just admitted all of it, all of the deep dark things you’ve been thinking about for weeks.
“An ego can be sexy,” Wonwoo says finally. “Although I’d classify myself as more of a prideful being than an egotistical one.”
“Ugh!” You throw your hands up, hating that his smirk is the most handsome thing you’ve ever seen, hating that he’s right.
“Tell me you want this again,” Wonwoo urges you, stepping closer.
“I want you! You already heard me say it!” Your skin is hot with irritation, both sexual and emotional, and you can hardly think straight.
“No, tell me you want this.” Wonwoo grabs your hand, tugging you to his chest. He looks down at you, his lips almost ghosting over your own.
“I want this,” you whimper, feeling defeated and broken.
You can no longer hold yourself back, and part of you doesn’t want to.
“I’ll be gentle,” the demon promises, bringing his mouth down to your throat, where he presses soft kisses that take your breath away.
“I thought you liked it rough,” you say, releasing a chuckle that brings your anxiety down.
“I also like pleasure. I’m prideful, not a narcissist. Tonight, your pleasure will come first.”
Your skin tingles, and you swallow a lump in your throat. You can feel your fear dissipating. Part of you had imagined he’d want to try bondage with you right away, so it’s a relief that he’s going to meet you at your level, which is… well, nonexistent.
You are a free being. And tonight, you will lose your heavenly virginity of your own volition.
Wonwoo begins to suck on a spot just below your ear, and it makes you moan. You throw your arms around the demon, tugging him closer.
One of Wonwoo’s hands slips down to your bum, squeezing you through your white pants.
God, he feels so good, and you focus on the feeling, pushing aside your racing thoughts.
You draw his lips to yours, and Wonwoo groans with pleasure, tugging you so you’re flush to his body.
Kissing him is like magic, and you get lost in it easily. Your core is wet, and you can feel your panties getting sticky, which is a tantalizing thought.
“Bedroom,” Wonwoo says, breaking the kiss.
Without missing a beat, the demon reaches down and lifts you bridal style. You gasp, clutching onto his shoulders and blinking up at him.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Wonwoo laughs. “As if I was about to take your virginity in a living room.”
He heads toward your side of the apartment, and he pushes the door of your bedroom open.
Your room is all creams and minimalism, a true safe space, and he pauses to look at it for a moment. He’s never been in your room, nor you in his.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nothing, it’s just… very different from my side of the space.”
“No whips and chains hanging on the walls?” you tease.
“How about no black onyx floors or dark colours.”
“Well, I am an angel,” you point out as he gently sets you on the bed.
“Yes, baby, the best angel I’ve ever met.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt. The most angelic.” Wonwoo climbs on top of you, and your legs spread instinctively as the demon looks down at you. “I’ve never met an angel who has never sinned. It’s endearing.”
“Will you still find me endearing after tonight?” you ask.
“I’ll find you endearing forever,” Wonwoo promises.
“Who knew such sweet words could come from a demon.”
Wonwoo laughs. “If anyone deserves sweet words from me, it’s you.”
“You’re just saying that to get me in bed.”
“We’re already in bed.”
“Good point.” You grab the nape of his neck, tugging his lips down to yours.
This verbal foreplay has become trite, and you’re ready for more, ready for all Wonwoo is about to give you.
For the first time, you taste desperation on his lips, and it excites you. He grinds gently down against you, and it’s the first time there’s been pressure on your core. Tingles of pleasure run through you as you tighten your legs around his hips, willing him to push harder.
Wonwoo groans, following through with your silent plea. He ruts hard as you kiss each other, stimulating your clit through your clothing.
One of his hands reaches up and grabs your breast through your white sweater, massaging you and making you gasp.
“Such pretty sounds,” Wonwoo whispers, biting your earlobe gently. “Can’t wait to hear you screaming my name.”
“Wonwoo,” you whimper, wiggling beneath him, eager for more.
He sits up, and with one tug, Wonwoo removes your sweater, leaving you in a cream bra.
“All white everything, huh?” he laughs.
“I’m an angel.”
“So you keep reminding me. You always wear such loose, modest clothing, but I imagined you’d be gorgeous under all these layers.” He licks his lips, his thumb teasing the lace of your bra. “Should I go slow?”
“Go medium,” you tell him.
Wonwoo lets out another chuckle. “That wasn’t one of the options.”
“Make it one of the options.”
He shakes his head at you, leaning down to press his lips to yours.
You thread your fingers through his raven black hair, mewling as he massages you through your bra. Your nipples are aching already, and there’s a sense of great relief when he finally takes your bra off.
“So pretty,” Wonwoo muses, kissing down from your throat to your breasts, where he captures one of your nipples in his mouth.
You whimper desperately, your entire body on fire with the pleasure.
“And so sensitive too,” the demon groans, gently dragging his teeth over your sensitive bud.
“Please,” you gasp.
“Please, what?” he looks up at you.
You let out a shuddery breath. “More.”
“Your wish is my command, angel,” Wonwoo teases, his hand gliding down your body. Deft fingers slip under the waistband of your pants, but he stays over your panties as he makes contact with your clit.
You writhe against the bedding, eyes clenched shut as foreign ecstasy washes over you.
He continues to suck on your nipple as he toys with your pussy.
“Soaking through your panties,” Wonwoo tuts. “My dirty girl.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, and you’re shocked that you like the way his words feel. It’s a sinful kind of praise, and it makes you dizzy as you watch him, anticipating what he’ll do next.
Wonwoo takes his time as he licks and sucks your nipples, playing with your pussy through drenched fabric.
It’s a relief when he finally tugs your pants down, leaving you in only panties.
Then, Wonwoo sits up, tugging his shirt off with one motion.
Your jaw drops at the view of his bare torso. He’s lean but muscled, and you wish you could trace the lines on his skin, but Wonwoo made it clear that tonight is about you.
“I’m going to eat you out now,” Wonwoo explains, as he sinks to the floor. “Bet you taste like nectar and sunshine.”
Talking about your ‘taste’ makes you shy, and you close your thighs, only for him to gently pry them open.
“Don’t be bashful, baby,” Wonwoo coos, pressing kisses to your skin.
“What if I don’t taste like nectar and sunshine?” you ask.
“I can already smell it on you,” Wonwoo promises, an attempt to be assuring, but now you’re talking about smell, and it makes you even more anxious. “You know what, let’s leave taste and smell out of this for now, okay?”
“Yes, please,” you nod, biting your bottom lip.
Wonwoo hooks his fingers in your panties, slowly dragging them down your legs.
The cool air of the room on your wet core makes you groan, back arching a little as you writhe against the bed.
Cold hands grab your thighs, confidently spreading you open.
“Just breathe,” Wonwoo reminds you as he leans forward and licks the entirety of your core lewdly.
“Shit!” you gasp, thighs quaking.
The demon chuckles. “That’s the first time you’ve ever swore.”
You slap a hand over your mouth, and he shakes his head at you, returning to his task.
Soon, you’re moaning through your fingers, and your other hand reaches down to grab at his hair, keeping his face buried between your thighs.
He eats you out like a starved man, ravaging your pussy with licks and sucks that have your head spinning in the best possible way.
And then Wonwoo begins to growl, and you’ve never heard anything so erotic.
Your own gasps and whimpers are filling the room, and you can feel something getting tighter and tighter in the pit of your stomach.
“Wonwoo,” you pant. “I think… I think I’m going to cum!”
He releases a groan, and the vibration of it on your clit makes your legs shake. All of your muscles are tense, waiting for that final push-
Then you look down, and your eyes lock with his. His pupils are blown, and he looks absolutely demonic, but there’s something so incredibly sexy about this powerful demon worshiping you with his mouth on your core-
You cum like an electric shock, your entire body jolting, muscles releasing only to clench again as the waves surge through you.
You scream, grabbing at the bed sheets like an anchor as your orgasm overtakes you.
Wonwoo is unrelenting on your core, groaning and eating you messily, and it only makes the whole situation more erotic.
You’ve been to Heaven, but nothing has ever felt like this.
“Wonwoo!” you scream when the pleasure begins to feel like it’s too much, like you can’t contain or sustain this type of ecstasy anymore.
The demon pulls away immediately, looking up at you.
“Angel,” he breathes, “you’re glowing.”
“What?”
“You’re glowing,” he repeats. Wonwoo grabs your hand from the bed, lifting it so you can see that your skin is literally aglow.
“Is this normal?” you gasp in panic.
“I’ve never seen it.”
“And you fuck a lot of angels?” you snap.
“Not really,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “I find most of you to be too high-strung.”
“I’m high-strung.”
“But it’s endearing on you.” His thumb gently rubs your glit, and you jolt, releasing a gasp. “Glowing can’t be harmful.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure it’s just pent-up energy,” he muses. “Should I give you more?”
You take all of one second to consider his words before nodding. “More.”
Wonwoo nuzzles against your inner thigh with a laugh, and then he teases a digit between your pussy lips, gently sinking it into you.
You groan, your inner walls having never been touched before.
“So warm,” Wonwoo breathes. “So tight.”
He gently finger fucks you, teasing your hole open, and he brings his mouth to your clit again.
His pace is slow, and you know he’s letting you acclimate to the stimulus.
You can feel yourself dripping on his digit, and the slick is making it all too easy for him to work you open. Soon, he adds another finger, and you groan desperately, loving the slight stretch.
“Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I give you the real thing,” Wonwoo explains.
“Okay,” you whimper.
He returns to sucking on your clit, but he’s not being as gentle as he was before.
You can feel that tension building again, and with each slick sound of his fingers fucking into you, you know you’re getting closer to the edge.
Whimpers escape your lips, and you gasp when he crooks his fingers, hitting a spot that has your whole body coming alight with pleasure.
You’ve heard Wonwoo talk about the ‘g-spot’ before, and you’re pretty sure he just found yours.
Your toes are curling, muscles getting incredibly tight as his pace quickens.
“I’m close!” you cry out, grabbing the bed sheets again, your heart racing in your chest.
Wonwoo groans a sound of affirmation, and again, his noise of pleasure is what sends you over the edge.
Just like the first time, he works you through your orgasm, unrelenting, while the pleasure courses through you. You’re a throbbing, whimpering mess by the time Wonwoo pulls away, and you watch with shy delight as he licks his fingers clean, moaning at your taste.
“How did that one feel, angel?” he asks.
“So good,” you whimper.
Wonwoo stands up, looking down at your nude form.
“Ready for the real deal?”
“I’m scared,” you admit, seeing the outline of his cock through his pants.
“That’s natural,” Wonwoo breathes, undoing his belt. “And if you still want to change your mind…”
“No.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “Let’s do this.”
Wonwoo pulls his pants down, and suddenly, his cock is slapping up against his stomach.
Your jaw drops at the sight of him. He’s long… well, you’re pretty sure he’s long, not that you have much to compare it to.
“That’s going to fit inside of me?” you ask.
“Angel, your pussy is wetter than a slip and slide, it won’t be a problem,” Wonwoo laughs.
“Just… go slow.”
“Not medium?” he teases.
“Wonwoo…” you groan.
“I’ll go slow,” he promises, now fully nude as he climbs on top of you. “Don’t worry.”
Wonwoo presses his lips to yours, and you wrap your arms around the back of his neck, pouring all of your attention into the meeting of your mouths.
Wonwoo slowly begins to rut, teasing his cock through your wet pussy lips and bumping your clit. The grinding feels phenomenal, and soon you’re a moaning mess beneath him, your core aching to be filled.
As if he can read you, the demon reaches for the base of his cock, lining the tip up with your wet hole. His mouth moves to your throat, giving you space to speak if you need him to pause or slow down, but as his tip slips inside of you, you realize there will be no need for breaks.
Sure, the stretch is new, but it’s not bad.
In fact, your pussy is trying to swallow him up, and with each inch after inch, you feel more and more complete.
Wonwoo truly is your opposite, the yin to your yang, and it feels phenomenal to finally be connected like this.
“You okay?” Wonwoo asks, and you can see his muscles feathering, as if it’s taking every ounce of self-control for him not to let loose and fuck you stupid.
“Feels good,” you groan, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him further into you.
Wonwoo moans deeply, and a moment later, he’s fully sheathed in your wet core.
You both release sounds of pleasure together, and your lips meet in a fiery kiss.
You love tangling your fingers in his hair, and it makes him kiss you harder. He’s still fully inside of you, unmoving as your walls adjust, but soon, your own hips are rocking, and he takes the cue to begin to thrust.
The first movement is shallow and slow, and you revel in the drag of his cock against your inner walls.
You cry out, throwing your head back, and Wonwoo latches onto your throat, sucking and nibbling.
Your pebbled nipples press against his chest, and each movement toys with them.
You can feel Wonwoo everywhere. He’s completely commanding every one of your senses, and not a single thought is going through your mind except for one word: more.
His pace is increasing, and you get the sense that he’s reacting to your sounds, figuring you out based on your whimpering and whining.
You pull Wonwoo away from your throat by his hair, and you open your eyes, looking up at him.
God, he truly is the most beautiful being you’ve ever seen.
He’s truly a vision, lust-blown pupils and all, his hair a mess from where you’re tugging on it.
You breathe in each other, lips almost meeting but just separate, and the teasing makes everything more seductive.
Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, flipping you onto your side. He moves behind you, a cold big spoon as he enters you again. His breath is hot on your shoulders, and he takes the opportunity to gently bite your neck, making you gasp. You reach behind yourself, grabbing his hair again, which earns you a groan of pleasure.
His hand is on your hip, and he fucks into you desperately, adjusting your body ever so slightly, opening your leg a little so he can hit deeper.
“Wonwoo!” you whimper when his hand slips from your hips to your core, his fingers teasing your clit.
“That’s it, scream my name,” he grins, biting your earlobe and making you shiver.
“Wonwoo!” you say it louder this time, unable to contain yourself as he works you closer and closer to the edge again.
“Gonna cum on my cock, huh, angel?” he chuckles.
“Yes, I’m so close,” you whimper, pussy tightening around him.
“Not yet.” Wonwoo pulls out of you suddenly, and you whine, only for him to adjust you.
Now you’re sitting on top of him, with Wonwoo propped against the headboard.
“Why am I on top?” you ask, confused.
“Oh angel,” he licks your nipple, “just because you’re on top doesn’t mean you’re the one who is in control.”
His hands are on your hips again, and he lifts you slightly, allowing him to plow up into you.
You cry out from how deep his cock is hitting you, from the way he’s using you like a ragdoll.
You throw your head back, and his mouth latches onto your nipple. Your hands fly to his hair, tangling in the dark curls as he fucks you stupid.
Each smack down of your core on his cock has pressure on your clit, and you can feel that orgasm bubbling again.
You feel drunk, or, what you think being drunk would feel like. It’s a pleasurable dizziness, a mind numbing euphoria and a tingling that flutters through your entire body.
Wonwoo growls, and you know it’s a sound of affirmation, a sound to push you toward the edge.
A few more rough thrusts have you tumbling into ecstasy, your entire core clamping down on Wonwoo’s cock. Your head falls forward, your lips making contact with the crown of Wonwoo’s head as he also groans. He pulls off of your nipple, panting desperately as he holds you down, his cock burried in your throbbing pussy.
You know he’s cumming too, and feel his muscles twitching, his shoulders tight with tension.
And his sounds… nothing in Heaven or on Earth sounds the way Wonwoo does when he’s wrapped in pleasure.
Your entire body sings with delight as the two of you hold onto each other, jolting with the aftershocks of your extreme highs.
The two of you hold each other, breathing in one another.
Wonwoo leans his face against your breasts, and you cradle him.
You’ve never felt this close to anyone.
For a moment you can forget that he’s a demon and you’re an angel.
None of that matters right now.
Finally, Wonwoo pulls away with a sigh. “This changes things.”
“It does,” you agree.
“We’re bound together for as long as Mingyu lives, so… you better not decide you hate me tomorrow.”
You laugh. “You irritate me, but I don’t hate you.”
“I’m not going to stop telling Mingyu to pursue his sexual desires.”
“I never expected you to,” you admit with a sigh.
“And you’re… okay with it now?”
“As long as it’s consensual, fine, he can be as dirty as he wants to be.”
Wonwoo laughs, cuddling close to your chest again. “See, in this day and age, some sins like premarital sex are outdated.”
“We could debate that,” you laugh, running your hands through his hair.
“I think I would like that.”
“I feel like it would be a case of unstoppable force meets immovable object.”
Wonwoo chuckles, and you love how beautiful he is when he smiles. “Sounds like us.”
“But we can’t let our sexual escapades get in the way of doing our job for Mingyu,” you declare.
“I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from your work,” Wonwoo groans. “You’d probably bite my cock off if I tried.”
“Consider yourself warned.”
“Consider yourself worshipped.”
“Huh?” you blink down at him.
“You’re still glowing, angel.” Wonwoo plays with a piece of your hair. “It’s been a long time since a demon like me has had anything to look up to.”
“You look up to me?”
“In some ways, but don’t make this more of an embarrassment than it already is.” Wonwoo lets out a sigh. “You’ve reformed me… slightly.”
“Don’t tell me it’s the power of good pussy.”
“Great pussy,” Wonwoo corrects. “And no. If I’m being honest, I think you’ve been changing me for the better for a while, bit by bit.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
Wonwoo smiles. “And I’m just happy.”
“I can live with that.”
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! this one was fun, it was a little late to be posted because my puppy has a tooth infection and it's been a hell of a week. reminder! Patreon charges on the FIRST of every month, so if you're going to get my Patreon, just be aware of that, or wait until June 2nd :)
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🔮 preview. Your core tingles as you test the bindings on your wrists. There is truly so much he can teach you about the darker side of sex, the pain that turns into pleasure, the freedom of being completely immobilized and at the mercy of someone you trust to take care of you.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, bdsm themes, wrist bondage, pleasure dom!Wonwoo, oral/pussy eating, wonwoo has powers in this… including a long demon tongue, overstimulation, finger fucking, body/breast worship, squirting, dacryphilia (arousal from tears/crying), dirty talk, praise, multiple reader orgasms, etc… I petnames. (hers) angel.
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.6k I teaser wc. 140
🌙 starring. Wonwoo x afab!Reader
bonus
To your shock, Wonwoo isn’t pushy with you the way he’s pushy with Mingyu. He hasn’t said a word about the soft sex the two of you have continued to have for months now, and he hasn’t made you feel lesser than him for being vanilla either.
Wonwoo treats you very differently than he treats Mingyu, but you know that every time Wonwoo brings up rough sex in Mingyu’s ear, it’s because Wonwoo himself has an interest in it.
The demon has talked about being a sexual pleaser, and your need to please him has grown too. Can you really hold Wonwoo and yourself back from reaching another level by dabbling with the BDSM themes he’s so fond of?
Can you… condemn him to vanilla sex for as long as the two of you are connected through Mingyu?
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daughter of the sword, son of the wild ; jeon wonwoo
SUMMARY. you were supposed to kill him, he had no reason to keep you alive - and yet, the universe works in mysterious ways. what will you do when your path begins to unravel? how long until you realize the sword you wield can very well be used against you?
PAIRING. jeon wonwoo x f!reader
GENRE. enemies to lovers, rebel!wonwoo, assassin!reader, historical au, angst, some fluff towards the end, lots of introspection, junhao speak cantonese with each other in this universe
WARNINGS. language, mention of drinking, main & side character death (multiple character deaths), violence & blood (not graphic), kissing - slightly suggestive? but not really? read at your own discretion
WORDS. 34.54k
NOTES. um so... let the record show i did not originally intend for this fic to get this long. but! i can't believe it's finally done! this was a very engaging story to write and i genuinely enjoyed every moment of it. huge huge thank you to jay @ppyopulii & calli @hhaechansmoless for letting me scream about this and brainstorming along with me this fic would absolutely not exist without them!! so sorry for causing all of those crashouts guys... i love u so much i promise. anyways, that's all i have to say - i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing! xx (oh also if you see weird gaps between paragraphs that's the shift + entering i had to do to fit this in one post oops)
TAGS. @mochacoda @ppyopulii @jiabae @nerdycheol
PLAYLIST. tsunami - niki / gemini - jun / do i wanna know - arctic monkeys / sailor song - gigi perez / the cut that always bleeds - conan gray / close to you - gracie abrams
The night is quiet – a little too quiet, an eerie kind of silence that cannot be ignored. Wonwoo gets goosebumps on the back of his neck, hairs standing on end, and he knows immediately that something is wrong.
Silently, he taps Jeonghan’s shoulder twice. A signal. The older man raises his eyebrows, hand instinctively moving to his sword.
“We are not alone,” Wonwoo cautions him, taking careful steps forward. It’s a lucky thing that he’s mastered the art of staying calm in situations that are as suddenly critical as this. He and Jeonghan were only hoping to return home after a long day of travel, but now he has the feeling someone wants to prevent that from happening.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wonwoo suddenly catches an unmistakable glint of something that can only be metal. After all, the moon never lies.
Jeonghan has noticed it, too. “There,” he says, sword drawn, “behind that shed. Do you see them?”
“That cannot be any less than fifteen, at least.”
“Only fifteen? This could have been a lot worse.”
Wonwoo is very familiar with that look, the impish smirk that Jeonghan always wears. Nobody knows what it’s meant to mask, but it has become something of a comforting sight.
“Do not get in your own head,” Jeonghan advises, offering him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Remember what we are here for.”
“Right,” Wonwoo nods, before ducking instinctively. The knife, having come out of nowhere, just barely misses the top of his head. We are surrounded, he realizes, surveying the area around him. There is no easy way out.
Jeonghan says nothing, bringing his blade out to parry an unsuspecting blow, slashing the man’s chest with one fluid motion. Wonwoo wonders how many years of this it’s taken him to draw blood with such an indifferent expression.
How much practice does it take to effortlessly kill?
Well, the resistance will not fight itself, he tells himself as he sinks his daggers deep into his attacker, blood splattering onto his face. The metallic scent is not new to him.
There has always been a certain headspace that Wonwoo enters in situations such as these; everything aside from the battle is nothing but a blur. Seungcheol had always liked this about him, and praised his state of focus.
Now, Wonwoo wonders if it is just a way to bottle up his fear.
Every wound he inflicts feels like a cut on himself. He can’t freeze up, he can’t – this is the mantra he repeats to himself in his mind, keeping Seungcheol’s advice with him. All he can do is hope it serves him well now.
The thoughts distract him only for a second. But that moment is enough, he realizes, bearing the brunt of a strong kick to the chest. Wonwoo stumbles backward, just barely dodging his assailant’s sword to his neck.
Close calls in this line of work are one too many, too often.
Belatedly, he feels blood trickling down his cheek. He must have gotten nicked somewhere, comes the afterthought, as he spins his daggers between his fingers, stepping closer for the final blow. He braces himself again before letting the knife fly. The sound is sharp, but subtle. Wonwoo just barely misses flesh, the edge cutting through the fabric covering most of his attacker’s face instead.
For some reason, he freezes at the sight of your prominent cupid’s bow, and the way your skin glows under the moon’s light. You freeze, too, sword halted in mid-air.
Wonwoo doesn’t really understand what’s going on, until he looks into your fiery, lash-framed eyes, and it hits him.
A woman, he realizes, bewildered. It is unheard of, nearly impossible – the emblem stitched onto the side of your robes tells him exactly who sent you, and he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Nobody associated with the palace would even consider sending a woman into the field, even with their best fighters.
And yet, here you are.
Wonwoo’s shock must have been mirrored on his face, because you take advantage of it and slash at him furiously. He’s fast – he’s trained for this, feet quicker than light – but not enough, for you manage to nick his torso with the edge of your sword.
Wonwoo falls back with a grunt, throwing a quick look over his shoulder. Jeonghan is making quick work of the men, his blade swirling around with effortless speed and precision. Bodies lie all around him; some dead, some hardly clinging onto their last breath. It makes Wonwoo sick to his stomach.
He staggers with every parry, trying to ignore the metallic smell that rises in his nostrils. You match him in skill and strength, he notes, strike for strike, and for the first time he finds himself struggling to put up a good fight.
And then, as aggressive as you have been, you back away for a second, alarm clear in your eyes. It catches Wonwoo off guard, the way you suddenly glance behind him to survey the empty valley and slink away into the darkness.
“Wait!” he calls out gruffly, sprinting in your wake, but he’s already lost you. You are quiet, and leave no trace – the night is concealing, and amidst the tall grass and sparse roads, Wonwoo does not know where you have gone. The others have followed in your trail, and soon the valley is as silent as if nothing had occurred in the first place.
There is something akin to guilt. A stronger man would have been able to finish the job, he thinks, reminded faintly of Seungcheol. Empathy is a vice, for people like him. He should not have wavered at the sight of your face. Wonwoo could have finished you then and there, if not for the hesitation that held him back.
Jeonghan approaches slowly, wiping his sword against the grass and staining the blades dark red. “I cannot believe several of them still got away,” he says vengefully. “After this sort of ambush I should have wiped them all out one by one.”
“You say that like you were the only one fighting.” Wonwoo gives a sheepish half-smile. “It is my fault too, hyung.”
Jeonghan seems to soften a little at this. The vexed expression is gone from his face, replaced by something kinder, more forgiving. Carefully, he brushes the dirt off of Wonwoo’s robes, giving him a reassuring pat.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“No.”
“I know when you are lying,” Jeonghan points out. His fingers graze the wound on his shoulder, and Wonwoo winces involuntarily. “Make sure you tend to this later.”
The journey home is mostly quiet. Wonwoo is not one for many words, and Jeonghan is not normally inclined to fill the silence, choosing to bask in it instead. It is late, and all Wonwoo wants is to be able to bathe himself and drift off to sleep before another day arrives. Maybe Mingyu is still awake, he muses, painfully aware of the hunger in his abdomen. It has been days of travel, and there is nothing like being back home.
Wonwoo can feel dawn coming on by the time he has returned to the familiar cluster of small houses. Surely nobody is still up, he tells himself, bidding a good rest to Jeonghan and gently letting the curtains fall behind him. He is carefully silent as he washes up, scrubbing away dried blood and bandaging his wounds in the small yard behind the house.
“Jeon Wonwoo, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Oh, dear. He would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Hayun standing behind him, arms crossed sternly, and he thinks he’s never been more intimidated by her before.
“What are you doing up so early?”
Hayun purses her lips, frowning, and chooses to ignore the question.
“Is my husband aware that you’ve gone and gotten yourself injured again, or do I need to inform him?”
Wonwoo sighs through his nose. “Please do not do that.”
She softens at this, a little. The look in her eyes shifts from disappointment to concern.
“You must not put yourself in harm’s way on such a whim. How many times has Mingyu entreated you to look after yourself? What on earth even happened?”
“Jeonghan hyung and I were returning from the capital when we were attacked. He is not hurt,” he adds quickly, “but I am inclined to think it was a planned ambush.”
“You boys must be careful,” she emphasizes, taking a seat on a tree stump. “It is more important now than ever.”
He knows she is right. One wrong move, and it will all be for nothing. “Has Mingyu been well?”
“Better, I suppose.” Hayun’s fingers fiddle with the hem of her sleeves. “He is still recovering. But he is able to hunt on his own now, and walk without much pain.”
“That is good news,” he agrees, memories from the fateful night of Mingyu’s injury flashing in the back of his mind. “I have not seen him in a while.”
“Well, you are home now. He will be very glad to see you, and quite upset about your wounds,” she says pointedly.
“He will not know what I do not show him.”
“If you must.” Hayun rises, brushing the dirt off of her hanbok, and pauses. She is several years younger than Wonwoo, but the look in her eyes is one of motherly concern.
“We will be careful,” he insists. She does not respond to this, just smiles wistfully and pats his shoulder.
“Sleep, Wonwoo. It is nearly sunrise, and you have not gotten any rest. You will need it.”
He struggles for words. He does not know how to tell her that sleep has rather successfully evaded him lately.
“Alright,” he says finally, and watches her retreat back behind the wooden door. Still, he does not move. His legs suddenly feel too heavy to stand, and his wounds ache with sorrow for all the blood he has drawn under the dark cover of the night.
Sparse light begins to filter through the sky, harkening the arrival of another dawn. The clouds split, and Wonwoo wonders what he could have been in another life.
Thirty-two casualties, eight injured, three missing. The numbers are against you, and you know it.
You have not had a moment of peace since arriving back at your quarters. This palace is much smaller than the king’s, and therefore busier, but you would not dare to complain. If anything, having company at all times is better than perpetual isolation.
“I do not think His Highness will punish you,” Seokmin assures you. As your right hand man and faithful friend, it is duty to say such things, even when he might not be absolutely certain he is correct.
“He is not a generous man. You know this,” you tell him, undoing and redoing your braid in frustration. “We are looked after as long as we serve his purpose. Tonight was the exact opposite of that.”
Seokmin’s silence vindicates you further. You pace anxiously in the room, awaiting your impending doom. Will he have you banished? Executed perhaps, for sheer and utter failure. You think of your sisters then, somewhere in your small village waiting for your safe return.
There is a series of harsh knocks on the door. A royal guard, by the look of his attire.
“His Highness would like to speak with you,” he says grimly. You throw an apprehensive glance over your shoulder at Seokmin, who merely nods. It is meant to be comforting, however it is everything but.
You follow the guard down the winding halls and into a room that has housed many meetings before, none of which ended remarkably well. The guard leaves you with a polite bow and shuts the door behind him.
The room is dull, windows drawn and curtains closed. It is mostly bare, save for the sparse bookshelves and the table where the second prince Muyeol is hunched over a scroll. You lower your eyes, not daring to speak first.
“I have received news of recent events,” he says, finally. His voice is low, but sharp as an arrow.
“My deepest apologies, Your Highness.” He does not speak further, just watching you with those eyes that have seen years of war and rebellion, and it compels you to explain yourself. “I assure you, we tried our best. I did not anticipate–”
“I did not ask you here to listen to your excuses.” You realize now the way he so easily holds control over his men, and all those coerced into doing his bidding. Fear is a powerful thing. “I want to know how two village boys overpowered some of the palace’s most highly trained and able warriors.”
“I do not–”
“You had one opportunity to prove yourself,” Muyeol remarks, discarding the scroll he had been inspecting. Whatever light there is highlights the faint streaks of gray in his beard as he rises, stepping closer to you. “After all, it is unheard of for a woman to be involved in such activities, let alone be placed in control of the movement. Some of our allies are wondering if it is too much power, to such feeble a person.”
Your fists clench at your sides. This does not go unnoticed – he laughs, an evil and rumbling thing that only stokes the fire in your chest.
“I am far from feeble,” you say with as much venom as you can muster, “and I believe I have proven so in the past. Do not forget I have been loyal to you and your cause for many moons.”
“True loyalty is not bought.” He picks up one of his knives, a beautiful, glistening weapon. Your breath catches as he points the tip at you, tracing the sharp edge along the curve of your throat. “I have not forgotten the circumstances under which you were brought here. Do you truly believe you would still be here if your family was not at stake?”
Tall flames, pungent smoke in your airways. A ransacked village lies in the distant path of your memories. You remember the price many have paid for attempting to cross this man, the consequences you are still living to this day.
“They are getting in the way,” he continues, coldly. “The commoners believe they are fighting for justice against the crown. It is turning into a problem, for I must rid my brother of the throne before they have the chance to.”
What a cruel man, you think. His words make you sick, but you swallow it down for the sake of your survival.
“I do not forget any allegiance I have pledged, Your Highness.”
The blade drops, and you finally take in the breath you’ve been holding. The air feels sickly sweet in your lungs.
“I want them dead.” Muyeol drops the knife with a loud clang. “All of them. The uprising must be quashed. Bring me their bodies, so that we may burn them as an example to those who dare to ruin our kingdom. You know what is at stake if you do not.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He turns his sharp eyes to you, sly and unsettling. “You may leave.”
The feeling of dread does not leave even as you enter the courtyard, letting the gentle breeze lap against your cheeks. It is so late that you can feel the beginning rays of dawn creep up the horizon, and yet you are not tired. It strikes you then, in the lush expanse of the palace, that you are as good as powerless. That no matter how high you rise in the ranks, you are still a woman where there is room for none. And if only to make matters worse, you are a pawn in a cruel game that you would rather not be playing at all.
For the first time in months, you feel your eyes stinging with tears you should not let fall. You wish someone was there with you – Seokmin, Seungkwan, anyone – but that is not the case.
Under the impassive gaze of the night, you are completely alone.
There is little time before your next mission. You assemble a small group of your most trusted soldiers and start to make your plans.
Your reluctance does not slip past your crew unnoticed. Three of them stay behind after you dismiss the others – your most trusted archers, and confidants. Friend is a precarious title in this line of work, but you have learned to make exceptions for them.
“I hope you know you can speak your mind to us,” Seungkwan begins. “What is holding you back?”
“It is nothing.”
“If it were nothing, we would have left for the foothills tonight.”
It is always uncanny how perceptive he is. “My thoughts do not matter,” you say, “so long as His Highness is satisfied and my sisters are safe.”
Hansol is perched on an armchair, eyes thoughtful. “Do you ever think of what you will do once this is all over? When the king finally abdicates and the people are happy?”
“I do not know if the people will truly ever be happy,” you say truthfully. “The second prince has promised action, and action is better than inaction. But he is not the good and kind man the people want for a ruler.”
“The same man that murdered his own son, for fear that he might lay claim to the throne.” Seokmin shudders. “I feel complicit in all of his crimes.”
You take a moment to really look at him, then, as well as the others. Not as soldiers, not as the deadliest archers this side of the river – but as mere boys of twenty-something, full of locked-up love for fallen friends and slain mothers and burning villages.
What kind of person was Seungkwan at seventeen? What had been Hansol’s favorite fruit to pick and eat in the summertime?
None of that matters, now. They all have shadows in their eyes; sisters, brothers, loved ones they have left behind. Muyeol had been correct. None of them are here because they want to be.
“One day, we will be on the right side of history,” you say, placing a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder. “But we cannot do that as corpses, and that is what we will be if we fail now.”
“You are right,” he says finally, after a few moments. He glances out the window, at the sun spilling the last few drops of light on the earth. “Please rest, Y/N. There will be a long day of travel, and an even longer hunt afterwards.”
“I will try,” you agree absentmindedly. You offer them your best smile, knowing they will always see through it, and bid them a good night, staying behind to watch what is left of the sunset.
That night, a man appears in your dreams. He knows your name, but you don’t seem to find this strange. Instead, you curl yourself further into the calm familiarity of his voice. You have not seen him since you were eleven, just a child who should not have known the grief that was about to befall her.
You are so brave, he tells you. You are so strong. Mother would have been so proud of you.
You reach for him, unconsciously. Am I really?
Yes. You are so much stronger than you know, little tiger.
A single tear seeps through your lashes, illuminated under the moon’s soft glow. You wake up in the morning and cannot remember your brother’s face at all.
The forest had been Wonwoo’s entire childhood. Raised him, in a sense.
There are faint memories of afternoons spent running in the tall grass, peals of carefree laughter while climbing the tall larch trees. His little brother had liked to catch dragonflies, particularly, letting them go after admiring their scintillating wings. Mingyu does the same, when he is able. The bittersweet likeness always puts something of a smile on Wonwoo’s face.
But that had been before the trees burned and the ferns went down in crackling flames, taking everything precious with them. Now, Wonwoo catches a glimpse of forsythia and barely feels anything.
Unlike the others, he has never been able to sleep in for long. It was hours ago when he first rose, shifting the blankets carefully so that he would not wake up Chan. His muscles are still very sore, wounds still stinging, but he basks in the warm sunlight and feels just a little more alive.
“You’re outside quite early.”
Wonwoo turns sharply. He is normally alone at this time, but Seungcheol is standing in the doorway, eyes heavy with sleep. “Mingyu will be elated to see you,” he adds. “Once he is awake, that is.”
“He seems to be more tired as of late.”
“We all are.” Seungcheol’s eyes dart to the bandages on Wonwoo’s shoulder, and across his torso. Unlike Jeonghan, he says nothing – his mouth settles into a thin line that can only be concern. “I am glad the both of you returned safely last night. The attack was a complete surprise. We did not think that the palace would send soldiers so far into the country.”
Wonwoo thinks of you, then, movements as fluid and graceful as a river. Had he dreamt all of it? He cannot quite recall your face, but he remembers the feeling of your sword on his skin and the smell of fresh blood.
“Do you think they will come again?”
Seungcheol takes a seat on the small wooden bench, patting the spot beside him. Wonwoo does as he is told.
“Wonwoo, do you know what makes a far greater weapon than your daggers and swords?” He shakes his head no. Seungcheol only smiles.
“Hope,” he continues. “When our enemies say we are too loud, too demanding, and wish us silenced or dead – that is the greatest ammunition one can have.”
Wonwoo certainly does not feel hopeful, especially not recently. It has been so for many years, under the current king’s rule: starve, or die trying not to. He says so, petulantly, and receives a pat on the shoulder in return.
“You will learn,” is all Seungcheol says. He is not so much older than Wonwoo, but there is a calm wisdom about him that makes it feel like there are many years between them instead of just the one.
The conversation dissipates with the arrival of the others. The sound of laughter, such a rare and precious thing, echoes throughout the clearing. Mingyu approaches him with a grin and an ever so subtle limp in his step.
“You look a little rugged,” he remarks, pulling him into a careful hug.
“You are not so bad yourself,” Wonwoo quips back. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Hayun must have told you, but I’ve recovered very well. Chan still says I look a little silly when I walk, but you should not listen to him.” Mingyu gazes lovingly at his wife and Wonwoo feels a distant sting from a wound he does not have.
“Chan enjoys teasing you,” he says absentmindedly. “You make an easy target.”
“I always say that,” Jeonghan calls from where he’s perched on a tree stump, “and he still never listens to me!”
Mingyu only rolls his eyes at him, before turning back to Wonwoo. “What about you? You are not hurt too badly, I hope? Jeonghan was making a fuss out of it earlier.”
“He always does.” Wonwoo brushes a finger over the freshly changed bandages. “Do not worry. They are only minor injuries.”
Mingyu frowns, like he always does when he inspects and cleans the dried blood off the others’ skin. He often volunteers for it, saying it’s the least he can do to help, but the memories of his own scars never quite leave his eyes.
“You must take care of yourself,” he places a gentle hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, “especially now. Things are only getting more dangerous.”
“You sound more like your wife every day,” Wonwoo teases, but the tension in the air is real. He chooses to ignore it and leave all the words unsaid, like always. Hayun and Chan bring out steaming bowls of porridge, and they all eat together outside under the mid-morning sun. It is moments like this that feel like family. It never matters that these are friendships forged of blood and battle, never has.
Sometimes Wonwoo wonders if this is what he could have had in a different timeline, laying in the tall grass watching the clouds with his brother. Perhaps his father would have returned home from a long day in the fields, with fresh fruit and flowers for his mother in tow. But dwelling on the past that never existed is futile, and he knows this.
“I would advise you all to be careful being out, particularly after dark,” Seungcheol starts, once everyone has finished eating. He’s wearing that frown again, the one he gets when he’s especially worried. “I received word earlier from one of our ally groups in the southeast. Their village was raided at nighttime – many dead, even more missing. There is no telling which of us may be next.”
A hushed quiet falls over the circle. Mingyu folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed. Even Chan, who usually resorts to lighthearted jokes to handle bad news, is entirely silent.
“I am not trying to scare any of you,” Seungcheol adds. “But this is the truth, however harsh, and you should know.”
“Cheol is right,” Jeonghan agrees, “We should be alert and prepared. Always carry some sort of weapon on you, and never let your guard down.” Wonwoo notes the bleak look on his face – saved only for the rarest of occasions – and exchanges an uncertain glance with Chan. They will talk about it at some point, when they can speculate on their own time.
It is colder in the evening, when the sky begins to dim just a little. Wonwoo had agreed, earlier, to exercise with Jeonghan before dinner, and the breeze serves to cool him down whenever they decide to take a break.
“It has been quite a while since we have sparred,” Jeonghan observes, setting his flask down.
“Shall I get the wooden swords?”
“No need. I think you have been past that for some time.” He only chuckles at the dubious expression on Wonwoo’s face. “Do not worry, I know you will not hurt me.”
“Well, that is not my concern,” Wonwoo laughs, “It is myself I worry about. You know you are a far better swordsman than I.”
At this, Jeonghan sets down his sword with a light sigh. “You must not underestimate yourself like this,” he says, gently this time. “Sometimes I feel that is your greatest obstacle.”
“I like to be realistic.”
“Your reality is shrouded by your own fear.” Jeonghan looks at Wonwoo, and it feels like he is staring straight through to his soul. “Do not be so surprised. It is clear in the way you move, and how you wield your weapons. I always see the regret in your eyes.”
Wonwoo shakes his head, shoulders slumped. “How do you do it, hyung? You make it seem so easy.”
“It is not. It never gets easier,” Jeonghan says, sadly. “Some of us are forged out of necessity. Others, courage. But it all leads to the same thing. These are still lives we are taking, regardless of how they were lived.”
Wonwoo watches him carefully, tries to remember what Jeonghan had been like when they first met. He was never the type of person to show how deeply he felt about anything, and still is not. There is a distinct change, however. He had been lighter back then – happier. The mysterious shine in his eyes is still there, but it is different now.
“What would you have done?” Wonwoo turns his observant eyes to his friend. “If you were not a part of all this, I mean.”
Jeonghan ponders this for a second, long hair shadowing his face. In all the years they have known each other, he has barely spoken about his childhood years. His village, his family – nobody knows much about these things at all.
“I do not know,” he says finally. “There was not much of an option, was there? I would have worked in the fields, like my father, and lived a simple life.” Then his expression turns solemn, and his lips form a tight line. “I might have married Haeun, in that timeline.”
This, Wonwoo knows about. He’s only heard her name once before, one night when Jeonghan had just a little too much makgeolli. Drunk Jeonghan was always very chatty, he recalls. But he doesn’t pry further, instead placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Wonwoo, do you know what happens when we die?”
“What?”
“My grandmother used to say that our brain still goes on for seven minutes,” he muses, “Even after our heart stops. Those seven minutes are supposed to be our life’s best memories.”
Wonwoo thinks about this for a moment. “Is that true?”
“When I find out, I will not be able to tell you.” Jeonghan chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree trunk. “But I think that you would be in it, and all of our other friends. And Haeun too, I hope.”
“Do not say such things,” Wonwoo chides, turning away so that the troubled look on his face is not visible. “But it is a happy idea that our last moments of consciousness are spent in comfort.”
“Right? I thought so as well.” Jeonghan lifts his head and glances back at the house. The smell of meat cooking – a rare luxury – fills the air, and Wonwoo is suddenly acutely aware of the hunger in his stomach.
“Come, Wonwoo, let us eat. It seems as if Mingyu is finished preparing dinner.”
The journey to the foothills feels much longer than it should be.
It is easy to distract yourself, however, and listen to the others’ chatter. Your horses walk slowly, occasionally getting sidetracked by a stray plant or butterfly, as Seokmin and Seungkwan bicker endlessly behind you.
Hansol’s yawn catches your eye, and you turn to him. “Tired?”
“No,” he says immediately, but the fatigue is evident in his eyes. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
He only shrugs. It is so very Hansol. “Everything.”
An apt answer, you think. He is not so much younger than you, but he feels it – you wish for him to see and experience more of the world than you have. He still wears a specific type of curiosity in his eyes, the kind that gives you hope.
“What is your favorite fruit, Hansol?”
He thinks about it, then tells you he likes plums. Faintly, you are reminded of your youngest sister, the reddish-purple juice dribbling down her fingers in the summertime. Behind you, Seokmin says something about persimmons. Seungkwan lets out one of those loud, contagious laughs. You wish you could freeze this moment in time.
You glance up at the moon, an early crescent in the darkening sky. One of your men asks whether you will be stopping for the night, but you shake your head.
“We are not too far from our destination,” you explain, “and it is safer to camp nearer to people than here in the woods.”
“I, for one, do not know how I will sleep through Seungkwan’s snoring tonight,” Seokmin announces. “Nobody shall comment on the eyebags I will have tomorrow.”
You wait for the telltale sound of Seungkwan’s fist making contact with his arm – there it is, followed by Seokmin’s pained yelp. You laugh, having grown used to their antics over the years.
Hansol raises an eyebrow. “Are they always like this?”
“More or less,” you tell him. “They are serious when they need to be. I promise you are in good hands.”
“I believe you,” he says sagely.
As the minutes pass, you feel your eyelids growing heavy, the day’s exhaustion hitting you all at once. Seokmin’s bubbling laugh floats over to your ears, and you wonder how he still has the energy for it.
“Tired?” Hansol quips. You shake your head, laughing. It is not long before you begin to see the silhouette of houses in the far distance, glowing lamps dotting the horizon. Seungkwan cheers, eager for some respite.
Suddenly, a sharp sting blossoms at the tip of your ear. The group falls silent at the sound of your surprised yelp, and you bring a hand to your ear in an attempt to stifle the pain.
“What is it?” Seungkwan asks, anxiously.
Your fingers come away red. Blood.
The forest is silent, too silent – the birds have stopped chirping entirely, and the leaves do not carry the wind as they normally do. An eerie feeling rattles down your spine. You grasp the reins a little tighter. Somewhere between the trees, you catch the slightest movement, a flash of blue against the lush foliage. Seokmin sees it too, and his eyes dart to yours, questioning.
“We need to get out of here,” you declare, urging your horse into a gallop. “Now!”
Another arrow whizzes past your head and pierces a tree trunk. Hansol has drawn his bow, letting his own arrows fly. Panic flows through your veins and pools in your chest as you just barely dodge a spear.
Alarmed, you toss a look over your shoulder. The sounds of voices grow louder by the second, accompanied by the thundering hoofbeats of men in pursuit. Seokmin gives you an understanding nod and knocks one of the oncomers clean off his horse.
“What is going on?” Hansol urges, reaching into his quiver. “Who are they?”
“We do not have time to find out.” Some of the men have circled around, approaching you from the sides. You reach for the knife strapped to your thigh and hurl it with precise aim, lodging it into an exposed torso. But one man down does not spell victory – they outnumber you by far, and in a matter of minutes, will have you surrounded. Wildly, you look for something, anything, to provide a way out.
Not so far ahead, half hidden behind bushes, is a slightly less beaten path that branches off to the right. There is another trail further ahead, one that seems to loop around and double back. If you all stay together, you realize, you will be cornered in no time.
“We have to split up!” you shout, amidst the chaos.
You can’t see Seungkwan, but you know he is frowning. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you insist. “You have to trust me!”
From your right, Hansol gives you a concerned look. “I will accompany you,” he says, shooting at someone behind you. You shake your head immediately, not liking the idea.
“No, Hansol. You cannot!”
“I must,” he protests. “I can hold them off with my arrows. Your sword is better suited for a much closer range.”
You think you will never forget this look in his eyes, such a far cry from the young boy he was when you had first met him.
“Alright,” you say reluctantly, catching a glimpse of sudden movement behind him. “Hansol, watch out!”
He whirls around sharply, but his reaction is not fast enough. Without thinking, you pull your sword from your belt and reach over so far you nearly slip off of the saddle, barely managing to pierce the man’s shoulder. Blood spatters across Hansol’s face, dotting his sunkissed skin.
“Thank you,” he gasps. “I did not think they would catch up so fast.”
You glance over your shoulder, catching Seungkwan’s eye. He nods firmly, and it gives you the courage to turn back around so you don’t have to watch him and Seokmin tear off to the side, veering left into the thick forest. They will be able to hold out on their own; you have to believe this to be true.
Your pursuers have split, just like you planned – around half of them remain on the path behind you, fast approaching on horseback. You tug on the reins, a bit harshly. Hansol slows down to let you pass through the narrow side trail first.
“I will cover,” he assures you. “Trust me.”
That is all you can do – making as much distance as you can and dodging stray arrows when they fly just past your head. You do not know who it might be that wants you dead so badly that they would ambush you at night, but as much as you rack your brains looking for an answer, you cannot find one. There are not many who know exactly who you work for, and even less among them who might want to hurt you.
“How much further?” Hansol yells over the commotion, blood dribbling from a gash on his shoulder. “I do not have infinite arrows!”
“I am hoping they will leave us be if we reach the village, if we can make it that far!”
“And how far is that exactly?!”
You turn to face him, but do not get a chance to respond. Before you can open your mouth, an arrowhead lodges itself in the divot beneath your collarbone.
Sharp pain blossoms across your chest as the metallic scent of blood rises in your nostrils. You try to keep your grip on the reins, but your sight goes blurry, and your fingers let the leather slip. Faintly, you hear something that sounds like a shout of your name. But it is too late – your horse rears back, startled, and you cannot stay on any longer. You roll off, hitting the uneven ground with a sickening thud.
The dark red of your blood stains the rocky terrain below you as you attempt to get on your feet, but to no avail. You let out a pained groan, wondering whether Seokmin and Seungkwan have managed to make it to safety.
And what of Hansol? You can only hope he makes it to the village unharmed.
The last thing you see is a vaguely familiar symbol, silver etched on dark velvet fabric, but it soon disappears into the night’s cover. Your fingers tighten around a pebble’s edge, and you send a silent prayer up to whatever god is willing to listen. The world disappears, and your vision goes black.
Have you been well?
Your voice is sticky in your throat. No words come out.
Wake up, little tiger. It is time. A whole world awaits you.
You try to fight it, burrowing yourself into that familiar warmth of your brother’s voice. It does not work. Instead, you feel him tumbling further and further away from you, and a strange light intensifies between your eyes.
You wake with a start. Above you is a ceiling you do not recognize, and around you is a room you have never been inside. Blinking twice, you attempt to orient yourself, but a sharp sting renders you immobile when you try to sit up.
The only other person in the room is seated against the wall, crushing leaves in a mortar. She glances up at the sound of your rustling and lets go of the pestle.
“You are awake,” she observes, carrying the mortar over and kneeling beside you. Carefully, she peels back the layer of bandages and applies the paste to your wound. It stings a little bit, and you wince, not expecting the pain. “This salve should keep it from getting infected.”
The woman is beautiful, with soft features and long lashes. Yet there is a fierceness in her eyes that unsettles and comforts you at the same time.
“Hansol,” you breathe, struggling for words. “Hansol, where is he?”
She arches an eyebrow. “I am assuming you are talking about the boy we found with you,” she says finally. “He was not as badly injured as you are. Do not worry.”
Relief rushes through you, like a spring river. If Hansol is alive and well, then the others have to be, too.
“Where is he?” you repeat, earnestly. “Please, let me see him.”
The woman stares at you for a few moments before heaving a deep sigh, rising to her feet. She leaves the room for a minute or so, and returns with several others in tow. You try to sit up again, leaning yourself up against the wall.
The very first thing you see is Hansol, hands and ankles tied together with thick rope. Behind him are two men, one at each side, wearing grim expressions on their faces.
“What have you done to him?” you demand, albeit weakly. “Let him go!”
Hansol shakes his head at you, as if to tell you to stop talking. The men shuffle him over slowly and deposit him onto the floor so that he sits across from you. He leans forward urgently, eyes desperate.
“Y/N, you have to listen to me, they –”
His sentence is cut short. Without stopping to hesitate, the taller of the two men draws his sword and points it right at this throat.
“Do not hurt him!” you cry out, before succumbing to a coughing fit. The woman rushes to fill a small ceramic bowl with water and brings it to your lips, letting you drink slowly. The man pays no mind at all, and his sword remains in the air.
“Speak,” he says firmly. Hansol throws you a confused glance, the rope chafing his wrists as he fidgets under it.
“I do not know what you ask of me,” he says finally. The man takes a step forward, a subtle limp in his left leg.
“We know everything,” he says coldly. “There is nothing left for you to hide. We know exactly who you are, and who sent you.”
The blade does not drop. You watch Hansol swallow, nervous, as the metal glints threateningly under the morning sun.
“Please, you cannot hurt him,” you entreat once again. “He knows nothing, I swear. I brought him along to aid me.”
The sword’s edge points at you now, sharp and shining. The woman gives him a look, frowning slightly.
“Mingyu, please,” she murmurs. “She is not even able to stand on her own.”
Mingyu does not listen to her. He continues to glare down at you instead, hand steady. “Speak, then,” he demands. “And do not even dare to try and lie to us.”
Your eyes dart from him, to the man beside him, wondering what you could possibly say to save yourselves from the situation you’ve found yourself in right now.
“We are from the capital. The palace,” you clarify. Hansol watches you with wide, terrified eyes, but you are not telling them anything they do not already know.
“That much is clear,” Mingyu says. He gestures towards the sleeve of your robes, where the silver royal emblem sits. “But you have still not told us why you are here.”
“We were given orders,” you begin shakily. The uncertainty in your voice is making Hansol anxious, and you know it. “To find someone.”
Mingyu frowns, sword faltering slightly. “Who?”
You do not know what to say. That is, until another figure emerges behind Mingyu’s broad shoulders. Sharp, catlike eyes that could rival your deadliest blade bore into yours. You’ve seen those eyes somewhere before, for sure, but you cannot put your finger on exactly where.
A dark night flashes in your mind, tense silence in the foothills. You catch the moment of recognition in his eyes too, chapped lips parting just slightly. Yes, you remember that face now, those hands that had skillfully parried your own. The sound of your veil being sliced open still haunts you to this day.
You do not dare break eye contact, but you lift your chin defiantly and stare right back.
“Him.”
As much as he tries, Wonwoo cannot get the image of you out of his head: bandaged and bruised on the floor, and yet sporting the same fierceness he had first seen a few nights ago.
“It seems they came looking for you and Jeonghan,” Mingyu clarifies later. “Orders from the second prince. You heard her.”
Wonwoo just nods, staring out into the woods where Mingyu and Jeonghan had found you during their morning hunt. His nemesis, brought forth from the forest he’d grown up in.
“What should we do, hyung?”
“Well, they are more useful to us alive than dead. And we cannot let them go.” Wonwoo sighs, cracking his knuckles. “Where is she?”
“Hayun is helping her eat. Some porridge, I think.”
“And the boy?”
“He is with them. Do not worry, we have their weapons. And he cannot move with his limbs tied together,” Mingyu reassures him. “I wrote to Seungcheol hyung, too. He should return from the north within a few days.”
“Okay. Good.” Wonwoo laces his fingers together pensively, wonders how you came to be injured so badly in the first place. If you were after him, then who had been after you?
Mingyu takes another tentative step, then takes a seat on the bench beside him. Wonwoo isn’t sure why all his thoughts are stuck in his throat, refusing to present themselves as coherent sentences. It has always been easier to say what is on his mind to Mingyu – he has never once questioned his feelings, taking them all in stride.
“Are you alright?”
“Hm?” He tears his gaze away from the sparrow perched on a tall branch and meets Mingyu’s earnest, concerned eyes. “Yes, Gyu. Do not worry about me.”
“Psh. I always worry about you. What kind of friend would that make me?” Mingyu laughs softly. “How is your shoulder?”
“Much better. I can move it further now. It should be completely healed within a week,” Wonwoo says, experimentally rolling his shoulder back and forth.
“That’s good.”
They fall into that easy silence again. Wonwoo feels the words bubbling up, but they never leave his tongue. There are too many feelings, and speaking feels like a certain kind of blasphemy to the quiet that lets him just be.
“How is your leg now?” he asks instead. Mingyu gives a lopsided smile, the one that exposes his sharp canine teeth.
“I keep telling Hayun I am able to go back out there with you, but she will not hear it,” he admits. Wonwoo sees her point, secretly; but this sentiment he would not say out loud. “I know I have been helping out where I can at home, but I still feel a little useless.”
“You are not–”
“It should have been me,” Mingyu lightly touches Wonwoo’s bandaged shoulder, “that night you were with Jeonghan. And every other night, too. Do not think I have forgotten each time you come home battered up and bleeding.”
“It is my duty too.” Wonwoo says it solemnly, can’t bring himself to look his best friend in the eyes right now. “This is not something you must feel bad about.”
Mingyu says nothing, choosing to blink away the unbidden tears in his eyes. Deep down, Wonwoo wonders if things would have been better today if that fateful injury had never happened. Mingyu had always been stronger – not just physically, but mentally. A born fighter, who would have truly known his place on the battlefield.
But it has been many months since Mingyu has lifted his weapon. Wonwoo, full of regrets and mismatched empathy a warrior should not have, needed to step up in his wake. If it had been Mingyu in the valley with Jeonghan that night, you might not have lived to tell the tale.
Wonwoo does not bring any of this up later, when he encounters Hayun in the kitchen. He just sits on a stool quietly, watching her stir the rice porridge.
“You look like you want to say something,” she begins eventually. He stiffens, not used to openly being called out.
‘No,” he denies. “I was just bored.”
“Now that is something I expect Yoon Jeonghan to say.” Hayun laughs. “It is alright, Wonwoo. You are not obliged to speak if you do not feel like it.”
So he does not, instead watching her tidy things up around the small kitchen. She balances several bowls together, passing him a plate.
“Help me carry the seaweed salad,” she says. “At least the boy will eat it.”
Wonwoo is used to doing as he’s told. He obediently follows her into the small side room, plate precariously in hand. Hansol, still bound by the fraying rope, immediately tenses up at the sight of him, but you do not stir. Well — you are asleep, he realizes, and rightfully so. He knows more than anybody how important rest is for an injury. Still, the sight of your lashes gently brushing the skin under your eyes irks him. He cannot pinpoint why.
Hayun sets the plates and bowls on the ground. The rattling seems to jolt you awake, eyes wide and then narrowing at the sight of Wonwoo.
“I hope you have not come to execute us,” you say sharply. Wonwoo sees straight through your facade, can tell how you’re struggling to speak through the pain. Hayun only purses her lips, setting the bowl of rice porridge beside you.
“I know that we are at odds. But we are not barbarians,” she says gently. “You must eat.”
You lock eyes with Wonwoo once again, gaze unnaturally piercing. He is certain that under different circumstances, you would have your sword at his throat with no hesitation whatsoever.
Hayun brings the spoon up to your lips, but you jerk away slightly, assuring her you can feed yourself. She does not look convinced, but backs away to let you have your space, and glances back at Wonwoo.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks, gesturing towards Hansol. “Untie him.”
Wonwoo gapes at her. “You want me to untie him?”
“How will he be able to eat otherwise? You and Mingyu, really,” she rolls her eyes, “They are hurt and unarmed, and you have got a whole set of knives on you. Do you really see them as a threat right now?”
Wonwoo sighs, reluctantly gets to work on the knots tying Hansol’s wrists together. He is visibly scared; none of the defiance that you hold, and all of the fear you don’t seem to have.
He sits there against the wall as the two of you slowly eat in silence. Hansol eats quickly, and very little, but you take your time. You have to, he supposes, thanks to the lack of mobility in your right arm. Hayun asks for your name, tentatively, and you tell her. Wonwoo lets it ring in the air before deciding that it suits you: sharp and angular but still soft, smooth rolling off your tongue. He doesn’t turn away until you catch him watching you, expression morphing into a glare.
Wonwoo is not as curious as Hayun, for sure. He only needs to know one thing about you.
“Who was following you here?” He tries to sound as commanding as possible, nodding towards your wound. “Did you see who shot you?”
He observes carefully as Hansol immediately looks to you. He knows nothing, that is for sure. But you hesitate, just barely. A troubled look crosses your eyes for just a moment before it’s gone again.
“No,” you say finally. “I do not know.”
Wonwoo holds your stare, almost challenging. You do not break. Still, he senses your lie. He is not sure what exactly it is you are hiding, but there must be something. It does not matter just yet. There will be time to find out later.
He helps Hayun gather the dishes afterwards, almost feels bad binding Hansol’s chafed wrists again. But no measure is too much, and he’d rather be safe than sorry.
“I will keep watch overnight. Just to make sure the boy does not try anything,” he tells her outside. “You should go in and get some sleep.”
Hayun raises an eyebrow at him. “You will stay up all night? Please tell me you are joking, Jeon Wonwoo.”
“Jeonghan and I will keep watch,” he relents, under her stern demeanor. “We will both be adequately rested.”
“You better be. Jeonghan likes to complain when he wakes up with eyebags,” she chuckles, wiping her hands. “I will leave you to it. Goodnight, Wonwoo.”
He mumbles a goodnight in return, trudging back to your room. There is a book lying on a stool, and he brings it with him to read. Why not?
Hansol is as good as asleep when he finally settles in the opposite corner. You are not, but you do not even spare him a glance as he sits down. Whatever, he thinks. At least he has something to bide his time until Jeonghan comes in and he can sleep.
He opens the book eagerly. A romance novel, it seems. Wonwoo wrinkles his nose, and wonders whose it is. He had never been very fond of the genre, but it will have to do. Wonwoo flips to the first page, filled with avid descriptions of a fair maiden and a lush countryside, and wonders exactly how long of a night awaits him.
Sleep is a fickle guest, dipping in and out and toying with your consciousness.
You cannot seem to surrender to any sort of dream for too long. Always your eyes fly open, gasping for breath even though you have not been underwater. The sharp-eyed warrior across from you does not spare you more than a threateningly curious glance.
It is when you wake up next that you notice he is no longer there. This man has rounder, softer eyes, and wilder hair. You remember him, too, from that night in the valley. Subconsciously, you note that he does not look half as vicious as he fights. He seems to sense your eyes on him, looking up suddenly from his paper and ink.
“Oh,” he says, a disarmingly playful smile spreading across his face. He whispers, so as not to wake Hansol. “I see you are healing well. Much better than the wreck you were when I found you, at least.”
This piques your interest, and you sit up straighter. “You found me?”
“She speaks,” he remarks sagely. “Yes, I did.”
His demeanor confuses you, to put it plainly. Everyone else had treated you with such coldness, and rightfully so. But he does not seem to have any qualms about speaking with you at all.
“I am Jeonghan, by the way.” At your bewildered expression he adds, “I know your name, but you do not know mine. Is it not impolite?”
“No,” you say bluntly. “I do not really care about your manners. Or your lack of them.”
He shrugs jovially, returning to his paper. “Just as well.”
A little more time passes in utter silence, before you impulsively break it. “What are you writing?”
Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, setting the brush down and turning the paper towards you. “I draw,” he says simply. “Sometimes.”
His nonchalance does not distract you from the impressive detail of the sketch. It is done with little care, but still executed well, a perfect likeness of a mountain range. You wonder how much this tells you about the kind of person he is.
“You are very different from the other one,” you observe.
“The other one?” Jeonghan tilts his head, before it dawns on him. “Oh. You are talking about Wonwoo? Yes, we are not very similar. But maybe that is why we make great friends.”
So that is the catlike man’s name, after all. You repeat it quietly, letting it coat your tongue and roll off of it. Privately, you decide it suits him — slick and smooth, and prickly where you would not expect.
Friends, Jeonghan had said. A laughable thing – you cannot imagine Wonwoo smiling at all.
“When will we be allowed to leave?” you ask, after some thought. Jeonghan’s hand stills.
“I do not know,” he says. “Mingyu wants you dead. Wonwoo thinks you are more useful to us alive. I, for one, do not particularly care. There is nothing the palace can do to us if we are always one step ahead.”
“How long must we wait, then?”
Jeonghan shrugs without looking up. “I told you. I do not know.”
Your heart sinks a little, but you continue to watch him silently, adding thoughtful strokes here and there to his sketch. Somehow the repeated movement lulls you back to sleep, lids heavy and fluttering closed. Your brother does not show up in your dreams this time. Instead, you are surrounded by nothing. Nothingness is starkly different from darkness. It is simply empty, unsettling.
An oddly familiar symbol flashes underneath your eyelids, burning through your vision. It reflects light from an unknown source, before blood dribbles over it, oozing out of the emptiness. You feel it everywhere, pain buzzing just underneath your skin in unbearable torment.
You wake with a start, breathing heavily. Nothing seems to be out of place – gentle sunlight, the same room you remember, Hansol in the corner. But everything you’ve just seen with your eyes closed continues to haunt you.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. A pang of sympathy strikes you; he has not spoken much since you were brought here.
“I think,” you reply, propping yourself up with your uninjured arm. “Hansol, I must ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to tell me anything you remember from the attack,” you ask, seriously. “Anything. About what happened after we were separated, and about who they were.”
“I did not make it much farther than you,” he says ruefully. “I panicked after you got knocked off of your horse. I think it was sheer luck that they left after assuming we were dead. But one thing was rather odd, actually.”
“What?”
“Some of their robes,” he continues, frowning. “I am sure the royal symbol was on them. But those cannot have been real, right?”
You feel your heart racing, thumping along in your chest. You search Hansol’s eyes for any sign he’s lying, or joking, but there’s none.
“I saw it, too,” you say, hushed. “Just before I fell. I thought I was hallucinating.”
“I do not think you were.” Such a grim expression feels mismatched on Hansol’s face; so much conflict for one so young. “But how? And why?”
Apt questions, both of them. Your deduction seems almost bizarre, if you really think about it. Laughable, almost. Why would the second prince want to thwart his own plan?
But… it is not impossible.
You purse your lips. “I shall be honest with you, Hansol. I do not know why such a thing would happen – but I also know that man is not to be blindly trusted. So there is that, too.”
Before he can respond, someone clears their throat. Calmly, but loud enough to interrupt. Wonwoo enters the room with narrowed eyes, making his presence known.
“What are you two whispering about?” he demands, folding his arms. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him.
“We are plotting out how to kill you and get away with it,” you say dryly. He does not laugh, instead staring at you with a coldness that could rival even the iciest glaciers.
“Very funny,” he replies, full of sarcasm. “Humor will not do you any favors here. Remember that.”
God, you really wish you had actually killed him that day. His smooth voice somehow irks you even more, drawing your cantankerous mood to the surface at record speed. However, you tamp it down, settling the frustration in your chest in preparation for the request you are about to make.
“Can I borrow some ink and paper?”
This gets Wonwoo’s immediate attention. He turns, eyebrows raised. For a moment you think he might just laugh it off and ignore you. And he would not be wrong for it, you realize – you are essentially a hostage in this small village, and neither he nor the others owe you a single thing.
“What for?” he says sharply. “Surely you do not think you will be able to trick us?”
“No, of course not,” you shake your head vehemently, heart sinking. “I would not do that.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “As if I am stupid enough to believe such a thing. What are you trying to do this time, call for reinforcements? Leave the target on my and Jeonghan’s back for somebody else to find?”
“No,” you insist, desperation seeping into your voice. “I must write to my sisters. It has been too long – there are some things I must tell them.”
A matter of life or death, you think silently. If Muyeol truly is after you, then he will certainly not draw the line at harming either of them. For a moment, you think Wonwoo might be considering it. He looks at you with that calculating expression he has, probably weighing the decision in his head.
“You are a fool if you think I am that naive,” he says, finally.
You try not to show it, but your face falls. If there was one thing that provided a sense of normalcy for you in the capital, it was being able to keep in touch with your sisters regularly. They are, after all, the only family you have left. But Wonwoo pays you no mind, shuffling about and searching for something before he leaves again. You deflate a little. Hansol’s sympathetic look is meant to soothe, but it only makes you feel a little bit worse.
The rest of your time passes quite uneventfully. Your days are relatively the same now – not like you are able to do much, anyways, with your injury. Hayun helps you out when she can, occasionally stopping to make small talk, but you are otherwise alone.
Mingyu and Wonwoo have decided that they would rather have Hansol help with the errands than waste away in a dark corner – you watch him lift bundles of firewood with a pang in your chest. At least he is accompanied by someone else, a boy named Chan who does not look a day older than him, and likes to make awkward conversation as they work.
You grow more anxious with every passing day, wondering why Muyeol’s men have not found you yet. Realistically, you should be thankful for each peaceful morning, but it does nothing but stir apprehension in your stomach. He may not be a good man, but he is a smart one. There are not many villages this side of the river, and you don’t think it will take him very long to find you.
Suddenly you think of Hayun, who has looked after you ever since you got here. You wonder if she, too, will soon have to face the aftermath of a razed home and a martyred husband, a family vanishing within minutes – a fate you would not wish upon anybody.
It is late one night, with Hansol away doing something or the other for Mingyu. You are moving your right arm back and forth, newfound strength surging into your muscles. With Hayun’s help, you can even stand now, but she is not here.
It takes you a few moments before you realize Wonwoo is at the doorway. He remains silent even as you raise your eyebrows, prompting him to speak. Instead, he just approaches you and gingerly places two sheets of paper as well as a brush and ink on the floor beside you.
“You may write to your sisters,” he says gruffly. “One of us will read it to ensure you are not communicating with the palace. Hayun will have it delivered tomorrow.”
You stare at the paper, not knowing what to say. He watches you with careful eyes, waiting only a beat or two before turning on his heel to leave.
“Wonwoo,” you call just as he’s about to step out. He looks surprised at the sound of his name; perhaps even offended, but he listens anyway. “Thank you.”
Something strange flashes in his eyes, but only for a moment. He does not reply, only sparing you a curt nod before walking away. You sigh, and wait until he’s gone to pick up the brush and dip it into the inkpot. There are important things to be said, and not enough time.
To Soonhee and Soonja –
How are you both? I am sorry I have not been able to write recently. Unfortunately, things have gotten quite hectic as of late. But never mind that. I have gone to the foothills for some important business – I will tell you all about it later.
Please, do not stray far from home. Above all, do not travel to the capital. Send Jihoon, if absolutely necessary. Nobody will recognize him. But do not go yourself. I cannot tell you why just yet, but please, you must trust me.
Speaking of Jihoon – how are my brother-in-law and my darling nephew, Soonhee? I have not seen little Sangmin since he was a newborn, but I will visit as soon as I am able. Have you picked up any new projects lately? Tell me all about it when I come home. I always love to hear about it
Soonja, I have made a friend who is quite like you. He is gentle but strong, and likes to eat plums in the summer. I find myself missing you very much when I speak with him. And the plums, I will bring some home for you. They seem to grow quite abundantly in these regions.
I find that something odd has been happening to me recently. I did not want to ask, but I feel that I must. Sometimes our brother comes to me in my dreams. He feels almost real. Soonja will not remember – but you must, Soonhee, you had been old enough, too. I never see his face; I cannot remember it. But he speaks to me while I am asleep, and I find myself aching when I wake up again. Does this happen to you, too?
I am not sure. Maybe I am going crazy. I have not been sleeping too well; I suppose that would do it.
Anyhow, I hope this reaches you without any sort of delay. Please do not send any correspondence to the palace – or do not send anything more, for that matter. It should not be very long before I am able to come home again, and then I will tell you everything sitting across from you over dinner.
Be well, and take care of yourselves. Give Sangmin and Jihoon my love.
Yours,
Y/N
Wonwoo cannot even make it halfway through your letter before he passes it to Jeonghan, desperately tearing his eyes away from the words on the paper.
“What happened?” the older man questions, unfolding it carefully.
“I cannot,” Wonwoo repeats, shaking his head. “I know it is for our safety. But it feels too personal.”
“Oh, yes. How convenient that I do not have feelings, then,” Jeonghan says dryly, rolling his eyes. Still, he relents, scanning your letter. Satisfied with what he sees, he folds it up again and stands. “I will find Hayun. She should be able to have it delivered when she goes to the market.”
“Thank you,” Wonwoo nods. He likes that Jeonghan never really asks questions, seems to know exactly when to stop digging. It works out for the two of them; neither of them pry, and neither of them answer. And if Jeonghan had asked – what would he have said? Wonwoo does not enjoy feeling most of his emotions, let alone talking about them.
He had not planned on letting you write it in the first place. It was a simple decision, and Mingyu had quite agreed with him when he told him about it later over dinner.
But he had seen Wonjae’s face in the back of his mind, for a brief second. There was not a thing Wonwoo wouldn’t do if it meant he could write to him, or speak to him just once more. In the moment, he had not felt like depriving you of the opportunity he could never have.
Of course, he will not tell Jeonghan any of this. There are things he does not like admitting to himself, much less others.
Seungcheol arrives later that night, after everyone else is asleep. Wonwoo greets him silently, tells him to rest, but he is met with a stern demand to tell him everything. He fetches a bowl of water, sits Seungcheol down, and starts from the beginning.
“This is not good,” Seungcheol frowns. “It is only a matter of time before those same soldiers find their way to us.”
“We can handle them, can we not? We always have.”
“We always have. But that does not mean we always will. It is wise to exercise caution.” Seungcheol casts a wayward glance at the room where you and Hansol sleep. “What of them?”
“I would not worry,” Wonwoo assures him. “They have no weapons, and the girl is injured. I do not believe they are a threat.”
Seungcheol gives him a half smile. “It is good to have faith, Wonwoo. But do not trust blindly. Ever.”
I’m not, he wants to say. Petulant, like a child, and somehow that upsets him even further. Wonwoo wishes he was able to switch this part of him off, just like Jeonghan seems to do, but his mind does not appear to work that way.
“What do you think we should do?” he asks instead.
“Well, we will keep them here for now. There is not much else to be done.” He sighs, glancing up at the sky. “I am tired, Wonwoo. We will speak about this later. Good night.”
“Good night,” Wonwoo echoes, watching Seungcheol and his broad shoulders retreat into the house. He should be heading inside, too. But he does not move just yet, staying out for just a little longer before he sleeps.
When Wonwoo dreams, there are trees everywhere. Larches, like the ones he used to love to climb as a child. What a shame, that he had to grow up so fast. Wonwoo dreams, and there are fireflies. The nostalgic kind, that takes him to another time rather than a place. There is a warm fire, and a meal cooking somewhere off in the distance. If he listens closely, he can hear his brother’s laughter, just loud enough.
Sometimes, Wonwoo dreams of a different universe. Another timeline, perhaps the one in which Jeonghan and Haeun could have been happy together. In this universe, Wonwoo does not fight. He sits in the clearing with his brother on a breezy afternoon, listening to the bush warblers sing.
In this universe, Wonwoo is a fisherman, like his father. He teaches Wonjae how to cast the nets, and which spots along the river are particularly excellent for catching minnows. In his spare time, he reads, collecting books he likes from the market. Soon enough, he cultivates a small library of his own, a personal haven of sorts.
The worst part, however, is that this universe is not real. The river cracks, like glass. Fish scatter everywhere and the water goes dark. Wonwoo reaches out for his brother, but Wonjae has disappeared. The boat rocks wildly, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut out of the nausea it stirs in him.
This moment is when he wakes up. The image of his reflection in the shattering river always haunts him for hours. Like maybe it’s him that’s breaking, instead of the current.
He sits up in his bed, blinking the sleep away. Across from him, Chan rolls over, mumbling something intelligible. He has always been a heavy sleeper, which works out just fine for Wonwoo, who does not make much noise in general. The sky is still quite dark. Wonwoo peers out the window. It will be dawn soon, he realizes, catching the first hints of light at the horizon. No river to dip his feet in, no boat to cross it with.
Just as well. He turns over, pretending none of it matters, and tries to fall asleep again.
It takes you another week and a half, give or take, to be able to walk on your own. Hansol helps, an arm steadying you as you take careful steps.
This development is not welcomed by the majority of the others, particularly Mingyu and Seungcheol. Hayun just gives you a small smile and tells you she is glad you recovered without any complications. Oddly enough, you spend most of your time in the company of Jeonghan, who always drags Wonwoo along with him. It is quite tiring, even though you know it is merely a matter of security to have an eye or two on you at all times.
“Must you always look so surly?” you remark one afternoon. Wonwoo sits across from you in the room, having busied himself with a book, and raises an eyebrow at your question.
“Is that what you think of me?”
“Yes,” you say, emboldened by the challenging look on his face. “I think you choose to present yourself as quite a joyless individual. I did not know it was possible to embody a cantankerous grandfather in a young man’s body.”
“I must say, I have never been so openly affronted by my own hostage before.” His expression does not hold any of the offense that his words portray. Instead, he seems subtly amused, almost – as if this is just child’s play to him. It irks you even more.
“Really?” you scoff. “And how many women have you taken hostage before, exactly?”
Finally, Wonwoo sets his book down. Ha, you think to yourself. I win. He folds his arms, keeps his piercing eyes trained on you. He might have been beautiful, you realize, if you did not despise him so.
“Only those who are bold enough to set a target on my back,” he says, an edge to his deep voice. “You are the first. And I intend you to be the last.”
“How valiant,” you retort.
“How ignorant,” Wonwoo corrects, leaning forward. “You are not invincible. Do yourself a favor and stay off your high horse while you are here.”
You raise your chin, defiantly. “And if I refuse?”
Wonwoo says nothing, only holding your level stare. The heat of his hostility is unmistakable, his sharp eyes burning into yours. You only wish you could reach for your sword and slash the tantalizing column of his neck, the glistening steel against his skin. But your hands remain where they are and you sit in place, jaw clenched and temper boiling over.
“Are you finished attempting to telepathically kill each other?” Jeonghan hesitantly pokes his head through the doorway. “I come bearing news.”
Wonwoo turns his attention to his friend, finally. “What news?”
Jeonghan does not answer him. Instead, he trudges towards you, pulling a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and handing it over. You frown up at him.
“What is this?”
“I think you should read it first.” You don’t like the mildly troubled look on his face, but you follow his advice and open up the folds anyways. Immediately, you recognize the handwriting, and your breath catches in your throat.
Y/N –
I do not have much time to write this. I managed to get away and ride to your village, based on what little you told us. I am taking your sisters to a safe house further away from the capital, as well as Jihoon and the baby. I hope Hansol is still with you.
Those who attacked us had been palace soldiers; Muyeol’s men, every single one of them. This must have been planned – I thought about it every way, but I am not convinced it was an accident. It could not have been. We were never supposed to carry out this mission, Y/N. We were meant to die before even succeeding.
Seungkwan did not make it. He was shot in the neck, and I could do nothing to save him. I buried him near the riverbank with some peonies, just as he would have wanted.
Do not write back, lest it is intercepted. Be safe.
Seokmin
You do not say anything for a few precious moments. It is so much information all at once, on this tiny scrap of paper. How ironic that simple words have such power to change your entire world with one sentence?
Muyeol’s men, every single one of them.
“I knew it,” you mumble to yourself, crumpling the paper beneath your fingers. Dismay gives rise to anger in a volcanic chain reaction that ripples violently through your entire body. “I fucking knew it. Of course. How could I have been so blind?”
“You were unconscious,” Jeonghan interjects, unhelpfully.
The same man who had promised you many things in return for your unwavering loyalty, now targeting you – you are not surprised, and you do not have the right to be, either. The realization is ugly, but it is the truth. You had always known what kind of a person he was, but back then it had only mattered that you and your family were guaranteed safety. It is not like that, anymore.
Jeonghan just sighs. “I am assuming now is not a good time to say ‘I told you so’.”
“I told you so,” Wonwoo says flatly. You glare up at him, blinking the unshed tears away. Suddenly you hate him even more for being able to stand there unflinching, while you slowly lose everything and everyone.
“I wish I had killed you that night,” you tell him with quiet anger. “I never would have had to come here, and Seungkwan would still be alive. I am ashamed I did not have the courage to fulfill my task the first time.”
Wonwoo does not answer, just casts his eyes to the ground with his head slightly bowed. You want more than this absolute silence from him – something, anything in response to everything you throw out. But you get none, just his eyes avoiding yours.
You wait until you are alone to open up the paper again, the words blurring together on the page. Gently, you trace a finger along the characters of Seungkwan’s name, the memories rushing back like a flood. Never in a million years would you have thought you’d be remembering him like this, images flashing in your mind.
Seungkwan, who had liked to lighten things up with a joke or two and a contagious laugh. Seungkwan, who once swore to always have your back, and never broke his promise to the end. You had looked after him with such care, treated him like the little brother you never had. You remember teaching him how to shoot an arrow for the first time ever. It was raining that day, but he had insisted on going out to the grounds regardless. It is a comfort, you suppose, that he had gone down wielding that same beloved weapon.
Hansol does not take the news any better than you had. He does not believe you at first, reads Seokmin’s letter again and again until it finally sinks in that he will never hear one of Seungkwan’s spur-of-the-moment puns again. You want to reassure him, but you do not go to comfort him, recognizing his need for space.
They might not have been very close, but they had always taken well to each other, and they had been the same age. Now Hansol will continue to grow, and Seungkwan will be forever twenty-two.
Neither you or Hansol cry, but both of you come threateningly close.
The letter wears thinner the more you read it, but you cannot help but grasp onto Seokmin’s words – what if you lose him too? You try to soothe yourself with the knowledge that your sisters are safe, but your anxiety does not let your mind rest at all. It is suffocating, to sit in this room with nothing but your and Hansol’s grief and the echoes of a voice you’ll never hear again. With what little strength you have, you wander outside, limping slightly.
The wind is sobering, and you inhale a greedy lungful of the crisp mountain air, letting it linger in your lungs. The treeline is a comforting sight. Seungkwan had always loved nature. At least his soul will rest easy.
“Watch your step there,” Wonwoo’s rough voice comes from behind you. “You will fall.”
You’ve never whipped your head around faster. He stands, a bit awkwardly, hands laced together behind his back. His eyes linger on your injured leg warily.
“Careful,” you retort, “or I might think you actually have a heart deep down in that twisted soul of yours.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Must you make it your absolute mission to constantly antagonize me?”
“You are acting surprised – as if there is any chance on this earth of me tolerating your presence,” you tell him, settling on a wooden bench. To your surprise, he follows suit, perched gingerly on the other end.
“What was he like?”
“Excuse me?”
“Seungkwan,” Wonwoo clarifies. “Your friend.”
Hearing the name sends a pang to your heart, but you cannot help but give him a strange look. “Do you always pretend to have a conscience in front of your hostages?”
Wonwoo scoffs, the first real emotion you have managed to draw from him all night. “You are far too cynical for your own good,” he remarks. “It is truly a wonder how you ever managed to navigate society like that.”
“Do not underestimate me,” you say crossly, “I contain multitudes.”
Both of you fall silent again. The night speaks instead, with the occasional howling of a gust of wind, or an owl hooting in the distance.
“Seungkwan was one of my closest friends,” you murmur, emboldened by the cool breeze. “I would have trusted him with my life. I did, too, on many occasions. There was not a moment where he was not there for me.”
Wonwoo hums, in some sort of agreement. “That is a good friend, indeed.”
“He is. Was,” you amend, attempting to swallow down the lump in your throat.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“I do not think I believe you,” you let out a mirthless laugh. “But I will pretend so for your esteem, and my own mood.”
He nods sagely. “You have my full permission to take my words purely at face value.”
“I do not need your permission,” comes your quick reply. Wonwoo seems to take it in stride, like that was precisely the sentence he was expecting to leave your mouth. You do not particularly like that he acts as if he has you all figured out. A dangerous thing it is, to be known by essentially a stranger.
“You will keep many heartwarming memories with him,” Wonwoo adds. “Those are forever.”
“I hope so,” you nod, trying to conceal your sniffling. “He loved oranges. God, he was crazy about them,” the words slip from your tongue before you can even think, “He would talk about going to the island for them all the time. And he dearly loved to sing. He was very good at it, too.”
“What kinds of songs?”
“Ballads, mostly. He and Seokmin would burst into song at such random times. I remember being annoyed,” your voice breaks, “I cannot believe I was annoyed. I would give anything to hear him sing again. But I used to scold him so much.”
“Well, it is always a loving heart that chides the most.”
You catch a stray tear on the tip of your finger before casting a wary glance at Wonwoo. He does not meet your eyes, but stares into the woods as if there is something there he longs for. His normally cold gaze shines softly – for the first time, you might even feel a pang of empathy for him.
“Is this another tactic I do not know about?” you ask instead. “Lulling women into a false sense of security, so that you can converse about their dead friends before slashing their throats?”
Wonwoo’s plush lips immediately form a scowl. “I am not so much of a ladies’ man as you might believe.”
“How do I know you are not lying? You certainly look the part!”
He opens his mouth to fire back with his own retort, but he stops short all of a sudden, a small smirk on his face instead. “Did you just call me handsome?”
You give him your most appalled look. “I called you the equivalent of a rake and that is how you understood it?”
He shakes his head, clearly amused. “I hope that was not an insult to my intelligence. I quite know a compliment when I see one.”
“I do not even know why I bother conversing with you,” you say incredulously, standing suddenly out of frustration. There is a half-hidden root before you, but you do not see it – your foot catches, and you stumble forward. On instinct, Wonwoo reaches out, catching your arm before you tumble to the ground.
His touch burns, invisible flames scorching the skin as his fingers encircle your wrist. You lock eyes with him for a mere moment, the surprise in his expression mirroring yours. But the instant passes, and you immediately rip your arm from his grasp.
“Do not touch me,” you say sharply, rubbing your wrist.
“I did not want to,” he defends, “You would have fallen instead.”
You flash him a deep frown. “I would rather faceplant into the ground and lose my two front teeth.”
Guilt flashes in his eyes, and you almost feel bad. Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself, shielding your skin from the cold. The warmth from Wonwoo’s touch is long gone; you find yourself craving the soft burn of his fingertips again. It is all so unexplainably wrong. You really should leave, before you say something you might regret. That sharp tongue has always been your double-edged sword.
But Wonwoo gets to his feet instead, gesturing towards the bench’s smooth wood. “Sit,” he says gruffly.
You arch an eyebrow at him. “I am not interested in taking your place.”
“I insist.”
“Why?”
He hesitates, just a little. “I thought you might want some time with yourself. Alone. Fresh air always helps, too.”
You want to find your most piercing words, fashion them into a venomous retort, and throw it at him – but nothing comes up. He is right, and it does not fail to get under your skin.
“You sound rather confident.”
For the first time, Wonwoo smiles. It is a tragically beautiful thing; the expression does not reach his eyes, and the very corner of his mouth remains slightly downturned. Grief seems to taint him like a shadow that refuses to leave, and for just this moment you forget just how much you loathe his existence.
“You are not the only one who has lost somebody,” he says simply.
“You know, then.”
He shrugs halfheartedly. “It has been quite some time.”
You ponder your next question for a moment before asking it. “Does time truly heal all wounds?”
His mouth opens with an answer, and then it closes again, plush lips forming the beginning of an unsaid word. You watch him consider your query carefully, and wonder just where his thoughts come from. A part of you wants to ask, spurred by curiosity; but at the same time you are not so sure you want to know. Perhaps you are hesitant to see him as he is – not your adversary, but just Wonwoo, carrying his own ghosts on those weary, broad shoulders.
“Only if you want it to,” he says finally.
Softly, a far cry from earlier. All of the bite has disappeared from his voice, replaced by something gentle and raw. His presence is no longer looming; he is simply there, like the sturdy oaks of the village you grew up in. It is a new feeling, and you do not like this strange ease.
But you think more about his answer as the words sink in. Is that why it had been so hard to let go of your brother? It was silly; laughable, even. You had not kept anything to remember him by, but he was always there in your dreams when you truly needed him. Had that subconsciously been your doing? How long would it take for you to let go of Seungkwan, too?
“Maybe I had not willed it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows.
“What?”
You meet his confused eyes. “Oh – nothing.”
“If you did not mumble so much, it might be easier to hear you,” he says, with all the attitude he can muster, and immediately you know that the precious truce-like moment has passed. You paste an equally irritated expression on your face, to match his.
“And I thought you were leaving,” you return sharply. “But you are still here.”
“That I am,” he observes quietly. “Well. Goodnight.”
He lowers his gaze to the ground and turns, footsteps growing farther as he retreats to the house. A conflicting feeling rises in your throat as you watch him walk away, shoulders just a little slumped – the stature of a man with a myriad of stories and no voice to tell them with.
Wonwoo’s eyes, full of misted secrets, flash in your mind once again. Involuntarily, you shiver at the memory. You had never before met a man as calmly infuriating as him. If that does not ultimately spell out danger, then you don’t know what does.
From somewhere between the thick trees, Seungkwan smiles down at you. Reassuring, like a warm hug that you don’t deserve, and it stings. You try to recall his soothing voice, and cry freely into the night’s embrace.
The restless feeling in the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach does not cease.
Instead, it festers, boiling over and into itself by the day. It grows, even when he wills it not to. And worst of all, it seems to heighten inexplicably when you are near, and he is rendered helpless. He is always reminding himself that no matter how familiar your words might feel sometimes, you are everything but – your cynicism and your instantly sharp tongue are just two of the many things he cannot stand about you.
Still, there is that pull. Like a magnet, but only worse. Against his will, a part of him cannot help but be captivated by the enigma that you present yourself to be.
And, of course, there is that other thing.
The thing that, as he sits and watches you tell your story to Seungcheol, becomes more and more difficult to deny. You are no less resplendent in the sun than you are in the night’s glow, he realizes. Perhaps this is what he deems most dangerous about you. In his mind, you are indisputably beautiful – in the way that one might look on in awe as a tsunami’s ominous wave rolls up to the shore, despite being fully aware of the havoc it will wreak.
Wonwoo is sure that if he ever called you a natural disaster to your face, you would attempt to take a knife to his throat. Either way, he keeps the thought to himself, guarded and untouched.
He watches as Seungcheol returns your weapon. Your eyes seem to shine a bit brighter once the sword is in your hands, slender fingers wrapping around the hilt like it is the most familiar thing in the world. Wonwoo cannot help but revisit an old memory as you touch the blade, almost reverently. He had been on the receiving end of that sword once, the cool metal drawing blood from underneath his skin. And he probably should feel a touch of apprehension now that you wield it once again, but strangely enough, there is no such emotion. Only respect, and wonder.
You promise Seungcheol something – he does not hear, too busy in his own loud thoughts – and the older man smiles gently. Belatedly, Wonwoo wonders what it is. Choi Seungcheol does not smile often, especially not with the events that have been happening as of late.
What he does not expect is for you to approach him, sword loose in your grasp. He tries to ascertain something, anything from your expression, but your poker face seems to be quite good. Finally, your lips break into a tiny smirk. Wonwoo’s heartbeat accelerates straight out of nowhere.
“What? Do not tell me you are frightened,” you say, a bit smug. “The blade is still sheathed.”
“That is a bold assumption you are making.”
“You seemed quite worried the last time this sword was pointed at you,” you continue. The wind whips your hair around, and you look viciously wild. It is a sight for sore eyes. “Afraid, even. Was that an assumption, too?”
There is challenge in your eyes. Wonwoo knows that this is effectively the equivalent of playing with fire, but he figures he still has space. It has not burned him yet.
“If it is a duel you wish for, then a duel you will get,” he says, lowly, “but it is in your best interest to wait until you are fully healed. That way you will at least have a fighting chance.”
You scoff, affronted. “Oh, my. These are the words of a man with severely misplaced confidence.”
He returns your inflamed glare. “And the delusion of a woman who stands on her own imbalanced pedestal.”
The air is charged, suddenly. Wonwoo fights the urge to look away and avoid the intensity in your eyes that he just cannot ignore. Eventually, he folds, turning away to clear his throat.
“At least make yourself useful and accompany Jeonghan and Mingyu when they go to hunt,” he retaliates, though it comes out with a little less bite than he originally intended. You only roll your eyes at him before you walk away, loosely braided hair swinging lightly amidst the breeze.
The days pass as they always do, for the most part. Wonwoo is no stranger to routine, and rarely does he find it monotonous. It grounds him, until you come in like a typhoon and leave his brain in a muddled wreck. But he lets it be, for his own sake. Admitting that your aftermath is not as ruinous as it seems feels like a sort of betrayal to the life he has always known. And so he lives with it, warring emotions brewing in his chest. He trains with Jeonghan, teaches Chan how to fight, and the sun keeps on rising.
Good things often arrive with pomp and circumstance, while unfortunate events tend to creep up silently and pounce when you least expect it. It is quite a sunny day, and Wonwoo finds himself feeling more at ease than usual. The tall grass brushes against his knees as he takes his steps, very silently.
And of course, there you are, close behind him. He had not originally intended on bringing you into the forest to hunt with him today, but Mingyu had accompanied his wife to the market, and Jeonghan had insisted on taking an off day. Reluctantly, and upon Seungcheol’s wish, he had asked you to come along.
From his side, you suddenly nock an arrow. Wonwoo pauses for a second to take the sight in – your sword suits you, but you handle the bow so elegantly, the wood smooth beneath your fingers. You close an eye, pulling the string back, and he snaps back to his senses.
“What are you doing?” he hisses, quietly.
“Shh,” comes your reply. “If you end up scaring our lunch away, I will not forgive you.”
Wonwoo searches the foliage for any sign of life, but comes up blank. “What are you even aiming at?” he questions, squinting. “At this rate, we will not have lunch at all.”
You smile then – a sly, knowing thing – and release the arrow. It hits something between the leaves, and the unmistakably distressed crow of a pheasant follows not soon after.
“See?” you tell him, wearing that smirk he detests. “Lunch.”
“Luck,” Wonwoo corrects. Still, he follows along, somewhat astonished. He had not seen anything; not a single movement or flash of color. He wonders if this, too, will remain a mystery.
The way you move through the forest is awfully reminiscent. You slip around the thick bushes and the tall grass, weaving between the trees easily. A part of his heart burns at this. The forest is his realm, not yours, but you have adapted quite seamlessly.
The alarm bells begin to go off in Wonwoo’s head when you are not too far from the house, just skirting the edge of the woods. He tilts his head, listening carefully, before turning to you. To his surprise, you look equally concerned.
“Do you hear that, too?”
“Yes,” you confirm. The sound of hoofbeats on dirt roads grows louder, as does the unease in his chest. He exchanges one troubled glance with you and breaks into a sprint with you following right on his heels.
The very first thing that Wonwoo sees is Seungcheol, standing with his arms folded. A fearsome glower sits on his face, and he is saying something, but Wonwoo cannot quite make the words out. Chan stands behind him, mouth set in a deep frown.
You gasp, suddenly. Wonwoo feels a tug on the edge of his robes, and his eyes trail down to see your fingers clutching the soft fabric.
“Palace soldiers,” you whisper, nodding towards the house. There are at least twenty, if not more. They have not drawn their weapons just yet, but even from this distance the tension in the air is palpable.
“We should go see what this is about,” Wonwoo urges. But you do not move, still crouching beneath the wisps of tall grass.
“I already know what this is about,” you tell him. Your voice is firm, but it’s the look on your face that gives you away. For the first time, Wonwoo sees a sliver of fear in your eyes, and the memories that seem to haunt you by night. “I cannot lose Hansol, too.”
Wonwoo’s heart clenches, and he briefly thinks of Wonjae. “You will not.”
“You do not know that!”
“You will not,” he repeats, insistent this time. “Hansol will be alright. We will go down and see what they want, and hopefully it is something we can reason with them about.”
He almost thinks it won’t work, but you stand finally, still uncertain. You just shake your head, mumbling something under your breath he doesn’t quite catch, but he does not pry any further.
Wonwoo hears your sharp inhale as you approach the scene, and feels a sudden pang of sympathy. He had not thought about how it would feel to be confronted by the very men you had worked alongside with, maybe even the same men who had fought for you, who had ended up turning on you in the very end. You could dissolve into enraged fury here and now, and he would understand.
“What is going on here?” he demands. The others have come out, too, and you make a beeline for the house, presumably trying to find Hansol.
“I do not know,” Seungcheol says quietly. “They have not told us anything.”
Wonwoo does not have any more arrows in his quiver, but he is hyper aware of the daggers he always keeps strapped to his belt. He scans the surroundings; the men have arranged themselves into a half-circle, surrounding them and effectively blocking off any possible escape routes.
From behind him, he hears your panicked voice. “Where is Hansol?!” you ask, desperate, but all Jeonghan can say is that he does not know. The distress in your question is all too familiar, takes him back to a time that had left him desolate and alone.
One of the soldiers shifts, eyebrows raised. He draws his sword, and instinctively, Seungcheol takes a step back.
“You,” he says coldly. It takes Wonwoo a few seconds to realize where exactly the blade is pointing. “It seems we have finally found the traitor.”
“That is bold of you to say. I am not the one who turned my back on those who were loyal to me,” you declare. “By that logic, Lee Muyeol is as much of a traitor as I am.”
One of the foot soldiers steps forward menacingly, and immediately Jeonghan’s hand goes to his sword. The man that had spoken earlier – presumably the captain, due to his robes – just chuckles lazily.
“Do not think we are unaware of who you are. You could be easily thrown into prison,” he says. It is the world’s most diplomatic threat. Wonwoo feels the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “But you are merely country bumpkins, and the second prince has never found much trouble dealing with you lot. Give us the girl, and you live.”
“Only I choose where I go. And I go where I please,” you reply coolly, stepping forward. Wonwoo shoots you a look, wonders if this is another one of those situations where your stubbornness is getting the better of you while he prays that it isn’t.
The captain laughs mirthlessly. “His Highness was certainly right about you. What a foolish decision, indeed, to employ a woman. And one with such a foul mouth as yours, at that.”
Wonwoo isn’t sure what exactly it is that makes him reach for his knives, but his fingers pull at his belt in an attempt to arm himself. The soldier in front of him already has his sword out, though, and before he knows it he’s dodging a well-time slash.
This is the exact moment he will remember as when all hell breaks loose.
Someone charges Seungcheol at full speed – a terrible idea, Wonwoo thinks, to attempt and tackle a man of that stature and build. Jeonghan has already drawn the first blood, deep red splattering all over the light blue robes he had chosen for the day, and Chan quickly follows suit.
You do not have a weapon in hand, but you deliver a strong kick to the gut followed by an elbow to the face that had to have hurt like hell. Wonwoo makes it a point to ask when you were trained in martial arts later.
Both of the soldiers that are on him are significantly taller, and stronger. He feels a sharp sting blossoming at the side of his cheek and doesn’t register the slow trickle of blood down to his jaw until later, instead driving one of his knives deep into a collarbone. The man lets out a pained groan, but he stays on his feet nonetheless.
Wonwoo almost uses his other dagger, almost. But for just a split moment, something stops him, and his hand hesitates. A mistake, for it buys his assailant time to pick up his sword that clattered to the ground sometime earlier.
Thwack!
The man freezes, eyes wide as an arrow pierces his chest. A patch of red blooms on his robes as he slowly falls to the ground. Wonwoo just blinks down at him, breathing heavily at the close call. Where did it come from?
The markings on the arrow look oddly familiar. The fletching is unmistakably Mingyu’s handiwork, recently made. Wonwoo glances behind him, scanning the rocky terrain, and sees a flash of movement, red cloth darting behind a tree. Slowly, he smiles to himself.
Hansol.
Another arrow comes just as quick as the last one, felling the second soldier faster than Wonwoo can retrieve his knife. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jeonghan toss you your sword, and you catch it with a practiced ease, slashing it at another soldier in one fluid motion.
Wonwoo wonders if you should really be out here, considering your bad leg, but he supposes an extra layer of protection in the form of Hansol raining down arrows couldn’t hurt.
Somewhere, something is burning. Wonwoo can smell the crackling at the same time he eats a punch and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He loses his footing and stumbles into a tree, rolling over as he narrowly dodges a stab and the blade lodges itself into the trunk.
In the distance, he can hear someone yelling his name. Faintly, like he’s in a world of his own. That familiar buzzing grows louder again, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop it from rendering him absolutely immobile. This is the part he dreads, more than anything else. Once again, he wonders what Mingyu would do in his place, the kind of man Seungcheol would expect him to fight like. Even worse, the kind of person you might hate him for being.
“Wonwoo!”
Smoke billows into the air, and he barely manages to sidestep another blow. Without hesitating, he throws a dagger with all the precision in the world, and you whirl in out of nowhere, following up at the last second with a single powerful strike.
“Thank you,” he gasps, feeling every molecule of air in his lungs, “I am sorry, I–”
“No apologies,” you say firmly. Your cheek is bruised, lip split – blood is smeared across your face and stains your fingers as you yank his knife from another not yet dead body. Fearless as you are, as Wonwoo wishes he was. He wonders if this is what the goddess of war incarnate looks like.
“Behind you,” he calls out instead. You do not even bother to look as you sink your blade into the soldier’s abdomen, drawing it out as quickly as you had struck.
“Good call,” you tell him. He feels like his stomach might flip.
Wonwoo’s vision clears a little bit, head still spinning. The soldiers seem to be retreating, at least those who are still alive or somewhat injured; the last few are hasty to mount their horses, riding away in a frenzy. Smoke catches in his throat – why is there smoke?
“The house,” he croaks out, coughing violently. “The roof, it’s on fire.”
“I know,” you say, “A part of it caved, but nobody was inside. Chan is putting it out.” Then you frown, a particularly worried expression. “Wonwoo, what happened? Are you alright?”
“Nothing. Yes.” Wonwoo coughs again, clearing his throat, and tries to bring himself to his feet. “Where is Seungcheol? Is everyone okay?”
He lets you pull him up, against his better judgement. Aside from the fact that he can feel every wounded part of his leg, he is suddenly reminded again of the surprising coolness of your touch. True to your words, half of the roof is sunken in, the wood black and burnt – but it is nothing that is not fixable, if he and Mingyu have at it for an hour or two. Otherwise, he is satisfied to see there is no other damage to the house, and thankful that Hayun had not been inside.
He watches as Hansol emerges from his spot, perched on top of a boulder on the hill. You gasp, pulling him into a tight hug.
“Do not ever disappear on me again,” you say, sternly. “I thought they had found you.”
“No, I am sorry,” he shakes his head, bashful. “I should have fought with you. But I did not have any other weapons, and I was not sure what to do. I thought I could be more useful from a hidden spot.”
“You should not be sorry,” Wonwoo cuts in, “I cannot tell you how many times you nearly saved my life down here. You have excellent aim.”
Hansol takes the compliment with slightly red cheeks and a mumbled thanks under his breath. Wonwoo notices how you lean on him for support as you walk, wincing when you put more weight on your injured leg.
In the distance, Jeonghan and Seungcheol sit together, propped up against the fence. No – Wonwoo squints a little – Seungcheol is propping him up, one arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders and his other hand pressed against his torso. Chan stands above him, speaking frantically.
That cannot be right, he thinks, trying to shake off the dire feeling on his shoulders.
It is not until he gets closer that he realizes Jeonghan barely has his eyes open, lashes fluttering as he rests his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder. To Wonwoo’s complete horror, he understands that it is the deep red of blood that soils Seungcheol’s fingers where they rest over Jeonghan’s robes.
He feels you balk slightly beside him, and that is all the confirmation he needs.
The tears that have caught on Seungcheol’s lashes are unmistakable. Jeonghan himself sports a wry smile, and he has never been a better embodiment of the irony of life than in this moment. There is a small cut just below his eye, and it is clear just how much strength it pulls from him to take each precarious breath.
Wonwoo barely feels anything as his knees hit the ground. He does not know what to say, where to put his hands; he had not been given any time to prepare for what to do as he watches a dear friend breathe his last.
“What happened?” he manages, finally.
Seungcheol shakes his head, starts to say something but none of it comes out intelligible. Wonwoo swallows down his next question, sharp and prickly as it goes down his throat, and carefully takes Jeonghan’s outstretched hand in his instead.
“You promised,” Seungcheol says, clearly this time. But his voice still wobbles, thick with despair. “Before we started all this, remember? I made you swear never to take a blade for me. You promised, Jeonghan.”
The latter only smiles. “Do not be so dramatic,” he rasps weakly. “I did what had to be done.”
Jeonghan’s nonchalance never fails to pull a laugh out of everyone, but this one comes out half like an amused snort, and half like a sob. His fingers tighten just a little around Wonwoo’s, and he holds onto him like he’ll slip away if he doesn’t.
Every memory comes rushing back — each morning he had turned down going to hunt together, all the times he went to bed early saying he was too tired to train. Now he’s stuck wringing out all the time he could have had with him, collecting every precious second.
It’s a wrecking thought, the if only I had known.
Wonwoo slips back into the present at the quiet call of his name.
“Hyung,” he answers, softly. He waits for something, anything more — but no words come. Another laborious breath rattles through Jeonghan’s lungs. Seungcheol presses his face into his dear friend’s hair to hide his expression, but he is not fooling anybody.
In this moment, Wonwoo is not sure of anything. He does not even know where his tears end and the blood begins to pool beneath him. But he feels exactly the moment Jeonghan breathes his last, his fingers losing their grasp on his own hand.
Seungcheol knows it, too, lets the sobs finally wrack through his body. He had not wanted Jeonghan’s last moments to be filled with unpleasant memories, but he is left picking up all of the pieces.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Mingyu is at the gate, Hayun at his side. Shock is written all over their faces and in the basket that rolls onto the ground.
Mingyu’s eyes are questioning. They have always been able to communicate like this, and right now Wonwoo knows exactly what he is asking. Suddenly, and selfishly, he wishes it was not possible.
He has to shake his head. No.
Jeonghan’s hand is still warm in his. A terrible trick by the universe, he thinks, to rip him away from the earth so cruelly. Bring him back, he wants to shout, but he knows it will not change a thing. It is all out of his hands.
Wonwoo lets another heavy tear fall onto his friend’s lifeless skin, and prays that Jeonghan’s final seven minutes are as happy as he deserves.
The weeks that follow are full of solemnity. Everyone carries a particular kind of guilt, balancing it precariously between their shoulders.
Nobody fixes the roof. It is the least of their worries, and you know this. If anything, it is a reminder – a memorial of sorts. You avoid looking at it, so that you are spared from the recollection of that day’s events.
It is a strange thing, grief. You had not known many things about Yoon Jeonghan; and yet you find yourself mourning him in the pockets of stray minutes you find in the day. Your guilt is different from the others – if the soldiers had killed you in the forest that day, he would be alive still. The universe has a cruel way of keeping balance.
Seungcheol, for one, carries himself like a ghost. You cannot get it out of your head, the way he had sat by Jeonghan’s body for hours and hours afterwards, as if his pleas would magically wake him again. He had seemed hollow, even as he placed the magnolia flowers Jeonghan had adored so much on top of his grave.
Wonwoo barely speaks at all. But where Seungcheol is a blank slate, he is a muddled canvas. You had once thought him emotionless, cold – oh, how wrong you had been. Sorrow hangs from every sharp corner of his body where it does not leave his mouth in the form of words, rolling off his shoulders and crashing against his calves. In his eyes lies an anguish you recognize all too well. An identical one rests somewhere, deep in your heart, and has for years.
Where the others fold in on themselves, Hayun unfurls. She tells you stories; of Jeonghan’s antics when he was younger, of Mingyu when they had known each other as children, and many more. It feels like a revival, and you listen intently as you help her with errands, wanting the full picture.
Occasionally, Wonwoo is already there when you walk in, ready to assist. He does not say much while Hayun talks, but the look he has always given you has changed. It is not so coarse now, smoother round the edges, and significantly less malicious.
Observant as ever, as he has always been.
The air is always thick with settled misery, and you find it difficult to fall asleep at night. Your nightmares wake you, and they are the exact same every time. It is always dark, always empty – you reach out, but for what you do not know. There is nothing there, and you always fall deeper into a black hole that seems to extend infinitely all around you.
Every time, you wake with a gasp. Hansol is always peacefully asleep beside you, dead to the world. You never manage to stay in bed through the sunrise. More than anything else, you wonder why your brother does not appear in your dreams any longer. It is your own personal distress, albeit silly. He is not even real anymore, but you take his sudden silence as desertion.
One day, you find a crumpled piece of paper fallen just behind a shelf. You pick it up to toss it out, but your curiosity gets the better of you at the last minute, and you unfold it carefully.
It is a simple sketch. Not one you have seen before, but after hours of observation, you would recognize the hand that drew this anywhere. The frustrated scribbles in a corner and light retracings are a dead giveaway.
There are footsteps behind you. You do not need to look to know that it is Wonwoo. Belatedly, you wonder when you learned what his presence feels like.
He nods, towards the paper. “What is that?”
You pass it to him. Like you, he recognizes it instantly. The first sound of amusement in weeks leaves his throat, a little snort.
“So very Jeonghan,” he says. You know exactly what he means.
Wonwoo’s eyes are subtly red and puffy. This you had seen not so long ago; you will never forget the way he had wept over Jeonghan’s body, tears streaming down his cheeks relentlessly. It was a sight you did not want to witness again, ever. Just being there had put your own heart in serious danger of cracking, if only a little.
Are you alright? The question almost slips from your mouth. But you already know the answer, so you just hold your tongue.
“Did you need something?” you ask instead.
“No.” Wonwoo shakes his head a bit, a habit you’ve noticed he’s developed to toss the hair away from his forehead. “Hansol wanted to spar a little. Thought it would take my mind off of things.”
You smile to yourself. Hansol had always been this way, knowing just the right thing to do. “And did it?”
Wonwoo thinks about it, tongues his cheek before nodding. You take in his figure – this tall, broad man rooted in hesitation in front of you. The cut on his cheek has healed well, you notice, leaving a scab behind. The bruise on his jaw is not yet gone, but the discoloration should dissipate within a few more days.
The moment hangs, suspended in the air. Neither of you move, but nobody says anything either. You watch him weighing his uncertainty, eyes shifting from the wall to the floor and back to the wall again. The awkwardness only grows by the second.
Wonwoo breaks the silence first. “How did you go on?”
“What?”
“After Seungkwan,” he clarifies. You wonder at how he says his name with a particular sort of reverence that has your chest warming at an inhumane level. “After the letter.”
“I did not have a choice,” you tell him, ruefully. “I have always been fighting, always running. It never stops. Seungkwan knew that, too. If I had given up, I am convinced he would have come back as a spirit to haunt me.”
The corner of Wonwoo’s mouth lifts slightly at your attempt at a joke. As the days blur past, you have come to collect those little smiles and pocket them away. Those rare moments have become tiny fragments you choose to cherish in your masked silence.
“There are so many regrets,” he confesses suddenly. “So many things I wish I had not said, or done. So many times we fought over such stupid things. It all comes back now.”
“It always does. But you cannot change the past.”
It had for you, too – but you suppose it must have been infinitely worse for Wonwoo, who had held Jeonghan’s hand as he drew his last breaths. You had, at least, been spared the agony of watching Seungkwan die. The realization sparks a newfound ache in your heart for all that Seokmin had to go through alone.
Wonwoo’s mouth opens again, and you subconsciously hang onto his next words. It is unexplainable how he sparks your curiosity, your intrigue, snagging your attention at every turn. Somehow you had each already begun to unravel yourselves to the other, whether you knew it or not.
“I must tell you something,” he starts. You nod, gesturing for him to go on. “Seungcheol has been planning something. Not just a resistance – a movement, for change. Something this country has not seen for many years.”
“That is good,” you agree, unsure where this is going.
“We are working with allies, small groups all over the country. It is all coordinated; we will reach the soldiers before they find us,” Wonwoo continues, determined. “We must remove Lee Muyeol from power for good. The people cannot continue to live like this. We are fortunate enough to be able to mostly live off the land, but thousands are left starving. It will not do. Even the young prince would be more just, more caring than his puppet ruler of a father.”
It dawns on you, slowly. “Jeon Wonwoo, are you asking me to help you stage a coup?”
He winces slightly. “It sounds horrible when you put it like that.”
“Alright, then. You are trying to oust the king’s brother from power, effectively also putting a dent in the king’s reign itself.”
“Infinitely worse, for sure.” He chuckles, then, a bit of mirth slipping into his eyes before he grows serious again. “I do not expect you to agree. But I want you to know that you have this choice before you, if you choose to take it.”
You fidget with your fingertips, weighing it in your mind, because you know that after all is said and done, Wonwoo is correct. Your own family had fallen victim to the violence that had erupted after food became a scarcity in the north, and it had torn your childhood apart. Suddenly you think of everyone you have lost – Seungkwan, Jeonghan, your brother whose face you cannot recall. A certain indignance rises to your throat at the very thought.
“You do not have to answer now,” Wonwoo repeats, and he turns to go. But you have already made up your mind in the time it takes him to reach the doorway.
“Wait!” you call out. “Wonwoo, wait. I want in.”
“What?”
You raise your eyebrows. “You should not ask questions if you are not prepared to hear the answer.”
“I heard you,” he confirms, voice gravelly. “But… you are sure?”
“Yes.” You fold your arms. “Why? You do not think I can hold my own?”
“What? Of course I do.” Wonwoo’s eyes soften, just a little, though his tone retains some of the attitude he always seems to have on standby while speaking to you. “I have watched you kill a man with no hesitation in one single blow. Do you think I am stupid, blind, or both?”
“I do not believe you would want me to answer that question,” you say sagely. You succeed in drawing an exasperated half-smile out of him again, and a part of you wonders why you enjoy it so much.
Wonwoo catches your gaze mid-chuckle. You cannot look away, and there is that inevitable pull again, the one that always leaves you a confused mess. A voice inside your head is screaming at you to tear your eyes off of his, but you do not, refusing to be the one to break first.
“We will discuss this more with Seungcheol. After dinner,” he says, at last. “Meet us outside. Do not be late.”
Wonwoo has begun to wonder if this is not as good of an idea as he originally thought.
You and Seungcheol frown at each other, clearly in a standoff. Wonwoo has been keeping time; the two of you have been arguing about the best route to the capital for the past twenty-four minutes, and he does not know how much longer he can listen to this.
“Following the river gives us the best chance at survival,” you point out, tapping the map that is spread out on the table. “I do not see what else is up for discussion.”
“It also makes us easier to follow and find. Do you want to get caught before even reaching the city?”
Wonwoo groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. No progress has been made at all – in fact, he thinks you’ve all taken quite a few steps in the opposite direction.
“Alright, hold on. We cannot take a total detour. That will waste too much time, and we will still be at risk of getting caught early. However,” he continues, even though Seungcheol is currently glaring daggers at him, “We cannot risk going along the river the whole way. Remember, we must travel on foot.”
“An amazing idea,” you mutter, arms folded.
Wonwoo ignores you and traces along a separate route with his finger, dragging it up and eastwards. This path dances along the riverbank before sharply moving out, staying concealed while making the most distance in the interest of time.
“This might be better,” he says. “Or if we set off towards the western mountains before swinging back. That could work, too.”
“I will think about it,” Seungcheol grumbles. You just shake your head indignantly. That, in itself, is a peace offering in his book. Wonwoo doesn’t complain and takes what he can get.
Time passes like this; slow, but grueling. Every second seems to weigh on his bones, shackles on his wrists and ankles. He does his best to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach and soldier on.
He visits Jeonghan every day without fail. Never at the same time as Seungcheol, who makes his visits in the morning – he goes at night, armored by the breeze. It is not much work, for they had buried him over the hill, under the magnolia tree he had loved so much. Sometimes when the wind blows through the branches, it is as if Jeonghan’s voice carries through the wind.
Wonwoo sits, knees hitting the dirt. The sun is low over the hill, flickering as it slowly sets.
“Well,” he starts. “At least Y/N and Seungcheol have stopped fighting now.”
He can almost hear Jeonghan’s response in his mind. The man would have had some witty comment ready, a clever response always at the tip of his tongue.
“We leave in a few days. Just the three of us. Mingyu did not speak to me for a week when I told him he was to stay back with Hayun and the others.” He presses his palm against the soil, remembers what it had felt like to hold Jeonghan’s hand for the last time. “But I do not think he is well enough for this journey, still. I know you would have agreed.”
Wonwoo has developed a habit of pausing between sentences. He does not know why. It is no longer a conversation, just a monologue that Jeonghan will never actually get to hear.
“I wish you were here,” he says finally, throat thick with a feeling he does not really want to name.
There are always many things he catalogues during the day, little tidbits of information he would have told Jeonghan immediately. A new family of rabbits up the hill, or a particularly pretty patch of wildflowers in the woods. But none of it ever matters, really, by the time he sits in front of the lonely headstone again. All of those words disappear again.
It all boils down to this. I miss you. I wish you were still here. Come back. Who am I supposed to tell about the birds when you are no longer with me?
It does not matter. The birds keep chirping, and the world goes on. Quietly, in its own way. The trees and the flowers will not remember Yoon Jeonghan the way Wonwoo does, sharp and playful and gently prickly in all of the right places.
Sometimes, you are there too. You always leave as he arrives, and Wonwoo used to wonder bitterly why you even bothered to come, but he thinks he understands now. Rather, he basks in your presence, knowing that under your rough exterior there is a woman who understands how it feels to constantly grieve.
He even asks you to come with him, the morning of your departure. It is still hours to sunrise, and he would be a little surprised that you are awake, if he did not already know that you’ve always had trouble sleeping. You look a little tired, and a little taken aback by his request, but you follow him anyway, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes.
The silence is thick. He can sense that you are waiting for him to speak first, but he does not feel any pressure. Only patience.
“He was everything I had ever hoped to be,” Wonwoo says quietly, when his mind settles. You give him an odd look.
“You do not need to be Jeonghan,” you tell him. “Just you.”
“I looked up to him. I learned from him.” He clenches his fist, dirt crumbling beneath his fingers. “Chan deserves to have somebody like that, too.”
You meet his broken gaze. “And he already does.”
Wonwoo cannot seem to get enough of that look in your eyes. Sharp, but earnest. A rare thing, and so he tries to preserve every last second and archive it away in some safe corner of his mind. He commits the rise and fall of your shoulders to memory, filing away the soft curve of your lips for a later thought.
The goodbyes are quick, though Wonwoo does not like to call them that. He lets Mingyu hug him, warm hand patting his shoulder, and reaches out to ruffle Chan’s messy hair affectionately.
“I still wish you would let me come with you, hyung,” the younger grumbles, leaning into the embrace. “I can fight, too.”
“I know you can,” Seungcheol soothes him. “But that is why we need you here, in case they come again. You are more than capable.”
Hansol sighs to himself, but Wonwoo catches it anyway. He feels the same way as Chan, burned by the guilt of being told to stay back instead of fighting a battle he was complicit in. But you had told him it would be all right, and promised to return safely. Wonwoo himself made no such promises, and nobody had asked it of him. He knows better than to swear things he will not have control over. Your optimism sends a twinge of sadness to his soul.
He turns to Mingyu, who looks on with an unreadable expression, fingers gently intertwined with Hayun’s. “I hope you are not still upset with me,” he says gingerly.
“I could not ever stay upset with you.” Mingyu’s eyes are shiny, threatening to spill the tears. “Not at a time like this.”
Wonwoo knows what he means. This may well be the last time they speak. There is no telling what will happen at the capital, and who will come back alive. He wants to tell Mingyu not to worry, but the words don’t come, just an understanding nod. Between them, nothing more needs to be said.
The first hints of light begin to peek out as the three of you set off. The dawn emboldens Wonwoo, as it always has. He carries the small satchel of food Hayun had meticulously packed over his shoulder, tying the ends across his torso so he can move hands-free. Seungcheol has the map, currently unfolded in his hands, and you follow with a compass, darting between the trees silently.
None of you speak much – a given, for this sort of journey. Wonwoo trudges on quietly, occasionally mumbling a heads up for you when there is a loose rock or a particularly large root. He waits, always, for your quiet thanks to make its way back to his ears.
He does not dare look back. Not when the sunlight filters through the forest canopy at just the right angle and sets you alight. You are already bright, a blazing force. Wonwoo does not believe himself strong enough a man to behold you in all your illuminated glory. His already grieving heart hurts a little more at the sight of your brilliant eyes.
Instead, he keeps his eyes forward, takes in all the green around him. The forest revives him with every step, every gentle brush of his fingers against a tall blade of grass. Just for now, it allows him to forget – the blood, the blade, the battle. In this moment, there is no war; just the creeping vines and sturdy larch trees that have always been there, and will always be.
“Do you hear that?” you murmur softly. Wonwoo tilts his head, listens carefully. He can just barely make out the sound of a lively current, water splashing onto the stony bank. Seungcheol notices it, too, checking the map again.
“We are making good progress,” he says, satisfied. “This should not take us more than three or four days, give or take. We should arrive at the same time as the others.”
Wonwoo nods, knows exactly what others Seungcheol is talking about. People just like them, who had suffered the same things but worse, and decided to do something about it. Young men and women who had lost families and a means to put food on the table, who had not been as fortunate as they had. Those from the southeast, far from the woodland vegetation, would have had it the hardest.
Seungcheol turns, then, saying it is a good time to stop and eat. You make a beeline for the river eagerly, and Wonwoo follows along, light on his feet the whole way through.
The grass becomes sparser the closer he gets, giving way to rocky ground. The river runs fast, the current swirling up and crashing against the boulders studded alongside it. It is a beautiful sight, for sure, but Wonwoo is distracted by you gently dipping your fingers into the water and basking in the coolness.
“What are you standing there for?” you ask without turning. Faintly, he wonders how you knew he was there, but he approaches you still.
“You seem to enjoy the water,” he observes. You smile, lightly reminiscent.
“Well, I am from the north. Very landlocked,” you say. “I only visited the coast once, when I was a child. I barely remember it. But I do know that the current is a wondrous thing, as alluring as it is dangerous.”
Wonwoo has to bite back the words on his tongue, the ones that want to say that that is exactly how he would describe you. His downfall, his double-edged sword. But he would never say it out loud, knowing what he is to you.
Which begs the question – what is he to you? Not a friend just yet, not a captor anymore. Just someone to fight alongside with, just another person. Just Wonwoo.
Just you, you had told him earlier that morning. It warms him, from the inside. He has not forgotten at all.
Instead, he takes a seat on one of the large boulders beside you, rummaging through the satchel for a flask and something to eat. “Are you hungry?”
“Not particularly,” you shake your head. “But I would not say no to some water.”
He passes you the flask, as well as a small package. “You need to eat,” he says. “Seungcheol says we will not stop until sunset.”
Wonwoo watches you drink, sweat trickling down the column of your throat and pooling at the base of your neck, then looks away sharply. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel, to see you like this – so resplendent as you simply just exist in the world around you.
“Will you visit home again soon?” he asks instead. “You know, after…”
He knows you don’t need him to finish the sentence, the latter half left unsaid. You think about it, popping a slice of dried persimmon in your mouth.
“After,” you agree, swallowing. “I must. It has been too long since I have seen my sisters. Too dangerous, to go there again. I do not want to place a target on their backs.” Your eyelashes sweep your skin as you lower your eyes to the ground. “My presence has already caused two casualties. There cannot be more.”
Wonwoo’s heart aches. He had wanted so badly to blame you in the days following Jeonghan’s death, trying to find somewhere to place the anger in his chest. But he could not, in good conscience, hold you accountable for it.
“It was not your fault,” he says quietly.
“You do not need to say that. I openly blamed you for Seungkwan’s death, and this is the same thing.” A singular tear falls from the corner of your eye into the river below. Wonwoo looks away, to give you some semblance of privacy.
“I did not take offense when you said it.”
“You should have.” Your voice is thick with guilt. “I would have, if I were you. I was so cruel.”
“It is alright, ” Wonwoo says. “I understand.”
You look at him ruefully. “I understand, too.”
The two of you sit like that, side by side, basking in the gentle sunlight. Wonwoo looks on as you remove your boots, dipping your legs into the water. A tiny giggle escapes your throat as you watch the colorful fish that dart around, weaving between the reeds. It is a new sound. He tries his best to memorize it, while he can.
The moment does not last. The reverie is interrupted by Seungcheol’s voice calling out for you, and Wonwoo knows that it is time to keep moving. He packs up his satchel again, standing as you dry off your feet, and offers his hand to help you up the rocky slope once your boots are back on. You eye it warily for a few seconds before taking it, careful with your steps.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” Wonwoo waits for you to let go of him first, the feeling lingering on his fingers. He turns to go, but you pass him the last dried persimmon slice, stopping him in his tracks.
“I did not poison it, if that is why you were hesitating,” you add, before softening a bit. “You did not eat earlier, either.”
Wonwoo can’t find the words to reply just yet. Instead he huffs a little laugh, accepting it graciously. The fruit is chewy and honeyed, but it sits on his tongue just a touch sweeter than he remembers. Whether that is real or his mind’s own doing, he does not know.
Emptiness, again. But it is warm this time, strangely familiar. You stretch your arms out around you, but there is still nothing.
Ah. There you are.
Immediately you relax, relief rushing through your body. What took you so long?
Patience, little tiger. An affectionate laugh, one you recognize all too well. It simply was not the time.
I thought you had gone. For good.
There is no response. Just that familiar tenderness curling itself around you and lifting you up. To where, you do not know. You cannot see anything above you, nor below. It is dark, everywhere.
Remember this, sister. When the truth shows itself, it will never do you good to hide from it.
What does that even mean? You nearly ask the question, but everything begins to spin relentlessly. Your vision blurs – not that there's anything for you to see – and the sheer pressure of it all forces you to tear your eyes open.
You are met directly with an unobstructed view of Wonwoo’s face. Even in sleep, he is rather beautiful. The soft dawn’s glow rests gentle on the slope of his face, leaving his sharp features illuminated. You sit up slowly, shivering when the cool wind hits your face.
This is not new to you. There had been many nights where you had slept beside Seokmin and Seungkwan, on all of those assignments you carried out over the years. Hell, you had even shared the floor with Hansol for the past month or so.
But this is different. You have to fight the urge to observe him closer, taking in the curl of his lashes and the mole that sits beneath his right eye. It is magnetic, and unsettling.
The dream has left you restless. You get to your feet quietly, to avoid waking the others, and duck out of the tent. Seungcheol had said it would be best to leave at dawn, but you had not felt like waking them just yet. They will be up sooner or later, you think, stretching.
You take the time to walk around a bit, taking note of the plants and flowers that are so different from the ones back home. The newness of it all is scintillating. The northern regions are dry, and unwelcoming to both flora and fauna alike. But here they flourish, reflecting bright colors into the surrounding forest. You think about another timeline where your adolescent years might have been filled with this kind of wonder, instead of the smell of burning wood and blood.
The seconds move on their own. You do not know exactly how much time has passed by, just that the sun is a bit stronger now, and you can feel the heat on your back.
A sudden call of your name has you flinching out of surprise. It is muffled by the thick forest, but it comes again, closer this time. Instinctively your hand goes to your belt, but you realize that you have left all of your weapons inside the tent.
There is a loud rustling behind you. You turn sharply, and a few twigs snap. Wonwoo emerges from the leaves, all wide-eyed and panicked. He just stares at you for a few seconds, chest heaving like he had been running.
You blink at him, confused. “... Good morning?”
“You are alright,” he breathes, fingers gripping one of his knives so tight his knuckles go white. It is more of a confirmation to himself than a question. He scans you, like he is checking for any sign of injury. “You disappeared. We did not know where you had gone.”
You arch a brow at him. “Are you okay?”
Wonwoo lets out a painstaking breath. His shoulders shake with relief, and something else. “I fall asleep with you next to me, and when I wake up, you are nowhere to be seen. Do you see the problem here?”
“No, because I am completely fine,” you explain, suddenly provoked. “I just wanted to walk a bit, stretch my legs.”
“How am I supposed to know that if it looks like you have simply vanished?” He folds his arms, jaw tight. “Did it not strike you to wake one of us up if you were going to stray so far?”
“It was not far,” you shoot back crossly. Your surprise is slowly beginning to morph into a specific frustration that only seems to rear its ugly head in front of Wonwoo. “If you did not think I could last twenty minutes by myself, you should not have asked me to come with you.”
Wonwoo frowns deeply. “That is not what I meant.”
“It sounds exactly like it.” You raise your chin, feeling challenged, and take a bold step forward. The ball has been tossed back to your side of the court, and the burning flame in Wonwoo’s eyes only feeds your temper. “I should have known you were the kind of man who underestimates everyone’s capabilities, except your own.”
The words come out much harsher than you intend, and it surprises even yourself. You see it as the sentence leaves your mouth, the flash of hurt in Wonwoo’s sharp, angled eyes. It’s gone before you can truly register it, replaced by something more intense than vexation that you cannot place.
“We are supposed to look after each other,” Wonwoo says, harshly. Yet there is a strange softness in his expression that you would have almost missed if you weren’t paying such close attention. “Your safety is a part of my responsibility.”
“My safety is my own responsibility,” you retort. When had you gotten so close? The mere inches that lie between you and Wonwoo are charged with an anger that eventually pools out into something else, something much more perilous. Your tone picks up all the sarcasm in the world as you say, “Help me understand, Wonwoo. Why should you care so much?”
It all happens so fast, and yet the seconds feel slowed down. You do not know who moves first – you take another step, he leans into you – but the moment Wonwoo’s mouth meets yours, something clicks. His lips are slightly chapped, a consequence of long travel and the dehydration that follows it. You take the opportunity to swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, biting gently, and the groan that leaves his throat is music to your ears. It delights you, the way he seems to melt into your touch, and you kiss him back with matched fervor.
“Why should I care?” Wonwoo’s head dips to your jaw as he repeats your question. “You are a force of nature. The sun and the moon and the stars, all at once. I know you do not need protection. And still my heart seems to ache, when you are not safe.”
“Wonwoo,” you breathe, unable to form any other thoughts. Your fingers tighten even more around the soft cloth of his robes, tugging him closer.
“You are so strong, so clever – so sharp with the words you use. Infuriating, but equally captivating. And that,” he says, dragging his lips down the column of your throat, “is the most dangerous thing of all.”
It is dizzying, so much so that you barely register the tiny sound of satisfaction that escapes your throat. Embarrassing, in any other scenario.
But it is Wonwoo, holding your face with all the gentleness that had not been there just five minutes ago, and so it does not matter at all. Not even as you tilt your head to the side, his soft hair tickling your skin, allowing him room to press an almost reverent kiss to your collarbone. The feeling burns, but in a way that feels like you are floating.
Wonwoo’s eyes are unreadable when he finally looks up at you. The air is fraught; you open your mouth but nothing comes out. All the words are stuck in your throat as you try to hold onto the sensation of his mouth against yours. You probably look a mess, and so does he – but he is a work of art even now, hair mussed and lips slightly swollen, cheeks flushed under the morning sun.
In the distance, you hear your name again. This voice is different, a bit rougher. As if on instinct, you and Wonwoo separate like repelling magnets, immediately putting a few yards’ space between each other.
“Seungcheol,” he says, not looking away from you.
“We should go,” you add quietly. He nods, but you cannot let go of the comfort you had felt in his arms. A strange, new feeling. Did you want more of it? What do you want?
You do not get to finish that line of thought. Seungcheol stumbles in, nearly tripping on a large root and steadying himself with one hand on a tree trunk.
“There you are,” he says, frowning slightly. “Are you okay? You were not there when we woke up. We were worried.”
“Wonwoo is here. I am alright.” You dare to glance over at him, just for a second. He watches you like you are the moon that rises in his night. “I should have woken you both, I am sorry.”
“All that matters right now is that we are all alive and well.” Seungcheol shifts his eyes between you and Wonwoo. Suddenly you are aware of how close you two are standing, and how it must look. You discreetly shuffle backwards, heat rising to your cheeks.
Wonwoo clears his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “Shall we get going? We should have already left by now.”
Seungcheol nods. “We will need to stop at a safe house right outside the capital to regroup with the others. It should not be too long a journey left, if we make good distance.”
You glance up at the sky. The sun is already quite high, growing brighter with each passing minute. To reach the capital by nightfall, you have no choice but to leave now.
It is with an unsteady heart that you make your way back to the tent, chest heavy with the implications of everything that has just happened. You cannot rid your mind of the memory, Wonwoo’s touch setting your body alight. Somewhere along the line you had begun to find him enchanting rather than irritating, reluctant affection replacing the hatred you had harbored so long ago.
You watch him smile at something Seungcheol says, light hitting his features just right, and wonder at how he had once been the man you were set out to kill.
Between your thoughts, you try to ignore the way Wonwoo’s hands gently brush against yours, knuckles knocking against each other. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the same tension emanating off of his broad shoulders and bowed head. To say something now is to break the precious silence, and so both of you remain quiet.
Seungcheol hoists the supply bag over his shoulder and pulls out the map again. You press your palm against the ground, trying to memorize the sights and sounds, and set off further north.
To say that Wonwoo is losing his mind would be a violent understatement.
He had not known, really, what had possessed him in that moment. All he was thinking was you, you, you, as you had glared up at him fiercely with those eyes. It was a mixture of sheer relief at the sight of you, unharmed, and the utter tenderness that had risen into his chest that had set off his mind.
And you had kissed him back – he cannot forget how your fingers had tangled themselves into his hair, tugging gently. A part of him knew, he thinks, that that would happen. It had been evident in the way you had leaned into him, almost challenging him to do something. But he has never been the type of person to let himself hope on such high stakes; at least, not until now.
Seungcheol eyes him warily. “You look unwell. Did you not sleep enough?”
“I did,” Wonwoo mumbles, for lack of a better answer. He watches Seungcheol accept his response, before glancing back at you. The tension is palpable, and he only hopes the older man remains blissfully unaware of everything that had previously transpired.
“Well, I do hope you both are not at each other’s throats again. We cannot afford to have internal issues right now.”
Oh. That is how he chose to understand it. Wonwoo senses you stiffen behind him, bites back a quick retort about how he technically had been at your throat, and chooses to reply with a quiet hum of agreement. A few beats pass before he speaks again, only filled by the sounds of their quiet footsteps and the occasional songbirds’ chirping.
“What about you, hyung?”
Seungcheol gives a weak half-smile. “I am still walking,” he says. “Still moving, as always. There is no path but forward.”
Wonwoo knows he is not talking about their current journey. He had not spoken to Seungcheol much after they had buried Jeonghan. The older man had often preferred his solitude since then, shutting himself inside his room or throwing himself into busywork. Seungcheol has never been the kind of person to unburden himself unprompted. Wonwoo will never truly know if he does not ask.
“Is it any better?”
Silence. Seungcheol reaches into his pocket, and opens his fist to reveal a small magnolia flower. It is a bit wrinkled and worn, but still beautiful as ever.
“Not really,” he says. “It does not magically happen. Not unless you want it to, and it is stubborn even then.”
The message is somewhat cryptic, but Wonwoo knows just what he means. He senses the lingering grief that swims in the corners of Seungcheol’s eyes and knows that the conversation is over.
He does not get a chance to speak to you again until well past midday. It is hotter now, and with the tree cover slowly growing more and more sparse, there is no shade to seek shelter under. Wonwoo catches you fanning yourself with a hand as you take the new terrain in. He has always enjoyed watching you like this, full of that natural curiosity you like to indulge yourself in away from the life that demands your complete strength. A sparrow takes flight, and you follow its path with your eyes. You are beautiful under the bright sky.
You turn before he can announce his presence somehow, observing him for a moment before gently patting the spot on the rock next to you. Wonwoo does not decline it, settling carefully into the space you’ve designated specifically for him. He almost reaches out for you, almost.
“I can tell you want to say something,” you begin, sounding a tad amused. “Spit it out.”
Wonwoo has a thousand possible questions at the tip of his tongue. Should we talk about it? Do you feel the same? Will I be able to take it if you tell me it was all just a mistake?
“Are you ready?” he asks instead.
You shrug. “No such thing. If this is the last thing I do, I might as well throw myself in headfirst.”
“Do not say that,” Wonwoo murmurs. It is somewhere between a gentle rebuke and a plea. You turn to look at him, eyes brilliant and earnest, and he does not know what to do with himself. If he looks closer, he might see that there is a hint of affection that lies in your gaze.
“Why not?” You laugh dryly. “You know as well as I do that some of us might not make it back home alive. I am not so proud to assume that I might be one of the lucky ones.”
“I wish you would have a little more faith in yourself,” he says.
“Faith will not change a thing. If I am meant to die, it will happen.” You twist a dry blade of grass between your fingers. Wonwoo feels his heart twist in a similar way. “At least that way I might see my brother again.”
Wonwoo turns his head sharply, surprised. “You have never mentioned having a brother.”
You smile, but it does not reach your eyes. For such a usually joyous expression, you look rather despondent, mouth set in a thin line.
“Had,” you correct softly. “Even that is a stretch, I think. He left me with nothing but the sound of his voice and his name. I was so young, I cannot even remember his face. I will never know if we share the same eyes, or nose.”
Wonwoo thinks of Wonjae, briefly. He has always mourned the loss of the years they could have had, but he had never really thought to savor the memories they were able to make instead. He wonders how much more resilient he’d have to be, to honor Wonjae’s life with none of those moments intact.
“Tell me about him,” he says.
“There is not much to tell,” you shake your head, “It will not bring him back.”
“It is the only way you can keep his memory alive,” Wonwoo counters. “You can start with simple things. Like his name.”
A tiny grin curves your mouth upwards. “Kwon Soonyoung,” you say. “If you think I am a force of nature, you would have thought him a storm. A torrent.”
Wonwoo tries to ignore your recollection of his own words and focuses on the newness of the name. Powerful, and smooth as it is strong. “Like brother, like sister, then.”
“Well, of course. He was my twin. We shared a lot of things.” Subconsciously, you lean closer to him as you talk. “But he was older, by several seconds, and he never let me forget it. Little tiger, he used to call me. He was not even that much taller. I always told him to knock it off,” you huff, “but he never did.”
“That is a fitting nickname,” Wonwoo says, just a tad amused.
“He thought so, too.” You smile fondly. “He was obsessed with tigers – I remember this, at least. Very passionate, strong animals. I suppose I can see where the resemblance lies.”
“He sounds like quite the character.”
“He was. Or he might have been; I do not really know. He did not get a chance to grow into the person he wanted to become.”
Wonwoo hesitates just barely before asking his next question. “How did he…?”
You smile gently. “You can say it, Wonwoo. It has been over a decade.”
“Still. There are some wounds that time cannot heal.”
“I suppose that is true.” Wonwoo watches your shoulders tremble just a little, and takes the leap of faith, letting his arm rest around them comfortingly. He is half surprised when you do not reject it, instead melting further into his warm touch. “Soonyoung was always brave, almost to a fault. It cost him his own life, in the end.”
“You do not have to talk about it,” he says gingerly. “I should not have asked.”
“No,” you chuckle through the welling tears. Wonwoo wants so desperately to wipe them aside, to kiss the salty sorrow away from your skin. But he knows that if you do not cry about it now, you never will. “I have kept it to myself far too long. Even Soonhee and Soonja do not know what truly happened in those last moments. The royal guard arrived out of nowhere, and within minutes it was obvious that it was a losing battle. But I stayed back to help him, like a fool. I did not want to leave him behind.”
“I believe you are far more courageous than you think.”
“Not then. At that moment, I was being stupid,” you say, voice shaky. “I think I knew, even then, that he would not survive it. We were so young, and he had hardly been trained with a sword. I remember him yelling at us to leave while we could.”
“And you stayed.”
“I did. I thought there had to be some way we could all escape, for sure. But it became clear that it was not possible.” He watches you shut your eyes tightly, exhaling. “That was the first time I had ever lifted a sword in my entire life. I barely made it out. His sacrifice was almost for nothing.”
“But it was not,” Wonwoo points out gently. “You are still here. Still fighting. I am sure he would be proud of the woman you have become.”
“I hope so,” you whisper. “I try to live fearlessly, as he did. As brave as he was, even when he knew it was the end.”
Wonwoo hums, lets your words sink in. You had comforted him just like this, not so long ago. The memory is not lost on him.
“You do not need to live like your brother,” he says. “Just live for yourself.”
A quiet sob leaves your throat. He had not intended on saying anything that would make you feel even worse, but your head drops to his shoulder as your tears soak the fabric of his clothes. Wonwoo does not say anything, instead opting to rub his thumb in consoling circles over your skin. He feels his heart ache impossibly as you cry, but remains still. Sometimes, silence is the best remedy.
He waits until your breathing slows and your sniffling comes to an end to shift slightly, using the large misshapen rock behind him as support. Your head still lies on his shoulder, and he basks in the feeling of being someone you would let yourself lean on.
“Sorry about that,” you say softly, wiping your eyes.
“No need to apologize.” He rests his chin against the top of your head, doesn’t push any further. The two of you just sit together, taking in the moment before it is time for the inevitable trek to continue yet again. For the moment, the conversation is more or less over.
But Wonwoo grapples with the swirling feelings in his chest for far longer than that. You have him utterly curious, safely storing away each new piece of information he learns about you. Yes, you are one of the strongest people he knows – but when did that begin? What made you have to build up these sturdy walls? If anything, you only prove more and more admirable each time.
The more he learns, the more in love he thinks he is.
It is well past nightfall by the time the dirt path gives way to the paved roads of the capital and the surrounding towns. Seungcheol tells both of you to stay as quiet as possible and follow him discreetly down the bustling roads.
The safe house is tucked away in a more isolated part of town, far from the crowded centers with their night markets and food stalls. It is small and unassuming, with the lights dimmed inside. As they approach, Wonwoo can just barely make out hushed voices from inside.
Seungcheol raises a hand to the door, knocking in a particular rhythm. There is a few seconds of silence before it opens slowly, a shrewd-looking man at the door. He eyes the three of you warily.
“Name?”
“Choi Seungcheol. Fourth southwestern province.”
The man considers it for a moment before swinging the door open. It is warm inside, a sharp contrast from the night’s cool breeze. Wonwoo offers you his hand first, helping you up the steps and into the house.
He can’t quite hear what Seungcheol and the man are talking about. He only catches a name —Myungho, it sounds like. He’s got an interesting accent to his words, but only a light one. Wonwoo would not have caught it if it weren’t for the complexity of the words, consonants rolling over like waves.
“Tomorrow night is when we fight,” Myungho says quietly. “Make yourselves comfortable here, in the meantime.” Then his gaze flickers back to you, somewhat surprised. “You did not mention you were bringing a lady.”
Seungcheol raises his eyebrows. “Is that a problem?”
Wonwoo watches as Myungho’s eyes linger on you. Not judging, but evaluating. There is something in his narrowed eyes that seems like it should sting, but does not.
“Not at all,” he answers simply. “We will adjust sleeping arrangements accordingly. Would the lady prefer a separate area?”
“No need,” you say firmly. “I know space is a bit tight here. Just a corner will do. Thank you, though.”
Myungho bows his head. “Of course.”
Wonwoo follows you and Seungcheol further into the house. It is not so big, but there are not that many men inside in the first place. Just as well. There is a genuine concern for lack of safety in great numbers.
Suddenly, you gasp. “Seokmin?!”
One of the men by the kitchen area looks up at the sudden call of his name. Wonwoo watches as he rushes towards you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders excitedly.
Of course, this is no stranger. He recognizes the sharp nose and the shape of his side profile, has heard about the deep friendship you share with him, but still — a sharp pang of a feeling he doesn’t really like travels straight through his chest.
“I did not know whether you were alive,” Seokmin says, tears already spilling from his eyes. “I only had to hope that after losing Seungkwan, I had not lost you, too.”
You laugh, but Wonwoo knows the sound too well. That specific laugh is reserved for when you are trying not to cry. “You have not, Seokmin. I have been well.”
“And Hansol?”
“Hansol is well, too. He stayed back,” you explain. “I did not want to risk his life, as well.”
Seokmin sighs out of utter relief, then turns his earnest eyes to Wonwoo. There is a flicker of recognition in them.
“Oh, right. This is Seokmin,” you tell Wonwoo. He returns the polite nod, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Wait, I remember you,” Seokmin says, a bit sheepishly. He does not need to explain any further. It is all written in the slightly embarrassed expression on his face. Of course – as one of your most trusted men, he would have fought alongside you at every turn.
“You, too,” Wonwoo returns awkwardly. He glances between you and Seokmin, sensing there is much to be said. “Well, you both should catch up. I will be with Seungcheol if you need anything, okay?”
You grace him with a small, grateful smile. Somehow you glow even brighter, though the lights are dimmed. “Alright. Thank you.”
He bows, bidding Seokmin a good night, before meandering around the house. The smell of cooking stew rises from the kitchen, and he is suddenly aware of the hunger in his stomach. He pokes his head into the kitchen area and finds Myungho speaking in another language with the man chopping up radish on the counter. Seungcheol sits behind them, conversing with an older man with streaks of gray in his hair.
He raises his eyes once he registers Wonwoo’s presence. “All okay?”
“Mm.” Wonwoo takes his seat, perching on another wooden stool. “Y/N seems to be settling in well. She seems comfortable.”
“That is good.” Seungcheol gestures to the man sitting across from him. “This is Kim Minseok. He used to serve in the royal guard. He is retired now, but he has been extremely helpful to us in terms of intelligence and communication.”
Wonwoo bows his head in greeting. Minseok just laughs heartily, watching him with a mix of pride and amusement.
“Well, it is nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Choi here has told me all about you over the years. I had thought you were just a myth until now!”
Wonwoo flushes deeply. “All good things, I hope.”
“Ah, you worry too much. You are too young to be so cautious! Enjoy it while you can, eh?” Minseok takes another long sip of whatever liquid in his cup. “I hope to see this prowess Seungcheol speaks of soon enough, then.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
Wonwoo zones out for the rest of the conversation, just letting in a few words here and there. They discuss strategy, and possible routes – he knows that none of that will truly matter in the end. There are only two ways tomorrow night will go, and out of those only one will prevail. It is already written. No matter how much Minseok or Myungho might want it, it will not change to their whims.
From the corner of his eye, he catches your reclined figure against a wooden chair. You laugh at something Seokmin says, eyes crinkling in that rare joy he so loves to see in your face. Wonwoo has never wanted more for all of this to be over sooner, just so that you might be happier, like this. No more fighting, no more spilt blood. Just you and your smile.
Myungho’s voice pulls Wonwoo out of his swirling thoughts. Seungcheol stands, pushing his stool out, and pats him on the shoulder gently.
“Come,” he says, offering a warm smile. It is one of the first Wonwoo has seen in weeks, and he savors it. “Dinner is ready.”
The stew is comforting, the heat warming your fingers through the ceramic of the bowl. You fold in on yourself even more, pulling your limbs closer to ward off the cold. Beside you, Seokmin is in a similar position as he spoons another piece of eggplant into his mouth.
You savor the taste carefully, mulling over everything he has told you so far. Of utmost importance was any sort of news from your sisters, and hearing that they were doing well brought you the most relief. Sangmin suffered through a fever, he mentioned, but he had recovered within a few days. That, thankfully, had been the worst of it.
Briefly, your eyes wander over to Wonwoo’s broad figure, listening intently as Myungho talks. His hair falls just short of his eyes, veiling his sharp brows and his tanned skin. A sight to see, under the low lights.
“You are distracted,” Seokmin observes, hiding a smile.
You tear your eyes from Wonwoo with a start. “No?”
“Oh, come on. You are not as closed a book as you think. And am I not allowed to be curious?” he asks. “You have told me quite literally everything, except for the man you arrived with. How can I not have questions?”
“I arrived with two men, Seokmin.”
“Yes, and only one of them has bothered to look in your direction twenty-five times in the past ten minutes. I am not blind, you know.”
This makes you sigh deeply, wondering if what he’s said is true. But it might very well be. You are not blind, either, as much as you would like to delude yourself into believing.
You do not tell Seokmin about the incident in the forest. That memory burns too bright to be shared. But you recount the slow evolution of your feelings towards Wonwoo, the slippery slope that had started as resentment and has now brought you to a precarious camaraderie.
You do not tell him about the strange new feeling in your chest, either. Or the fact that the deep-rooted affection in some corner of your heart has begun to sprout too prominent for you to ignore. This, you keep to yourself. If you do not say it, it does not have to sound as real.
Seokmin listens intently while you speak, as he always has. Nods along, as you describe the particularly difficult moments. He laces his fingers together once you finish, ever thoughtful.
“Well, he is quite handsome,” he says. “No complaints from me.”
“Seokmin!”
“Alright, alright,” he soothes, rubbing the spot on his arm where you had just hit him. “You are so violent. What sort of friend would I be if I did not give you my two cents, after all?”
You glare at him playfully. “An uninjured one.”
He holds both his arms up, feigning surrender. It draws another laugh out of you as you take another bite of stew, the flavorful spices dancing on your tongue. It is a sharp reminder for you to enjoy these happy moments while they last.
The house quiets down after most everyone has finished eating. You offer to help with the dishes, but Myungho insists that you sit, so you make yourself useful and towel dry the bowls after he washes them. Another man takes it upon himself to wipe down the counter, and the two of them chatter away in a vaguely familiar language as they work.
“Oh, dear. Forgive my manners,” the newcomer says suddenly. His accent is quite similar to Myungho’s, but a little less noticeable and smoother around the edges. “My name is Junhui. I live across town, actually, but I came over here to help however I can.”
“Nice to meet you,” you say, offering your own name in response. He smiles widely, eyes forming half crescents. “How do you both know each other?”
“Junhui and I are cousins,” Myungho explains. “But my family came here from China many years after his. My father was a paper merchant, and it was easier to find business here at the time than back home.”
You hum in understanding, taking in the new information. “You did not follow in his footsteps?”
“Almost. But I backed out, in the end.” Myungho smiles, his first of the night. “I did not want to sentence myself to something I knew I would detest. Instead, I moved up here to start a new life. I opened a restaurant here four years ago, along with Junhui.”
“That is a sharp pivot,” you remark.
“Perhaps. But you do not truly live until you dare to change.”
You look around the house again. If you squint, you can see it in your mind’s eye– remnants of a lively business, steaming bowls of soup and the chatter that comes with a well-fed crowd. The walls might have been painted red, decorated with small golden flowers. None of it is there now, only the ghosts of happy times.
“Customers began to dwindle. It was not safe for them to be out so often, so of course it was not good for business.” He frowns as the memory sets in. “Eventually it was not enough to sustain ourselves. So we closed it down.”
“Royal intelligence was not fond of us, either,” Myungho adds. “There were many people who would gather here to discuss the government, and propose political change. Of course, none of it went under the radar. It was all rather frustrating for those in power.”
You watch as Junhui looks down at his hands as if he’s mourning those precious years. Everyone carries their own ghosts, grieving in a different way. But more than that, you feel guilty – you had, after all, fought on the side of those who abused their power and oppressed their people for years. The circumstances are beyond the fact. You are still complicit.
“That is terrible,” you say honestly. “I am sorry it happened that way. Truly.”
“No need.” Myungho smiles again, but it is sadder this time. “Nothing really ever dies, does it? We were not about to let the space go to waste. Now we operate out of here. It was two years ago, I think, that we started to use this house for… what do you call it?”
He fumbles to find the word for several seconds, before Junhui says something in a smooth Chinese dialect.
“Ah,” Myungho says finally. “Resistance.”
You understand, now. The spark in their eyes is one that has been burning for a long time, and it will not go out anytime soon.
“We are very thankful,” you tell him. “Without you both, this would not be possible.”
Junhui waves it off sheepishly, shaking the dark hair away from his forehead. “Alright, alright. That is not so. It has taken the effort and cooperation of many people for the movement to reach where it is right now.”
“Still,” you insist. “You have laid a sturdy foundation. Your work will not go in vain.”
“That is not something you or anyone else can guarantee,” he says sagely, “but I will accept the sentiment in the name of hope.”
You give him a wry smile. “Hope is all we have.”
Junhui mirrors your expression, but there is a particular weariness in his eyes. “I only wonder if it will be enough.”
The three of you finish cleaning up in silence, only broken by the occasional remark or stray joke, and you bid them goodnight when the dishes have been done and the kitchen is spotless. The others seem to be settling down, and you wander around for a bit before finding your spot beside a wall, just as you had requested.
The day weighs down on you, and you are suddenly aware of the soreness in your muscles from the days’ travel you’ve been doing. You lie down and let your body rest against the floor, reveling in the warmth of the heavy blanket. Apprehension pools in your stomach, but you try not to think about the events to come, instead focusing on your own steady breath.
You hear Seungcheol and Wonwoo speaking quietly before they lie down on their mats, too. The light goes out, and you close your eyes to feign sleep until you actually succumb to your dreams. However, you are not fooling anybody. Wonwoo shifts a little beside you, and you are painfully aware of the distance between you and him.
“I know you are awake,” he whispers. You peek out from under your blanket – you can barely see him in the dark, but your eyes adjust to the lack of light rather quickly. “You are quite terrible at pretending.”
“I did not ask for your opinion, Wonwoo.”
“I am giving it regardless.” He is quiet for the next few seconds, then says, “Having trouble sleeping?”
“What do you care?”
He laughs dryly, a twinge of melancholy in his voice. “Please do not make me answer that question again. I do not think I can bear it.”
Heat rises to your cheeks suddenly as the memory rushes back to you. It replays in your mind like a flashback, and you will your heart to slow itself. And yet, you savor the closeness, aware of the heat radiating from him next to you.
“Sleep,” you say instead. “There is a long day ahead of us.”
“You cannot say that as you look so deep in thought,” he counters. “Tell me what is going on that intricate brain of yours.”
You try to ignore the deepness of his voice and the rough edge it carries as you sort through your thoughts, attempting to find the words for them. There is no easy way to do it, but it feels a little better when Wonwoo is right beside you.
“I am afraid,” you confess suddenly. “As much as I try not to be. I spend my time wondering, what would Soonyoung do? And after that I wonder if I am capable of being half the person he was.”
“You are,” Wonwoo says firmly. “And I know that you know it, too.”
How strange a feeling, to have him pinpoint your exact thought so quickly! You peer at him, just barely making out his features, and grip the blanket just a little tighter. The realization that this could well be the last night you ever spend in his company is chilling.
“I had a brother, too, once,” he continues softly. “I carry his ghost on my shoulders as I once carried him. But I cannot let that memory hold me back from fighting for what is important. And neither can you. Does that make sense?”
You hum in agreement, letting it sink in. “You know, you did not strike me as the older brother type.”
He wrinkles his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I thought you were an only child, for sure.”
“Now you are just slandering me for the fun of it,” Wonwoo complains. A sudden laugh bubbles from your throat, spilling out into the silence, and you clap a hand over your mouth immediately to stifle the following giggles. He smiles, chuckling softly. “And you will wake everyone in this house, if you keep doing that.”
“Oh, be quiet,” you rebuke, settling back in. The weight of his previous words sits on your mind again. “You understand then, how it feels.”
“Mm.”
The two of you lie there, staring up at the ceiling of what used to be Myungho and Junhui’s livelihood. Silent understanding passes over you, like it always seems to. Your heart beats twice as strong somehow, when it is him that occupies the place at your side, and you fall asleep with that sense of security blanketing your mind.
Morning comes in the form of Myungho’s sharp voice. You quickly learn that as kind as he is, he does not seem to like coming off that way, and much prefers a steady routine. The floor is clear within minutes under his supervision, while Junhui gets to work on breakfast. You offer to help him, but he just waves you off, so you sit on the countertop and chat with him as the porridge cooks.
Wonwoo joins you both a few minutes later. You almost laugh at the sight of him – messy hair and tired eyes – and it warms your heart.
“There you are,” he says, voice still heavy with sleep. “I was wondering where you had gone.”
“Nowhere far. Just keeping Junhui company.”
“I see that.” He sits on the taller wooden stool, wincing as he rolls his shoulder. At your questioning look he says, “Definitely slept wrong last night. I think Seungcheol might have kicked me in his sleep, too. Multiple times.”
“Maybe you deserve it,” you shoot back playfully. Wonwoo’s mouth curves up into a knowing smirk that has your knees just a little weak.
“Anyhow, he seems very stressed,” he says. “I did not want to bring it up unnecessarily.”
“Everyone is on edge today,” Junhui agrees, stirring the porridge. “Even Myungho woke up in a terrible mood, if you could not already tell. Tonight is the night everything could change, for better or worse. Some of the men have already come to terms with the fact that this might be their last day alive.”
“But it might not be,” Wonwoo puts in thoughtfully. “Not necessarily.”
“That is true. But nobody knows.” Junhui sprinkles a pinch of salt into the pot. “Some feel it is better to resign themselves for the worst than to hope for the best. And who am I to tell them how to think?”
His words settle solemnly into the air, and he notices the sudden tension, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.
“Oh, do not be so serious. Would you want to live your last day in such gloom?” You shake your head no. “I thought so! Now get out of your head, and come eat this while it is still hot. I can see the gears in your brain turning already.”
You take the bowl he hands you gratefully, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The first spoon of porridge is almost magical as it goes down your throat, and you savor the different flavors on your tongue.
“This is so good,” you tell him. “What did you even put in this?”
Junhui just winks at you. “Years and years of practice,” is all he will say. “Chef’s secret.”
The afternoon that follows is sweltering, at best. Sweat trickles down your back as you spar with Seokmin, wood knocking against wood as he parries your every strike. Wonwoo watches from the side, letting the last few drops of water fall from the flask into his throat.
“This weapon feels so wrong in my hand,” Seokmin says when you finally take a break, catching his breath. “I fear I am utterly dreadful with a sword.”
“Why did you not bring your bow?”
“I thought about it.” He shakes his head wryly. “It feels so detached. There is only so much you can do with limited arrows and such great distance. It is a great weapon, to be sure, but I feel quite useless at times.”
“Seokmin,” you scold, “you know you are one of the greatest archers I have ever met in my life. You are the opposite of useless.”
“But this is not the time to be passive. I wanted to do more.” Seokmin smiles wistfully, dangling the wooden sword from his fingers. “So I started training with one of Jihoon’s old swords. I am by no means perfect, but it will do.”
You pause for a moment, taking it in. He had never done anything but follow orders, both Muyeol’s and yours. And yet the guilt still hangs over his shoulders, ever present.
“Seokmin.”
“Yes?”
“You are certainly not dreadful.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It is new, that is all. And your skill is quite excellent for someone who has wielded a vastly different weapon for most of his life.”
A bright grin spreads across his face, a bit sheepish. “That is kind of you to say.”
“I mean it. Truly.” You pat his back gently. “Go rest, alright? You did well today.”
He nods and bows his head slightly. You watch his retreating back until he disappears behind the doorway, one hand on your hip as you bear the brunt of the midday sun. I need water, you think, walking back towards the rock Wonwoo’s sitting against.
He seems to know what you want before you have to ask, passing you a filled flask before you sit down beside him. “Good fight?”
“Definitely.” You take a long sip of the cool water. “Seokmin has improved so much. He used to hate it back at the palace. He only ever wanted to shoot arrows all day.”
“He seems very dedicated,” Wonwoo agrees. “That will serve him well in every regard.”
“Certainly.”
There is a heavy pause. Neither of you looks at the other. You can tell there are words at the tip of his tongue that he won’t say. But you do not comment on it; the same is true for you. You sit there beside him, watching the clouds hang in the sky, and savor the moment.
Eventually, you break the silence. “If I do not make it –”
“No.”
You give him a funny look. “You do not even know what I was going to say!”
“I do,” he says quietly. “I feel like you have been meaning to say it for a while. But I was hoping I could delay it.”
You soften at his words, intense tenderness squeezing at your heart. Gently you lay your head onto his waiting and ready shoulder, your chest rising and falling in time with his.
“It is like Junhui said,” you tell him. “Nobody knows. Neither you, nor I. But I wanted to tell you, just in case.”
“Don’t,” Wonwoo pleads. “You can tell me afterwards. We will have all the time then.”
“You cannot be sure.” A small smile forms on your face despite yourself, and you tuck yourself further into him. “Listen, Wonwoo. I know you have detested me for a majority of the time we have known each other.”
“I–”
“I do not fault you for it.” You place a hand on his arm to calm him down. “If I said I did not reciprocate that feeling, it would be a blatant lie.”
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously monologuing about how much you despise me right now?”
This pulls a sharp laugh out of you. “You would know if you listened instead of talking!”
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, amused. “Please continue.”
You huff in acceptance, pulling your legs closer to your body. “If we do not have tomorrow, then you should know I have appreciated every gesture of kindness you have shown me, at every turn. For giving me space, when I needed it. For talking, when I needed that instead. You have always given me room to breathe.”
“I would do it over and over,” he whispers, breath tickling the top of your head. “For you.”
You sigh deeply, shutting your eyes and willing yourself not to cry. “Please, Wonwoo. It is far too soon to say that.”
“It cannot be. I have been thinking it for quite some time.” He brings his hand to your wrist, fingers tracing light circles over your skin. “Only I did not know when to say it. Or how. But if we do not have tomorrow, as you said, then you should know this.”
“I think I have known for a while,” you say soberly. Wonwoo lets out a quiet ha!, a half-laugh.
“Even better, then.”
You are about to vocalize the next witty comeback that materializes in your mind to dissipate the rising tension when a sudden noise breaks out back inside the house. You hear someone yelling for backup, doors slamming, and a pained scream – in that order.
You exchange one worried look with Wonwoo, rising to your feet, and break into a sprint.
Seungcheol finds you first, a rare panic in his eyes. He heaves a relieved sigh at the sight of you both, taking Wonwoo by the shoulders. “Where is Minseok?”
“What?”
Seungcheol repeats his question, more frantic this time. You watch Wonwoo shake his head, immensely confused.
“Hyung, what happened?”
“Kim Minseok, that bastard,” he fumes. “I should have known. All of the signs were there. That lying son of a bitch handed over every single piece of information he had and ran for his life. He’s been working with them for years!”
Shock ripples across Wonwoo’s face. You had not met the man, but you get the idea that even he had not seen it coming at all.
“You must go,” Seungcheol urges. “Both of you. Find somewhere safe to stay for now. You cannot let them find you!”
“No,” you say firmly, drawing your sword. “This is my battle. I am not going anywhere.”
Wonwoo nods, knives already in his hands. “I cannot, hyung. I swore to fight with you. You cannot expect me to break it now.”
There is sheer despair written all over Seungcheol’s face – but no time to do anything about it. A soldier steps through the doorway, swinging his axe, and you slash at his torso furiously. Blood splatters all over your clothes and the side of your face, the metallic scent quickly filling your nostrils.
You turn and look at Wonwoo. The fierceness in his eyes mimics yours, and you feel a new confidence begin to rise into your chest.
“Now or never,” you say.
Chaos reigns inside the house. The walls are as red as they may have been four years ago – but with blood this time, instead of paint. Myungho is backed up against a wall, holding off two royal guards with his spear. You lunge, stabbing one of them in the side, and he quickly finishes off the other, returning your gesture with a grim nod.
You do not know where Seokmin is. You do not think you could pick him out amidst the mayhem; everything begins to blur together impossibly. Only the metal of your blade remains clear in your vision as you defend yourself with everything you have left.
The noise seems to lessen, just a little. You stumble outside, only to be met with a horrific sight.
“Junhui!” You rush towards him, and he winces as you approach. He struggles to keep himself on his feet, one hand pressed firmly against a deep gash in his side.
“Go,” he says weakly. “I will be fine.”
“But –”
“Go!” His hand comes away deep red, blood dripping from his fingers onto the ground. “We do not have time. You have to go now!”
You stare at him for a few conflicted seconds, before tearing your eyes away from him and swinging wildly at the man behind you. But your footing is unsteady, and you slip on a stray rock. His dagger brushes the corner of your ear, and faintly you register the sharp sting that begins to blossom.
When you catch your breath again, you come face to face with a pair of eyes that send chills down your spine.
Muyeol’s expression reflects none of the panic that’s in yours. In fact, he seems almost amused at the look on your face, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he cleans off his sword against the tall grass. It has been so long since you’ve seen him, that you’d forgotten how disturbing his presence could be.
“I thought my soldiers had finished you at least the second time around,” he says. The cruelty in his voice never fails to make you flinch. “But to see that you have joined these fools? Tch. I am wounded.”
Your hand does not tremble, sword still in the air. “Drop the act. I am not so stupid as to be fooled by your words again.”
“Oh, my.” He chuckles, an evil sound. “You were not fooled even the first time, my dear. I made no effort to hide my intentions. But you willingly carried out all the dirty work you were told to do.”
“You held my family and their lives over my head,” you snap back. “I was not willing, then.”
He merely shrugs. “I did what I had to do.”
Anger bubbles up into your throat, and you lunge instinctively, bringing your sword down in what would have been a harsh strike. Muyeol parries it lazily, slicing your arm instead. You hiss at the sudden pain and come forward again, unable to stay calm.
He clicks his tongue again. “Still the same,” he remarks. “I would have thought you learned how to control that inconvenient temper of yours by now.”
“You do not get to have to say in when I get angry!” You punctuate your last word with a furious slash. This one lands – the sound of blade against skin is satisfying, and you draw blood just shy of his collarbone. He looks a bit surprised. Good, you think. You deserve it.
Muyeol seems to have as easily inflamed a temper as yours. He is much older, for sure, but his movements are rather fluid for his age. You are light on your feet, just barely dodging his well-timed strikes.
“You should have died that day,” he snarls furiously. He feints with his right – and you fall for it, a short lapse in judgement. One strong kick sends you tumbling to the ground, and before you know it the edge of his sword is flush with the skin of your neck. “What a shame, then. But do not worry. I will be sure you meet your fate today.”
“You will do no such thing.”
Muyeol laughs, a deep rumbling that comes from his chest. It is a sound that you have learned to detest over the many years.
“The words of a woman on her knees,” he muses, pressing the blade into your throat. You wince at the sensation of it piercing skin, feeling the first drop of blood trickle down to your collarbone. “Choose them wisely, would you? They may well be your last.”
You open your mouth to give another sarcastic remark. But out of nowhere, a sharp dagger flies through the air just past your head, lodging itself squarely into Muyeol’s shoulder. He roars in pain; you take the short window of opportunity to grab your sword and lunge for his neck.
This time, you do not miss.
His dark eyes widen in momentary surprise – he loses his grasp on his own weapon, crashing to the ground as he struggles to draw his next breath. He falls with one arm outstretched, clinging to a last hope, and you might have taken it a year or two ago.
Things are different, now. You regard him coldly, and you do not move.
You wipe the side of your face, catching your breath. And you should have some remorse, but it is hard to find it for the man who had a hand in turning your life into a living hell. All you can feel is the subsiding rage, still coursing through your veins.
Wonwoo is beside you before you know it. He does not ask anything. His eyes only shift between you, and Muyeol’s body on the ground. You meet his questioning eyes and nod slowly.
“Wait. The knife,” you say, before he can get a word out. You crouch down, fingers closing around the hilt and pulling it from the lifeless shoulder. When you pass it to Wonwoo, your fingers brush ever so subtly, staining his fingertips dark red. “Thank you.”
“Always.” His answer comes without hesitation. It bears relief, and something else you don’t dare name. “Are you… are you alright?”
“Alive,” you say, huffing out a weak laugh.
Wonwoo shakes his head, fingers coming up to swipe a stray drop of blood away from the cut on your face. You startle at the sight of his eyes welling up with tears, face battered and bruised, and it stirs up a whole torrent of emotions in your own chest.
“You are so strong,” he says, thumb brushing your jaw reverently. “You did it. You are free now.”
Your vision goes blurry as the weight of Wonwoo’s words sink into your soul. Tenderly, with all the care carried in his deep voice. You let yourself crash into him, fingers grasping his robes as his arms wrap around your torso gently, holding you close. For the first time, the weight that has been sitting on your heart for years feels lifted, light. You can even hear Soonyoung’s voice in your head now, quietly under the current.
Live now, little tiger. Live the way you always wanted to.
The sky bursts, and it begins to pour. The heavy drizzle takes the dried blood on your skin with it, but the open wounds still burn. It is no matter, not anymore. The white cotton of your clothes runs deep red, and your decade long battle is over.
There are quite a few more hurdles to go over, even after Muyeol’s death. None of them are easy to swallow down.
The attack had resulted in more lives lost than injuries, a significant dent in everyone’s esteem. You are particularly shocked to see Junhui’s body among them, his cold hand in his cousin’s. It had not been so long ago that you had last spoken to him; it weighs on you still that you may have had a chance to save his life, if only you had listened to your gut.
Myungho does not shed a single tear. Perhaps this is his way of mourning a loved one, in powerful silence.
“I cannot control the passage of time,” he says quietly, over his dearest friend’s grave. Still he does not cry, but you think he might come awfully close. “We are all victims. Junhui’s fate has only collected him first.”
You watch him murmur something softly in muffled Cantonese; some sort of farewell, perhaps. You will never know. It is very likely that you will never see Myungho again, even if he chooses to remain in town.
“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “For everything. Truly.”
He waves you off, wearing a faint smile. “No need. It was the least I could do for you all.”
You wonder how he will hold up now, whether the little old house meant for two will feel a bit too lonely and large for just him. He might repaint the walls a bright red, but it will never be the same again.
It is with a heavy heart that you regroup with Seungcheol and Wonwoo. The latter is tending to a small wound on his arm, wrapping the bandage around it carefully. You stop him and offer to do it instead. He lets you.
“When will you leave for home?”
Wonwoo swallows thickly. “Soon, I suppose.”
“You will travel overnight?” Gently, you finish dressing the cut, but your fingers linger over his skin. “I do not think that is very safe.”
“After everything we have done so far, this might be the least dangerous journey we make.”
You take him in solemnly, allowing yourself to lean into him a little. Seungcheol takes note, but says nothing — turns away a bit, as if to give you a little space.
“This will bring a new dawn to the country,” he continues. “The young prince Jisoo is said to be a fair and just man. He will be twice the ruler his father is. The council members are in overwhelming support of him, so the king will likely be pressured into abdicating.”
“It is about time,” you agree. “I have quite high hopes for him.”
“Mm.” Wonwoo turns his hand over so that his fingers are laced with yours, warmth seeping into your skin. “Will you go home now? I would imagine you have much to say to your family.”
Family. You think of your sisters and Jihoon, and little Sangmin. Of Wonwoo, and how easily he seems to fit into your life, like the final piece of a puzzle.
“Come with me,” you say. “Seungcheol, too. Stay the night, at least, and have a warm meal. Seokmin will be able to take us there.”
He shakes his head. “Y/N, I cannot impose on your family like that.”
“You would not be imposing,” you insist. “I am asking because I want you there with me, Wonwoo. Besides, I might join you both on your journey back. I want to see Hansol, and visit Seungkwan one more time.”
Wonwoo’s firm expression softens as the last words sink in, thumb rubbing soft circles into your hand. “All right,” he finally concedes. He glances back at Seungcheol, who gives a willing shrug. “If you say so.”
It is not so far to your sisters’ house, once you have bid your sad goodbyes to Myungho and the others. The familiarity of your surroundings slowly comes back to you as you follow Seokmin through the winding stone roads and grassy hills. Every step unlocks childhood memories you had shelved away, years and years ago.
You point at a large pine tree nearby. “I used to sneak out and come here with Soonyoung all the time,” you tell Wonwoo. “We would play around, making up stories. He taught me how to read there, too.”
“Sometimes the stories you tell make me wish we knew each other as children,” he muses, chuckling softly.
“That might have been nice,” you say, looping your arm in his. “But this is just as precious.”
“That it is.”
You feel Seokmin’s knowing eyes on you – he will say a range of things later, from ‘I told you so’ to ‘So you did think he was handsome!’, and you will laugh and tell him that sometimes love will find you even when you do not necessarily ask for it. He glances away, amused, and you have to resist the urge to click your tongue at him.
The gate is drawn shut as you first approach, but you could not ever forget the familiar slope of the roof, and the tiny patch of flowers to the right of the main doorway. Seokmin calls out brightly for Jihoon, breaking into a jog, and you look back at Seungcheol and Wonwoo with a smile.
“Home,” you say.
Soonja runs out first, crashing into you with a loud squeal. You let her cling to you. It has been far too long since you have listened to her excited stories and endless chatter, and you hug her tightly.
“I missed you,” she says petulantly. “You always take so long!”
“I am sorry,” you chuckle, tearing up. “Really. But I will not be away for weeks at a time anymore. My work is done.”
She brightens at this. “Promise?”
You laugh, intertwining your pinky finger with hers. “Promise.”
The sun is softer now, in the sky, and the heat does not burn as much anymore. You make introductions as the air settles into something more comfortable. The ghosts still linger, but they are not heavy anymore. You wear them like a warm scarf now, instead of shackles. It is a new kind of homage.
The house is lively, with more people inside. Seungcheol and Jihoon seem to get along perfectly, discussing something between themselves, while Seokmin entertains Soonja’s endless questions. Soonyoung should be here, but his absence does not leave a hollow space quite like it used to. He is in every pillar instead, his life written into every single corner of the room.
You sit with Soonhee, helping her here and there in the kitchen, updating her on the events that have occurred while you were away.
“You have had quite a life so far,” she says, once you’re finished. “But I admire you for it, you know. You have never once let it stop you from anything. Never said ‘it is what it is’ and sat down. That is a sign of resilience.”
“I did not have a choice,” you tell her.
“All the same.” She smiles, reaching over to dust a stray piece of straw out of your hair. “You grew up faster than you should have. I always worried it would hold you back.”
“And now?”
“Now I see I did not have to worry in the first place.” Soonhee glances over her shoulder, back to the main room. Wonwoo sits cross-legged by Sangmin’s cradle, listening to the infant babble endlessly. He nods along as he smiles, pretending to hold the conversation. It is a tender sight. “I am curious about this man you have brought with you, though.”
You flush deeply, not sure what to say. Soonhee notices and merely laughs, thinly slicing up a carrot.
“I hope you know you are not as hard to read as you might believe,” she adds. “He clearly brings you a lot of joy.”
Seokmin had said the exact same thing. You bring your hands to your cheeks, resting your chin in your palm. For as long as you can remember, there was always a torrent in your heart, restless emotions brewing and spilling over. But there is something about Wonwoo that allows you a rare peace, an ease that you had previously thought impossible.
“He does,” you say quietly. “He learned to love me as I am, even when I did not want to know myself.”
Soonhee gives you a knowing look. “You have found yourself a good man, then.”
Everyone gathers on the floor to eat, a feeling you have not experienced in a long time. But you know that the wait was worth it. What better way to spend an evening than in good company, with good food? The soup is warm as it goes down your throat, and so is your heart.
Jihoon laughs at the sight of his son happily blowing raspberries into Wonwoo’s face – a funny sight, for sure. The latter just smiles contentedly, one hand carefully balancing the baby in his lap.
“What can I say?” he shrugs, meeting your sparkling eyes. “I must be awfully good with children.”
This pulls another round of laughter from everyone else, you included. Wonwoo’s gaze does not leave yours, even from across the room. Impossibly magnetic, but you no longer resist it. Instead, you let it tug at you, reveling in the feeling.
It is not until all the dishes are put away later that you finally sidle up to him again, having stepped outside for some fresh air. Wonwoo sits on the front step, eyes turned up to the sky, and you carefully tuck yourself into his side.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” you ask of him. He takes your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
“I am thinking about the nice weather we are having,” he murmurs. “And your sister’s small garden. Junhui would have been quite delighted to see it.”
“He would have.” Your heart aches, then. “I pray that his soul rests easy. He was a good man.”
“Me, too.” Wonwoo squeezes your hand, a way of comforting you. It will be alright. “But above all, I am thinking about how content I feel right now. My mind is at peace.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm,” he hums, thumb brushing against yours. “You cannot pretend to believe otherwise, Y/N. Not when you are with me. Not when you are the reason.”
Warmth spreads throughout your body. You remain silent, no words coming up – but they do not need to. Even without saying anything, Wonwoo seems to understand your love. Quietly, carefully, as he is. As he always has been.
It occurs to you now that perhaps this was what you had been chasing after your entire life. Serenity.
From inside the house, Sangmin’s little giggles carry out into the open air, followed by his mother’s cooing and Jihoon’s satisfied laugh. The breeze is cool, but not too chilly – a perfect summer night. Wonwoo brings his head down to rest on top of yours, and you sit there taking in the peaceful quiet by each other’s side.
You think you will be alright.
thank you so much for reading dotssotw! have a wonderful rest of your day! much love, hershey xx
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daughter of the sword, son of the wild ; jeon wonwoo
SUMMARY. you were supposed to kill him, he had no reason to keep you alive - and yet, the universe works in mysterious ways. what will you do when your path begins to unravel? how long until you realize the sword you wield can very well be used against you?
PAIRING. jeon wonwoo x f!reader
GENRE. enemies to lovers, rebel!wonwoo, assassin!reader, historical au, angst, some fluff towards the end, lots of introspection, junhao speak cantonese with each other in this universe
WARNINGS. language, mention of drinking, main & side character death (multiple character deaths), violence & blood (not graphic), kissing - slightly suggestive? but not really? read at your own discretion
WORDS. 34.54k
NOTES. um so... let the record show i did not originally intend for this fic to get this long. but! i can't believe it's finally done! this was a very engaging story to write and i genuinely enjoyed every moment of it. huge huge thank you to jay @ppyopulii & calli @hhaechansmoless for letting me scream about this and brainstorming along with me this fic would absolutely not exist without them!! so sorry for causing all of those crashouts guys... i love u so much i promise. anyways, that's all i have to say - i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing! xx (oh also if you see weird gaps between paragraphs that's the shift + entering i had to do to fit this in one post oops)
TAGS. @mochacoda @ppyopulii @jiabae @nerdycheol
PLAYLIST. tsunami - niki / gemini - jun / do i wanna know - arctic monkeys / sailor song - gigi perez / the cut that always bleeds - conan gray / close to you - gracie abrams
The night is quiet – a little too quiet, an eerie kind of silence that cannot be ignored. Wonwoo gets goosebumps on the back of his neck, hairs standing on end, and he knows immediately that something is wrong.
Silently, he taps Jeonghan’s shoulder twice. A signal. The older man raises his eyebrows, hand instinctively moving to his sword.
“We are not alone,” Wonwoo cautions him, taking careful steps forward. It’s a lucky thing that he’s mastered the art of staying calm in situations that are as suddenly critical as this. He and Jeonghan were only hoping to return home after a long day of travel, but now he has the feeling someone wants to prevent that from happening.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wonwoo suddenly catches an unmistakable glint of something that can only be metal. After all, the moon never lies.
Jeonghan has noticed it, too. “There,” he says, sword drawn, “behind that shed. Do you see them?”
“That cannot be any less than fifteen, at least.”
“Only fifteen? This could have been a lot worse.”
Wonwoo is very familiar with that look, the impish smirk that Jeonghan always wears. Nobody knows what it’s meant to mask, but it has become something of a comforting sight.
“Do not get in your own head,” Jeonghan advises, offering him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Remember what we are here for.”
“Right,” Wonwoo nods, before ducking instinctively. The knife, having come out of nowhere, just barely misses the top of his head. We are surrounded, he realizes, surveying the area around him. There is no easy way out.
Jeonghan says nothing, bringing his blade out to parry an unsuspecting blow, slashing the man’s chest with one fluid motion. Wonwoo wonders how many years of this it’s taken him to draw blood with such an indifferent expression.
How much practice does it take to effortlessly kill?
Well, the resistance will not fight itself, he tells himself as he sinks his daggers deep into his attacker, blood splattering onto his face. The metallic scent is not new to him.
There has always been a certain headspace that Wonwoo enters in situations such as these; everything aside from the battle is nothing but a blur. Seungcheol had always liked this about him, and praised his state of focus.
Now, Wonwoo wonders if it is just a way to bottle up his fear.
Every wound he inflicts feels like a cut on himself. He can’t freeze up, he can’t – this is the mantra he repeats to himself in his mind, keeping Seungcheol’s advice with him. All he can do is hope it serves him well now.
The thoughts distract him only for a second. But that moment is enough, he realizes, bearing the brunt of a strong kick to the chest. Wonwoo stumbles backward, just barely dodging his assailant’s sword to his neck.
Close calls in this line of work are one too many, too often.
Belatedly, he feels blood trickling down his cheek. He must have gotten nicked somewhere, comes the afterthought, as he spins his daggers between his fingers, stepping closer for the final blow. He braces himself again before letting the knife fly. The sound is sharp, but subtle. Wonwoo just barely misses flesh, the edge cutting through the fabric covering most of his attacker’s face instead.
For some reason, he freezes at the sight of your prominent cupid’s bow, and the way your skin glows under the moon’s light. You freeze, too, sword halted in mid-air.
Wonwoo doesn’t really understand what’s going on, until he looks into your fiery, lash-framed eyes, and it hits him.
A woman, he realizes, bewildered. It is unheard of, nearly impossible – the emblem stitched onto the side of your robes tells him exactly who sent you, and he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Nobody associated with the palace would even consider sending a woman into the field, even with their best fighters.
And yet, here you are.
Wonwoo’s shock must have been mirrored on his face, because you take advantage of it and slash at him furiously. He’s fast – he’s trained for this, feet quicker than light – but not enough, for you manage to nick his torso with the edge of your sword.
Wonwoo falls back with a grunt, throwing a quick look over his shoulder. Jeonghan is making quick work of the men, his blade swirling around with effortless speed and precision. Bodies lie all around him; some dead, some hardly clinging onto their last breath. It makes Wonwoo sick to his stomach.
He staggers with every parry, trying to ignore the metallic smell that rises in his nostrils. You match him in skill and strength, he notes, strike for strike, and for the first time he finds himself struggling to put up a good fight.
And then, as aggressive as you have been, you back away for a second, alarm clear in your eyes. It catches Wonwoo off guard, the way you suddenly glance behind him to survey the empty valley and slink away into the darkness.
“Wait!” he calls out gruffly, sprinting in your wake, but he’s already lost you. You are quiet, and leave no trace – the night is concealing, and amidst the tall grass and sparse roads, Wonwoo does not know where you have gone. The others have followed in your trail, and soon the valley is as silent as if nothing had occurred in the first place.
There is something akin to guilt. A stronger man would have been able to finish the job, he thinks, reminded faintly of Seungcheol. Empathy is a vice, for people like him. He should not have wavered at the sight of your face. Wonwoo could have finished you then and there, if not for the hesitation that held him back.
Jeonghan approaches slowly, wiping his sword against the grass and staining the blades dark red. “I cannot believe several of them still got away,” he says vengefully. “After this sort of ambush I should have wiped them all out one by one.”
“You say that like you were the only one fighting.” Wonwoo gives a sheepish half-smile. “It is my fault too, hyung.”
Jeonghan seems to soften a little at this. The vexed expression is gone from his face, replaced by something kinder, more forgiving. Carefully, he brushes the dirt off of Wonwoo’s robes, giving him a reassuring pat.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“No.”
“I know when you are lying,” Jeonghan points out. His fingers graze the wound on his shoulder, and Wonwoo winces involuntarily. “Make sure you tend to this later.”
The journey home is mostly quiet. Wonwoo is not one for many words, and Jeonghan is not normally inclined to fill the silence, choosing to bask in it instead. It is late, and all Wonwoo wants is to be able to bathe himself and drift off to sleep before another day arrives. Maybe Mingyu is still awake, he muses, painfully aware of the hunger in his abdomen. It has been days of travel, and there is nothing like being back home.
Wonwoo can feel dawn coming on by the time he has returned to the familiar cluster of small houses. Surely nobody is still up, he tells himself, bidding a good rest to Jeonghan and gently letting the curtains fall behind him. He is carefully silent as he washes up, scrubbing away dried blood and bandaging his wounds in the small yard behind the house.
“Jeon Wonwoo, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Oh, dear. He would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Hayun standing behind him, arms crossed sternly, and he thinks he’s never been more intimidated by her before.
“What are you doing up so early?”
Hayun purses her lips, frowning, and chooses to ignore the question.
“Is my husband aware that you’ve gone and gotten yourself injured again, or do I need to inform him?”
Wonwoo sighs through his nose. “Please do not do that.”
She softens at this, a little. The look in her eyes shifts from disappointment to concern.
“You must not put yourself in harm’s way on such a whim. How many times has Mingyu entreated you to look after yourself? What on earth even happened?”
“Jeonghan hyung and I were returning from the capital when we were attacked. He is not hurt,” he adds quickly, “but I am inclined to think it was a planned ambush.”
“You boys must be careful,” she emphasizes, taking a seat on a tree stump. “It is more important now than ever.”
He knows she is right. One wrong move, and it will all be for nothing. “Has Mingyu been well?”
“Better, I suppose.” Hayun’s fingers fiddle with the hem of her sleeves. “He is still recovering. But he is able to hunt on his own now, and walk without much pain.”
“That is good news,” he agrees, memories from the fateful night of Mingyu’s injury flashing in the back of his mind. “I have not seen him in a while.”
“Well, you are home now. He will be very glad to see you, and quite upset about your wounds,” she says pointedly.
“He will not know what I do not show him.”
“If you must.” Hayun rises, brushing the dirt off of her hanbok, and pauses. She is several years younger than Wonwoo, but the look in her eyes is one of motherly concern.
“We will be careful,” he insists. She does not respond to this, just smiles wistfully and pats his shoulder.
“Sleep, Wonwoo. It is nearly sunrise, and you have not gotten any rest. You will need it.”
He struggles for words. He does not know how to tell her that sleep has rather successfully evaded him lately.
“Alright,” he says finally, and watches her retreat back behind the wooden door. Still, he does not move. His legs suddenly feel too heavy to stand, and his wounds ache with sorrow for all the blood he has drawn under the dark cover of the night.
Sparse light begins to filter through the sky, harkening the arrival of another dawn. The clouds split, and Wonwoo wonders what he could have been in another life.
Thirty-two casualties, eight injured, three missing. The numbers are against you, and you know it.
You have not had a moment of peace since arriving back at your quarters. This palace is much smaller than the king’s, and therefore busier, but you would not dare to complain. If anything, having company at all times is better than perpetual isolation.
“I do not think His Highness will punish you,” Seokmin assures you. As your right hand man and faithful friend, it is duty to say such things, even when he might not be absolutely certain he is correct.
“He is not a generous man. You know this,” you tell him, undoing and redoing your braid in frustration. “We are looked after as long as we serve his purpose. Tonight was the exact opposite of that.”
Seokmin’s silence vindicates you further. You pace anxiously in the room, awaiting your impending doom. Will he have you banished? Executed perhaps, for sheer and utter failure. You think of your sisters then, somewhere in your small village waiting for your safe return.
There is a series of harsh knocks on the door. A royal guard, by the look of his attire.
“His Highness would like to speak with you,” he says grimly. You throw an apprehensive glance over your shoulder at Seokmin, who merely nods. It is meant to be comforting, however it is everything but.
You follow the guard down the winding halls and into a room that has housed many meetings before, none of which ended remarkably well. The guard leaves you with a polite bow and shuts the door behind him.
The room is dull, windows drawn and curtains closed. It is mostly bare, save for the sparse bookshelves and the table where the second prince Muyeol is hunched over a scroll. You lower your eyes, not daring to speak first.
“I have received news of recent events,” he says, finally. His voice is low, but sharp as an arrow.
“My deepest apologies, Your Highness.” He does not speak further, just watching you with those eyes that have seen years of war and rebellion, and it compels you to explain yourself. “I assure you, we tried our best. I did not anticipate–”
“I did not ask you here to listen to your excuses.” You realize now the way he so easily holds control over his men, and all those coerced into doing his bidding. Fear is a powerful thing. “I want to know how two village boys overpowered some of the palace’s most highly trained and able warriors.”
“I do not–”
“You had one opportunity to prove yourself,” Muyeol remarks, discarding the scroll he had been inspecting. Whatever light there is highlights the faint streaks of gray in his beard as he rises, stepping closer to you. “After all, it is unheard of for a woman to be involved in such activities, let alone be placed in control of the movement. Some of our allies are wondering if it is too much power, to such feeble a person.”
Your fists clench at your sides. This does not go unnoticed – he laughs, an evil and rumbling thing that only stokes the fire in your chest.
“I am far from feeble,” you say with as much venom as you can muster, “and I believe I have proven so in the past. Do not forget I have been loyal to you and your cause for many moons.”
“True loyalty is not bought.” He picks up one of his knives, a beautiful, glistening weapon. Your breath catches as he points the tip at you, tracing the sharp edge along the curve of your throat. “I have not forgotten the circumstances under which you were brought here. Do you truly believe you would still be here if your family was not at stake?”
Tall flames, pungent smoke in your airways. A ransacked village lies in the distant path of your memories. You remember the price many have paid for attempting to cross this man, the consequences you are still living to this day.
“They are getting in the way,” he continues, coldly. “The commoners believe they are fighting for justice against the crown. It is turning into a problem, for I must rid my brother of the throne before they have the chance to.”
What a cruel man, you think. His words make you sick, but you swallow it down for the sake of your survival.
“I do not forget any allegiance I have pledged, Your Highness.”
The blade drops, and you finally take in the breath you’ve been holding. The air feels sickly sweet in your lungs.
“I want them dead.” Muyeol drops the knife with a loud clang. “All of them. The uprising must be quashed. Bring me their bodies, so that we may burn them as an example to those who dare to ruin our kingdom. You know what is at stake if you do not.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He turns his sharp eyes to you, sly and unsettling. “You may leave.”
The feeling of dread does not leave even as you enter the courtyard, letting the gentle breeze lap against your cheeks. It is so late that you can feel the beginning rays of dawn creep up the horizon, and yet you are not tired. It strikes you then, in the lush expanse of the palace, that you are as good as powerless. That no matter how high you rise in the ranks, you are still a woman where there is room for none. And if only to make matters worse, you are a pawn in a cruel game that you would rather not be playing at all.
For the first time in months, you feel your eyes stinging with tears you should not let fall. You wish someone was there with you – Seokmin, Seungkwan, anyone – but that is not the case.
Under the impassive gaze of the night, you are completely alone.
There is little time before your next mission. You assemble a small group of your most trusted soldiers and start to make your plans.
Your reluctance does not slip past your crew unnoticed. Three of them stay behind after you dismiss the others – your most trusted archers, and confidants. Friend is a precarious title in this line of work, but you have learned to make exceptions for them.
“I hope you know you can speak your mind to us,” Seungkwan begins. “What is holding you back?”
“It is nothing.”
“If it were nothing, we would have left for the foothills tonight.”
It is always uncanny how perceptive he is. “My thoughts do not matter,” you say, “so long as His Highness is satisfied and my sisters are safe.”
Hansol is perched on an armchair, eyes thoughtful. “Do you ever think of what you will do once this is all over? When the king finally abdicates and the people are happy?”
“I do not know if the people will truly ever be happy,” you say truthfully. “The second prince has promised action, and action is better than inaction. But he is not the good and kind man the people want for a ruler.”
“The same man that murdered his own son, for fear that he might lay claim to the throne.” Seokmin shudders. “I feel complicit in all of his crimes.”
You take a moment to really look at him, then, as well as the others. Not as soldiers, not as the deadliest archers this side of the river – but as mere boys of twenty-something, full of locked-up love for fallen friends and slain mothers and burning villages.
What kind of person was Seungkwan at seventeen? What had been Hansol’s favorite fruit to pick and eat in the summertime?
None of that matters, now. They all have shadows in their eyes; sisters, brothers, loved ones they have left behind. Muyeol had been correct. None of them are here because they want to be.
“One day, we will be on the right side of history,” you say, placing a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder. “But we cannot do that as corpses, and that is what we will be if we fail now.”
“You are right,” he says finally, after a few moments. He glances out the window, at the sun spilling the last few drops of light on the earth. “Please rest, Y/N. There will be a long day of travel, and an even longer hunt afterwards.”
“I will try,” you agree absentmindedly. You offer them your best smile, knowing they will always see through it, and bid them a good night, staying behind to watch what is left of the sunset.
That night, a man appears in your dreams. He knows your name, but you don’t seem to find this strange. Instead, you curl yourself further into the calm familiarity of his voice. You have not seen him since you were eleven, just a child who should not have known the grief that was about to befall her.
You are so brave, he tells you. You are so strong. Mother would have been so proud of you.
You reach for him, unconsciously. Am I really?
Yes. You are so much stronger than you know, little tiger.
A single tear seeps through your lashes, illuminated under the moon’s soft glow. You wake up in the morning and cannot remember your brother’s face at all.
The forest had been Wonwoo’s entire childhood. Raised him, in a sense.
There are faint memories of afternoons spent running in the tall grass, peals of carefree laughter while climbing the tall larch trees. His little brother had liked to catch dragonflies, particularly, letting them go after admiring their scintillating wings. Mingyu does the same, when he is able. The bittersweet likeness always puts something of a smile on Wonwoo’s face.
But that had been before the trees burned and the ferns went down in crackling flames, taking everything precious with them. Now, Wonwoo catches a glimpse of forsythia and barely feels anything.
Unlike the others, he has never been able to sleep in for long. It was hours ago when he first rose, shifting the blankets carefully so that he would not wake up Chan. His muscles are still very sore, wounds still stinging, but he basks in the warm sunlight and feels just a little more alive.
“You’re outside quite early.”
Wonwoo turns sharply. He is normally alone at this time, but Seungcheol is standing in the doorway, eyes heavy with sleep. “Mingyu will be elated to see you,” he adds. “Once he is awake, that is.”
“He seems to be more tired as of late.”
“We all are.” Seungcheol’s eyes dart to the bandages on Wonwoo’s shoulder, and across his torso. Unlike Jeonghan, he says nothing – his mouth settles into a thin line that can only be concern. “I am glad the both of you returned safely last night. The attack was a complete surprise. We did not think that the palace would send soldiers so far into the country.”
Wonwoo thinks of you, then, movements as fluid and graceful as a river. Had he dreamt all of it? He cannot quite recall your face, but he remembers the feeling of your sword on his skin and the smell of fresh blood.
“Do you think they will come again?”
Seungcheol takes a seat on the small wooden bench, patting the spot beside him. Wonwoo does as he is told.
“Wonwoo, do you know what makes a far greater weapon than your daggers and swords?” He shakes his head no. Seungcheol only smiles.
“Hope,” he continues. “When our enemies say we are too loud, too demanding, and wish us silenced or dead – that is the greatest ammunition one can have.”
Wonwoo certainly does not feel hopeful, especially not recently. It has been so for many years, under the current king’s rule: starve, or die trying not to. He says so, petulantly, and receives a pat on the shoulder in return.
“You will learn,” is all Seungcheol says. He is not so much older than Wonwoo, but there is a calm wisdom about him that makes it feel like there are many years between them instead of just the one.
The conversation dissipates with the arrival of the others. The sound of laughter, such a rare and precious thing, echoes throughout the clearing. Mingyu approaches him with a grin and an ever so subtle limp in his step.
“You look a little rugged,” he remarks, pulling him into a careful hug.
“You are not so bad yourself,” Wonwoo quips back. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Hayun must have told you, but I’ve recovered very well. Chan still says I look a little silly when I walk, but you should not listen to him.” Mingyu gazes lovingly at his wife and Wonwoo feels a distant sting from a wound he does not have.
“Chan enjoys teasing you,” he says absentmindedly. “You make an easy target.”
“I always say that,” Jeonghan calls from where he’s perched on a tree stump, “and he still never listens to me!”
Mingyu only rolls his eyes at him, before turning back to Wonwoo. “What about you? You are not hurt too badly, I hope? Jeonghan was making a fuss out of it earlier.”
“He always does.” Wonwoo brushes a finger over the freshly changed bandages. “Do not worry. They are only minor injuries.”
Mingyu frowns, like he always does when he inspects and cleans the dried blood off the others’ skin. He often volunteers for it, saying it’s the least he can do to help, but the memories of his own scars never quite leave his eyes.
“You must take care of yourself,” he places a gentle hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, “especially now. Things are only getting more dangerous.”
“You sound more like your wife every day,” Wonwoo teases, but the tension in the air is real. He chooses to ignore it and leave all the words unsaid, like always. Hayun and Chan bring out steaming bowls of porridge, and they all eat together outside under the mid-morning sun. It is moments like this that feel like family. It never matters that these are friendships forged of blood and battle, never has.
Sometimes Wonwoo wonders if this is what he could have had in a different timeline, laying in the tall grass watching the clouds with his brother. Perhaps his father would have returned home from a long day in the fields, with fresh fruit and flowers for his mother in tow. But dwelling on the past that never existed is futile, and he knows this.
“I would advise you all to be careful being out, particularly after dark,” Seungcheol starts, once everyone has finished eating. He’s wearing that frown again, the one he gets when he’s especially worried. “I received word earlier from one of our ally groups in the southeast. Their village was raided at nighttime – many dead, even more missing. There is no telling which of us may be next.”
A hushed quiet falls over the circle. Mingyu folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed. Even Chan, who usually resorts to lighthearted jokes to handle bad news, is entirely silent.
“I am not trying to scare any of you,” Seungcheol adds. “But this is the truth, however harsh, and you should know.”
“Cheol is right,” Jeonghan agrees, “We should be alert and prepared. Always carry some sort of weapon on you, and never let your guard down.” Wonwoo notes the bleak look on his face – saved only for the rarest of occasions – and exchanges an uncertain glance with Chan. They will talk about it at some point, when they can speculate on their own time.
It is colder in the evening, when the sky begins to dim just a little. Wonwoo had agreed, earlier, to exercise with Jeonghan before dinner, and the breeze serves to cool him down whenever they decide to take a break.
“It has been quite a while since we have sparred,” Jeonghan observes, setting his flask down.
“Shall I get the wooden swords?”
“No need. I think you have been past that for some time.” He only chuckles at the dubious expression on Wonwoo’s face. “Do not worry, I know you will not hurt me.”
“Well, that is not my concern,” Wonwoo laughs, “It is myself I worry about. You know you are a far better swordsman than I.”
At this, Jeonghan sets down his sword with a light sigh. “You must not underestimate yourself like this,” he says, gently this time. “Sometimes I feel that is your greatest obstacle.”
“I like to be realistic.”
“Your reality is shrouded by your own fear.” Jeonghan looks at Wonwoo, and it feels like he is staring straight through to his soul. “Do not be so surprised. It is clear in the way you move, and how you wield your weapons. I always see the regret in your eyes.”
Wonwoo shakes his head, shoulders slumped. “How do you do it, hyung? You make it seem so easy.”
“It is not. It never gets easier,” Jeonghan says, sadly. “Some of us are forged out of necessity. Others, courage. But it all leads to the same thing. These are still lives we are taking, regardless of how they were lived.”
Wonwoo watches him carefully, tries to remember what Jeonghan had been like when they first met. He was never the type of person to show how deeply he felt about anything, and still is not. There is a distinct change, however. He had been lighter back then – happier. The mysterious shine in his eyes is still there, but it is different now.
“What would you have done?” Wonwoo turns his observant eyes to his friend. “If you were not a part of all this, I mean.”
Jeonghan ponders this for a second, long hair shadowing his face. In all the years they have known each other, he has barely spoken about his childhood years. His village, his family – nobody knows much about these things at all.
“I do not know,” he says finally. “There was not much of an option, was there? I would have worked in the fields, like my father, and lived a simple life.” Then his expression turns solemn, and his lips form a tight line. “I might have married Haeun, in that timeline.”
This, Wonwoo knows about. He’s only heard her name once before, one night when Jeonghan had just a little too much makgeolli. Drunk Jeonghan was always very chatty, he recalls. But he doesn’t pry further, instead placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Wonwoo, do you know what happens when we die?”
“What?”
“My grandmother used to say that our brain still goes on for seven minutes,” he muses, “Even after our heart stops. Those seven minutes are supposed to be our life’s best memories.”
Wonwoo thinks about this for a moment. “Is that true?”
“When I find out, I will not be able to tell you.” Jeonghan chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree trunk. “But I think that you would be in it, and all of our other friends. And Haeun too, I hope.”
“Do not say such things,” Wonwoo chides, turning away so that the troubled look on his face is not visible. “But it is a happy idea that our last moments of consciousness are spent in comfort.”
“Right? I thought so as well.” Jeonghan lifts his head and glances back at the house. The smell of meat cooking – a rare luxury – fills the air, and Wonwoo is suddenly acutely aware of the hunger in his stomach.
“Come, Wonwoo, let us eat. It seems as if Mingyu is finished preparing dinner.”
The journey to the foothills feels much longer than it should be.
It is easy to distract yourself, however, and listen to the others’ chatter. Your horses walk slowly, occasionally getting sidetracked by a stray plant or butterfly, as Seokmin and Seungkwan bicker endlessly behind you.
Hansol’s yawn catches your eye, and you turn to him. “Tired?”
“No,” he says immediately, but the fatigue is evident in his eyes. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
He only shrugs. It is so very Hansol. “Everything.”
An apt answer, you think. He is not so much younger than you, but he feels it – you wish for him to see and experience more of the world than you have. He still wears a specific type of curiosity in his eyes, the kind that gives you hope.
“What is your favorite fruit, Hansol?”
He thinks about it, then tells you he likes plums. Faintly, you are reminded of your youngest sister, the reddish-purple juice dribbling down her fingers in the summertime. Behind you, Seokmin says something about persimmons. Seungkwan lets out one of those loud, contagious laughs. You wish you could freeze this moment in time.
You glance up at the moon, an early crescent in the darkening sky. One of your men asks whether you will be stopping for the night, but you shake your head.
“We are not too far from our destination,” you explain, “and it is safer to camp nearer to people than here in the woods.”
“I, for one, do not know how I will sleep through Seungkwan’s snoring tonight,” Seokmin announces. “Nobody shall comment on the eyebags I will have tomorrow.”
You wait for the telltale sound of Seungkwan’s fist making contact with his arm – there it is, followed by Seokmin’s pained yelp. You laugh, having grown used to their antics over the years.
Hansol raises an eyebrow. “Are they always like this?”
“More or less,” you tell him. “They are serious when they need to be. I promise you are in good hands.”
“I believe you,” he says sagely.
As the minutes pass, you feel your eyelids growing heavy, the day’s exhaustion hitting you all at once. Seokmin’s bubbling laugh floats over to your ears, and you wonder how he still has the energy for it.
“Tired?” Hansol quips. You shake your head, laughing. It is not long before you begin to see the silhouette of houses in the far distance, glowing lamps dotting the horizon. Seungkwan cheers, eager for some respite.
Suddenly, a sharp sting blossoms at the tip of your ear. The group falls silent at the sound of your surprised yelp, and you bring a hand to your ear in an attempt to stifle the pain.
“What is it?” Seungkwan asks, anxiously.
Your fingers come away red. Blood.
The forest is silent, too silent – the birds have stopped chirping entirely, and the leaves do not carry the wind as they normally do. An eerie feeling rattles down your spine. You grasp the reins a little tighter. Somewhere between the trees, you catch the slightest movement, a flash of blue against the lush foliage. Seokmin sees it too, and his eyes dart to yours, questioning.
“We need to get out of here,” you declare, urging your horse into a gallop. “Now!”
Another arrow whizzes past your head and pierces a tree trunk. Hansol has drawn his bow, letting his own arrows fly. Panic flows through your veins and pools in your chest as you just barely dodge a spear.
Alarmed, you toss a look over your shoulder. The sounds of voices grow louder by the second, accompanied by the thundering hoofbeats of men in pursuit. Seokmin gives you an understanding nod and knocks one of the oncomers clean off his horse.
“What is going on?” Hansol urges, reaching into his quiver. “Who are they?”
“We do not have time to find out.” Some of the men have circled around, approaching you from the sides. You reach for the knife strapped to your thigh and hurl it with precise aim, lodging it into an exposed torso. But one man down does not spell victory – they outnumber you by far, and in a matter of minutes, will have you surrounded. Wildly, you look for something, anything, to provide a way out.
Not so far ahead, half hidden behind bushes, is a slightly less beaten path that branches off to the right. There is another trail further ahead, one that seems to loop around and double back. If you all stay together, you realize, you will be cornered in no time.
“We have to split up!” you shout, amidst the chaos.
You can’t see Seungkwan, but you know he is frowning. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you insist. “You have to trust me!”
From your right, Hansol gives you a concerned look. “I will accompany you,” he says, shooting at someone behind you. You shake your head immediately, not liking the idea.
“No, Hansol. You cannot!”
“I must,” he protests. “I can hold them off with my arrows. Your sword is better suited for a much closer range.”
You think you will never forget this look in his eyes, such a far cry from the young boy he was when you had first met him.
“Alright,” you say reluctantly, catching a glimpse of sudden movement behind him. “Hansol, watch out!”
He whirls around sharply, but his reaction is not fast enough. Without thinking, you pull your sword from your belt and reach over so far you nearly slip off of the saddle, barely managing to pierce the man’s shoulder. Blood spatters across Hansol’s face, dotting his sunkissed skin.
“Thank you,” he gasps. “I did not think they would catch up so fast.”
You glance over your shoulder, catching Seungkwan’s eye. He nods firmly, and it gives you the courage to turn back around so you don’t have to watch him and Seokmin tear off to the side, veering left into the thick forest. They will be able to hold out on their own; you have to believe this to be true.
Your pursuers have split, just like you planned – around half of them remain on the path behind you, fast approaching on horseback. You tug on the reins, a bit harshly. Hansol slows down to let you pass through the narrow side trail first.
“I will cover,” he assures you. “Trust me.”
That is all you can do – making as much distance as you can and dodging stray arrows when they fly just past your head. You do not know who it might be that wants you dead so badly that they would ambush you at night, but as much as you rack your brains looking for an answer, you cannot find one. There are not many who know exactly who you work for, and even less among them who might want to hurt you.
“How much further?” Hansol yells over the commotion, blood dribbling from a gash on his shoulder. “I do not have infinite arrows!”
“I am hoping they will leave us be if we reach the village, if we can make it that far!”
“And how far is that exactly?!”
You turn to face him, but do not get a chance to respond. Before you can open your mouth, an arrowhead lodges itself in the divot beneath your collarbone.
Sharp pain blossoms across your chest as the metallic scent of blood rises in your nostrils. You try to keep your grip on the reins, but your sight goes blurry, and your fingers let the leather slip. Faintly, you hear something that sounds like a shout of your name. But it is too late – your horse rears back, startled, and you cannot stay on any longer. You roll off, hitting the uneven ground with a sickening thud.
The dark red of your blood stains the rocky terrain below you as you attempt to get on your feet, but to no avail. You let out a pained groan, wondering whether Seokmin and Seungkwan have managed to make it to safety.
And what of Hansol? You can only hope he makes it to the village unharmed.
The last thing you see is a vaguely familiar symbol, silver etched on dark velvet fabric, but it soon disappears into the night’s cover. Your fingers tighten around a pebble’s edge, and you send a silent prayer up to whatever god is willing to listen. The world disappears, and your vision goes black.
Have you been well?
Your voice is sticky in your throat. No words come out.
Wake up, little tiger. It is time. A whole world awaits you.
You try to fight it, burrowing yourself into that familiar warmth of your brother’s voice. It does not work. Instead, you feel him tumbling further and further away from you, and a strange light intensifies between your eyes.
You wake with a start. Above you is a ceiling you do not recognize, and around you is a room you have never been inside. Blinking twice, you attempt to orient yourself, but a sharp sting renders you immobile when you try to sit up.
The only other person in the room is seated against the wall, crushing leaves in a mortar. She glances up at the sound of your rustling and lets go of the pestle.
“You are awake,” she observes, carrying the mortar over and kneeling beside you. Carefully, she peels back the layer of bandages and applies the paste to your wound. It stings a little bit, and you wince, not expecting the pain. “This salve should keep it from getting infected.”
The woman is beautiful, with soft features and long lashes. Yet there is a fierceness in her eyes that unsettles and comforts you at the same time.
“Hansol,” you breathe, struggling for words. “Hansol, where is he?”
She arches an eyebrow. “I am assuming you are talking about the boy we found with you,” she says finally. “He was not as badly injured as you are. Do not worry.”
Relief rushes through you, like a spring river. If Hansol is alive and well, then the others have to be, too.
“Where is he?” you repeat, earnestly. “Please, let me see him.”
The woman stares at you for a few moments before heaving a deep sigh, rising to her feet. She leaves the room for a minute or so, and returns with several others in tow. You try to sit up again, leaning yourself up against the wall.
The very first thing you see is Hansol, hands and ankles tied together with thick rope. Behind him are two men, one at each side, wearing grim expressions on their faces.
“What have you done to him?” you demand, albeit weakly. “Let him go!”
Hansol shakes his head at you, as if to tell you to stop talking. The men shuffle him over slowly and deposit him onto the floor so that he sits across from you. He leans forward urgently, eyes desperate.
“Y/N, you have to listen to me, they –”
His sentence is cut short. Without stopping to hesitate, the taller of the two men draws his sword and points it right at this throat.
“Do not hurt him!” you cry out, before succumbing to a coughing fit. The woman rushes to fill a small ceramic bowl with water and brings it to your lips, letting you drink slowly. The man pays no mind at all, and his sword remains in the air.
“Speak,” he says firmly. Hansol throws you a confused glance, the rope chafing his wrists as he fidgets under it.
“I do not know what you ask of me,” he says finally. The man takes a step forward, a subtle limp in his left leg.
“We know everything,” he says coldly. “There is nothing left for you to hide. We know exactly who you are, and who sent you.”
The blade does not drop. You watch Hansol swallow, nervous, as the metal glints threateningly under the morning sun.
“Please, you cannot hurt him,” you entreat once again. “He knows nothing, I swear. I brought him along to aid me.”
The sword’s edge points at you now, sharp and shining. The woman gives him a look, frowning slightly.
“Mingyu, please,” she murmurs. “She is not even able to stand on her own.”
Mingyu does not listen to her. He continues to glare down at you instead, hand steady. “Speak, then,” he demands. “And do not even dare to try and lie to us.”
Your eyes dart from him, to the man beside him, wondering what you could possibly say to save yourselves from the situation you’ve found yourself in right now.
“We are from the capital. The palace,” you clarify. Hansol watches you with wide, terrified eyes, but you are not telling them anything they do not already know.
“That much is clear,” Mingyu says. He gestures towards the sleeve of your robes, where the silver royal emblem sits. “But you have still not told us why you are here.”
“We were given orders,” you begin shakily. The uncertainty in your voice is making Hansol anxious, and you know it. “To find someone.”
Mingyu frowns, sword faltering slightly. “Who?”
You do not know what to say. That is, until another figure emerges behind Mingyu’s broad shoulders. Sharp, catlike eyes that could rival your deadliest blade bore into yours. You’ve seen those eyes somewhere before, for sure, but you cannot put your finger on exactly where.
A dark night flashes in your mind, tense silence in the foothills. You catch the moment of recognition in his eyes too, chapped lips parting just slightly. Yes, you remember that face now, those hands that had skillfully parried your own. The sound of your veil being sliced open still haunts you to this day.
You do not dare break eye contact, but you lift your chin defiantly and stare right back.
“Him.”
As much as he tries, Wonwoo cannot get the image of you out of his head: bandaged and bruised on the floor, and yet sporting the same fierceness he had first seen a few nights ago.
“It seems they came looking for you and Jeonghan,” Mingyu clarifies later. “Orders from the second prince. You heard her.”
Wonwoo just nods, staring out into the woods where Mingyu and Jeonghan had found you during their morning hunt. His nemesis, brought forth from the forest he’d grown up in.
“What should we do, hyung?”
“Well, they are more useful to us alive than dead. And we cannot let them go.” Wonwoo sighs, cracking his knuckles. “Where is she?”
“Hayun is helping her eat. Some porridge, I think.”
“And the boy?”
“He is with them. Do not worry, we have their weapons. And he cannot move with his limbs tied together,” Mingyu reassures him. “I wrote to Seungcheol hyung, too. He should return from the north within a few days.”
“Okay. Good.” Wonwoo laces his fingers together pensively, wonders how you came to be injured so badly in the first place. If you were after him, then who had been after you?
Mingyu takes another tentative step, then takes a seat on the bench beside him. Wonwoo isn’t sure why all his thoughts are stuck in his throat, refusing to present themselves as coherent sentences. It has always been easier to say what is on his mind to Mingyu – he has never once questioned his feelings, taking them all in stride.
“Are you alright?”
“Hm?” He tears his gaze away from the sparrow perched on a tall branch and meets Mingyu’s earnest, concerned eyes. “Yes, Gyu. Do not worry about me.”
“Psh. I always worry about you. What kind of friend would that make me?” Mingyu laughs softly. “How is your shoulder?”
“Much better. I can move it further now. It should be completely healed within a week,” Wonwoo says, experimentally rolling his shoulder back and forth.
“That’s good.”
They fall into that easy silence again. Wonwoo feels the words bubbling up, but they never leave his tongue. There are too many feelings, and speaking feels like a certain kind of blasphemy to the quiet that lets him just be.
“How is your leg now?” he asks instead. Mingyu gives a lopsided smile, the one that exposes his sharp canine teeth.
“I keep telling Hayun I am able to go back out there with you, but she will not hear it,” he admits. Wonwoo sees her point, secretly; but this sentiment he would not say out loud. “I know I have been helping out where I can at home, but I still feel a little useless.”
“You are not–”
“It should have been me,” Mingyu lightly touches Wonwoo’s bandaged shoulder, “that night you were with Jeonghan. And every other night, too. Do not think I have forgotten each time you come home battered up and bleeding.”
“It is my duty too.” Wonwoo says it solemnly, can’t bring himself to look his best friend in the eyes right now. “This is not something you must feel bad about.”
Mingyu says nothing, choosing to blink away the unbidden tears in his eyes. Deep down, Wonwoo wonders if things would have been better today if that fateful injury had never happened. Mingyu had always been stronger – not just physically, but mentally. A born fighter, who would have truly known his place on the battlefield.
But it has been many months since Mingyu has lifted his weapon. Wonwoo, full of regrets and mismatched empathy a warrior should not have, needed to step up in his wake. If it had been Mingyu in the valley with Jeonghan that night, you might not have lived to tell the tale.
Wonwoo does not bring any of this up later, when he encounters Hayun in the kitchen. He just sits on a stool quietly, watching her stir the rice porridge.
“You look like you want to say something,” she begins eventually. He stiffens, not used to openly being called out.
‘No,” he denies. “I was just bored.”
“Now that is something I expect Yoon Jeonghan to say.” Hayun laughs. “It is alright, Wonwoo. You are not obliged to speak if you do not feel like it.”
So he does not, instead watching her tidy things up around the small kitchen. She balances several bowls together, passing him a plate.
“Help me carry the seaweed salad,” she says. “At least the boy will eat it.”
Wonwoo is used to doing as he’s told. He obediently follows her into the small side room, plate precariously in hand. Hansol, still bound by the fraying rope, immediately tenses up at the sight of him, but you do not stir. Well — you are asleep, he realizes, and rightfully so. He knows more than anybody how important rest is for an injury. Still, the sight of your lashes gently brushing the skin under your eyes irks him. He cannot pinpoint why.
Hayun sets the plates and bowls on the ground. The rattling seems to jolt you awake, eyes wide and then narrowing at the sight of Wonwoo.
“I hope you have not come to execute us,” you say sharply. Wonwoo sees straight through your facade, can tell how you’re struggling to speak through the pain. Hayun only purses her lips, setting the bowl of rice porridge beside you.
“I know that we are at odds. But we are not barbarians,” she says gently. “You must eat.”
You lock eyes with Wonwoo once again, gaze unnaturally piercing. He is certain that under different circumstances, you would have your sword at his throat with no hesitation whatsoever.
Hayun brings the spoon up to your lips, but you jerk away slightly, assuring her you can feed yourself. She does not look convinced, but backs away to let you have your space, and glances back at Wonwoo.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks, gesturing towards Hansol. “Untie him.”
Wonwoo gapes at her. “You want me to untie him?”
“How will he be able to eat otherwise? You and Mingyu, really,” she rolls her eyes, “They are hurt and unarmed, and you have got a whole set of knives on you. Do you really see them as a threat right now?”
Wonwoo sighs, reluctantly gets to work on the knots tying Hansol’s wrists together. He is visibly scared; none of the defiance that you hold, and all of the fear you don’t seem to have.
He sits there against the wall as the two of you slowly eat in silence. Hansol eats quickly, and very little, but you take your time. You have to, he supposes, thanks to the lack of mobility in your right arm. Hayun asks for your name, tentatively, and you tell her. Wonwoo lets it ring in the air before deciding that it suits you: sharp and angular but still soft, smooth rolling off your tongue. He doesn’t turn away until you catch him watching you, expression morphing into a glare.
Wonwoo is not as curious as Hayun, for sure. He only needs to know one thing about you.
“Who was following you here?” He tries to sound as commanding as possible, nodding towards your wound. “Did you see who shot you?”
He observes carefully as Hansol immediately looks to you. He knows nothing, that is for sure. But you hesitate, just barely. A troubled look crosses your eyes for just a moment before it’s gone again.
“No,” you say finally. “I do not know.”
Wonwoo holds your stare, almost challenging. You do not break. Still, he senses your lie. He is not sure what exactly it is you are hiding, but there must be something. It does not matter just yet. There will be time to find out later.
He helps Hayun gather the dishes afterwards, almost feels bad binding Hansol’s chafed wrists again. But no measure is too much, and he’d rather be safe than sorry.
“I will keep watch overnight. Just to make sure the boy does not try anything,” he tells her outside. “You should go in and get some sleep.”
Hayun raises an eyebrow at him. “You will stay up all night? Please tell me you are joking, Jeon Wonwoo.”
“Jeonghan and I will keep watch,” he relents, under her stern demeanor. “We will both be adequately rested.”
“You better be. Jeonghan likes to complain when he wakes up with eyebags,” she chuckles, wiping her hands. “I will leave you to it. Goodnight, Wonwoo.”
He mumbles a goodnight in return, trudging back to your room. There is a book lying on a stool, and he brings it with him to read. Why not?
Hansol is as good as asleep when he finally settles in the opposite corner. You are not, but you do not even spare him a glance as he sits down. Whatever, he thinks. At least he has something to bide his time until Jeonghan comes in and he can sleep.
He opens the book eagerly. A romance novel, it seems. Wonwoo wrinkles his nose, and wonders whose it is. He had never been very fond of the genre, but it will have to do. Wonwoo flips to the first page, filled with avid descriptions of a fair maiden and a lush countryside, and wonders exactly how long of a night awaits him.
Sleep is a fickle guest, dipping in and out and toying with your consciousness.
You cannot seem to surrender to any sort of dream for too long. Always your eyes fly open, gasping for breath even though you have not been underwater. The sharp-eyed warrior across from you does not spare you more than a threateningly curious glance.
It is when you wake up next that you notice he is no longer there. This man has rounder, softer eyes, and wilder hair. You remember him, too, from that night in the valley. Subconsciously, you note that he does not look half as vicious as he fights. He seems to sense your eyes on him, looking up suddenly from his paper and ink.
“Oh,” he says, a disarmingly playful smile spreading across his face. He whispers, so as not to wake Hansol. “I see you are healing well. Much better than the wreck you were when I found you, at least.”
This piques your interest, and you sit up straighter. “You found me?”
“She speaks,” he remarks sagely. “Yes, I did.”
His demeanor confuses you, to put it plainly. Everyone else had treated you with such coldness, and rightfully so. But he does not seem to have any qualms about speaking with you at all.
“I am Jeonghan, by the way.” At your bewildered expression he adds, “I know your name, but you do not know mine. Is it not impolite?”
“No,” you say bluntly. “I do not really care about your manners. Or your lack of them.”
He shrugs jovially, returning to his paper. “Just as well.”
A little more time passes in utter silence, before you impulsively break it. “What are you writing?”
Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, setting the brush down and turning the paper towards you. “I draw,” he says simply. “Sometimes.”
His nonchalance does not distract you from the impressive detail of the sketch. It is done with little care, but still executed well, a perfect likeness of a mountain range. You wonder how much this tells you about the kind of person he is.
“You are very different from the other one,” you observe.
“The other one?” Jeonghan tilts his head, before it dawns on him. “Oh. You are talking about Wonwoo? Yes, we are not very similar. But maybe that is why we make great friends.”
So that is the catlike man’s name, after all. You repeat it quietly, letting it coat your tongue and roll off of it. Privately, you decide it suits him — slick and smooth, and prickly where you would not expect.
Friends, Jeonghan had said. A laughable thing – you cannot imagine Wonwoo smiling at all.
“When will we be allowed to leave?” you ask, after some thought. Jeonghan’s hand stills.
“I do not know,” he says. “Mingyu wants you dead. Wonwoo thinks you are more useful to us alive. I, for one, do not particularly care. There is nothing the palace can do to us if we are always one step ahead.”
“How long must we wait, then?”
Jeonghan shrugs without looking up. “I told you. I do not know.”
Your heart sinks a little, but you continue to watch him silently, adding thoughtful strokes here and there to his sketch. Somehow the repeated movement lulls you back to sleep, lids heavy and fluttering closed. Your brother does not show up in your dreams this time. Instead, you are surrounded by nothing. Nothingness is starkly different from darkness. It is simply empty, unsettling.
An oddly familiar symbol flashes underneath your eyelids, burning through your vision. It reflects light from an unknown source, before blood dribbles over it, oozing out of the emptiness. You feel it everywhere, pain buzzing just underneath your skin in unbearable torment.
You wake with a start, breathing heavily. Nothing seems to be out of place – gentle sunlight, the same room you remember, Hansol in the corner. But everything you’ve just seen with your eyes closed continues to haunt you.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. A pang of sympathy strikes you; he has not spoken much since you were brought here.
“I think,” you reply, propping yourself up with your uninjured arm. “Hansol, I must ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to tell me anything you remember from the attack,” you ask, seriously. “Anything. About what happened after we were separated, and about who they were.”
“I did not make it much farther than you,” he says ruefully. “I panicked after you got knocked off of your horse. I think it was sheer luck that they left after assuming we were dead. But one thing was rather odd, actually.”
“What?”
“Some of their robes,” he continues, frowning. “I am sure the royal symbol was on them. But those cannot have been real, right?”
You feel your heart racing, thumping along in your chest. You search Hansol’s eyes for any sign he’s lying, or joking, but there’s none.
“I saw it, too,” you say, hushed. “Just before I fell. I thought I was hallucinating.”
“I do not think you were.” Such a grim expression feels mismatched on Hansol’s face; so much conflict for one so young. “But how? And why?”
Apt questions, both of them. Your deduction seems almost bizarre, if you really think about it. Laughable, almost. Why would the second prince want to thwart his own plan?
But… it is not impossible.
You purse your lips. “I shall be honest with you, Hansol. I do not know why such a thing would happen – but I also know that man is not to be blindly trusted. So there is that, too.”
Before he can respond, someone clears their throat. Calmly, but loud enough to interrupt. Wonwoo enters the room with narrowed eyes, making his presence known.
“What are you two whispering about?” he demands, folding his arms. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him.
“We are plotting out how to kill you and get away with it,” you say dryly. He does not laugh, instead staring at you with a coldness that could rival even the iciest glaciers.
“Very funny,” he replies, full of sarcasm. “Humor will not do you any favors here. Remember that.”
God, you really wish you had actually killed him that day. His smooth voice somehow irks you even more, drawing your cantankerous mood to the surface at record speed. However, you tamp it down, settling the frustration in your chest in preparation for the request you are about to make.
“Can I borrow some ink and paper?”
This gets Wonwoo’s immediate attention. He turns, eyebrows raised. For a moment you think he might just laugh it off and ignore you. And he would not be wrong for it, you realize – you are essentially a hostage in this small village, and neither he nor the others owe you a single thing.
“What for?” he says sharply. “Surely you do not think you will be able to trick us?”
“No, of course not,” you shake your head vehemently, heart sinking. “I would not do that.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “As if I am stupid enough to believe such a thing. What are you trying to do this time, call for reinforcements? Leave the target on my and Jeonghan’s back for somebody else to find?”
“No,” you insist, desperation seeping into your voice. “I must write to my sisters. It has been too long – there are some things I must tell them.”
A matter of life or death, you think silently. If Muyeol truly is after you, then he will certainly not draw the line at harming either of them. For a moment, you think Wonwoo might be considering it. He looks at you with that calculating expression he has, probably weighing the decision in his head.
“You are a fool if you think I am that naive,” he says, finally.
You try not to show it, but your face falls. If there was one thing that provided a sense of normalcy for you in the capital, it was being able to keep in touch with your sisters regularly. They are, after all, the only family you have left. But Wonwoo pays you no mind, shuffling about and searching for something before he leaves again. You deflate a little. Hansol’s sympathetic look is meant to soothe, but it only makes you feel a little bit worse.
The rest of your time passes quite uneventfully. Your days are relatively the same now – not like you are able to do much, anyways, with your injury. Hayun helps you out when she can, occasionally stopping to make small talk, but you are otherwise alone.
Mingyu and Wonwoo have decided that they would rather have Hansol help with the errands than waste away in a dark corner – you watch him lift bundles of firewood with a pang in your chest. At least he is accompanied by someone else, a boy named Chan who does not look a day older than him, and likes to make awkward conversation as they work.
You grow more anxious with every passing day, wondering why Muyeol’s men have not found you yet. Realistically, you should be thankful for each peaceful morning, but it does nothing but stir apprehension in your stomach. He may not be a good man, but he is a smart one. There are not many villages this side of the river, and you don’t think it will take him very long to find you.
Suddenly you think of Hayun, who has looked after you ever since you got here. You wonder if she, too, will soon have to face the aftermath of a razed home and a martyred husband, a family vanishing within minutes – a fate you would not wish upon anybody.
It is late one night, with Hansol away doing something or the other for Mingyu. You are moving your right arm back and forth, newfound strength surging into your muscles. With Hayun’s help, you can even stand now, but she is not here.
It takes you a few moments before you realize Wonwoo is at the doorway. He remains silent even as you raise your eyebrows, prompting him to speak. Instead, he just approaches you and gingerly places two sheets of paper as well as a brush and ink on the floor beside you.
“You may write to your sisters,” he says gruffly. “One of us will read it to ensure you are not communicating with the palace. Hayun will have it delivered tomorrow.”
You stare at the paper, not knowing what to say. He watches you with careful eyes, waiting only a beat or two before turning on his heel to leave.
“Wonwoo,” you call just as he’s about to step out. He looks surprised at the sound of his name; perhaps even offended, but he listens anyway. “Thank you.”
Something strange flashes in his eyes, but only for a moment. He does not reply, only sparing you a curt nod before walking away. You sigh, and wait until he’s gone to pick up the brush and dip it into the inkpot. There are important things to be said, and not enough time.
To Soonhee and Soonja –
How are you both? I am sorry I have not been able to write recently. Unfortunately, things have gotten quite hectic as of late. But never mind that. I have gone to the foothills for some important business – I will tell you all about it later.
Please, do not stray far from home. Above all, do not travel to the capital. Send Jihoon, if absolutely necessary. Nobody will recognize him. But do not go yourself. I cannot tell you why just yet, but please, you must trust me.
Speaking of Jihoon – how are my brother-in-law and my darling nephew, Soonhee? I have not seen little Sangmin since he was a newborn, but I will visit as soon as I am able. Have you picked up any new projects lately? Tell me all about it when I come home. I always love to hear about it
Soonja, I have made a friend who is quite like you. He is gentle but strong, and likes to eat plums in the summer. I find myself missing you very much when I speak with him. And the plums, I will bring some home for you. They seem to grow quite abundantly in these regions.
I find that something odd has been happening to me recently. I did not want to ask, but I feel that I must. Sometimes our brother comes to me in my dreams. He feels almost real. Soonja will not remember – but you must, Soonhee, you had been old enough, too. I never see his face; I cannot remember it. But he speaks to me while I am asleep, and I find myself aching when I wake up again. Does this happen to you, too?
I am not sure. Maybe I am going crazy. I have not been sleeping too well; I suppose that would do it.
Anyhow, I hope this reaches you without any sort of delay. Please do not send any correspondence to the palace – or do not send anything more, for that matter. It should not be very long before I am able to come home again, and then I will tell you everything sitting across from you over dinner.
Be well, and take care of yourselves. Give Sangmin and Jihoon my love.
Yours,
Y/N
Wonwoo cannot even make it halfway through your letter before he passes it to Jeonghan, desperately tearing his eyes away from the words on the paper.
“What happened?” the older man questions, unfolding it carefully.
“I cannot,” Wonwoo repeats, shaking his head. “I know it is for our safety. But it feels too personal.”
“Oh, yes. How convenient that I do not have feelings, then,” Jeonghan says dryly, rolling his eyes. Still, he relents, scanning your letter. Satisfied with what he sees, he folds it up again and stands. “I will find Hayun. She should be able to have it delivered when she goes to the market.”
“Thank you,” Wonwoo nods. He likes that Jeonghan never really asks questions, seems to know exactly when to stop digging. It works out for the two of them; neither of them pry, and neither of them answer. And if Jeonghan had asked – what would he have said? Wonwoo does not enjoy feeling most of his emotions, let alone talking about them.
He had not planned on letting you write it in the first place. It was a simple decision, and Mingyu had quite agreed with him when he told him about it later over dinner.
But he had seen Wonjae’s face in the back of his mind, for a brief second. There was not a thing Wonwoo wouldn’t do if it meant he could write to him, or speak to him just once more. In the moment, he had not felt like depriving you of the opportunity he could never have.
Of course, he will not tell Jeonghan any of this. There are things he does not like admitting to himself, much less others.
Seungcheol arrives later that night, after everyone else is asleep. Wonwoo greets him silently, tells him to rest, but he is met with a stern demand to tell him everything. He fetches a bowl of water, sits Seungcheol down, and starts from the beginning.
“This is not good,” Seungcheol frowns. “It is only a matter of time before those same soldiers find their way to us.”
“We can handle them, can we not? We always have.”
“We always have. But that does not mean we always will. It is wise to exercise caution.” Seungcheol casts a wayward glance at the room where you and Hansol sleep. “What of them?”
“I would not worry,” Wonwoo assures him. “They have no weapons, and the girl is injured. I do not believe they are a threat.”
Seungcheol gives him a half smile. “It is good to have faith, Wonwoo. But do not trust blindly. Ever.”
I’m not, he wants to say. Petulant, like a child, and somehow that upsets him even further. Wonwoo wishes he was able to switch this part of him off, just like Jeonghan seems to do, but his mind does not appear to work that way.
“What do you think we should do?” he asks instead.
“Well, we will keep them here for now. There is not much else to be done.” He sighs, glancing up at the sky. “I am tired, Wonwoo. We will speak about this later. Good night.”
“Good night,” Wonwoo echoes, watching Seungcheol and his broad shoulders retreat into the house. He should be heading inside, too. But he does not move just yet, staying out for just a little longer before he sleeps.
When Wonwoo dreams, there are trees everywhere. Larches, like the ones he used to love to climb as a child. What a shame, that he had to grow up so fast. Wonwoo dreams, and there are fireflies. The nostalgic kind, that takes him to another time rather than a place. There is a warm fire, and a meal cooking somewhere off in the distance. If he listens closely, he can hear his brother’s laughter, just loud enough.
Sometimes, Wonwoo dreams of a different universe. Another timeline, perhaps the one in which Jeonghan and Haeun could have been happy together. In this universe, Wonwoo does not fight. He sits in the clearing with his brother on a breezy afternoon, listening to the bush warblers sing.
In this universe, Wonwoo is a fisherman, like his father. He teaches Wonjae how to cast the nets, and which spots along the river are particularly excellent for catching minnows. In his spare time, he reads, collecting books he likes from the market. Soon enough, he cultivates a small library of his own, a personal haven of sorts.
The worst part, however, is that this universe is not real. The river cracks, like glass. Fish scatter everywhere and the water goes dark. Wonwoo reaches out for his brother, but Wonjae has disappeared. The boat rocks wildly, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut out of the nausea it stirs in him.
This moment is when he wakes up. The image of his reflection in the shattering river always haunts him for hours. Like maybe it’s him that’s breaking, instead of the current.
He sits up in his bed, blinking the sleep away. Across from him, Chan rolls over, mumbling something intelligible. He has always been a heavy sleeper, which works out just fine for Wonwoo, who does not make much noise in general. The sky is still quite dark. Wonwoo peers out the window. It will be dawn soon, he realizes, catching the first hints of light at the horizon. No river to dip his feet in, no boat to cross it with.
Just as well. He turns over, pretending none of it matters, and tries to fall asleep again.
It takes you another week and a half, give or take, to be able to walk on your own. Hansol helps, an arm steadying you as you take careful steps.
This development is not welcomed by the majority of the others, particularly Mingyu and Seungcheol. Hayun just gives you a small smile and tells you she is glad you recovered without any complications. Oddly enough, you spend most of your time in the company of Jeonghan, who always drags Wonwoo along with him. It is quite tiring, even though you know it is merely a matter of security to have an eye or two on you at all times.
“Must you always look so surly?” you remark one afternoon. Wonwoo sits across from you in the room, having busied himself with a book, and raises an eyebrow at your question.
“Is that what you think of me?”
“Yes,” you say, emboldened by the challenging look on his face. “I think you choose to present yourself as quite a joyless individual. I did not know it was possible to embody a cantankerous grandfather in a young man’s body.”
“I must say, I have never been so openly affronted by my own hostage before.” His expression does not hold any of the offense that his words portray. Instead, he seems subtly amused, almost – as if this is just child’s play to him. It irks you even more.
“Really?” you scoff. “And how many women have you taken hostage before, exactly?”
Finally, Wonwoo sets his book down. Ha, you think to yourself. I win. He folds his arms, keeps his piercing eyes trained on you. He might have been beautiful, you realize, if you did not despise him so.
“Only those who are bold enough to set a target on my back,” he says, an edge to his deep voice. “You are the first. And I intend you to be the last.”
“How valiant,” you retort.
“How ignorant,” Wonwoo corrects, leaning forward. “You are not invincible. Do yourself a favor and stay off your high horse while you are here.”
You raise your chin, defiantly. “And if I refuse?”
Wonwoo says nothing, only holding your level stare. The heat of his hostility is unmistakable, his sharp eyes burning into yours. You only wish you could reach for your sword and slash the tantalizing column of his neck, the glistening steel against his skin. But your hands remain where they are and you sit in place, jaw clenched and temper boiling over.
“Are you finished attempting to telepathically kill each other?” Jeonghan hesitantly pokes his head through the doorway. “I come bearing news.”
Wonwoo turns his attention to his friend, finally. “What news?”
Jeonghan does not answer him. Instead, he trudges towards you, pulling a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and handing it over. You frown up at him.
“What is this?”
“I think you should read it first.” You don’t like the mildly troubled look on his face, but you follow his advice and open up the folds anyways. Immediately, you recognize the handwriting, and your breath catches in your throat.
Y/N –
I do not have much time to write this. I managed to get away and ride to your village, based on what little you told us. I am taking your sisters to a safe house further away from the capital, as well as Jihoon and the baby. I hope Hansol is still with you.
Those who attacked us had been palace soldiers; Muyeol’s men, every single one of them. This must have been planned – I thought about it every way, but I am not convinced it was an accident. It could not have been. We were never supposed to carry out this mission, Y/N. We were meant to die before even succeeding.
Seungkwan did not make it. He was shot in the neck, and I could do nothing to save him. I buried him near the riverbank with some peonies, just as he would have wanted.
Do not write back, lest it is intercepted. Be safe.
Seokmin
You do not say anything for a few precious moments. It is so much information all at once, on this tiny scrap of paper. How ironic that simple words have such power to change your entire world with one sentence?
Muyeol’s men, every single one of them.
“I knew it,” you mumble to yourself, crumpling the paper beneath your fingers. Dismay gives rise to anger in a volcanic chain reaction that ripples violently through your entire body. “I fucking knew it. Of course. How could I have been so blind?”
“You were unconscious,” Jeonghan interjects, unhelpfully.
The same man who had promised you many things in return for your unwavering loyalty, now targeting you – you are not surprised, and you do not have the right to be, either. The realization is ugly, but it is the truth. You had always known what kind of a person he was, but back then it had only mattered that you and your family were guaranteed safety. It is not like that, anymore.
Jeonghan just sighs. “I am assuming now is not a good time to say ‘I told you so’.”
“I told you so,” Wonwoo says flatly. You glare up at him, blinking the unshed tears away. Suddenly you hate him even more for being able to stand there unflinching, while you slowly lose everything and everyone.
“I wish I had killed you that night,” you tell him with quiet anger. “I never would have had to come here, and Seungkwan would still be alive. I am ashamed I did not have the courage to fulfill my task the first time.”
Wonwoo does not answer, just casts his eyes to the ground with his head slightly bowed. You want more than this absolute silence from him – something, anything in response to everything you throw out. But you get none, just his eyes avoiding yours.
You wait until you are alone to open up the paper again, the words blurring together on the page. Gently, you trace a finger along the characters of Seungkwan’s name, the memories rushing back like a flood. Never in a million years would you have thought you’d be remembering him like this, images flashing in your mind.
Seungkwan, who had liked to lighten things up with a joke or two and a contagious laugh. Seungkwan, who once swore to always have your back, and never broke his promise to the end. You had looked after him with such care, treated him like the little brother you never had. You remember teaching him how to shoot an arrow for the first time ever. It was raining that day, but he had insisted on going out to the grounds regardless. It is a comfort, you suppose, that he had gone down wielding that same beloved weapon.
Hansol does not take the news any better than you had. He does not believe you at first, reads Seokmin’s letter again and again until it finally sinks in that he will never hear one of Seungkwan’s spur-of-the-moment puns again. You want to reassure him, but you do not go to comfort him, recognizing his need for space.
They might not have been very close, but they had always taken well to each other, and they had been the same age. Now Hansol will continue to grow, and Seungkwan will be forever twenty-two.
Neither you or Hansol cry, but both of you come threateningly close.
The letter wears thinner the more you read it, but you cannot help but grasp onto Seokmin’s words – what if you lose him too? You try to soothe yourself with the knowledge that your sisters are safe, but your anxiety does not let your mind rest at all. It is suffocating, to sit in this room with nothing but your and Hansol’s grief and the echoes of a voice you’ll never hear again. With what little strength you have, you wander outside, limping slightly.
The wind is sobering, and you inhale a greedy lungful of the crisp mountain air, letting it linger in your lungs. The treeline is a comforting sight. Seungkwan had always loved nature. At least his soul will rest easy.
“Watch your step there,” Wonwoo’s rough voice comes from behind you. “You will fall.”
You’ve never whipped your head around faster. He stands, a bit awkwardly, hands laced together behind his back. His eyes linger on your injured leg warily.
“Careful,” you retort, “or I might think you actually have a heart deep down in that twisted soul of yours.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Must you make it your absolute mission to constantly antagonize me?”
“You are acting surprised – as if there is any chance on this earth of me tolerating your presence,” you tell him, settling on a wooden bench. To your surprise, he follows suit, perched gingerly on the other end.
“What was he like?”
“Excuse me?”
“Seungkwan,” Wonwoo clarifies. “Your friend.”
Hearing the name sends a pang to your heart, but you cannot help but give him a strange look. “Do you always pretend to have a conscience in front of your hostages?”
Wonwoo scoffs, the first real emotion you have managed to draw from him all night. “You are far too cynical for your own good,” he remarks. “It is truly a wonder how you ever managed to navigate society like that.”
“Do not underestimate me,” you say crossly, “I contain multitudes.”
Both of you fall silent again. The night speaks instead, with the occasional howling of a gust of wind, or an owl hooting in the distance.
“Seungkwan was one of my closest friends,” you murmur, emboldened by the cool breeze. “I would have trusted him with my life. I did, too, on many occasions. There was not a moment where he was not there for me.”
Wonwoo hums, in some sort of agreement. “That is a good friend, indeed.”
“He is. Was,” you amend, attempting to swallow down the lump in your throat.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“I do not think I believe you,” you let out a mirthless laugh. “But I will pretend so for your esteem, and my own mood.”
He nods sagely. “You have my full permission to take my words purely at face value.”
“I do not need your permission,” comes your quick reply. Wonwoo seems to take it in stride, like that was precisely the sentence he was expecting to leave your mouth. You do not particularly like that he acts as if he has you all figured out. A dangerous thing it is, to be known by essentially a stranger.
“You will keep many heartwarming memories with him,” Wonwoo adds. “Those are forever.”
“I hope so,” you nod, trying to conceal your sniffling. “He loved oranges. God, he was crazy about them,” the words slip from your tongue before you can even think, “He would talk about going to the island for them all the time. And he dearly loved to sing. He was very good at it, too.”
“What kinds of songs?”
“Ballads, mostly. He and Seokmin would burst into song at such random times. I remember being annoyed,” your voice breaks, “I cannot believe I was annoyed. I would give anything to hear him sing again. But I used to scold him so much.”
“Well, it is always a loving heart that chides the most.”
You catch a stray tear on the tip of your finger before casting a wary glance at Wonwoo. He does not meet your eyes, but stares into the woods as if there is something there he longs for. His normally cold gaze shines softly – for the first time, you might even feel a pang of empathy for him.
“Is this another tactic I do not know about?” you ask instead. “Lulling women into a false sense of security, so that you can converse about their dead friends before slashing their throats?”
Wonwoo’s plush lips immediately form a scowl. “I am not so much of a ladies’ man as you might believe.”
“How do I know you are not lying? You certainly look the part!”
He opens his mouth to fire back with his own retort, but he stops short all of a sudden, a small smirk on his face instead. “Did you just call me handsome?”
You give him your most appalled look. “I called you the equivalent of a rake and that is how you understood it?”
He shakes his head, clearly amused. “I hope that was not an insult to my intelligence. I quite know a compliment when I see one.”
“I do not even know why I bother conversing with you,” you say incredulously, standing suddenly out of frustration. There is a half-hidden root before you, but you do not see it – your foot catches, and you stumble forward. On instinct, Wonwoo reaches out, catching your arm before you tumble to the ground.
His touch burns, invisible flames scorching the skin as his fingers encircle your wrist. You lock eyes with him for a mere moment, the surprise in his expression mirroring yours. But the instant passes, and you immediately rip your arm from his grasp.
“Do not touch me,” you say sharply, rubbing your wrist.
“I did not want to,” he defends, “You would have fallen instead.”
You flash him a deep frown. “I would rather faceplant into the ground and lose my two front teeth.”
Guilt flashes in his eyes, and you almost feel bad. Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself, shielding your skin from the cold. The warmth from Wonwoo’s touch is long gone; you find yourself craving the soft burn of his fingertips again. It is all so unexplainably wrong. You really should leave, before you say something you might regret. That sharp tongue has always been your double-edged sword.
But Wonwoo gets to his feet instead, gesturing towards the bench’s smooth wood. “Sit,” he says gruffly.
You arch an eyebrow at him. “I am not interested in taking your place.”
“I insist.”
“Why?”
He hesitates, just a little. “I thought you might want some time with yourself. Alone. Fresh air always helps, too.”
You want to find your most piercing words, fashion them into a venomous retort, and throw it at him – but nothing comes up. He is right, and it does not fail to get under your skin.
“You sound rather confident.”
For the first time, Wonwoo smiles. It is a tragically beautiful thing; the expression does not reach his eyes, and the very corner of his mouth remains slightly downturned. Grief seems to taint him like a shadow that refuses to leave, and for just this moment you forget just how much you loathe his existence.
“You are not the only one who has lost somebody,” he says simply.
“You know, then.”
He shrugs halfheartedly. “It has been quite some time.”
You ponder your next question for a moment before asking it. “Does time truly heal all wounds?”
His mouth opens with an answer, and then it closes again, plush lips forming the beginning of an unsaid word. You watch him consider your query carefully, and wonder just where his thoughts come from. A part of you wants to ask, spurred by curiosity; but at the same time you are not so sure you want to know. Perhaps you are hesitant to see him as he is – not your adversary, but just Wonwoo, carrying his own ghosts on those weary, broad shoulders.
“Only if you want it to,” he says finally.
Softly, a far cry from earlier. All of the bite has disappeared from his voice, replaced by something gentle and raw. His presence is no longer looming; he is simply there, like the sturdy oaks of the village you grew up in. It is a new feeling, and you do not like this strange ease.
But you think more about his answer as the words sink in. Is that why it had been so hard to let go of your brother? It was silly; laughable, even. You had not kept anything to remember him by, but he was always there in your dreams when you truly needed him. Had that subconsciously been your doing? How long would it take for you to let go of Seungkwan, too?
“Maybe I had not willed it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows.
“What?”
You meet his confused eyes. “Oh – nothing.”
“If you did not mumble so much, it might be easier to hear you,” he says, with all the attitude he can muster, and immediately you know that the precious truce-like moment has passed. You paste an equally irritated expression on your face, to match his.
“And I thought you were leaving,” you return sharply. “But you are still here.”
“That I am,” he observes quietly. “Well. Goodnight.”
He lowers his gaze to the ground and turns, footsteps growing farther as he retreats to the house. A conflicting feeling rises in your throat as you watch him walk away, shoulders just a little slumped – the stature of a man with a myriad of stories and no voice to tell them with.
Wonwoo’s eyes, full of misted secrets, flash in your mind once again. Involuntarily, you shiver at the memory. You had never before met a man as calmly infuriating as him. If that does not ultimately spell out danger, then you don’t know what does.
From somewhere between the thick trees, Seungkwan smiles down at you. Reassuring, like a warm hug that you don’t deserve, and it stings. You try to recall his soothing voice, and cry freely into the night’s embrace.
The restless feeling in the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach does not cease.
Instead, it festers, boiling over and into itself by the day. It grows, even when he wills it not to. And worst of all, it seems to heighten inexplicably when you are near, and he is rendered helpless. He is always reminding himself that no matter how familiar your words might feel sometimes, you are everything but – your cynicism and your instantly sharp tongue are just two of the many things he cannot stand about you.
Still, there is that pull. Like a magnet, but only worse. Against his will, a part of him cannot help but be captivated by the enigma that you present yourself to be.
And, of course, there is that other thing.
The thing that, as he sits and watches you tell your story to Seungcheol, becomes more and more difficult to deny. You are no less resplendent in the sun than you are in the night’s glow, he realizes. Perhaps this is what he deems most dangerous about you. In his mind, you are indisputably beautiful – in the way that one might look on in awe as a tsunami’s ominous wave rolls up to the shore, despite being fully aware of the havoc it will wreak.
Wonwoo is sure that if he ever called you a natural disaster to your face, you would attempt to take a knife to his throat. Either way, he keeps the thought to himself, guarded and untouched.
He watches as Seungcheol returns your weapon. Your eyes seem to shine a bit brighter once the sword is in your hands, slender fingers wrapping around the hilt like it is the most familiar thing in the world. Wonwoo cannot help but revisit an old memory as you touch the blade, almost reverently. He had been on the receiving end of that sword once, the cool metal drawing blood from underneath his skin. And he probably should feel a touch of apprehension now that you wield it once again, but strangely enough, there is no such emotion. Only respect, and wonder.
You promise Seungcheol something – he does not hear, too busy in his own loud thoughts – and the older man smiles gently. Belatedly, Wonwoo wonders what it is. Choi Seungcheol does not smile often, especially not with the events that have been happening as of late.
What he does not expect is for you to approach him, sword loose in your grasp. He tries to ascertain something, anything from your expression, but your poker face seems to be quite good. Finally, your lips break into a tiny smirk. Wonwoo’s heartbeat accelerates straight out of nowhere.
“What? Do not tell me you are frightened,” you say, a bit smug. “The blade is still sheathed.”
“That is a bold assumption you are making.”
“You seemed quite worried the last time this sword was pointed at you,” you continue. The wind whips your hair around, and you look viciously wild. It is a sight for sore eyes. “Afraid, even. Was that an assumption, too?”
There is challenge in your eyes. Wonwoo knows that this is effectively the equivalent of playing with fire, but he figures he still has space. It has not burned him yet.
“If it is a duel you wish for, then a duel you will get,” he says, lowly, “but it is in your best interest to wait until you are fully healed. That way you will at least have a fighting chance.”
You scoff, affronted. “Oh, my. These are the words of a man with severely misplaced confidence.”
He returns your inflamed glare. “And the delusion of a woman who stands on her own imbalanced pedestal.”
The air is charged, suddenly. Wonwoo fights the urge to look away and avoid the intensity in your eyes that he just cannot ignore. Eventually, he folds, turning away to clear his throat.
“At least make yourself useful and accompany Jeonghan and Mingyu when they go to hunt,” he retaliates, though it comes out with a little less bite than he originally intended. You only roll your eyes at him before you walk away, loosely braided hair swinging lightly amidst the breeze.
The days pass as they always do, for the most part. Wonwoo is no stranger to routine, and rarely does he find it monotonous. It grounds him, until you come in like a typhoon and leave his brain in a muddled wreck. But he lets it be, for his own sake. Admitting that your aftermath is not as ruinous as it seems feels like a sort of betrayal to the life he has always known. And so he lives with it, warring emotions brewing in his chest. He trains with Jeonghan, teaches Chan how to fight, and the sun keeps on rising.
Good things often arrive with pomp and circumstance, while unfortunate events tend to creep up silently and pounce when you least expect it. It is quite a sunny day, and Wonwoo finds himself feeling more at ease than usual. The tall grass brushes against his knees as he takes his steps, very silently.
And of course, there you are, close behind him. He had not originally intended on bringing you into the forest to hunt with him today, but Mingyu had accompanied his wife to the market, and Jeonghan had insisted on taking an off day. Reluctantly, and upon Seungcheol’s wish, he had asked you to come along.
From his side, you suddenly nock an arrow. Wonwoo pauses for a second to take the sight in – your sword suits you, but you handle the bow so elegantly, the wood smooth beneath your fingers. You close an eye, pulling the string back, and he snaps back to his senses.
“What are you doing?” he hisses, quietly.
“Shh,” comes your reply. “If you end up scaring our lunch away, I will not forgive you.”
Wonwoo searches the foliage for any sign of life, but comes up blank. “What are you even aiming at?” he questions, squinting. “At this rate, we will not have lunch at all.”
You smile then – a sly, knowing thing – and release the arrow. It hits something between the leaves, and the unmistakably distressed crow of a pheasant follows not soon after.
“See?” you tell him, wearing that smirk he detests. “Lunch.”
“Luck,” Wonwoo corrects. Still, he follows along, somewhat astonished. He had not seen anything; not a single movement or flash of color. He wonders if this, too, will remain a mystery.
The way you move through the forest is awfully reminiscent. You slip around the thick bushes and the tall grass, weaving between the trees easily. A part of his heart burns at this. The forest is his realm, not yours, but you have adapted quite seamlessly.
The alarm bells begin to go off in Wonwoo’s head when you are not too far from the house, just skirting the edge of the woods. He tilts his head, listening carefully, before turning to you. To his surprise, you look equally concerned.
“Do you hear that, too?”
“Yes,” you confirm. The sound of hoofbeats on dirt roads grows louder, as does the unease in his chest. He exchanges one troubled glance with you and breaks into a sprint with you following right on his heels.
The very first thing that Wonwoo sees is Seungcheol, standing with his arms folded. A fearsome glower sits on his face, and he is saying something, but Wonwoo cannot quite make the words out. Chan stands behind him, mouth set in a deep frown.
You gasp, suddenly. Wonwoo feels a tug on the edge of his robes, and his eyes trail down to see your fingers clutching the soft fabric.
“Palace soldiers,” you whisper, nodding towards the house. There are at least twenty, if not more. They have not drawn their weapons just yet, but even from this distance the tension in the air is palpable.
“We should go see what this is about,” Wonwoo urges. But you do not move, still crouching beneath the wisps of tall grass.
“I already know what this is about,” you tell him. Your voice is firm, but it’s the look on your face that gives you away. For the first time, Wonwoo sees a sliver of fear in your eyes, and the memories that seem to haunt you by night. “I cannot lose Hansol, too.”
Wonwoo’s heart clenches, and he briefly thinks of Wonjae. “You will not.”
“You do not know that!”
“You will not,” he repeats, insistent this time. “Hansol will be alright. We will go down and see what they want, and hopefully it is something we can reason with them about.”
He almost thinks it won’t work, but you stand finally, still uncertain. You just shake your head, mumbling something under your breath he doesn’t quite catch, but he does not pry any further.
Wonwoo hears your sharp inhale as you approach the scene, and feels a sudden pang of sympathy. He had not thought about how it would feel to be confronted by the very men you had worked alongside with, maybe even the same men who had fought for you, who had ended up turning on you in the very end. You could dissolve into enraged fury here and now, and he would understand.
“What is going on here?” he demands. The others have come out, too, and you make a beeline for the house, presumably trying to find Hansol.
“I do not know,” Seungcheol says quietly. “They have not told us anything.”
Wonwoo does not have any more arrows in his quiver, but he is hyper aware of the daggers he always keeps strapped to his belt. He scans the surroundings; the men have arranged themselves into a half-circle, surrounding them and effectively blocking off any possible escape routes.
From behind him, he hears your panicked voice. “Where is Hansol?!” you ask, desperate, but all Jeonghan can say is that he does not know. The distress in your question is all too familiar, takes him back to a time that had left him desolate and alone.
One of the soldiers shifts, eyebrows raised. He draws his sword, and instinctively, Seungcheol takes a step back.
“You,” he says coldly. It takes Wonwoo a few seconds to realize where exactly the blade is pointing. “It seems we have finally found the traitor.”
“That is bold of you to say. I am not the one who turned my back on those who were loyal to me,” you declare. “By that logic, Lee Muyeol is as much of a traitor as I am.”
One of the foot soldiers steps forward menacingly, and immediately Jeonghan’s hand goes to his sword. The man that had spoken earlier – presumably the captain, due to his robes – just chuckles lazily.
“Do not think we are unaware of who you are. You could be easily thrown into prison,” he says. It is the world’s most diplomatic threat. Wonwoo feels the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “But you are merely country bumpkins, and the second prince has never found much trouble dealing with you lot. Give us the girl, and you live.”
“Only I choose where I go. And I go where I please,” you reply coolly, stepping forward. Wonwoo shoots you a look, wonders if this is another one of those situations where your stubbornness is getting the better of you while he prays that it isn’t.
The captain laughs mirthlessly. “His Highness was certainly right about you. What a foolish decision, indeed, to employ a woman. And one with such a foul mouth as yours, at that.”
Wonwoo isn’t sure what exactly it is that makes him reach for his knives, but his fingers pull at his belt in an attempt to arm himself. The soldier in front of him already has his sword out, though, and before he knows it he’s dodging a well-time slash.
This is the exact moment he will remember as when all hell breaks loose.
Someone charges Seungcheol at full speed – a terrible idea, Wonwoo thinks, to attempt and tackle a man of that stature and build. Jeonghan has already drawn the first blood, deep red splattering all over the light blue robes he had chosen for the day, and Chan quickly follows suit.
You do not have a weapon in hand, but you deliver a strong kick to the gut followed by an elbow to the face that had to have hurt like hell. Wonwoo makes it a point to ask when you were trained in martial arts later.
Both of the soldiers that are on him are significantly taller, and stronger. He feels a sharp sting blossoming at the side of his cheek and doesn’t register the slow trickle of blood down to his jaw until later, instead driving one of his knives deep into a collarbone. The man lets out a pained groan, but he stays on his feet nonetheless.
Wonwoo almost uses his other dagger, almost. But for just a split moment, something stops him, and his hand hesitates. A mistake, for it buys his assailant time to pick up his sword that clattered to the ground sometime earlier.
Thwack!
The man freezes, eyes wide as an arrow pierces his chest. A patch of red blooms on his robes as he slowly falls to the ground. Wonwoo just blinks down at him, breathing heavily at the close call. Where did it come from?
The markings on the arrow look oddly familiar. The fletching is unmistakably Mingyu’s handiwork, recently made. Wonwoo glances behind him, scanning the rocky terrain, and sees a flash of movement, red cloth darting behind a tree. Slowly, he smiles to himself.
Hansol.
Another arrow comes just as quick as the last one, felling the second soldier faster than Wonwoo can retrieve his knife. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jeonghan toss you your sword, and you catch it with a practiced ease, slashing it at another soldier in one fluid motion.
Wonwoo wonders if you should really be out here, considering your bad leg, but he supposes an extra layer of protection in the form of Hansol raining down arrows couldn’t hurt.
Somewhere, something is burning. Wonwoo can smell the crackling at the same time he eats a punch and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He loses his footing and stumbles into a tree, rolling over as he narrowly dodges a stab and the blade lodges itself into the trunk.
In the distance, he can hear someone yelling his name. Faintly, like he’s in a world of his own. That familiar buzzing grows louder again, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop it from rendering him absolutely immobile. This is the part he dreads, more than anything else. Once again, he wonders what Mingyu would do in his place, the kind of man Seungcheol would expect him to fight like. Even worse, the kind of person you might hate him for being.
“Wonwoo!”
Smoke billows into the air, and he barely manages to sidestep another blow. Without hesitating, he throws a dagger with all the precision in the world, and you whirl in out of nowhere, following up at the last second with a single powerful strike.
“Thank you,” he gasps, feeling every molecule of air in his lungs, “I am sorry, I–”
“No apologies,” you say firmly. Your cheek is bruised, lip split – blood is smeared across your face and stains your fingers as you yank his knife from another not yet dead body. Fearless as you are, as Wonwoo wishes he was. He wonders if this is what the goddess of war incarnate looks like.
“Behind you,” he calls out instead. You do not even bother to look as you sink your blade into the soldier’s abdomen, drawing it out as quickly as you had struck.
“Good call,” you tell him. He feels like his stomach might flip.
Wonwoo’s vision clears a little bit, head still spinning. The soldiers seem to be retreating, at least those who are still alive or somewhat injured; the last few are hasty to mount their horses, riding away in a frenzy. Smoke catches in his throat – why is there smoke?
“The house,” he croaks out, coughing violently. “The roof, it’s on fire.”
“I know,” you say, “A part of it caved, but nobody was inside. Chan is putting it out.” Then you frown, a particularly worried expression. “Wonwoo, what happened? Are you alright?”
“Nothing. Yes.” Wonwoo coughs again, clearing his throat, and tries to bring himself to his feet. “Where is Seungcheol? Is everyone okay?”
He lets you pull him up, against his better judgement. Aside from the fact that he can feel every wounded part of his leg, he is suddenly reminded again of the surprising coolness of your touch. True to your words, half of the roof is sunken in, the wood black and burnt – but it is nothing that is not fixable, if he and Mingyu have at it for an hour or two. Otherwise, he is satisfied to see there is no other damage to the house, and thankful that Hayun had not been inside.
He watches as Hansol emerges from his spot, perched on top of a boulder on the hill. You gasp, pulling him into a tight hug.
“Do not ever disappear on me again,” you say, sternly. “I thought they had found you.”
“No, I am sorry,” he shakes his head, bashful. “I should have fought with you. But I did not have any other weapons, and I was not sure what to do. I thought I could be more useful from a hidden spot.”
“You should not be sorry,” Wonwoo cuts in, “I cannot tell you how many times you nearly saved my life down here. You have excellent aim.”
Hansol takes the compliment with slightly red cheeks and a mumbled thanks under his breath. Wonwoo notices how you lean on him for support as you walk, wincing when you put more weight on your injured leg.
In the distance, Jeonghan and Seungcheol sit together, propped up against the fence. No – Wonwoo squints a little – Seungcheol is propping him up, one arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders and his other hand pressed against his torso. Chan stands above him, speaking frantically.
That cannot be right, he thinks, trying to shake off the dire feeling on his shoulders.
It is not until he gets closer that he realizes Jeonghan barely has his eyes open, lashes fluttering as he rests his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder. To Wonwoo’s complete horror, he understands that it is the deep red of blood that soils Seungcheol’s fingers where they rest over Jeonghan’s robes.
He feels you balk slightly beside him, and that is all the confirmation he needs.
The tears that have caught on Seungcheol’s lashes are unmistakable. Jeonghan himself sports a wry smile, and he has never been a better embodiment of the irony of life than in this moment. There is a small cut just below his eye, and it is clear just how much strength it pulls from him to take each precarious breath.
Wonwoo barely feels anything as his knees hit the ground. He does not know what to say, where to put his hands; he had not been given any time to prepare for what to do as he watches a dear friend breathe his last.
“What happened?” he manages, finally.
Seungcheol shakes his head, starts to say something but none of it comes out intelligible. Wonwoo swallows down his next question, sharp and prickly as it goes down his throat, and carefully takes Jeonghan’s outstretched hand in his instead.
“You promised,” Seungcheol says, clearly this time. But his voice still wobbles, thick with despair. “Before we started all this, remember? I made you swear never to take a blade for me. You promised, Jeonghan.”
The latter only smiles. “Do not be so dramatic,” he rasps weakly. “I did what had to be done.”
Jeonghan’s nonchalance never fails to pull a laugh out of everyone, but this one comes out half like an amused snort, and half like a sob. His fingers tighten just a little around Wonwoo’s, and he holds onto him like he’ll slip away if he doesn’t.
Every memory comes rushing back — each morning he had turned down going to hunt together, all the times he went to bed early saying he was too tired to train. Now he’s stuck wringing out all the time he could have had with him, collecting every precious second.
It’s a wrecking thought, the if only I had known.
Wonwoo slips back into the present at the quiet call of his name.
“Hyung,” he answers, softly. He waits for something, anything more — but no words come. Another laborious breath rattles through Jeonghan’s lungs. Seungcheol presses his face into his dear friend’s hair to hide his expression, but he is not fooling anybody.
In this moment, Wonwoo is not sure of anything. He does not even know where his tears end and the blood begins to pool beneath him. But he feels exactly the moment Jeonghan breathes his last, his fingers losing their grasp on his own hand.
Seungcheol knows it, too, lets the sobs finally wrack through his body. He had not wanted Jeonghan’s last moments to be filled with unpleasant memories, but he is left picking up all of the pieces.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Mingyu is at the gate, Hayun at his side. Shock is written all over their faces and in the basket that rolls onto the ground.
Mingyu’s eyes are questioning. They have always been able to communicate like this, and right now Wonwoo knows exactly what he is asking. Suddenly, and selfishly, he wishes it was not possible.
He has to shake his head. No.
Jeonghan’s hand is still warm in his. A terrible trick by the universe, he thinks, to rip him away from the earth so cruelly. Bring him back, he wants to shout, but he knows it will not change a thing. It is all out of his hands.
Wonwoo lets another heavy tear fall onto his friend’s lifeless skin, and prays that Jeonghan’s final seven minutes are as happy as he deserves.
The weeks that follow are full of solemnity. Everyone carries a particular kind of guilt, balancing it precariously between their shoulders.
Nobody fixes the roof. It is the least of their worries, and you know this. If anything, it is a reminder – a memorial of sorts. You avoid looking at it, so that you are spared from the recollection of that day’s events.
It is a strange thing, grief. You had not known many things about Yoon Jeonghan; and yet you find yourself mourning him in the pockets of stray minutes you find in the day. Your guilt is different from the others – if the soldiers had killed you in the forest that day, he would be alive still. The universe has a cruel way of keeping balance.
Seungcheol, for one, carries himself like a ghost. You cannot get it out of your head, the way he had sat by Jeonghan’s body for hours and hours afterwards, as if his pleas would magically wake him again. He had seemed hollow, even as he placed the magnolia flowers Jeonghan had adored so much on top of his grave.
Wonwoo barely speaks at all. But where Seungcheol is a blank slate, he is a muddled canvas. You had once thought him emotionless, cold – oh, how wrong you had been. Sorrow hangs from every sharp corner of his body where it does not leave his mouth in the form of words, rolling off his shoulders and crashing against his calves. In his eyes lies an anguish you recognize all too well. An identical one rests somewhere, deep in your heart, and has for years.
Where the others fold in on themselves, Hayun unfurls. She tells you stories; of Jeonghan’s antics when he was younger, of Mingyu when they had known each other as children, and many more. It feels like a revival, and you listen intently as you help her with errands, wanting the full picture.
Occasionally, Wonwoo is already there when you walk in, ready to assist. He does not say much while Hayun talks, but the look he has always given you has changed. It is not so coarse now, smoother round the edges, and significantly less malicious.
Observant as ever, as he has always been.
The air is always thick with settled misery, and you find it difficult to fall asleep at night. Your nightmares wake you, and they are the exact same every time. It is always dark, always empty – you reach out, but for what you do not know. There is nothing there, and you always fall deeper into a black hole that seems to extend infinitely all around you.
Every time, you wake with a gasp. Hansol is always peacefully asleep beside you, dead to the world. You never manage to stay in bed through the sunrise. More than anything else, you wonder why your brother does not appear in your dreams any longer. It is your own personal distress, albeit silly. He is not even real anymore, but you take his sudden silence as desertion.
One day, you find a crumpled piece of paper fallen just behind a shelf. You pick it up to toss it out, but your curiosity gets the better of you at the last minute, and you unfold it carefully.
It is a simple sketch. Not one you have seen before, but after hours of observation, you would recognize the hand that drew this anywhere. The frustrated scribbles in a corner and light retracings are a dead giveaway.
There are footsteps behind you. You do not need to look to know that it is Wonwoo. Belatedly, you wonder when you learned what his presence feels like.
He nods, towards the paper. “What is that?”
You pass it to him. Like you, he recognizes it instantly. The first sound of amusement in weeks leaves his throat, a little snort.
“So very Jeonghan,” he says. You know exactly what he means.
Wonwoo’s eyes are subtly red and puffy. This you had seen not so long ago; you will never forget the way he had wept over Jeonghan’s body, tears streaming down his cheeks relentlessly. It was a sight you did not want to witness again, ever. Just being there had put your own heart in serious danger of cracking, if only a little.
Are you alright? The question almost slips from your mouth. But you already know the answer, so you just hold your tongue.
“Did you need something?” you ask instead.
“No.” Wonwoo shakes his head a bit, a habit you’ve noticed he’s developed to toss the hair away from his forehead. “Hansol wanted to spar a little. Thought it would take my mind off of things.”
You smile to yourself. Hansol had always been this way, knowing just the right thing to do. “And did it?”
Wonwoo thinks about it, tongues his cheek before nodding. You take in his figure – this tall, broad man rooted in hesitation in front of you. The cut on his cheek has healed well, you notice, leaving a scab behind. The bruise on his jaw is not yet gone, but the discoloration should dissipate within a few more days.
The moment hangs, suspended in the air. Neither of you move, but nobody says anything either. You watch him weighing his uncertainty, eyes shifting from the wall to the floor and back to the wall again. The awkwardness only grows by the second.
Wonwoo breaks the silence first. “How did you go on?”
“What?”
“After Seungkwan,” he clarifies. You wonder at how he says his name with a particular sort of reverence that has your chest warming at an inhumane level. “After the letter.”
“I did not have a choice,” you tell him, ruefully. “I have always been fighting, always running. It never stops. Seungkwan knew that, too. If I had given up, I am convinced he would have come back as a spirit to haunt me.”
The corner of Wonwoo’s mouth lifts slightly at your attempt at a joke. As the days blur past, you have come to collect those little smiles and pocket them away. Those rare moments have become tiny fragments you choose to cherish in your masked silence.
“There are so many regrets,” he confesses suddenly. “So many things I wish I had not said, or done. So many times we fought over such stupid things. It all comes back now.”
“It always does. But you cannot change the past.”
It had for you, too – but you suppose it must have been infinitely worse for Wonwoo, who had held Jeonghan’s hand as he drew his last breaths. You had, at least, been spared the agony of watching Seungkwan die. The realization sparks a newfound ache in your heart for all that Seokmin had to go through alone.
Wonwoo’s mouth opens again, and you subconsciously hang onto his next words. It is unexplainable how he sparks your curiosity, your intrigue, snagging your attention at every turn. Somehow you had each already begun to unravel yourselves to the other, whether you knew it or not.
“I must tell you something,” he starts. You nod, gesturing for him to go on. “Seungcheol has been planning something. Not just a resistance – a movement, for change. Something this country has not seen for many years.”
“That is good,” you agree, unsure where this is going.
“We are working with allies, small groups all over the country. It is all coordinated; we will reach the soldiers before they find us,” Wonwoo continues, determined. “We must remove Lee Muyeol from power for good. The people cannot continue to live like this. We are fortunate enough to be able to mostly live off the land, but thousands are left starving. It will not do. Even the young prince would be more just, more caring than his puppet ruler of a father.”
It dawns on you, slowly. “Jeon Wonwoo, are you asking me to help you stage a coup?”
He winces slightly. “It sounds horrible when you put it like that.”
“Alright, then. You are trying to oust the king’s brother from power, effectively also putting a dent in the king’s reign itself.”
“Infinitely worse, for sure.” He chuckles, then, a bit of mirth slipping into his eyes before he grows serious again. “I do not expect you to agree. But I want you to know that you have this choice before you, if you choose to take it.”
You fidget with your fingertips, weighing it in your mind, because you know that after all is said and done, Wonwoo is correct. Your own family had fallen victim to the violence that had erupted after food became a scarcity in the north, and it had torn your childhood apart. Suddenly you think of everyone you have lost – Seungkwan, Jeonghan, your brother whose face you cannot recall. A certain indignance rises to your throat at the very thought.
“You do not have to answer now,” Wonwoo repeats, and he turns to go. But you have already made up your mind in the time it takes him to reach the doorway.
“Wait!” you call out. “Wonwoo, wait. I want in.”
“What?”
You raise your eyebrows. “You should not ask questions if you are not prepared to hear the answer.”
“I heard you,” he confirms, voice gravelly. “But… you are sure?”
“Yes.” You fold your arms. “Why? You do not think I can hold my own?”
“What? Of course I do.” Wonwoo’s eyes soften, just a little, though his tone retains some of the attitude he always seems to have on standby while speaking to you. “I have watched you kill a man with no hesitation in one single blow. Do you think I am stupid, blind, or both?”
“I do not believe you would want me to answer that question,” you say sagely. You succeed in drawing an exasperated half-smile out of him again, and a part of you wonders why you enjoy it so much.
Wonwoo catches your gaze mid-chuckle. You cannot look away, and there is that inevitable pull again, the one that always leaves you a confused mess. A voice inside your head is screaming at you to tear your eyes off of his, but you do not, refusing to be the one to break first.
“We will discuss this more with Seungcheol. After dinner,” he says, at last. “Meet us outside. Do not be late.”
Wonwoo has begun to wonder if this is not as good of an idea as he originally thought.
You and Seungcheol frown at each other, clearly in a standoff. Wonwoo has been keeping time; the two of you have been arguing about the best route to the capital for the past twenty-four minutes, and he does not know how much longer he can listen to this.
“Following the river gives us the best chance at survival,” you point out, tapping the map that is spread out on the table. “I do not see what else is up for discussion.”
“It also makes us easier to follow and find. Do you want to get caught before even reaching the city?”
Wonwoo groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. No progress has been made at all – in fact, he thinks you’ve all taken quite a few steps in the opposite direction.
“Alright, hold on. We cannot take a total detour. That will waste too much time, and we will still be at risk of getting caught early. However,” he continues, even though Seungcheol is currently glaring daggers at him, “We cannot risk going along the river the whole way. Remember, we must travel on foot.”
“An amazing idea,” you mutter, arms folded.
Wonwoo ignores you and traces along a separate route with his finger, dragging it up and eastwards. This path dances along the riverbank before sharply moving out, staying concealed while making the most distance in the interest of time.
“This might be better,” he says. “Or if we set off towards the western mountains before swinging back. That could work, too.”
“I will think about it,” Seungcheol grumbles. You just shake your head indignantly. That, in itself, is a peace offering in his book. Wonwoo doesn’t complain and takes what he can get.
Time passes like this; slow, but grueling. Every second seems to weigh on his bones, shackles on his wrists and ankles. He does his best to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach and soldier on.
He visits Jeonghan every day without fail. Never at the same time as Seungcheol, who makes his visits in the morning – he goes at night, armored by the breeze. It is not much work, for they had buried him over the hill, under the magnolia tree he had loved so much. Sometimes when the wind blows through the branches, it is as if Jeonghan’s voice carries through the wind.
Wonwoo sits, knees hitting the dirt. The sun is low over the hill, flickering as it slowly sets.
“Well,” he starts. “At least Y/N and Seungcheol have stopped fighting now.”
He can almost hear Jeonghan’s response in his mind. The man would have had some witty comment ready, a clever response always at the tip of his tongue.
“We leave in a few days. Just the three of us. Mingyu did not speak to me for a week when I told him he was to stay back with Hayun and the others.” He presses his palm against the soil, remembers what it had felt like to hold Jeonghan’s hand for the last time. “But I do not think he is well enough for this journey, still. I know you would have agreed.”
Wonwoo has developed a habit of pausing between sentences. He does not know why. It is no longer a conversation, just a monologue that Jeonghan will never actually get to hear.
“I wish you were here,” he says finally, throat thick with a feeling he does not really want to name.
There are always many things he catalogues during the day, little tidbits of information he would have told Jeonghan immediately. A new family of rabbits up the hill, or a particularly pretty patch of wildflowers in the woods. But none of it ever matters, really, by the time he sits in front of the lonely headstone again. All of those words disappear again.
It all boils down to this. I miss you. I wish you were still here. Come back. Who am I supposed to tell about the birds when you are no longer with me?
It does not matter. The birds keep chirping, and the world goes on. Quietly, in its own way. The trees and the flowers will not remember Yoon Jeonghan the way Wonwoo does, sharp and playful and gently prickly in all of the right places.
Sometimes, you are there too. You always leave as he arrives, and Wonwoo used to wonder bitterly why you even bothered to come, but he thinks he understands now. Rather, he basks in your presence, knowing that under your rough exterior there is a woman who understands how it feels to constantly grieve.
He even asks you to come with him, the morning of your departure. It is still hours to sunrise, and he would be a little surprised that you are awake, if he did not already know that you’ve always had trouble sleeping. You look a little tired, and a little taken aback by his request, but you follow him anyway, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes.
The silence is thick. He can sense that you are waiting for him to speak first, but he does not feel any pressure. Only patience.
“He was everything I had ever hoped to be,” Wonwoo says quietly, when his mind settles. You give him an odd look.
“You do not need to be Jeonghan,” you tell him. “Just you.”
“I looked up to him. I learned from him.” He clenches his fist, dirt crumbling beneath his fingers. “Chan deserves to have somebody like that, too.”
You meet his broken gaze. “And he already does.”
Wonwoo cannot seem to get enough of that look in your eyes. Sharp, but earnest. A rare thing, and so he tries to preserve every last second and archive it away in some safe corner of his mind. He commits the rise and fall of your shoulders to memory, filing away the soft curve of your lips for a later thought.
The goodbyes are quick, though Wonwoo does not like to call them that. He lets Mingyu hug him, warm hand patting his shoulder, and reaches out to ruffle Chan’s messy hair affectionately.
“I still wish you would let me come with you, hyung,” the younger grumbles, leaning into the embrace. “I can fight, too.”
“I know you can,” Seungcheol soothes him. “But that is why we need you here, in case they come again. You are more than capable.”
Hansol sighs to himself, but Wonwoo catches it anyway. He feels the same way as Chan, burned by the guilt of being told to stay back instead of fighting a battle he was complicit in. But you had told him it would be all right, and promised to return safely. Wonwoo himself made no such promises, and nobody had asked it of him. He knows better than to swear things he will not have control over. Your optimism sends a twinge of sadness to his soul.
He turns to Mingyu, who looks on with an unreadable expression, fingers gently intertwined with Hayun’s. “I hope you are not still upset with me,” he says gingerly.
“I could not ever stay upset with you.” Mingyu’s eyes are shiny, threatening to spill the tears. “Not at a time like this.”
Wonwoo knows what he means. This may well be the last time they speak. There is no telling what will happen at the capital, and who will come back alive. He wants to tell Mingyu not to worry, but the words don’t come, just an understanding nod. Between them, nothing more needs to be said.
The first hints of light begin to peek out as the three of you set off. The dawn emboldens Wonwoo, as it always has. He carries the small satchel of food Hayun had meticulously packed over his shoulder, tying the ends across his torso so he can move hands-free. Seungcheol has the map, currently unfolded in his hands, and you follow with a compass, darting between the trees silently.
None of you speak much – a given, for this sort of journey. Wonwoo trudges on quietly, occasionally mumbling a heads up for you when there is a loose rock or a particularly large root. He waits, always, for your quiet thanks to make its way back to his ears.
He does not dare look back. Not when the sunlight filters through the forest canopy at just the right angle and sets you alight. You are already bright, a blazing force. Wonwoo does not believe himself strong enough a man to behold you in all your illuminated glory. His already grieving heart hurts a little more at the sight of your brilliant eyes.
Instead, he keeps his eyes forward, takes in all the green around him. The forest revives him with every step, every gentle brush of his fingers against a tall blade of grass. Just for now, it allows him to forget – the blood, the blade, the battle. In this moment, there is no war; just the creeping vines and sturdy larch trees that have always been there, and will always be.
“Do you hear that?” you murmur softly. Wonwoo tilts his head, listens carefully. He can just barely make out the sound of a lively current, water splashing onto the stony bank. Seungcheol notices it, too, checking the map again.
“We are making good progress,” he says, satisfied. “This should not take us more than three or four days, give or take. We should arrive at the same time as the others.”
Wonwoo nods, knows exactly what others Seungcheol is talking about. People just like them, who had suffered the same things but worse, and decided to do something about it. Young men and women who had lost families and a means to put food on the table, who had not been as fortunate as they had. Those from the southeast, far from the woodland vegetation, would have had it the hardest.
Seungcheol turns, then, saying it is a good time to stop and eat. You make a beeline for the river eagerly, and Wonwoo follows along, light on his feet the whole way through.
The grass becomes sparser the closer he gets, giving way to rocky ground. The river runs fast, the current swirling up and crashing against the boulders studded alongside it. It is a beautiful sight, for sure, but Wonwoo is distracted by you gently dipping your fingers into the water and basking in the coolness.
“What are you standing there for?” you ask without turning. Faintly, he wonders how you knew he was there, but he approaches you still.
“You seem to enjoy the water,” he observes. You smile, lightly reminiscent.
“Well, I am from the north. Very landlocked,” you say. “I only visited the coast once, when I was a child. I barely remember it. But I do know that the current is a wondrous thing, as alluring as it is dangerous.”
Wonwoo has to bite back the words on his tongue, the ones that want to say that that is exactly how he would describe you. His downfall, his double-edged sword. But he would never say it out loud, knowing what he is to you.
Which begs the question – what is he to you? Not a friend just yet, not a captor anymore. Just someone to fight alongside with, just another person. Just Wonwoo.
Just you, you had told him earlier that morning. It warms him, from the inside. He has not forgotten at all.
Instead, he takes a seat on one of the large boulders beside you, rummaging through the satchel for a flask and something to eat. “Are you hungry?”
“Not particularly,” you shake your head. “But I would not say no to some water.”
He passes you the flask, as well as a small package. “You need to eat,” he says. “Seungcheol says we will not stop until sunset.”
Wonwoo watches you drink, sweat trickling down the column of your throat and pooling at the base of your neck, then looks away sharply. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel, to see you like this – so resplendent as you simply just exist in the world around you.
“Will you visit home again soon?” he asks instead. “You know, after…”
He knows you don’t need him to finish the sentence, the latter half left unsaid. You think about it, popping a slice of dried persimmon in your mouth.
“After,” you agree, swallowing. “I must. It has been too long since I have seen my sisters. Too dangerous, to go there again. I do not want to place a target on their backs.” Your eyelashes sweep your skin as you lower your eyes to the ground. “My presence has already caused two casualties. There cannot be more.”
Wonwoo’s heart aches. He had wanted so badly to blame you in the days following Jeonghan’s death, trying to find somewhere to place the anger in his chest. But he could not, in good conscience, hold you accountable for it.
“It was not your fault,” he says quietly.
“You do not need to say that. I openly blamed you for Seungkwan’s death, and this is the same thing.” A singular tear falls from the corner of your eye into the river below. Wonwoo looks away, to give you some semblance of privacy.
“I did not take offense when you said it.”
“You should have.” Your voice is thick with guilt. “I would have, if I were you. I was so cruel.”
“It is alright, ” Wonwoo says. “I understand.”
You look at him ruefully. “I understand, too.”
The two of you sit like that, side by side, basking in the gentle sunlight. Wonwoo looks on as you remove your boots, dipping your legs into the water. A tiny giggle escapes your throat as you watch the colorful fish that dart around, weaving between the reeds. It is a new sound. He tries his best to memorize it, while he can.
The moment does not last. The reverie is interrupted by Seungcheol’s voice calling out for you, and Wonwoo knows that it is time to keep moving. He packs up his satchel again, standing as you dry off your feet, and offers his hand to help you up the rocky slope once your boots are back on. You eye it warily for a few seconds before taking it, careful with your steps.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” Wonwoo waits for you to let go of him first, the feeling lingering on his fingers. He turns to go, but you pass him the last dried persimmon slice, stopping him in his tracks.
“I did not poison it, if that is why you were hesitating,” you add, before softening a bit. “You did not eat earlier, either.”
Wonwoo can’t find the words to reply just yet. Instead he huffs a little laugh, accepting it graciously. The fruit is chewy and honeyed, but it sits on his tongue just a touch sweeter than he remembers. Whether that is real or his mind’s own doing, he does not know.
Emptiness, again. But it is warm this time, strangely familiar. You stretch your arms out around you, but there is still nothing.
Ah. There you are.
Immediately you relax, relief rushing through your body. What took you so long?
Patience, little tiger. An affectionate laugh, one you recognize all too well. It simply was not the time.
I thought you had gone. For good.
There is no response. Just that familiar tenderness curling itself around you and lifting you up. To where, you do not know. You cannot see anything above you, nor below. It is dark, everywhere.
Remember this, sister. When the truth shows itself, it will never do you good to hide from it.
What does that even mean? You nearly ask the question, but everything begins to spin relentlessly. Your vision blurs – not that there's anything for you to see – and the sheer pressure of it all forces you to tear your eyes open.
You are met directly with an unobstructed view of Wonwoo’s face. Even in sleep, he is rather beautiful. The soft dawn’s glow rests gentle on the slope of his face, leaving his sharp features illuminated. You sit up slowly, shivering when the cool wind hits your face.
This is not new to you. There had been many nights where you had slept beside Seokmin and Seungkwan, on all of those assignments you carried out over the years. Hell, you had even shared the floor with Hansol for the past month or so.
But this is different. You have to fight the urge to observe him closer, taking in the curl of his lashes and the mole that sits beneath his right eye. It is magnetic, and unsettling.
The dream has left you restless. You get to your feet quietly, to avoid waking the others, and duck out of the tent. Seungcheol had said it would be best to leave at dawn, but you had not felt like waking them just yet. They will be up sooner or later, you think, stretching.
You take the time to walk around a bit, taking note of the plants and flowers that are so different from the ones back home. The newness of it all is scintillating. The northern regions are dry, and unwelcoming to both flora and fauna alike. But here they flourish, reflecting bright colors into the surrounding forest. You think about another timeline where your adolescent years might have been filled with this kind of wonder, instead of the smell of burning wood and blood.
The seconds move on their own. You do not know exactly how much time has passed by, just that the sun is a bit stronger now, and you can feel the heat on your back.
A sudden call of your name has you flinching out of surprise. It is muffled by the thick forest, but it comes again, closer this time. Instinctively your hand goes to your belt, but you realize that you have left all of your weapons inside the tent.
There is a loud rustling behind you. You turn sharply, and a few twigs snap. Wonwoo emerges from the leaves, all wide-eyed and panicked. He just stares at you for a few seconds, chest heaving like he had been running.
You blink at him, confused. “... Good morning?”
“You are alright,” he breathes, fingers gripping one of his knives so tight his knuckles go white. It is more of a confirmation to himself than a question. He scans you, like he is checking for any sign of injury. “You disappeared. We did not know where you had gone.”
You arch a brow at him. “Are you okay?”
Wonwoo lets out a painstaking breath. His shoulders shake with relief, and something else. “I fall asleep with you next to me, and when I wake up, you are nowhere to be seen. Do you see the problem here?”
“No, because I am completely fine,” you explain, suddenly provoked. “I just wanted to walk a bit, stretch my legs.”
“How am I supposed to know that if it looks like you have simply vanished?” He folds his arms, jaw tight. “Did it not strike you to wake one of us up if you were going to stray so far?”
“It was not far,” you shoot back crossly. Your surprise is slowly beginning to morph into a specific frustration that only seems to rear its ugly head in front of Wonwoo. “If you did not think I could last twenty minutes by myself, you should not have asked me to come with you.”
Wonwoo frowns deeply. “That is not what I meant.”
“It sounds exactly like it.” You raise your chin, feeling challenged, and take a bold step forward. The ball has been tossed back to your side of the court, and the burning flame in Wonwoo’s eyes only feeds your temper. “I should have known you were the kind of man who underestimates everyone’s capabilities, except your own.”
The words come out much harsher than you intend, and it surprises even yourself. You see it as the sentence leaves your mouth, the flash of hurt in Wonwoo’s sharp, angled eyes. It’s gone before you can truly register it, replaced by something more intense than vexation that you cannot place.
“We are supposed to look after each other,” Wonwoo says, harshly. Yet there is a strange softness in his expression that you would have almost missed if you weren’t paying such close attention. “Your safety is a part of my responsibility.”
“My safety is my own responsibility,” you retort. When had you gotten so close? The mere inches that lie between you and Wonwoo are charged with an anger that eventually pools out into something else, something much more perilous. Your tone picks up all the sarcasm in the world as you say, “Help me understand, Wonwoo. Why should you care so much?”
It all happens so fast, and yet the seconds feel slowed down. You do not know who moves first – you take another step, he leans into you – but the moment Wonwoo’s mouth meets yours, something clicks. His lips are slightly chapped, a consequence of long travel and the dehydration that follows it. You take the opportunity to swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, biting gently, and the groan that leaves his throat is music to your ears. It delights you, the way he seems to melt into your touch, and you kiss him back with matched fervor.
“Why should I care?” Wonwoo’s head dips to your jaw as he repeats your question. “You are a force of nature. The sun and the moon and the stars, all at once. I know you do not need protection. And still my heart seems to ache, when you are not safe.”
“Wonwoo,” you breathe, unable to form any other thoughts. Your fingers tighten even more around the soft cloth of his robes, tugging him closer.
“You are so strong, so clever – so sharp with the words you use. Infuriating, but equally captivating. And that,” he says, dragging his lips down the column of your throat, “is the most dangerous thing of all.”
It is dizzying, so much so that you barely register the tiny sound of satisfaction that escapes your throat. Embarrassing, in any other scenario.
But it is Wonwoo, holding your face with all the gentleness that had not been there just five minutes ago, and so it does not matter at all. Not even as you tilt your head to the side, his soft hair tickling your skin, allowing him room to press an almost reverent kiss to your collarbone. The feeling burns, but in a way that feels like you are floating.
Wonwoo’s eyes are unreadable when he finally looks up at you. The air is fraught; you open your mouth but nothing comes out. All the words are stuck in your throat as you try to hold onto the sensation of his mouth against yours. You probably look a mess, and so does he – but he is a work of art even now, hair mussed and lips slightly swollen, cheeks flushed under the morning sun.
In the distance, you hear your name again. This voice is different, a bit rougher. As if on instinct, you and Wonwoo separate like repelling magnets, immediately putting a few yards’ space between each other.
“Seungcheol,” he says, not looking away from you.
“We should go,” you add quietly. He nods, but you cannot let go of the comfort you had felt in his arms. A strange, new feeling. Did you want more of it? What do you want?
You do not get to finish that line of thought. Seungcheol stumbles in, nearly tripping on a large root and steadying himself with one hand on a tree trunk.
“There you are,” he says, frowning slightly. “Are you okay? You were not there when we woke up. We were worried.”
“Wonwoo is here. I am alright.” You dare to glance over at him, just for a second. He watches you like you are the moon that rises in his night. “I should have woken you both, I am sorry.”
“All that matters right now is that we are all alive and well.” Seungcheol shifts his eyes between you and Wonwoo. Suddenly you are aware of how close you two are standing, and how it must look. You discreetly shuffle backwards, heat rising to your cheeks.
Wonwoo clears his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “Shall we get going? We should have already left by now.”
Seungcheol nods. “We will need to stop at a safe house right outside the capital to regroup with the others. It should not be too long a journey left, if we make good distance.”
You glance up at the sky. The sun is already quite high, growing brighter with each passing minute. To reach the capital by nightfall, you have no choice but to leave now.
It is with an unsteady heart that you make your way back to the tent, chest heavy with the implications of everything that has just happened. You cannot rid your mind of the memory, Wonwoo’s touch setting your body alight. Somewhere along the line you had begun to find him enchanting rather than irritating, reluctant affection replacing the hatred you had harbored so long ago.
You watch him smile at something Seungcheol says, light hitting his features just right, and wonder at how he had once been the man you were set out to kill.
Between your thoughts, you try to ignore the way Wonwoo’s hands gently brush against yours, knuckles knocking against each other. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the same tension emanating off of his broad shoulders and bowed head. To say something now is to break the precious silence, and so both of you remain quiet.
Seungcheol hoists the supply bag over his shoulder and pulls out the map again. You press your palm against the ground, trying to memorize the sights and sounds, and set off further north.
To say that Wonwoo is losing his mind would be a violent understatement.
He had not known, really, what had possessed him in that moment. All he was thinking was you, you, you, as you had glared up at him fiercely with those eyes. It was a mixture of sheer relief at the sight of you, unharmed, and the utter tenderness that had risen into his chest that had set off his mind.
And you had kissed him back – he cannot forget how your fingers had tangled themselves into his hair, tugging gently. A part of him knew, he thinks, that that would happen. It had been evident in the way you had leaned into him, almost challenging him to do something. But he has never been the type of person to let himself hope on such high stakes; at least, not until now.
Seungcheol eyes him warily. “You look unwell. Did you not sleep enough?”
“I did,” Wonwoo mumbles, for lack of a better answer. He watches Seungcheol accept his response, before glancing back at you. The tension is palpable, and he only hopes the older man remains blissfully unaware of everything that had previously transpired.
“Well, I do hope you both are not at each other’s throats again. We cannot afford to have internal issues right now.”
Oh. That is how he chose to understand it. Wonwoo senses you stiffen behind him, bites back a quick retort about how he technically had been at your throat, and chooses to reply with a quiet hum of agreement. A few beats pass before he speaks again, only filled by the sounds of their quiet footsteps and the occasional songbirds’ chirping.
“What about you, hyung?”
Seungcheol gives a weak half-smile. “I am still walking,” he says. “Still moving, as always. There is no path but forward.”
Wonwoo knows he is not talking about their current journey. He had not spoken to Seungcheol much after they had buried Jeonghan. The older man had often preferred his solitude since then, shutting himself inside his room or throwing himself into busywork. Seungcheol has never been the kind of person to unburden himself unprompted. Wonwoo will never truly know if he does not ask.
“Is it any better?”
Silence. Seungcheol reaches into his pocket, and opens his fist to reveal a small magnolia flower. It is a bit wrinkled and worn, but still beautiful as ever.
“Not really,” he says. “It does not magically happen. Not unless you want it to, and it is stubborn even then.”
The message is somewhat cryptic, but Wonwoo knows just what he means. He senses the lingering grief that swims in the corners of Seungcheol’s eyes and knows that the conversation is over.
He does not get a chance to speak to you again until well past midday. It is hotter now, and with the tree cover slowly growing more and more sparse, there is no shade to seek shelter under. Wonwoo catches you fanning yourself with a hand as you take the new terrain in. He has always enjoyed watching you like this, full of that natural curiosity you like to indulge yourself in away from the life that demands your complete strength. A sparrow takes flight, and you follow its path with your eyes. You are beautiful under the bright sky.
You turn before he can announce his presence somehow, observing him for a moment before gently patting the spot on the rock next to you. Wonwoo does not decline it, settling carefully into the space you’ve designated specifically for him. He almost reaches out for you, almost.
“I can tell you want to say something,” you begin, sounding a tad amused. “Spit it out.”
Wonwoo has a thousand possible questions at the tip of his tongue. Should we talk about it? Do you feel the same? Will I be able to take it if you tell me it was all just a mistake?
“Are you ready?” he asks instead.
You shrug. “No such thing. If this is the last thing I do, I might as well throw myself in headfirst.”
“Do not say that,” Wonwoo murmurs. It is somewhere between a gentle rebuke and a plea. You turn to look at him, eyes brilliant and earnest, and he does not know what to do with himself. If he looks closer, he might see that there is a hint of affection that lies in your gaze.
“Why not?” You laugh dryly. “You know as well as I do that some of us might not make it back home alive. I am not so proud to assume that I might be one of the lucky ones.”
“I wish you would have a little more faith in yourself,” he says.
“Faith will not change a thing. If I am meant to die, it will happen.” You twist a dry blade of grass between your fingers. Wonwoo feels his heart twist in a similar way. “At least that way I might see my brother again.”
Wonwoo turns his head sharply, surprised. “You have never mentioned having a brother.”
You smile, but it does not reach your eyes. For such a usually joyous expression, you look rather despondent, mouth set in a thin line.
“Had,” you correct softly. “Even that is a stretch, I think. He left me with nothing but the sound of his voice and his name. I was so young, I cannot even remember his face. I will never know if we share the same eyes, or nose.”
Wonwoo thinks of Wonjae, briefly. He has always mourned the loss of the years they could have had, but he had never really thought to savor the memories they were able to make instead. He wonders how much more resilient he’d have to be, to honor Wonjae’s life with none of those moments intact.
“Tell me about him,” he says.
“There is not much to tell,” you shake your head, “It will not bring him back.”
“It is the only way you can keep his memory alive,” Wonwoo counters. “You can start with simple things. Like his name.”
A tiny grin curves your mouth upwards. “Kwon Soonyoung,” you say. “If you think I am a force of nature, you would have thought him a storm. A torrent.”
Wonwoo tries to ignore your recollection of his own words and focuses on the newness of the name. Powerful, and smooth as it is strong. “Like brother, like sister, then.”
“Well, of course. He was my twin. We shared a lot of things.” Subconsciously, you lean closer to him as you talk. “But he was older, by several seconds, and he never let me forget it. Little tiger, he used to call me. He was not even that much taller. I always told him to knock it off,” you huff, “but he never did.”
“That is a fitting nickname,” Wonwoo says, just a tad amused.
“He thought so, too.” You smile fondly. “He was obsessed with tigers – I remember this, at least. Very passionate, strong animals. I suppose I can see where the resemblance lies.”
“He sounds like quite the character.”
“He was. Or he might have been; I do not really know. He did not get a chance to grow into the person he wanted to become.”
Wonwoo hesitates just barely before asking his next question. “How did he…?”
You smile gently. “You can say it, Wonwoo. It has been over a decade.”
“Still. There are some wounds that time cannot heal.”
“I suppose that is true.” Wonwoo watches your shoulders tremble just a little, and takes the leap of faith, letting his arm rest around them comfortingly. He is half surprised when you do not reject it, instead melting further into his warm touch. “Soonyoung was always brave, almost to a fault. It cost him his own life, in the end.”
“You do not have to talk about it,” he says gingerly. “I should not have asked.”
“No,” you chuckle through the welling tears. Wonwoo wants so desperately to wipe them aside, to kiss the salty sorrow away from your skin. But he knows that if you do not cry about it now, you never will. “I have kept it to myself far too long. Even Soonhee and Soonja do not know what truly happened in those last moments. The royal guard arrived out of nowhere, and within minutes it was obvious that it was a losing battle. But I stayed back to help him, like a fool. I did not want to leave him behind.”
“I believe you are far more courageous than you think.”
“Not then. At that moment, I was being stupid,” you say, voice shaky. “I think I knew, even then, that he would not survive it. We were so young, and he had hardly been trained with a sword. I remember him yelling at us to leave while we could.”
“And you stayed.”
“I did. I thought there had to be some way we could all escape, for sure. But it became clear that it was not possible.” He watches you shut your eyes tightly, exhaling. “That was the first time I had ever lifted a sword in my entire life. I barely made it out. His sacrifice was almost for nothing.”
“But it was not,” Wonwoo points out gently. “You are still here. Still fighting. I am sure he would be proud of the woman you have become.”
“I hope so,” you whisper. “I try to live fearlessly, as he did. As brave as he was, even when he knew it was the end.”
Wonwoo hums, lets your words sink in. You had comforted him just like this, not so long ago. The memory is not lost on him.
“You do not need to live like your brother,” he says. “Just live for yourself.”
A quiet sob leaves your throat. He had not intended on saying anything that would make you feel even worse, but your head drops to his shoulder as your tears soak the fabric of his clothes. Wonwoo does not say anything, instead opting to rub his thumb in consoling circles over your skin. He feels his heart ache impossibly as you cry, but remains still. Sometimes, silence is the best remedy.
He waits until your breathing slows and your sniffling comes to an end to shift slightly, using the large misshapen rock behind him as support. Your head still lies on his shoulder, and he basks in the feeling of being someone you would let yourself lean on.
“Sorry about that,” you say softly, wiping your eyes.
“No need to apologize.” He rests his chin against the top of your head, doesn’t push any further. The two of you just sit together, taking in the moment before it is time for the inevitable trek to continue yet again. For the moment, the conversation is more or less over.
But Wonwoo grapples with the swirling feelings in his chest for far longer than that. You have him utterly curious, safely storing away each new piece of information he learns about you. Yes, you are one of the strongest people he knows – but when did that begin? What made you have to build up these sturdy walls? If anything, you only prove more and more admirable each time.
The more he learns, the more in love he thinks he is.
It is well past nightfall by the time the dirt path gives way to the paved roads of the capital and the surrounding towns. Seungcheol tells both of you to stay as quiet as possible and follow him discreetly down the bustling roads.
The safe house is tucked away in a more isolated part of town, far from the crowded centers with their night markets and food stalls. It is small and unassuming, with the lights dimmed inside. As they approach, Wonwoo can just barely make out hushed voices from inside.
Seungcheol raises a hand to the door, knocking in a particular rhythm. There is a few seconds of silence before it opens slowly, a shrewd-looking man at the door. He eyes the three of you warily.
“Name?”
“Choi Seungcheol. Fourth southwestern province.”
The man considers it for a moment before swinging the door open. It is warm inside, a sharp contrast from the night’s cool breeze. Wonwoo offers you his hand first, helping you up the steps and into the house.
He can’t quite hear what Seungcheol and the man are talking about. He only catches a name —Myungho, it sounds like. He’s got an interesting accent to his words, but only a light one. Wonwoo would not have caught it if it weren’t for the complexity of the words, consonants rolling over like waves.
“Tomorrow night is when we fight,” Myungho says quietly. “Make yourselves comfortable here, in the meantime.” Then his gaze flickers back to you, somewhat surprised. “You did not mention you were bringing a lady.”
Seungcheol raises his eyebrows. “Is that a problem?”
Wonwoo watches as Myungho’s eyes linger on you. Not judging, but evaluating. There is something in his narrowed eyes that seems like it should sting, but does not.
“Not at all,” he answers simply. “We will adjust sleeping arrangements accordingly. Would the lady prefer a separate area?”
“No need,” you say firmly. “I know space is a bit tight here. Just a corner will do. Thank you, though.”
Myungho bows his head. “Of course.”
Wonwoo follows you and Seungcheol further into the house. It is not so big, but there are not that many men inside in the first place. Just as well. There is a genuine concern for lack of safety in great numbers.
Suddenly, you gasp. “Seokmin?!”
One of the men by the kitchen area looks up at the sudden call of his name. Wonwoo watches as he rushes towards you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders excitedly.
Of course, this is no stranger. He recognizes the sharp nose and the shape of his side profile, has heard about the deep friendship you share with him, but still — a sharp pang of a feeling he doesn’t really like travels straight through his chest.
“I did not know whether you were alive,” Seokmin says, tears already spilling from his eyes. “I only had to hope that after losing Seungkwan, I had not lost you, too.”
You laugh, but Wonwoo knows the sound too well. That specific laugh is reserved for when you are trying not to cry. “You have not, Seokmin. I have been well.”
“And Hansol?”
“Hansol is well, too. He stayed back,” you explain. “I did not want to risk his life, as well.”
Seokmin sighs out of utter relief, then turns his earnest eyes to Wonwoo. There is a flicker of recognition in them.
“Oh, right. This is Seokmin,” you tell Wonwoo. He returns the polite nod, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Wait, I remember you,” Seokmin says, a bit sheepishly. He does not need to explain any further. It is all written in the slightly embarrassed expression on his face. Of course – as one of your most trusted men, he would have fought alongside you at every turn.
“You, too,” Wonwoo returns awkwardly. He glances between you and Seokmin, sensing there is much to be said. “Well, you both should catch up. I will be with Seungcheol if you need anything, okay?”
You grace him with a small, grateful smile. Somehow you glow even brighter, though the lights are dimmed. “Alright. Thank you.”
He bows, bidding Seokmin a good night, before meandering around the house. The smell of cooking stew rises from the kitchen, and he is suddenly aware of the hunger in his stomach. He pokes his head into the kitchen area and finds Myungho speaking in another language with the man chopping up radish on the counter. Seungcheol sits behind them, conversing with an older man with streaks of gray in his hair.
He raises his eyes once he registers Wonwoo’s presence. “All okay?”
“Mm.” Wonwoo takes his seat, perching on another wooden stool. “Y/N seems to be settling in well. She seems comfortable.”
“That is good.” Seungcheol gestures to the man sitting across from him. “This is Kim Minseok. He used to serve in the royal guard. He is retired now, but he has been extremely helpful to us in terms of intelligence and communication.”
Wonwoo bows his head in greeting. Minseok just laughs heartily, watching him with a mix of pride and amusement.
“Well, it is nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Choi here has told me all about you over the years. I had thought you were just a myth until now!”
Wonwoo flushes deeply. “All good things, I hope.”
“Ah, you worry too much. You are too young to be so cautious! Enjoy it while you can, eh?” Minseok takes another long sip of whatever liquid in his cup. “I hope to see this prowess Seungcheol speaks of soon enough, then.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
Wonwoo zones out for the rest of the conversation, just letting in a few words here and there. They discuss strategy, and possible routes – he knows that none of that will truly matter in the end. There are only two ways tomorrow night will go, and out of those only one will prevail. It is already written. No matter how much Minseok or Myungho might want it, it will not change to their whims.
From the corner of his eye, he catches your reclined figure against a wooden chair. You laugh at something Seokmin says, eyes crinkling in that rare joy he so loves to see in your face. Wonwoo has never wanted more for all of this to be over sooner, just so that you might be happier, like this. No more fighting, no more spilt blood. Just you and your smile.
Myungho’s voice pulls Wonwoo out of his swirling thoughts. Seungcheol stands, pushing his stool out, and pats him on the shoulder gently.
“Come,” he says, offering a warm smile. It is one of the first Wonwoo has seen in weeks, and he savors it. “Dinner is ready.”
The stew is comforting, the heat warming your fingers through the ceramic of the bowl. You fold in on yourself even more, pulling your limbs closer to ward off the cold. Beside you, Seokmin is in a similar position as he spoons another piece of eggplant into his mouth.
You savor the taste carefully, mulling over everything he has told you so far. Of utmost importance was any sort of news from your sisters, and hearing that they were doing well brought you the most relief. Sangmin suffered through a fever, he mentioned, but he had recovered within a few days. That, thankfully, had been the worst of it.
Briefly, your eyes wander over to Wonwoo’s broad figure, listening intently as Myungho talks. His hair falls just short of his eyes, veiling his sharp brows and his tanned skin. A sight to see, under the low lights.
“You are distracted,” Seokmin observes, hiding a smile.
You tear your eyes from Wonwoo with a start. “No?”
“Oh, come on. You are not as closed a book as you think. And am I not allowed to be curious?” he asks. “You have told me quite literally everything, except for the man you arrived with. How can I not have questions?”
“I arrived with two men, Seokmin.”
“Yes, and only one of them has bothered to look in your direction twenty-five times in the past ten minutes. I am not blind, you know.”
This makes you sigh deeply, wondering if what he’s said is true. But it might very well be. You are not blind, either, as much as you would like to delude yourself into believing.
You do not tell Seokmin about the incident in the forest. That memory burns too bright to be shared. But you recount the slow evolution of your feelings towards Wonwoo, the slippery slope that had started as resentment and has now brought you to a precarious camaraderie.
You do not tell him about the strange new feeling in your chest, either. Or the fact that the deep-rooted affection in some corner of your heart has begun to sprout too prominent for you to ignore. This, you keep to yourself. If you do not say it, it does not have to sound as real.
Seokmin listens intently while you speak, as he always has. Nods along, as you describe the particularly difficult moments. He laces his fingers together once you finish, ever thoughtful.
“Well, he is quite handsome,” he says. “No complaints from me.”
“Seokmin!”
“Alright, alright,” he soothes, rubbing the spot on his arm where you had just hit him. “You are so violent. What sort of friend would I be if I did not give you my two cents, after all?”
You glare at him playfully. “An uninjured one.”
He holds both his arms up, feigning surrender. It draws another laugh out of you as you take another bite of stew, the flavorful spices dancing on your tongue. It is a sharp reminder for you to enjoy these happy moments while they last.
The house quiets down after most everyone has finished eating. You offer to help with the dishes, but Myungho insists that you sit, so you make yourself useful and towel dry the bowls after he washes them. Another man takes it upon himself to wipe down the counter, and the two of them chatter away in a vaguely familiar language as they work.
“Oh, dear. Forgive my manners,” the newcomer says suddenly. His accent is quite similar to Myungho’s, but a little less noticeable and smoother around the edges. “My name is Junhui. I live across town, actually, but I came over here to help however I can.”
“Nice to meet you,” you say, offering your own name in response. He smiles widely, eyes forming half crescents. “How do you both know each other?”
“Junhui and I are cousins,” Myungho explains. “But my family came here from China many years after his. My father was a paper merchant, and it was easier to find business here at the time than back home.”
You hum in understanding, taking in the new information. “You did not follow in his footsteps?”
“Almost. But I backed out, in the end.” Myungho smiles, his first of the night. “I did not want to sentence myself to something I knew I would detest. Instead, I moved up here to start a new life. I opened a restaurant here four years ago, along with Junhui.”
“That is a sharp pivot,” you remark.
“Perhaps. But you do not truly live until you dare to change.”
You look around the house again. If you squint, you can see it in your mind’s eye– remnants of a lively business, steaming bowls of soup and the chatter that comes with a well-fed crowd. The walls might have been painted red, decorated with small golden flowers. None of it is there now, only the ghosts of happy times.
“Customers began to dwindle. It was not safe for them to be out so often, so of course it was not good for business.” He frowns as the memory sets in. “Eventually it was not enough to sustain ourselves. So we closed it down.”
“Royal intelligence was not fond of us, either,” Myungho adds. “There were many people who would gather here to discuss the government, and propose political change. Of course, none of it went under the radar. It was all rather frustrating for those in power.”
You watch as Junhui looks down at his hands as if he’s mourning those precious years. Everyone carries their own ghosts, grieving in a different way. But more than that, you feel guilty – you had, after all, fought on the side of those who abused their power and oppressed their people for years. The circumstances are beyond the fact. You are still complicit.
“That is terrible,” you say honestly. “I am sorry it happened that way. Truly.”
“No need.” Myungho smiles again, but it is sadder this time. “Nothing really ever dies, does it? We were not about to let the space go to waste. Now we operate out of here. It was two years ago, I think, that we started to use this house for… what do you call it?”
He fumbles to find the word for several seconds, before Junhui says something in a smooth Chinese dialect.
“Ah,” Myungho says finally. “Resistance.”
You understand, now. The spark in their eyes is one that has been burning for a long time, and it will not go out anytime soon.
“We are very thankful,” you tell him. “Without you both, this would not be possible.”
Junhui waves it off sheepishly, shaking the dark hair away from his forehead. “Alright, alright. That is not so. It has taken the effort and cooperation of many people for the movement to reach where it is right now.”
“Still,” you insist. “You have laid a sturdy foundation. Your work will not go in vain.”
“That is not something you or anyone else can guarantee,” he says sagely, “but I will accept the sentiment in the name of hope.”
You give him a wry smile. “Hope is all we have.”
Junhui mirrors your expression, but there is a particular weariness in his eyes. “I only wonder if it will be enough.”
The three of you finish cleaning up in silence, only broken by the occasional remark or stray joke, and you bid them goodnight when the dishes have been done and the kitchen is spotless. The others seem to be settling down, and you wander around for a bit before finding your spot beside a wall, just as you had requested.
The day weighs down on you, and you are suddenly aware of the soreness in your muscles from the days’ travel you’ve been doing. You lie down and let your body rest against the floor, reveling in the warmth of the heavy blanket. Apprehension pools in your stomach, but you try not to think about the events to come, instead focusing on your own steady breath.
You hear Seungcheol and Wonwoo speaking quietly before they lie down on their mats, too. The light goes out, and you close your eyes to feign sleep until you actually succumb to your dreams. However, you are not fooling anybody. Wonwoo shifts a little beside you, and you are painfully aware of the distance between you and him.
“I know you are awake,” he whispers. You peek out from under your blanket – you can barely see him in the dark, but your eyes adjust to the lack of light rather quickly. “You are quite terrible at pretending.”
“I did not ask for your opinion, Wonwoo.”
“I am giving it regardless.” He is quiet for the next few seconds, then says, “Having trouble sleeping?”
“What do you care?”
He laughs dryly, a twinge of melancholy in his voice. “Please do not make me answer that question again. I do not think I can bear it.”
Heat rises to your cheeks suddenly as the memory rushes back to you. It replays in your mind like a flashback, and you will your heart to slow itself. And yet, you savor the closeness, aware of the heat radiating from him next to you.
“Sleep,” you say instead. “There is a long day ahead of us.”
“You cannot say that as you look so deep in thought,” he counters. “Tell me what is going on that intricate brain of yours.”
You try to ignore the deepness of his voice and the rough edge it carries as you sort through your thoughts, attempting to find the words for them. There is no easy way to do it, but it feels a little better when Wonwoo is right beside you.
“I am afraid,” you confess suddenly. “As much as I try not to be. I spend my time wondering, what would Soonyoung do? And after that I wonder if I am capable of being half the person he was.”
“You are,” Wonwoo says firmly. “And I know that you know it, too.”
How strange a feeling, to have him pinpoint your exact thought so quickly! You peer at him, just barely making out his features, and grip the blanket just a little tighter. The realization that this could well be the last night you ever spend in his company is chilling.
“I had a brother, too, once,” he continues softly. “I carry his ghost on my shoulders as I once carried him. But I cannot let that memory hold me back from fighting for what is important. And neither can you. Does that make sense?”
You hum in agreement, letting it sink in. “You know, you did not strike me as the older brother type.”
He wrinkles his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I thought you were an only child, for sure.”
“Now you are just slandering me for the fun of it,” Wonwoo complains. A sudden laugh bubbles from your throat, spilling out into the silence, and you clap a hand over your mouth immediately to stifle the following giggles. He smiles, chuckling softly. “And you will wake everyone in this house, if you keep doing that.”
“Oh, be quiet,” you rebuke, settling back in. The weight of his previous words sits on your mind again. “You understand then, how it feels.”
“Mm.”
The two of you lie there, staring up at the ceiling of what used to be Myungho and Junhui’s livelihood. Silent understanding passes over you, like it always seems to. Your heart beats twice as strong somehow, when it is him that occupies the place at your side, and you fall asleep with that sense of security blanketing your mind.
Morning comes in the form of Myungho’s sharp voice. You quickly learn that as kind as he is, he does not seem to like coming off that way, and much prefers a steady routine. The floor is clear within minutes under his supervision, while Junhui gets to work on breakfast. You offer to help him, but he just waves you off, so you sit on the countertop and chat with him as the porridge cooks.
Wonwoo joins you both a few minutes later. You almost laugh at the sight of him – messy hair and tired eyes – and it warms your heart.
“There you are,” he says, voice still heavy with sleep. “I was wondering where you had gone.”
“Nowhere far. Just keeping Junhui company.”
“I see that.” He sits on the taller wooden stool, wincing as he rolls his shoulder. At your questioning look he says, “Definitely slept wrong last night. I think Seungcheol might have kicked me in his sleep, too. Multiple times.”
“Maybe you deserve it,” you shoot back playfully. Wonwoo’s mouth curves up into a knowing smirk that has your knees just a little weak.
“Anyhow, he seems very stressed,” he says. “I did not want to bring it up unnecessarily.”
“Everyone is on edge today,” Junhui agrees, stirring the porridge. “Even Myungho woke up in a terrible mood, if you could not already tell. Tonight is the night everything could change, for better or worse. Some of the men have already come to terms with the fact that this might be their last day alive.”
“But it might not be,” Wonwoo puts in thoughtfully. “Not necessarily.”
“That is true. But nobody knows.” Junhui sprinkles a pinch of salt into the pot. “Some feel it is better to resign themselves for the worst than to hope for the best. And who am I to tell them how to think?”
His words settle solemnly into the air, and he notices the sudden tension, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.
“Oh, do not be so serious. Would you want to live your last day in such gloom?” You shake your head no. “I thought so! Now get out of your head, and come eat this while it is still hot. I can see the gears in your brain turning already.”
You take the bowl he hands you gratefully, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The first spoon of porridge is almost magical as it goes down your throat, and you savor the different flavors on your tongue.
“This is so good,” you tell him. “What did you even put in this?”
Junhui just winks at you. “Years and years of practice,” is all he will say. “Chef’s secret.”
The afternoon that follows is sweltering, at best. Sweat trickles down your back as you spar with Seokmin, wood knocking against wood as he parries your every strike. Wonwoo watches from the side, letting the last few drops of water fall from the flask into his throat.
“This weapon feels so wrong in my hand,” Seokmin says when you finally take a break, catching his breath. “I fear I am utterly dreadful with a sword.”
“Why did you not bring your bow?”
“I thought about it.” He shakes his head wryly. “It feels so detached. There is only so much you can do with limited arrows and such great distance. It is a great weapon, to be sure, but I feel quite useless at times.”
“Seokmin,” you scold, “you know you are one of the greatest archers I have ever met in my life. You are the opposite of useless.”
“But this is not the time to be passive. I wanted to do more.” Seokmin smiles wistfully, dangling the wooden sword from his fingers. “So I started training with one of Jihoon’s old swords. I am by no means perfect, but it will do.”
You pause for a moment, taking it in. He had never done anything but follow orders, both Muyeol’s and yours. And yet the guilt still hangs over his shoulders, ever present.
“Seokmin.”
“Yes?”
“You are certainly not dreadful.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It is new, that is all. And your skill is quite excellent for someone who has wielded a vastly different weapon for most of his life.”
A bright grin spreads across his face, a bit sheepish. “That is kind of you to say.”
“I mean it. Truly.” You pat his back gently. “Go rest, alright? You did well today.”
He nods and bows his head slightly. You watch his retreating back until he disappears behind the doorway, one hand on your hip as you bear the brunt of the midday sun. I need water, you think, walking back towards the rock Wonwoo’s sitting against.
He seems to know what you want before you have to ask, passing you a filled flask before you sit down beside him. “Good fight?”
“Definitely.” You take a long sip of the cool water. “Seokmin has improved so much. He used to hate it back at the palace. He only ever wanted to shoot arrows all day.”
“He seems very dedicated,” Wonwoo agrees. “That will serve him well in every regard.”
“Certainly.”
There is a heavy pause. Neither of you looks at the other. You can tell there are words at the tip of his tongue that he won’t say. But you do not comment on it; the same is true for you. You sit there beside him, watching the clouds hang in the sky, and savor the moment.
Eventually, you break the silence. “If I do not make it –”
“No.”
You give him a funny look. “You do not even know what I was going to say!”
“I do,” he says quietly. “I feel like you have been meaning to say it for a while. But I was hoping I could delay it.”
You soften at his words, intense tenderness squeezing at your heart. Gently you lay your head onto his waiting and ready shoulder, your chest rising and falling in time with his.
“It is like Junhui said,” you tell him. “Nobody knows. Neither you, nor I. But I wanted to tell you, just in case.”
“Don’t,” Wonwoo pleads. “You can tell me afterwards. We will have all the time then.”
“You cannot be sure.” A small smile forms on your face despite yourself, and you tuck yourself further into him. “Listen, Wonwoo. I know you have detested me for a majority of the time we have known each other.”
“I–”
“I do not fault you for it.” You place a hand on his arm to calm him down. “If I said I did not reciprocate that feeling, it would be a blatant lie.”
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously monologuing about how much you despise me right now?”
This pulls a sharp laugh out of you. “You would know if you listened instead of talking!”
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, amused. “Please continue.”
You huff in acceptance, pulling your legs closer to your body. “If we do not have tomorrow, then you should know I have appreciated every gesture of kindness you have shown me, at every turn. For giving me space, when I needed it. For talking, when I needed that instead. You have always given me room to breathe.”
“I would do it over and over,” he whispers, breath tickling the top of your head. “For you.”
You sigh deeply, shutting your eyes and willing yourself not to cry. “Please, Wonwoo. It is far too soon to say that.”
“It cannot be. I have been thinking it for quite some time.” He brings his hand to your wrist, fingers tracing light circles over your skin. “Only I did not know when to say it. Or how. But if we do not have tomorrow, as you said, then you should know this.”
“I think I have known for a while,” you say soberly. Wonwoo lets out a quiet ha!, a half-laugh.
“Even better, then.”
You are about to vocalize the next witty comeback that materializes in your mind to dissipate the rising tension when a sudden noise breaks out back inside the house. You hear someone yelling for backup, doors slamming, and a pained scream – in that order.
You exchange one worried look with Wonwoo, rising to your feet, and break into a sprint.
Seungcheol finds you first, a rare panic in his eyes. He heaves a relieved sigh at the sight of you both, taking Wonwoo by the shoulders. “Where is Minseok?”
“What?”
Seungcheol repeats his question, more frantic this time. You watch Wonwoo shake his head, immensely confused.
“Hyung, what happened?”
“Kim Minseok, that bastard,” he fumes. “I should have known. All of the signs were there. That lying son of a bitch handed over every single piece of information he had and ran for his life. He’s been working with them for years!”
Shock ripples across Wonwoo’s face. You had not met the man, but you get the idea that even he had not seen it coming at all.
“You must go,” Seungcheol urges. “Both of you. Find somewhere safe to stay for now. You cannot let them find you!”
“No,” you say firmly, drawing your sword. “This is my battle. I am not going anywhere.”
Wonwoo nods, knives already in his hands. “I cannot, hyung. I swore to fight with you. You cannot expect me to break it now.”
There is sheer despair written all over Seungcheol’s face – but no time to do anything about it. A soldier steps through the doorway, swinging his axe, and you slash at his torso furiously. Blood splatters all over your clothes and the side of your face, the metallic scent quickly filling your nostrils.
You turn and look at Wonwoo. The fierceness in his eyes mimics yours, and you feel a new confidence begin to rise into your chest.
“Now or never,” you say.
Chaos reigns inside the house. The walls are as red as they may have been four years ago – but with blood this time, instead of paint. Myungho is backed up against a wall, holding off two royal guards with his spear. You lunge, stabbing one of them in the side, and he quickly finishes off the other, returning your gesture with a grim nod.
You do not know where Seokmin is. You do not think you could pick him out amidst the mayhem; everything begins to blur together impossibly. Only the metal of your blade remains clear in your vision as you defend yourself with everything you have left.
The noise seems to lessen, just a little. You stumble outside, only to be met with a horrific sight.
“Junhui!” You rush towards him, and he winces as you approach. He struggles to keep himself on his feet, one hand pressed firmly against a deep gash in his side.
“Go,” he says weakly. “I will be fine.”
“But –”
“Go!” His hand comes away deep red, blood dripping from his fingers onto the ground. “We do not have time. You have to go now!”
You stare at him for a few conflicted seconds, before tearing your eyes away from him and swinging wildly at the man behind you. But your footing is unsteady, and you slip on a stray rock. His dagger brushes the corner of your ear, and faintly you register the sharp sting that begins to blossom.
When you catch your breath again, you come face to face with a pair of eyes that send chills down your spine.
Muyeol’s expression reflects none of the panic that’s in yours. In fact, he seems almost amused at the look on your face, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he cleans off his sword against the tall grass. It has been so long since you’ve seen him, that you’d forgotten how disturbing his presence could be.
“I thought my soldiers had finished you at least the second time around,” he says. The cruelty in his voice never fails to make you flinch. “But to see that you have joined these fools? Tch. I am wounded.”
Your hand does not tremble, sword still in the air. “Drop the act. I am not so stupid as to be fooled by your words again.”
“Oh, my.” He chuckles, an evil sound. “You were not fooled even the first time, my dear. I made no effort to hide my intentions. But you willingly carried out all the dirty work you were told to do.”
“You held my family and their lives over my head,” you snap back. “I was not willing, then.”
He merely shrugs. “I did what I had to do.”
Anger bubbles up into your throat, and you lunge instinctively, bringing your sword down in what would have been a harsh strike. Muyeol parries it lazily, slicing your arm instead. You hiss at the sudden pain and come forward again, unable to stay calm.
He clicks his tongue again. “Still the same,” he remarks. “I would have thought you learned how to control that inconvenient temper of yours by now.”
“You do not get to have to say in when I get angry!” You punctuate your last word with a furious slash. This one lands – the sound of blade against skin is satisfying, and you draw blood just shy of his collarbone. He looks a bit surprised. Good, you think. You deserve it.
Muyeol seems to have as easily inflamed a temper as yours. He is much older, for sure, but his movements are rather fluid for his age. You are light on your feet, just barely dodging his well-timed strikes.
“You should have died that day,” he snarls furiously. He feints with his right – and you fall for it, a short lapse in judgement. One strong kick sends you tumbling to the ground, and before you know it the edge of his sword is flush with the skin of your neck. “What a shame, then. But do not worry. I will be sure you meet your fate today.”
“You will do no such thing.”
Muyeol laughs, a deep rumbling that comes from his chest. It is a sound that you have learned to detest over the many years.
“The words of a woman on her knees,” he muses, pressing the blade into your throat. You wince at the sensation of it piercing skin, feeling the first drop of blood trickle down to your collarbone. “Choose them wisely, would you? They may well be your last.”
You open your mouth to give another sarcastic remark. But out of nowhere, a sharp dagger flies through the air just past your head, lodging itself squarely into Muyeol’s shoulder. He roars in pain; you take the short window of opportunity to grab your sword and lunge for his neck.
This time, you do not miss.
His dark eyes widen in momentary surprise – he loses his grasp on his own weapon, crashing to the ground as he struggles to draw his next breath. He falls with one arm outstretched, clinging to a last hope, and you might have taken it a year or two ago.
Things are different, now. You regard him coldly, and you do not move.
You wipe the side of your face, catching your breath. And you should have some remorse, but it is hard to find it for the man who had a hand in turning your life into a living hell. All you can feel is the subsiding rage, still coursing through your veins.
Wonwoo is beside you before you know it. He does not ask anything. His eyes only shift between you, and Muyeol’s body on the ground. You meet his questioning eyes and nod slowly.
“Wait. The knife,” you say, before he can get a word out. You crouch down, fingers closing around the hilt and pulling it from the lifeless shoulder. When you pass it to Wonwoo, your fingers brush ever so subtly, staining his fingertips dark red. “Thank you.”
“Always.” His answer comes without hesitation. It bears relief, and something else you don’t dare name. “Are you… are you alright?”
“Alive,” you say, huffing out a weak laugh.
Wonwoo shakes his head, fingers coming up to swipe a stray drop of blood away from the cut on your face. You startle at the sight of his eyes welling up with tears, face battered and bruised, and it stirs up a whole torrent of emotions in your own chest.
“You are so strong,” he says, thumb brushing your jaw reverently. “You did it. You are free now.”
Your vision goes blurry as the weight of Wonwoo’s words sink into your soul. Tenderly, with all the care carried in his deep voice. You let yourself crash into him, fingers grasping his robes as his arms wrap around your torso gently, holding you close. For the first time, the weight that has been sitting on your heart for years feels lifted, light. You can even hear Soonyoung’s voice in your head now, quietly under the current.
Live now, little tiger. Live the way you always wanted to.
The sky bursts, and it begins to pour. The heavy drizzle takes the dried blood on your skin with it, but the open wounds still burn. It is no matter, not anymore. The white cotton of your clothes runs deep red, and your decade long battle is over.
There are quite a few more hurdles to go over, even after Muyeol’s death. None of them are easy to swallow down.
The attack had resulted in more lives lost than injuries, a significant dent in everyone’s esteem. You are particularly shocked to see Junhui’s body among them, his cold hand in his cousin’s. It had not been so long ago that you had last spoken to him; it weighs on you still that you may have had a chance to save his life, if only you had listened to your gut.
Myungho does not shed a single tear. Perhaps this is his way of mourning a loved one, in powerful silence.
“I cannot control the passage of time,” he says quietly, over his dearest friend’s grave. Still he does not cry, but you think he might come awfully close. “We are all victims. Junhui’s fate has only collected him first.”
You watch him murmur something softly in muffled Cantonese; some sort of farewell, perhaps. You will never know. It is very likely that you will never see Myungho again, even if he chooses to remain in town.
“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “For everything. Truly.”
He waves you off, wearing a faint smile. “No need. It was the least I could do for you all.”
You wonder how he will hold up now, whether the little old house meant for two will feel a bit too lonely and large for just him. He might repaint the walls a bright red, but it will never be the same again.
It is with a heavy heart that you regroup with Seungcheol and Wonwoo. The latter is tending to a small wound on his arm, wrapping the bandage around it carefully. You stop him and offer to do it instead. He lets you.
“When will you leave for home?”
Wonwoo swallows thickly. “Soon, I suppose.”
“You will travel overnight?” Gently, you finish dressing the cut, but your fingers linger over his skin. “I do not think that is very safe.”
“After everything we have done so far, this might be the least dangerous journey we make.”
You take him in solemnly, allowing yourself to lean into him a little. Seungcheol takes note, but says nothing — turns away a bit, as if to give you a little space.
“This will bring a new dawn to the country,” he continues. “The young prince Jisoo is said to be a fair and just man. He will be twice the ruler his father is. The council members are in overwhelming support of him, so the king will likely be pressured into abdicating.”
“It is about time,” you agree. “I have quite high hopes for him.”
“Mm.” Wonwoo turns his hand over so that his fingers are laced with yours, warmth seeping into your skin. “Will you go home now? I would imagine you have much to say to your family.”
Family. You think of your sisters and Jihoon, and little Sangmin. Of Wonwoo, and how easily he seems to fit into your life, like the final piece of a puzzle.
“Come with me,” you say. “Seungcheol, too. Stay the night, at least, and have a warm meal. Seokmin will be able to take us there.”
He shakes his head. “Y/N, I cannot impose on your family like that.”
“You would not be imposing,” you insist. “I am asking because I want you there with me, Wonwoo. Besides, I might join you both on your journey back. I want to see Hansol, and visit Seungkwan one more time.”
Wonwoo’s firm expression softens as the last words sink in, thumb rubbing soft circles into your hand. “All right,” he finally concedes. He glances back at Seungcheol, who gives a willing shrug. “If you say so.”
It is not so far to your sisters’ house, once you have bid your sad goodbyes to Myungho and the others. The familiarity of your surroundings slowly comes back to you as you follow Seokmin through the winding stone roads and grassy hills. Every step unlocks childhood memories you had shelved away, years and years ago.
You point at a large pine tree nearby. “I used to sneak out and come here with Soonyoung all the time,” you tell Wonwoo. “We would play around, making up stories. He taught me how to read there, too.”
“Sometimes the stories you tell make me wish we knew each other as children,” he muses, chuckling softly.
“That might have been nice,” you say, looping your arm in his. “But this is just as precious.”
“That it is.”
You feel Seokmin’s knowing eyes on you – he will say a range of things later, from ‘I told you so’ to ‘So you did think he was handsome!’, and you will laugh and tell him that sometimes love will find you even when you do not necessarily ask for it. He glances away, amused, and you have to resist the urge to click your tongue at him.
The gate is drawn shut as you first approach, but you could not ever forget the familiar slope of the roof, and the tiny patch of flowers to the right of the main doorway. Seokmin calls out brightly for Jihoon, breaking into a jog, and you look back at Seungcheol and Wonwoo with a smile.
“Home,” you say.
Soonja runs out first, crashing into you with a loud squeal. You let her cling to you. It has been far too long since you have listened to her excited stories and endless chatter, and you hug her tightly.
“I missed you,” she says petulantly. “You always take so long!”
“I am sorry,” you chuckle, tearing up. “Really. But I will not be away for weeks at a time anymore. My work is done.”
She brightens at this. “Promise?”
You laugh, intertwining your pinky finger with hers. “Promise.”
The sun is softer now, in the sky, and the heat does not burn as much anymore. You make introductions as the air settles into something more comfortable. The ghosts still linger, but they are not heavy anymore. You wear them like a warm scarf now, instead of shackles. It is a new kind of homage.
The house is lively, with more people inside. Seungcheol and Jihoon seem to get along perfectly, discussing something between themselves, while Seokmin entertains Soonja’s endless questions. Soonyoung should be here, but his absence does not leave a hollow space quite like it used to. He is in every pillar instead, his life written into every single corner of the room.
You sit with Soonhee, helping her here and there in the kitchen, updating her on the events that have occurred while you were away.
“You have had quite a life so far,” she says, once you’re finished. “But I admire you for it, you know. You have never once let it stop you from anything. Never said ‘it is what it is’ and sat down. That is a sign of resilience.”
“I did not have a choice,” you tell her.
“All the same.” She smiles, reaching over to dust a stray piece of straw out of your hair. “You grew up faster than you should have. I always worried it would hold you back.”
“And now?”
“Now I see I did not have to worry in the first place.” Soonhee glances over her shoulder, back to the main room. Wonwoo sits cross-legged by Sangmin’s cradle, listening to the infant babble endlessly. He nods along as he smiles, pretending to hold the conversation. It is a tender sight. “I am curious about this man you have brought with you, though.”
You flush deeply, not sure what to say. Soonhee notices and merely laughs, thinly slicing up a carrot.
“I hope you know you are not as hard to read as you might believe,” she adds. “He clearly brings you a lot of joy.”
Seokmin had said the exact same thing. You bring your hands to your cheeks, resting your chin in your palm. For as long as you can remember, there was always a torrent in your heart, restless emotions brewing and spilling over. But there is something about Wonwoo that allows you a rare peace, an ease that you had previously thought impossible.
“He does,” you say quietly. “He learned to love me as I am, even when I did not want to know myself.”
Soonhee gives you a knowing look. “You have found yourself a good man, then.”
Everyone gathers on the floor to eat, a feeling you have not experienced in a long time. But you know that the wait was worth it. What better way to spend an evening than in good company, with good food? The soup is warm as it goes down your throat, and so is your heart.
Jihoon laughs at the sight of his son happily blowing raspberries into Wonwoo’s face – a funny sight, for sure. The latter just smiles contentedly, one hand carefully balancing the baby in his lap.
“What can I say?” he shrugs, meeting your sparkling eyes. “I must be awfully good with children.”
This pulls another round of laughter from everyone else, you included. Wonwoo’s gaze does not leave yours, even from across the room. Impossibly magnetic, but you no longer resist it. Instead, you let it tug at you, reveling in the feeling.
It is not until all the dishes are put away later that you finally sidle up to him again, having stepped outside for some fresh air. Wonwoo sits on the front step, eyes turned up to the sky, and you carefully tuck yourself into his side.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” you ask of him. He takes your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
“I am thinking about the nice weather we are having,” he murmurs. “And your sister’s small garden. Junhui would have been quite delighted to see it.”
“He would have.” Your heart aches, then. “I pray that his soul rests easy. He was a good man.”
“Me, too.” Wonwoo squeezes your hand, a way of comforting you. It will be alright. “But above all, I am thinking about how content I feel right now. My mind is at peace.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm,” he hums, thumb brushing against yours. “You cannot pretend to believe otherwise, Y/N. Not when you are with me. Not when you are the reason.”
Warmth spreads throughout your body. You remain silent, no words coming up – but they do not need to. Even without saying anything, Wonwoo seems to understand your love. Quietly, carefully, as he is. As he always has been.
It occurs to you now that perhaps this was what you had been chasing after your entire life. Serenity.
From inside the house, Sangmin’s little giggles carry out into the open air, followed by his mother’s cooing and Jihoon’s satisfied laugh. The breeze is cool, but not too chilly – a perfect summer night. Wonwoo brings his head down to rest on top of yours, and you sit there taking in the peaceful quiet by each other’s side.
You think you will be alright.
thank you so much for reading dotssotw! have a wonderful rest of your day! much love, hershey xx
return to masterlist
Request: "Hii! I hope I'm not late to the party and you're still taking requests? 🤗 If yes, how about Reader just being so in love with Daryl's physique and look? Like... His bulky frame, the dad-bod, etc. 🤗 I hope that makes sense. 🤗 Thank you!"
Setting: Alexandria, season 5
A/N: Ah I love this! and it's perfect because I already had an idea very similar to this!! Thanks for your request! <3
Warnings:
Advent Calendar Day 3!
Masterlist
Etsy Shop! | Ko-Fi | Coming Soon | Prompt Ideas
Watching Daryl work on cars or his motorcycle was like porn to you. Literally. You could sit there and watch him all day. And in fact, you made it a point to do exactly that, whenever possible. You'd become his little helper - handing him tools, shining a flashlight, pretending to be valuable. Really, it was just to be near him.
Spend alone time with him. Watch him while he worked. The way the sweat dripped down his bare biceps. The motor oil smeared on each curve of his arm. How his jaw flexed as he concentrated.
"Hand me tha' ratchet, will ya?" Daryl's voice snaps you out of your daze. You scan the tools spread out by your feet, searching for a 'ratchet,' which was useless because you had no idea what that was. So instead you use process of elimination, picking up a tool that you don't know the name of that looked like it may be somewhat useful.
Walking over to Daryl's side and placing the tool in his outstretched hand, only for him to look up at you, one eye squinted, and make a face that said 'really?'
"Not a ratchet?" you ask with an embarrassed smile.
"Nah, not even close," he responds, standing from where he had been crouched beside the bike that Aaron gifted him.
"Oops," you shrug, paying attention as he grabs the correct tool and rolls his eyes at you.
"With how often ya watch me, I'd figure ya'd know wha' some o' the tools are by now," he remarks, bending down to continue on the bike. You were only half listening, watching as he spread his legs into a squatting position, reaching under the bike, his biceps flexing once more.
"Hey, I'm learning... Slowly." He lets out a snort in amusement but said nothing.
"Don't got nothin' better t' do than hand me the wrong tools?" he asks without turning around. You know he's just teasing you, so you don't take offense to his comment.
"Nope, I could do this all day, Dixon," you joke. He looks over his shoulder again, a brow raised. Your bottom lip was tucked between your teeth, eyes completely honed in on his muscles shining in the sunlight.
"The hell ya lookin' at?" he asks, standing upright, removing his rag from his back pocket and wiping his greasy hands on it. Your eyes shoot up to his own and a blush creeps across your cheeks in embarrassment.
"Your biceps," you respond with a casual shrug. Daryl is caught off guard by your forwardness, making a face.
"Why?" he asks in his southern accent.
"What do you mean 'why?' What kinda question is that?" you ask in astonishment, taking a step closer to your boyfriend.
"Ion know," is all he says, getting a little shy by your flirting.
"Why do men look at women's asses? It's the same thing," you reach out and touch his bicep, cautiously, gently. He looks between your hand and your face.
"Not the same," he grumbles lowly.
"It is," you smile. "Don't you ever look at my ass?" you tease. Daryl shrugs and focuses hard on his hands, toying with the dirty rag.
"Yeah," he mumbles, his hair in his face.
"Well, there ya have it," you let go of the poor guy's muscle, not wanting to embarrass him too much. "Why do you think I always wanna hang around you while you work on this? It's like live porn," you joke. Daryl shuffles his weight and squints at you like you're crazy.
"The hell?" he asks, chuckling. "Yer crazy, woman."
"It's true!" you tease as he bends down and grabs a tool. "If you did it shirtless I think my ovaries would combust," you continue to tease the poor archer. He looks at you in astonishment before completely ignoring you and turning his attention back to the bike.
"Go bother Rick or somethin," he drawls.
"Nah I'd rather stay here and bother you," you take a seat on the porch step once more. "I should wash your bike for you. Return the favor, ya know?" you ramble. "I can do it in my bra and shorts, too. Make it real sexy."
Of course, you weren't paying attention and didn't see Abraham and Eugene approaching, stopping in their tracks a few feet off to the left.
"Shit I'd like to see that," Abraham says, a smirk plastered on the redhead's face. Daryl shoots a glare at the tall man before turning his glare toward you, like you just got in trouble. You raise your hands in surrender and blush lightly.
"Abraham, don't girls find biceps super sexy?" you drag him into your debate.
"Uh, I would assume so, yeah," he responds, glancing down at his own large exposed muscles. Eugene is watching everything unfold silently, looking stiff and awkward. Daryl, on the other hand, is glaring intently, still squatting beside his new bike.
"Daryl thinks I'm crazy for checking him out," you inform Abraham, who looks over at him.
"Forget it," Daryl grumbles, standing up and beginning to gather up his tools. Abraham chuckles.
"I don't think that's it, Y/N," is all he says.
"I'm sorry I think you're hot!" you tease Daryl as he physically drags you up the porch steps into the house.
"Really?" he glares in fake annoyance after he slams the door closed with a kick of his boot. You giggle.
"You're cute when you're mad," you continue the teasing, approaching the taller man.
"Yer so annoyin'," he groans, but reaches out and grabs your waist.
"I know. It's fun to tease you," you shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning up to place a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. "I'll get changed so I can put on a show for you and all the boys," you taunt, trying to slip out of his arms and toward the stairs. Daryl's eyes go wide and he takes two large strides after you, catching you from behind by the waist again and wrapping his large arms around you.
"Hell nah!" he exclaims, pressing his face into your neck as you squirm playfully in his arms.
"What? You don't want a show?"
"Just fer me," he drawls in your ear. "Nobody else," kissing your neck.
Request: "Hii! I hope I'm not late to the party and you're still taking requests? 🤗 If yes, how about Reader just being so in love with Daryl's physique and look? Like... His bulky frame, the dad-bod, etc. 🤗 I hope that makes sense. 🤗 Thank you!"
Setting: Alexandria, season 5
A/N: Ah I love this! and it's perfect because I already had an idea very similar to this!! Thanks for your request! <3
Warnings:
Advent Calendar Day 3!
Masterlist
Etsy Shop! | Ko-Fi | Coming Soon | Prompt Ideas
Watching Daryl work on cars or his motorcycle was like porn to you. Literally. You could sit there and watch him all day. And in fact, you made it a point to do exactly that, whenever possible. You'd become his little helper - handing him tools, shining a flashlight, pretending to be valuable. Really, it was just to be near him.
Spend alone time with him. Watch him while he worked. The way the sweat dripped down his bare biceps. The motor oil smeared on each curve of his arm. How his jaw flexed as he concentrated.
"Hand me tha' ratchet, will ya?" Daryl's voice snaps you out of your daze. You scan the tools spread out by your feet, searching for a 'ratchet,' which was useless because you had no idea what that was. So instead you use process of elimination, picking up a tool that you don't know the name of that looked like it may be somewhat useful.
Walking over to Daryl's side and placing the tool in his outstretched hand, only for him to look up at you, one eye squinted, and make a face that said 'really?'
"Not a ratchet?" you ask with an embarrassed smile.
"Nah, not even close," he responds, standing from where he had been crouched beside the bike that Aaron gifted him.
"Oops," you shrug, paying attention as he grabs the correct tool and rolls his eyes at you.
"With how often ya watch me, I'd figure ya'd know wha' some o' the tools are by now," he remarks, bending down to continue on the bike. You were only half listening, watching as he spread his legs into a squatting position, reaching under the bike, his biceps flexing once more.
"Hey, I'm learning... Slowly." He lets out a snort in amusement but said nothing.
"Don't got nothin' better t' do than hand me the wrong tools?" he asks without turning around. You know he's just teasing you, so you don't take offense to his comment.
"Nope, I could do this all day, Dixon," you joke. He looks over his shoulder again, a brow raised. Your bottom lip was tucked between your teeth, eyes completely honed in on his muscles shining in the sunlight.
"The hell ya lookin' at?" he asks, standing upright, removing his rag from his back pocket and wiping his greasy hands on it. Your eyes shoot up to his own and a blush creeps across your cheeks in embarrassment.
"Your biceps," you respond with a casual shrug. Daryl is caught off guard by your forwardness, making a face.
"Why?" he asks in his southern accent.
"What do you mean 'why?' What kinda question is that?" you ask in astonishment, taking a step closer to your boyfriend.
"Ion know," is all he says, getting a little shy by your flirting.
"Why do men look at women's asses? It's the same thing," you reach out and touch his bicep, cautiously, gently. He looks between your hand and your face.
"Not the same," he grumbles lowly.
"It is," you smile. "Don't you ever look at my ass?" you tease. Daryl shrugs and focuses hard on his hands, toying with the dirty rag.
"Yeah," he mumbles, his hair in his face.
"Well, there ya have it," you let go of the poor guy's muscle, not wanting to embarrass him too much. "Why do you think I always wanna hang around you while you work on this? It's like live porn," you joke. Daryl shuffles his weight and squints at you like you're crazy.
"The hell?" he asks, chuckling. "Yer crazy, woman."
"It's true!" you tease as he bends down and grabs a tool. "If you did it shirtless I think my ovaries would combust," you continue to tease the poor archer. He looks at you in astonishment before completely ignoring you and turning his attention back to the bike.
"Go bother Rick or somethin," he drawls.
"Nah I'd rather stay here and bother you," you take a seat on the porch step once more. "I should wash your bike for you. Return the favor, ya know?" you ramble. "I can do it in my bra and shorts, too. Make it real sexy."
Of course, you weren't paying attention and didn't see Abraham and Eugene approaching, stopping in their tracks a few feet off to the left.
"Shit I'd like to see that," Abraham says, a smirk plastered on the redhead's face. Daryl shoots a glare at the tall man before turning his glare toward you, like you just got in trouble. You raise your hands in surrender and blush lightly.
"Abraham, don't girls find biceps super sexy?" you drag him into your debate.
"Uh, I would assume so, yeah," he responds, glancing down at his own large exposed muscles. Eugene is watching everything unfold silently, looking stiff and awkward. Daryl, on the other hand, is glaring intently, still squatting beside his new bike.
"Daryl thinks I'm crazy for checking him out," you inform Abraham, who looks over at him.
"Forget it," Daryl grumbles, standing up and beginning to gather up his tools. Abraham chuckles.
"I don't think that's it, Y/N," is all he says.
"I'm sorry I think you're hot!" you tease Daryl as he physically drags you up the porch steps into the house.
"Really?" he glares in fake annoyance after he slams the door closed with a kick of his boot. You giggle.
"You're cute when you're mad," you continue the teasing, approaching the taller man.
"Yer so annoyin'," he groans, but reaches out and grabs your waist.
"I know. It's fun to tease you," you shrug, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning up to place a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. "I'll get changed so I can put on a show for you and all the boys," you taunt, trying to slip out of his arms and toward the stairs. Daryl's eyes go wide and he takes two large strides after you, catching you from behind by the waist again and wrapping his large arms around you.
"Hell nah!" he exclaims, pressing his face into your neck as you squirm playfully in his arms.
"What? You don't want a show?"
"Just fer me," he drawls in your ear. "Nobody else," kissing your neck.
summary: ever since you were young you had been into racing cars, that didn't change once the apocalypse started. however the danger of the sport caught a certain someone's attention and he had to teach you a lesson when you had a close call...
setting: alexandria
warnings: overprotective!daryl, dom!daryl, sub!fem-reader, oral (fem!receiving), age!gap (reader in mid 20s, daryl in early 40s), overstimulation, unprotected p in v, aggressive sex. probably more
it started when you were nearly 8, your love for cars. you had sat with your mom for hours as she taught you everything you needed to know, she was an experienced car racer and mechanic after all. she taught you how an engine runs inside and out, what parts caused certain functions of the vehicle. every little detail you could have ever thought in your young mind.
by the time you hit 10 she had you out in the garage, working on a '93 acura nsx. tearing the engine apart and rebuilding it, adding new parts, modifying the thing until it was barely street legal. with a cat-back, modified exhaust, brand new turbo, high-compression pistons and a tune that could run over 500 horsepower, the machine was a beast. and the best part was, she promised that it was yours when you turned 18.
but when it came time for you to receive the car on your 18th birthday, after all of the modifications were done, after the car was finally ready to be raced, the dead started rising. things took a turn for the worst and everything became a blur, leaving your home-town, family, and the car behind. it was something you thought of daily. something burned into your soul.
however, you couldn't have been more happy when your friend, aaron, brought home to alexandria the shell of an old mustang. though it wasn't the same car you could've had all those years ago, the sight of it made every nerve in your body shoot with electricity and excitement. hell you even cried. you finally had something that could bring you peace, make your thoughts stop ruling your mind. something that reminded you of home. of your mom.
over the past few months you had begged aaron to look for more parts, to even take you beyond the walls with him so you could find them yourself and hell you couldn't have been any more ecstatic when he said yes. day in and day out you would find one more part that would bring you closer to the car you had now.
it wasn't as modified, but it was something. something that you knew your mother would be proud of. something that, despite the world how it was now, brought you so much joy that you couldn't keep it to yourself anymore. you had told aaron and eric just about everything there was to know about it, them being the only two who gave you the light of day. despite them not knowing anything you were saying they were overjoyed to see your true self for once.
but that changed once the couple brought home a group of people. a rough looking group at that. it was your job to make sure everyone settled nicely, alongside aaron. however one individual caught your eye, same as aaron and once he was able to get closer to him you finally thought that you had someone to work alongside you and your passion.
daryl dixon.
but with his stand-offish ways, you were never able to find the right time to talk to him. to get to know him the way aaron was getting to know him and maybe even more. it wasn't everyday that you stumbled upon someone with the same hobby that you had, or even something similar at that. it drew you in, like you had to know what he was about. his looks were a bonus too.
and eventually you got there. one night on your way to aaron's to hound him again to take you out for some final and spare parts for the mustang. some minor tweaks and adjustments that you needed to make, annoying. you wanted nothing more than to just take the machine for a drive at full capacity, never getting the chance to truly push any type of machinery considering the world went to shit before you could even think about it.
to your surprise, aaron's garage was open and the light was on. you took that as your sign to approach that way; hearing the shuffles and sounds of someone in there only made your feet move faster. you felt antsy, excited to finally get everything together. it made your hands shake with anticipation and your legs move faster. anything to be a few steps closer.
"hey aaron! i was wondering if you could take me out tomorrow for some parts! the mustang is nearly do-" you cut yourself off once you realized daryl was standing there, making eye contact with him instead of your friend after fumbling with your sweater. "oh i'm sorry, am i interrupting?" a blush fell upon your cheeks as the embarrassment settled in. or was it the colour of his eyes? you couldn't tell over the static in your ears.
"no, no, i was actually just showing daryl the old bike," aaron answered instead with a light laugh, pointing to the semi-exposed hunk of junk that had been collecting dust for just over a year now. he had offered it to you once upon a time, but it wasn't exactly your passion. "he's going to fix it up, maybe you could help him? i know you prefer cars but..."
"um, yeah i can. that is if he needs the help." your answer was short and sweet, though the question threw you into whack. surprising you, but clearly surprising daryl too. he looked at aaron like he was telling the biggest lie known to man, like he was assuming that you didn't know what you were doing. because how on earth could someone like you -someone who looked so delicate in those tiny little shorts and a sweater too big- know how to work on any type of machinery.
"prefer to do it on ma'own." was all the archer had to say, drawing his eyes from you to the concrete floors of the garage. his way of refraining his own mind, taking control over his thoughts that got the best of him. you weren't surprised by his response however, nearly predicting that he would decline. too bad.
but his answer wasn't fuelled by him thinking you didn't know what you were truly doing. or that you had any lack of knowledge, no. it was the fact that the sight of you made his heart beat a little faster, made his palms clammy, his head race. he was new and he didn't want to make ties here just yet, but something within him couldn't help it. he couldn't help the fact that you wore revealing clothes, or the fact that you work on cars and know your shit, but what he could help was his own mind (and his eyes from wondering all over your body).
"not to be pushy or anything, but she knows what she's doing. you should see what she's built." as if on instinct, you clutched onto your hoodie and hugged yourself to try and hide from the embarrassment you felt. you hated being called out like that and you hated the fact that you genuinely wanted to show off, wanted daryl to see that you are capable, but at the same time what if he knew more? what if something was wrong? what if you truly didn't know what you were doing and your mom came back to haunt you for it?
"it's nothing aaron. just a beater," you brushed the offer away, trying not to make the build you were so proud of a big deal. right now, you wanted to go back home and never step foot outside of your house again. you wanted to hope daryl would forget all about what aaron had just spilled about you. "i'll let you two get back to it, talk to you later." without another word you began to walk off when you heard daryl clear his throat, halting your movements. you silently begged that he wouldn't bring it up again.
"wouldn't mind seein'" he mumbles, making your breath hitch in the back of your throat and your eyes widen slightly. curse you aaron.
to be honest, daryl didn't know why he said what he said. he didn't want to get close. he didn't want to make friends. but there was just something about you, something that he really couldn't control. maybe silently yearning was something that he could get used to. just because he may feel a certain way didn't mean he needed to act on it. right?
"really, it's nothing. not really worth it right now, it's not done." you tried so desperately to remove yourself from the situation at hand, the embarrassment not faltering. if anything you felt as though you could curl in a ball and melt through the ground that crunched beneath your feet. "that's what i actually came here for, was going to see if aaron could take me out tomorrow to get the final parts." you added to try and further prove your point.
"nonsense, you've spent so much time on it and you had no problem 'nerding' around about it to me and eric," if looks could kill aaron would be dead as you spun around on your heals and dropped your arms down to your sides, clenching your fists. "i'll take you tomorrow, maybe daryl would have some suggestions. just show him. i know you're dying to show the thing off." you could've sworn that your face was like a tomato at this point.
"fine." you said through clenched teeth, cursing the hell out of aaron once more. as if you couldn't feel any more sheepish, any more annoyed at that too. you suddenly began to regret coming here in the first place as you wave for the two men to follow you.
the short walk back to your smaller house felt like forever, your mind running wild with the thought of showing daryl your project. what if he didn't like it? what if he knew more than you did and pointed out the flaws and gaps in the build? you prayed to your mom that everything was okay with the mustang, that daryl wouldn't find something out of the ordinary. or that he wouldn't question your skill set even though deep down you knew you had nothing to worry about.
and though your anxiety kept pumping as you approached your garage, you still bent down and used your trembling hands to grab the handle and push the door up and open.
"this is it. it's really not much." you wave a hand as you flicked the lights on and instantly caught daryl's face to gauge his expression. his reaction. and oh boy was it difficult through the deadpanned stare. he didn't seem too impressed and it was like a stab to the heart for some reason beyond your knowledge.
"it's really come together hasn't it?" aaron placed his hand on your shoulder, but you couldn't tell if it was friendly or a way of comforting. maybe he caught your reaction too. but yes, the build had come along just the way you wanted it to and you couldn't be any happier. and as much as you wanted to find the words to speak and make it known you just couldn't muster anything up, the weight of daryl's presence crushing you down and eating you alive. the anticipation alone was killing you.
"s'not bad," daryl huffed out, walking around your masterpiece as if he was a white-gloved inspector. you let out a breath that you didn't know you had, only to hold it again.
"no muffler?" he questioned, making your heart drop a little as you scramble for an answer. why? you had no idea. you never doubted your capabilities or ideas until now; until daryl came around. the answer to his question was simple but you're unsure if he'll like the answer which made you hesitate.
"uh, no. like 'em loud. haven't had an issue with the walkers at all when taking it out." your voice was nothing more than a waver, than a little puff that came from your throat. "usually run it in neutral until i'm a couple miles past the gates." you added, searching daryl's face once more. maybe that made it better?
but nonetheless your skin still crawled and your face turned even more red for sure, even made you scramble to search your pockets for the box of cigarettes you had found on your last run with aaron. god you could smoke the whole pack right now.
"hm, not yet at least," you watched as daryl crossed his arms over his chest, continuing to walk around your prized possession until he reaches the front and like a pro pops the hood. you could've sworn you felt your heart drop to your stomach once more as the exposed engine silenced the man before you, like he was holding his breath.
"boosted turbos? coyote engine? does this thing even have a cat? you got a death wish out there?" he rapid fired questions as stern as ever. you felt the blood in your veins all drain down to your feet in an instant.
"yes it has all that but... um no, i-i just like the sport. i usually go out all the time for test runs, i'm still here." the stutter in your voice made you cringe, but his comment overrode the feeling entirely. what did he mean you had a death wish? was it not smart to put that type of engine in? did the extra time searching for decent turbos be put to waste in the end? all of your work seemed to be crumbling before your eyes at the hands of this brute of a man.
his opinion shouldn't matter that much, right? not unless you felt something for him. which maybe you did or maybe you didn't. you're strong headed attitude and independence went out the window ever since 30 minutes ago when you had went to aaron's for an innocent question, but instead ended up with daryl in your garage. ridiculous, quite frankly ridiculous. what a man could do to you, just by standing over your engine bay. arms crossed. looking the way he did.
your eyes shoot to aaron and he must've seemed to notice the falter, offering you a soft smile and a gentle hand on your shoulder once again. "i tend to go with her majority of the time, she takes it to an old track near by. the place has been abandoned well before the dead started rising, no walkers in the general area," your friend began, earning a hard glare from daryl. the man still didn't seem to be impressed. he didn't seem to care about anything you did and it hit you like a train.
"and besides, she knows what she's doing. knows the dangers. she has family history, maybe we should all have dinner together and talk about it. i'm sure it's something worth bonding over?" aaron added; much to your dismay. however you knew he was only trying to help, to break the ice. your eyes popped out of your head as you lifted a cigarette to your lips and sparked it up with an old bic lighter, taking three quick puffs.
"don'need to bond with nobody," daryl began, voice rough and heavy as he closes the hood of your car, "but next time ya go out, let me know. wouldn't mind seeing the thing in action." in conclusion? daryl was a truly confusing person.
once the hunter had left your garage with aaron you released a breath so hard that you felt like your lungs would collapse, leaning against the hood of you car with a presumably red face. thought you thought it may be from embarrassment, something deep down in you knew that it was because daryl wanted to see your car in action.
you had a lot of work to do.
he had been watching you for weeks now as you fiddled with the mustang that he —begrudgingly— found to be an amazing piece of machinery. his own eyes had deceived him as he depicted you to be delicate. his brain deceived him as well at he sight of your soft-looking skin get tinged with grease and oil, realizing that you weren't so dainty. he hated to admit it, but damn he just couldn't resist the sight of you.
he wishes that he could muster up the courage to just offer you help right off the bat, that way he would have sound mind when you took the car beyond the walls. getting to be so close to you that his skin may set a blaze would be a bonus too.
he still found the muffler delete to be absolutely idiotic, the engine to be too powerful, and the boosted turbos to be a ridiculous add on; but he knew he couldn't do anything to stop you from continuing your build the way it was. unfortunately to his dismay, you really were serious about taking that walker-trap of a mustang out once it was finished.
he wasn't around for the first trial run, being out on a supply run with rick. the only reason he knew about it was the fact that the car had returned with some popped tires; and the fact that you were clutching at your neck like you had strained it. idiot, he thought. how could you be so careless. especially when he wasn't around to be the knight in shining armour.
the run forced him to get closer to you, to begin helping; to break him out of his own shell of embarrassment and although daryl would never admit it out loud, the thought of working with you made him forget all the shit going on in the world.
so he decided to be selfish and swallow his pride for once in his life and approached you to offer some help, which you gladly took. it shocked him that you said yes, that your face turned so obviously red because of him; especially because the way he treated you the first time he spoke to you. it was his only defence mechanism at the time.
the longer he worked alongside you, the more he realized that maybe his feelings were okay. maybe the sudden high school-like crush he was developing for you was dignified in the way you smiled at him, the way you're finger tips brushed over his when you'd accidentally reach for the same wrench. or maybe the flush of red that would creep it's way onto your pretty face when he would make slight jokes at you.
and maybe, just maybe, had he noticed that you may have the same crush on him that he had on you. if he squinted hard enough, that is.
the second trial of your mustang was another day that he wasn't there. this time, he had been on a hunting trip for a couple days. upon his return home you had met him at the gate with your car, once again no tires and smoke puffing out where the muffler would've been had you not deleted it; but this time it looked like you had bruised up your shoulder, bad enough that you were clutching at it and wincing. perhaps hitting it off the door mid drift? he didn't know; but he was starting to get angry.
he once again offered you help, but something in him twisted. something that was screaming at him to protect you and to stop allowing you to make such dumb decisions, to teach you a lesson. his emotions reflected in how he helped you that week. rough exterior, eyes watching your every move, tense when you would get too close to injuring yourself with a tool or the way your body twisted and bent to reach a bolt.
daryl didn't care if you noticed the sudden overbearing mess that he had become, but he did make sure that you noticed how his demeanour changed in how he cares for you. he brought you water, food, new car parts, because when he wasn't in your direct vicinity at all times all he could think about was you bent over the engine bay, ass in the air, hurting your dainty fingers or scarring up your arms or chest. or how the hood prop could give out and crush you.
god, what did you do to him?
he wanted— no needed— to protect you, and had he been given the opportunity to actually act upon teaching you a lesson for you to finally be safe while out with the car? god help you.
the third time was what took the cake for him though. as you were making your way out of the safety of alexandria, car in neutral and all, daryl was finally around to come with you. finally around to see you in action, and finally around to show you a lesson if you couldn't be safe. he decided that enough was enough, convinced himself that you would be easily molded into learning to be safe had you received some punishment for it.
"you know, i'm glad you're around this time daryl," you began, gentle voice making butterflies erupt in the hunter's stomach. "you've been such a great help with repairs and bringing me those car parts definitely help too," you beamed, those beautiful eyes staring into daryl's steel blue ones. god you were so pretty, it was all he could think about. "i'm starting to think i've grown on you."
"what makes ya say that?" he grunts, voice raspy like usual.
"well for starters, you eventually came around, helping me and making sure i'm not hurting myself when i get too into my work," your acknowledgment of his hard work in the matter, the words that left your mouth, all went straight to his dick as goosebumps rose to the surface of his tough skin. "you know, before that, i was starting to think that you hated me."
on the contrary, daryl thought. he could never hate you. truthfully he was all yours if you'd have him.
"don't press yer luck there princess." he teased anyways in a gentle type of way, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own as your laugh sounded like music to his ears. he would play along with your thoughts until he could prove otherwise.
"got it." as you got the car about 2 miles away from alexandra, you had flipped the keys in the ignition to the on position and listened with content as your masterpiece roared to life. daryl couldn't help but stare at your satisfied expression, wishing that he could make you look like that no matter what it took.
when the two of you had finally reached the race track that you always mentioned, daryl noticed all the skid marks and blown rubber from tires and his heart skipped a beat. god he was definitely in for a heart attack today, his instincts telling him to get you the hell out of that car. was daryl dixon experiencing anxiety for the first time? maybe. but it was well brought up, from you that is.
"it'll be a simple day daryl, just going to run a few laps and practice some drifting again." you informed the hunter, but he couldn't help but swallow hard and nod as his eyes squint in the sunlight. his face felt hot, his hands clammy. god he never felt this type of way before.
not even when the two of you were back home and he couldn't have eyes on you. this was real now, and you were about to show him what you've been doing when he's not around. it made him puff out profanities under his breath.
"i'll be fine daryl, like i told you before; my mother taught me everything i know. i wouldn't be here if i didn't know what i was doing." you must've caught the worry that he was trying so hard to hide, but this only made him grunt as he leaned against the brittle brick wall of the track.
he watched as you got into the drivers seat and pushed the car into drive, revving a few times (presumably to get up to optimal rpm or running temp) before flooring it. with your tires screeching as they try to gain traction, your car roars and takes off down the track at a speed that made daryl's heart race too quickly for his liking.
as you approached the first turn, you ripped the e-brake and the car was sent sideways. a perfect drift, but daryl couldn't help but stiffen up as he thought you wouldn't clear it. your rear bumper was inches away from clipping the barrier of old tires. but it didn't, and daryl realized that he may be over reacting. he needed to have a little faith in you, mind wondering to what you had mentioned about your mother.
"we were working on an old nsx, it was the most perfect build i could imagine. but when i turned 18 and it was time for me to bring it to track, the world had went to shit." you're sad tone made his heart twist. daryl wasn't one for feeling bad for someone, let alone a stranger but he couldn't help it when it came to you.
"i observed her driving since i was 10 though, she was amazing. i wish you got to see her in action, i know everything thanks to her," you offered that beautiful smile that daryl secretly grew to love so much, "but my work reflects her teachings, god she would be so proud of this mustang. i think that part of me is doing this for her. i guess grief works in weird ways."
you're past words offered daryl comfort as he continued observing you, body relaxing as your voice continues echoing in his mind. with the knowledge that you had been training since basically 10 years old, he couldn't help but let out a breath he did know he's been holding while watching as you go into lap 2. the hunter continued observing as you geared up to make the same drift you had moments ago. this time, having more faith in you.
but it was short lived.
with a loud snap that ricocheted off the concrete walls of the race track, he seen the serpentine belt shoot from under your car. as you were about to pull the e-brake you had gotten startled at the sharp snap and got distracted with the dash lighting up like a christmas tree, pulling the brake too late. daryl had cringed and shot up straight to try and get your attention, but his blood ran cold as he watched your car slam right into the barriers.
a head-on collision. hitting so hard that the tires gave way.
the sound of your hood scrunching inward made his heart nearly drop out of his ass as he ran towards you. "you alright?!" he exclaimed, voice shaken as he rips the drivers door open to see you laughing as you pressed your hand to you forehead.
"holy fuck daryl did you see that!?" you yelled with excitement while daryl stared dumbfounded. how the hell could you be so happy in a moment where he felt his world shatter before him.
"how could i not woman! damn near gave me a heart attack." his voice came on stronger than he initially intended, but he was so worried about you that he was mad with himself. mad that he didn't see the serpentine belt had a slight crack in it, and mad that you hadn't realized it either. with all the 'knowledge' you claimed to have.
"m'sorry daryl, but that was so exhilarating! god i can feel the adrenaline rush," you lifted your shakey hand from your forehead, which had clearly hit off the steering wheel on impact. daryl's blood began to boil slightly as he noticed the cut that was slowly dripping blood. "was it the serpentine belt? god i knew that thing needed to be replaced, but didn't think it would give up like that."
daryl stood frozen, not believing the words that came from your perfectly plush lips. if he didn't have such an infatuation with you, he would've scoffed and walked away. "ya knew that it was bad and still took the damn car out?" his face must've been beet red at this point.
"well yeah, usually they're more resilient." the hunter didn't like your smart mouth, making it evident through the grinding of his teeth and the intense glare in his eyes that shot through you like daggers.
"yeah, maybe if they're new! yer lucky ya only got a cut on yer forehead," he helped you take your seatbelt off with a grunt, using your forearm to help you ease out of the car. "coulda snapped yer neck with that type of impact, ya trying to get killed out here for god sakes!" his tone of voice increased to just a slight yell.
"are you worried about me?" he once again froze in place as you leaned on the car door for support, he noted that you must've felt dizzy but he couldn't move to offer support. your question had more of an effect on him than he initially thought. "because if you are that's sweet and all, but really daryl i'm okay." you added, raising a hand to place it on his shoulder in a comforting manner.
"ya'ain't though, you seem dizzy." he was finally able to speak, watching as you began to sway lightly and brace the car a little extra with your hands.
"i'll be okay, i've done worse to myself." you dismissed his words as he watched you slowly walk to the front of your car, gripping the hood and pulling it up as much as you could before your side began to ache. he noticed, of course he did, he noticed everything when it came to you. especially when you were injured. god how he hated to see you hurt.
"jesus woman, lemme help." he huffed, working his way around the car to assist you with the yanking.
"damn, what a shame. i won't be able to take it out for a couple of weeks until we can find a new one." the defeated look on your face as you peered into your engine bay made daryl lighten up his harsh frustration. that was, until you looked at him and grinned in a devious way. it made him confused.
"i still think i could get a few more laps out of her, might as well go until she won't run no more." he couldn't tell if you were joking or not, but by the ambitious look on your face he could tell you were at least somewhat serious.
just like that his frustration bubbled up again, eyes glaring at you. he knew that it was obvious at this point how he felt about you continuing the run even though you were injured and the car was nearly falling apart. the protectiveness began kicking in at some point in between the crash and now too, which didn't help.
"nah, we're done for the day." he spoke up, words sounding as stern as he could make them.
"please daryl? i was doing so well." you pleaded. his heart pumped faster as your sweet voice and lip pout nearly made him stumble backwards. but he was firm and meant what he said.
"no, that's final," he began, full on turning to see you. to take you all in.
you were so full of expression that it was easily readable across your face that you had grown frustrated. with a hint of embarrassment, maybe some sadness. but deep within your eyes daryl could see that you enjoyed being told no. the way your pupils dilated wide, the way your breathing grew quicker, the way you had to lean back against the hood of the car for support.
"yer injured, ya need to be checked out. it ain't just your head, it's yer side too." he lifted his hand to move your elbow, lifting your shirt gently and using his calloused fingers to brush over a newly formed bruise. it made his blood boil to see such marks on the beautiful expanse of your skin, the blue and purple a nasty contrast against it.
"daryl—" you went to speak however he cut you off and continued on.
"every damn time ya come out here ya wind up injured. first was yer neck, then yer shoulder, now her ribs and head?" he pressed further, growing more and more frustrated, "what? yer ma never taught ya safety?" he could see the hurt flash gently across your face at the mention of your mother. but he kept going.
"when r'ya gonna learn? when ya can't walk no more? when ya can't use yer damn arms? what will ya do then?" with each question his face unintentionally grew closer to you, maybe it was on purpose or maybe he meant to. but the look burning in your eyes, the barely there tears, it all edged him on. "well? ya gonna answer?"
he watched as every time you went to speak you couldn't get the words out, he flustered you. each opening syllable came out as a stutter, face turning red with embarrassment. or was it something else? because daryl himself began to feel the heat linger throughout his body as the dominance grew more wild and feral but the second. the way you coward back into yourself as he stood, looming over you and giving you a lecture.
he thought back to when he first laid eyes on you, how small and gentle you looked. how your shorts hugged your ass and how your baggy sweater drowned your frame. how delicate your fingers were as you lifted the garage door and showed him your car. so how could you be so stupid as to injure yourself for something that should be fun and somewhat safe?
"i don't know how to— how to answer you." was all you could muster, whimpering slightly as his gaze shot you down and your mind became small. all the energy and confidence you had once built up so high, daryl watched as it crumpled before him. it made his breath hitch and his body move before he could think.
grasping at the sides of your head, leaning his head down to your level, he spoke "the first two times ya took out this car i let it slide, but now?" he paused, for a brief moment he thought about pulling away and bringing you back home; thought that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. but when you didn't recoil at his touch and used your doe-eyes to look up at him he couldn't help himself.
"now i think ya need to learn a lesson."
his hands dropped to your wrists as he held them tight between the two of you, eyes searching for any hesitation in your own. when you let out a small and submissive whimper, he knew it was over for him. no more hiding how he felt, no more allowing you to be so reckless. he would fuck you into learning to be cautious. until you were screaming the words 'i promise'.
without another word, daryl dropped your wrists and finally leaned in to capture your lips with his as his hands grab either side of your face. the kiss was gentle at first, like he was testing the waters. but when you didn't struggle against him or try to pull away, instead melting into him, the hunter knew that it was okay to continue. deepening the kiss was one thing, but the way your body reacted was another.
you had pressed your chest flush against his, body rolling as the kiss intensified to full on slobber and tongue. daryl felt like he was on cloud 9 from the kiss alone, he could only imagine how he'd react when he finally got to sink his cock into that pretty cunt. the feeling of your hands roaming his shoulders then running down along the muscles of his back was nearly enough to make him drop the foreplay and get right to it.
your pretty moans and whimpers against his lips encouraged him to move even further in, placing his leg in between your legs as he pressed you further into the open engine bay of the mustang. his cock throbbing painfully against the zipper of his jeans as you grind your sopping pussy against his knee, a low groan omitted from deep within his chest as he felt the arousal soak into the fabric.
"god ya have no idea how long i've been waitin'," he says in between sloppy kisses, pulling away to take you in. lips glistening in the early afternoon sun, slick with his saliva and a mix of yours as well. your eyes were full of lust and longing, glazed over as you were drunk on his kiss alone. "to kiss these pretty lips." he brought his hand down slightly so his thumb could rub against your bottom lip.
you moaned in response as you kissed his thumb, hands moving from his body to grip at his wrists. he observed the way your eyes roamed all over his face, gauging for a reaction as you parted your lips and pushed his thumb into your mouth so you could suck it softly. at that moment, he looked at you like he was a starved man and that you were exactly what he needed to satisfy his hunger.
"here's how this is gonna work princess," as he spoke, low and raspy, he watched the toll it took on your body. your hips kept their pace as you continued grinding against his knee, moaning out as you were becoming lost in the feeling.
"i'm gon' make ya cum so much that yer begging me to stop," daryl pulled his thumb from your mouth before pulling your lips to his once again as passionately as he could before gathering in a horny mess on his knees before you. "until i see to it that ya understand just how reckless y'are, just how much seein' ya hurt makes me crazy."
all you could do was whimper in anticipation and nod as your body shook beneath him. his big hands reached to your waist as he began nudging down your cargo shorts, relishing in the fact that you didn't have any panties on this entire time. had he known that, this would've happened sooner.
after discarding your shorts he gripped your leg roughly and threw it over his shoulder, creating the most perfect view of your cunt he could ever ask for. light pink, glistening with arousal, and practically begging for daryl to fill it up with his throbbing cock.
"fuck princess, yer pussy's perfect. so wet fer me." his compliments went straight to your rising heat as you arched your back in order to get him to begin already. he knew that you needed him, but didn't know just how badly until you moaned so loud that he swore it would attract walkers.
but fuck he could care less as he indulged himself between your legs, lapping and nipping at your clit and eating you out like his life depended on it. the feeling of his tongue on your cunt, mixed with the sweet taste of it all, he was in heaven and he was going to enjoy it for as long as he wanted.
"fuck daryl— please don't stop." you let out in small breaths, reaching your hand down to tangle in his hair as he flattened his tongue and licks strips up and down your folds.
"mmm.." he hummed in response as he kept going, like it was the most nonchalant thing in his life. it drove you crazy, pressing his head down further into you as you grind on his face.
who was he to correct you when he finally is getting what he wanted? though he was the one going to teach you a lesson, he could let you have your fun too. after all, the feeling of your fluttering hole on his tongue as he fucks you with it proved his point. you were enjoying yourself, and now that it was evident there was truthfully no stopping the hunter.
"shit— nghh, daryl m'close.." you moaned out from above him, body tensing up as you felt the coil tighten in your stomach and the pressure rising by the second.
the moment you spoke, daryl went faster, rougher. using his lips, he sucked your clit and used his teeth to graze it harshly. the feeling sent you jolting backwards in pleasure, head lolling back with your mouth slack. drool began to drip down your chin and the sight to daryl was almost enough to make him cum in his pants.
"yeah? come on princess, cum f'me. ya can do it, let me here it, giv'it ta me." he mumbles, continuing his abuse on your clit until you finally felt everything tip over the edge. his words along with the skill of his tongue made your orgasm come hard, body spasming with such a force that the mustang beneath you was shifting with every wave and pulse of pleasure.
daryl on the other hand continued sucking on your cunt, as if trying to savour your arousal with everything in his being. the sounds he was making were so dirty that it made a whole new wave of horny rush through your body.
"mmm, tha's ma girl, my pretty girl." he praised before standing to his feet, finally taking in the state of your body. a sheen layer of sweat formed across your bare skin, slight tears in your eyes, hair wild and nipples hard. as if his dick wasn't already strained enough, it felt like he was going to explode.
not giving you any time to ride out your first orgasm, he has you spinning around and bent over the hood of the car within seconds. just how he wanted to take you, how he'd been dreaming and thinking about for an embarrassingly long time.
the sudden motion made you squeal and let out a throaty whimper. your body had already grown exhausted from the previous antics that daryl had partaken in, and not to mention the force of the accident you'd just been in minutes ago. but it was far from over. you had a hunch that by the time the hunter was done here that you won't be able to walk for real this time.
and it wouldn't be caused by a car crash, no— by him.
with painfully slow and precise movements, daryl reached down for his belt buckle and undid it with ease. the sound of his zipper echoed in your mind, pussy clenching as you awaited what you knew what coming. "i wanna hear you baby, wanna hear your pretty little sounds."
as soon as his pants hit the ground behind you, he ripped his boxers down so quickly that you could here his cock slap against his stomach. it made you moan out before you even felt him align with your slick entrance, still sopping wet from your arousal and his saliva.
"wanna hear ya beg for me to stop, that perfect little whine when ya tell me ya promise," he used one hand on your hip to brace himself, free hand pumping himself a few times.
"promise ya won't be reckless and stupid." and when the hunter had sunk the thick tip of himself into your cunt you both saw stars. the tantalizing tension between the both of you that had been there for weeks had finally subsided, quenched by the feeling of you stretching around him and by the sounds of your sweet voice uttering swears and gasps.
"holy fuck princess, yer so tight, just milking me." he let out his own moans, sinking inch by inch into you. you couldn't find the words to compliment how good the feeling of him moulding your body in the most perfect ways was. you instead became such a mess beneath him, any and all types of sounds heard from deep within your chest.
once he was in to the hilt, daryl pulled his hips back agonizingly slow before snapping them forward without giving you any time to adjust. your body jerked forward as you yelped out his name, arching your body into him by reflex. he took that as his sign to continue the same force and pace, the sound of his balls slapping your clit, hips connecting with your ass, and the sweet —oh so sweet— sound of your cunt squelching around him making him groan out in pleasure.
it didn't take long at all for your second orgasm to feel like it would tear from you, with the relentless motions of daryl's cock going in and out and hitting just where you needed it. he could tell you were already close again, but unfortunately for you daryl wasn't even near done.
with the way your body was pushing back against his, hands trying to grip at anything to steady yourself, and the way you were clenching around him made it obvious that you were going to break once again.
"fuckin' ya so good that yer already gon' cum again huh princess?" voice deep and raspy like always, hint of sultry dripping from his tongue, you could barely speak up a response as you grew tighter around him.
"y-yes daryl, feels so good—" you nod rapidly as you let out one more high pitched moan before your hole fluttered around the base of his dick, like you were trying to eat him whole.
without any other words you came again, harder than when he had been eating you out. the sound of you gushing around him echoing through the empty race track as he continued fucking into you harshly.
true to his word, he didn't stop. he couldn't stop. it was too good, and though it was harder and harder for him not to just let his own orgasm crash, he really did need to make you learn that your recklessness was over.
"such a good girl f'me huh? making a mess of my cock back 'ere." he grinned, watching the droplets of your arousal fall down the inside of your thighs with each thrust. he wishes he could've done this so much sooner, wishing that he had a camera to take a photo of this exact moment. he loved that he could make you feel this good.
"mmmh—" was all you could manage to say, legs shaking and knees about to give. the overwhelming pressure was nearly enough to make you pass out.
"ain't over yet princess." your eyes shot open as he laid a slap upon your ass, hard enough to sting and hard enough to make your legs stiffen up again. he only chuckled out low, both hands gripping your hips now and sure to leave marks on you. you could care less.
"daryl— s'too much." you slurred, words in sync with his thrusts and not coming out steady as your clit throbbed with overstimulating pleasure.
"nah, ya got it baby. just one more, one more time f'me." he could feel you clench around him, could see how puffy your pussy was because of him. god if it was up to him he would punish you all night long. but even daryl knew that you were reaching your limits. "yer doin' so good, learnin' yer lesson?"
"y-yes daryl, yes i'm learning good." your voice was so shakey and so sweet, but it wasn't convincing enough to the hunter.
"mm— i don' think so." he then leaned over you, hips still thrusting into you, and wrapped his hands around your waist. the motion forced you almost upright as he gripped you hard enough to steady you, your hands now white-knuckling the front bumper of the mustang you long forgotten had been crashed.
the angle that he was fucking you in made you're moans on par with a pornstars in daryl's mind, lewd and shrill. his name sounding like a mantra as it spilled from your lips exactly the way he expected it too, "daryl! daryl! daryl!" with each thrust in and out of your aching sex.
"tell me princess," he said right in your ear, breath hot and lustful, "tell me why yer in this position right now."
one of his arms dropped down from your waist while the other gripped harder, hand moving to your clit as he began rubbing it in agonizingly slow circles.
"fuck! fuck— daryl, jesus christ," you're curses kept him going, "because i was reckless, because i don't know when to stop," you cry out, finally uttering the words he wanted to hear. as if he wasn't already pounding into you with such force that your tits began aching with pleasure, he started to pick up the pace of a rabbit.
"that's right, mmhp—" he breathed out, chest heaving as he felt his out spring about to blow, "promise me, fuck baby, promise me ya won't do it again. lemme hear it." his balls tightened as he tried his best to hold out a little longer.
"i promise! i fucking promise! please daryl, i've learned! shit i've learned my lesson!" you scream, letting go off the bumper as you claw at his arms. he only applied more pressure to your clit at those words as he hummed in approval, noticing that he began to slow down.
"that's ma girl, fuck— that's it baby. all ya needed was my goddamn dick to learn, so good." his words were barely registering as a ring began to sound in your ears and the pressure spilling over the surface.
his thrusts became sloppy, deeper, and his grip became harder and harder until you finally exploded. you felt the trickle down your leg as you squirt all over him before you could register the fact that daryl has stilled his movements, falling forward onto the car as he moans and grunts into your ear. the feeling of his cock twitching, the feeling of hot and thick ropes of cum pumping into you, was all too much.
your vision darkened and your arms gave in, body collapsing full force onto your engine which had cooled down by now. your body spasming and twitching, he knew that you'd been fucked out. you couldn't even feel when he pulled out of you, couldn't even register that he had flipped you over and supported you upwards.
he took one look at you and all he could do was sheepishly grin, and let out a low chuckle. you seemed dazed, hair frazzled, face red, drool spilling from the corner of your plush lips. his eyes trailed down your body to your fucked out cunt, shivering as he watched his release drip from your abused hole.
“ya still there princess?” his voice was now tender, hand coming up to wipe the drool from your chin. but all you could do was nod, words were not an option as you caught your breath and felt drunk on him.
but as the feeling of pleasure died down and he helped clean and dress you, all that ran wild through your mind was —despite promising him— that you needed to crash your car more often.
hi everyone!! thank you in advanced for reading my work :) it truly does mean a lot. this was not proofread at all so if there were any errors i truly do apologize ❤️🔥 this is my first time writing a more kinky type of smut i’d say, please don’t make fun of me 🥺🤞🏼
"Didn't wanna stay with your boyfriend for any longer?" Daryl asks as you join him at the gate, ready to head out for a run.
"My boyfriend? You mean the new guy who hasn't stopped bothering me since he got here?" you raise an eyebrow, laughing softly. Just the thought of looking at a man other than the one in front of you feels ridiculous.
"Yeah. You two been spendin' a lotta time together. And he's your age" he says.
"He's nice i guess. But he's not really my type." you reply, still a little weirded out by the idea.
"You got a type now? Can't be too picky when most of the population's been wiped" he points out.
"I don't think the grumpy men with southern accents have gone extinct just yet. They seem to be pretty good at this survival shit. And lucky for me I already know where to find one" you smirk and watch the hunter in front of you get visibly flustered, a hint of pink creeping up his neck.
~~i've been getting lots of support already despite being new to this game. i'm so so happy that people enjoy my silly little writings. ty >< <3
dedicated to @fuck-yeah-lets-do-negan-ff , surprise (you thought of this a while ago but i never told you i was writing it muhahhaha)
description : you find Negan’s secret porn collection, and he finds you finding his secret porn collection. I wonder what happened next.
Sneaking through the halls, you came across a pair of double doors that looked nicer than the rest. Negan’s room. Your curiosity peaked, you decide to proceed into the room, punishments aside. The darkness within the room swallowed you up, your nerves at an all time high. But it was too late to go back now. Commit, you pussy. If he wanted you dead, you would be dead by now. On the opposite wall of the bed sat a TV on top of a dresser. You knew there was no way the channels were still running, so why the hell did he have it? Invading his privacy further, you opened one of the drawers.
“Holy shit.”
DVDs. Tons of them. ‘April 22 : HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME’, ‘JULY 15 : ALL ASS’. Porn, sex tapes, you couldn’t believe it. But maybe you just could. Your fingers sliding over the cases, ridge by ridge, you came across one labeled, ‘APRIL 29 : LUCILLE’. You glanced behind, making sure the coast was clear. Taking a deep breath, you cracked open the case and fed it to the DVD player above. Within seconds the screen flickered on, exposing a shirtless Negan who appeared front and center after turning on the camera.
“You’ve been a bad, bad girl, Lucille.” Stepping aside, he revealed a woman laying on the bed, completely naked and obviously pleased to be there. Watching on, you saw him flip her onto all fours and aggressively tease her. Although the quality of the video was sub par, you could almost feel him licking her clit with a vicious ferocity. Your eyes sucked to the screen, you adjusted your sitting position and slid a hand beneath your underwear. The way he hovered over her, his muscles twinging with every move, continued to make you wet. As the woman’s moans became faster in the movie, so did your hand motions, your body pleading to trade your hand with Negan’s tongue. Seconds away from climax, you tilted your head back as you spread your juices all over your lips.
“Well holy hell.”
You suddenly froze mid stroke, the deep voice from behind you sending you into a state of shock. Negan. The video continued, the sound of the woman on the screen echoing throughout the room until Negan approached the TV. Stretching out his arm, he turned off the box, silencing the room and boxing her between the dresser and his body.
“Can I help you up? Or are your hands a little full?”
Scrambling to adjust yourself, you adjusted your panties and stood before him, hiding your hands behind your back.
“You dirty girl. You fucking like what you saw?”
“Look, I know I shouldn’t have been in here, I’ve crossed so many lines and broken so many rules. I’ll just leave it’s not a big de-” Before you could escape, he clasped onto your arm, the firm way he held you making you even wetter than you were before.
“Is that what you want? You want me to make you my ‘Lucille’?”
You looked up into his eyes, your everything burning with desire.
“I can’t fucking say yes for you,” he said, waiting for her consent.
“Hit me with your best shot.”
Jerking you back, he tears open your shirt and begins kissing down your figure. Starting with the crook of your neck, down your stomach and stopping right above your slit. Throwing you onto the bed, he paused before continuing his magic.
“Why don’t I give you a souvenir, huh? Some shit to take on the road?” Approaching the corner of the room he pulled out a tripod with a camcorder duct taped to the top, a red button visible on the front. Before you could say anything, he pounced on you once again, kissing you with a force you had never felt before. His tongue weaving in, out and around yours, speaking a language only your mouths understood. He bit your lip, releasing an uncontrollable moan that pressed your body even closer to his. You reached up to remove his shirt, but he had other plans.
“And what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He pinned your arms above your head before slithering down to your prized possessions down below. You remained on your back, your hips squirming with anticipation.
“Look at you, fucking squirming around like that. Can I help you with something?” He looked up, his lips inches from your pussy. “Oh shit,” he slowly approached you, performing a single lick up your slit before looking back up at you. “Is this what you want?” Unable to gather your words, you nodded your head and entangled your fingers within his hair trying to push him back down. “Well I mean,” he went down again, this time circling twice around your clit with the tip of his tongue. “if this is what you want…” holding out no further, he dove into the feast ahead of him. Spelling out the alphabet, every flick creating a heavier sensation throughout her body. To help the cause, he inserted three fingers, wasting no time during the build up. Alternating between licks and pulses, he continued to use his hand and mouth in unison as you began to drip all over his fingers. Your moans quickening along with his pulse, you could feel yourself ready to blow.
“Come on, baby,” he urged between licks, “cum for me. You owe me, so fucking cum for me.”
Your back arching, your moans grew than halted as his few final strokes broke your chords, squirting his face with your mark, your muscles pulsing and clenching around his fingers which remained inside of you until you completely finished.
Finally removing his hand, he wiggled his fingers, examining the cum before licking a finger.
“I fucking take pride in my work.”
Still trying to recover, you remained on the bed, your eyes closed. He stood and walked to the camera in the corner, wiping what remained on the back of his jeans.
“Now this,” he said removing a disk from the camera, “this shit is for you.” Removing a marker from his pocket, he jotted something down, tossed it on the bed next to you and headed for the door.
“Now you can start your own collection. To be continued.” With a chuckle, he left the room closing the door behind you.
With your breath finally back, you reached for the DVD. Laughing to yourself, you read his caption.
daughter of the sword, son of the wild ; jeon wonwoo
SUMMARY. you were supposed to kill him, he had no reason to keep you alive - and yet, the universe works in mysterious ways. what will you do when your path begins to unravel? how long until you realize the sword you wield can very well be used against you?
PAIRING. jeon wonwoo x f!reader
GENRE. enemies to lovers, rebel!wonwoo, assassin!reader, historical au, angst, some fluff towards the end, lots of introspection, junhao speak cantonese with each other in this universe
WARNINGS. language, mention of drinking, main & side character death (multiple character deaths), violence & blood (not graphic), kissing - slightly suggestive? but not really? read at your own discretion
WORDS. 34.54k
NOTES. um so... let the record show i did not originally intend for this fic to get this long. but! i can't believe it's finally done! this was a very engaging story to write and i genuinely enjoyed every moment of it. huge huge thank you to jay @ppyopulii & calli @hhaechansmoless for letting me scream about this and brainstorming along with me this fic would absolutely not exist without them!! so sorry for causing all of those crashouts guys... i love u so much i promise. anyways, that's all i have to say - i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing! xx (oh also if you see weird gaps between paragraphs that's the shift + entering i had to do to fit this in one post oops)
TAGS. @mochacoda @ppyopulii @jiabae @nerdycheol
PLAYLIST. tsunami - niki / gemini - jun / do i wanna know - arctic monkeys / sailor song - gigi perez / the cut that always bleeds - conan gray / close to you - gracie abrams
The night is quiet – a little too quiet, an eerie kind of silence that cannot be ignored. Wonwoo gets goosebumps on the back of his neck, hairs standing on end, and he knows immediately that something is wrong.
Silently, he taps Jeonghan’s shoulder twice. A signal. The older man raises his eyebrows, hand instinctively moving to his sword.
“We are not alone,” Wonwoo cautions him, taking careful steps forward. It’s a lucky thing that he’s mastered the art of staying calm in situations that are as suddenly critical as this. He and Jeonghan were only hoping to return home after a long day of travel, but now he has the feeling someone wants to prevent that from happening.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wonwoo suddenly catches an unmistakable glint of something that can only be metal. After all, the moon never lies.
Jeonghan has noticed it, too. “There,” he says, sword drawn, “behind that shed. Do you see them?”
“That cannot be any less than fifteen, at least.”
“Only fifteen? This could have been a lot worse.”
Wonwoo is very familiar with that look, the impish smirk that Jeonghan always wears. Nobody knows what it’s meant to mask, but it has become something of a comforting sight.
“Do not get in your own head,” Jeonghan advises, offering him a firm pat on the shoulder. “Remember what we are here for.”
“Right,” Wonwoo nods, before ducking instinctively. The knife, having come out of nowhere, just barely misses the top of his head. We are surrounded, he realizes, surveying the area around him. There is no easy way out.
Jeonghan says nothing, bringing his blade out to parry an unsuspecting blow, slashing the man’s chest with one fluid motion. Wonwoo wonders how many years of this it’s taken him to draw blood with such an indifferent expression.
How much practice does it take to effortlessly kill?
Well, the resistance will not fight itself, he tells himself as he sinks his daggers deep into his attacker, blood splattering onto his face. The metallic scent is not new to him.
There has always been a certain headspace that Wonwoo enters in situations such as these; everything aside from the battle is nothing but a blur. Seungcheol had always liked this about him, and praised his state of focus.
Now, Wonwoo wonders if it is just a way to bottle up his fear.
Every wound he inflicts feels like a cut on himself. He can’t freeze up, he can’t – this is the mantra he repeats to himself in his mind, keeping Seungcheol’s advice with him. All he can do is hope it serves him well now.
The thoughts distract him only for a second. But that moment is enough, he realizes, bearing the brunt of a strong kick to the chest. Wonwoo stumbles backward, just barely dodging his assailant’s sword to his neck.
Close calls in this line of work are one too many, too often.
Belatedly, he feels blood trickling down his cheek. He must have gotten nicked somewhere, comes the afterthought, as he spins his daggers between his fingers, stepping closer for the final blow. He braces himself again before letting the knife fly. The sound is sharp, but subtle. Wonwoo just barely misses flesh, the edge cutting through the fabric covering most of his attacker’s face instead.
For some reason, he freezes at the sight of your prominent cupid’s bow, and the way your skin glows under the moon’s light. You freeze, too, sword halted in mid-air.
Wonwoo doesn’t really understand what’s going on, until he looks into your fiery, lash-framed eyes, and it hits him.
A woman, he realizes, bewildered. It is unheard of, nearly impossible – the emblem stitched onto the side of your robes tells him exactly who sent you, and he thinks his eyes are playing tricks on him. Nobody associated with the palace would even consider sending a woman into the field, even with their best fighters.
And yet, here you are.
Wonwoo’s shock must have been mirrored on his face, because you take advantage of it and slash at him furiously. He’s fast – he’s trained for this, feet quicker than light – but not enough, for you manage to nick his torso with the edge of your sword.
Wonwoo falls back with a grunt, throwing a quick look over his shoulder. Jeonghan is making quick work of the men, his blade swirling around with effortless speed and precision. Bodies lie all around him; some dead, some hardly clinging onto their last breath. It makes Wonwoo sick to his stomach.
He staggers with every parry, trying to ignore the metallic smell that rises in his nostrils. You match him in skill and strength, he notes, strike for strike, and for the first time he finds himself struggling to put up a good fight.
And then, as aggressive as you have been, you back away for a second, alarm clear in your eyes. It catches Wonwoo off guard, the way you suddenly glance behind him to survey the empty valley and slink away into the darkness.
“Wait!” he calls out gruffly, sprinting in your wake, but he’s already lost you. You are quiet, and leave no trace – the night is concealing, and amidst the tall grass and sparse roads, Wonwoo does not know where you have gone. The others have followed in your trail, and soon the valley is as silent as if nothing had occurred in the first place.
There is something akin to guilt. A stronger man would have been able to finish the job, he thinks, reminded faintly of Seungcheol. Empathy is a vice, for people like him. He should not have wavered at the sight of your face. Wonwoo could have finished you then and there, if not for the hesitation that held him back.
Jeonghan approaches slowly, wiping his sword against the grass and staining the blades dark red. “I cannot believe several of them still got away,” he says vengefully. “After this sort of ambush I should have wiped them all out one by one.”
“You say that like you were the only one fighting.” Wonwoo gives a sheepish half-smile. “It is my fault too, hyung.”
Jeonghan seems to soften a little at this. The vexed expression is gone from his face, replaced by something kinder, more forgiving. Carefully, he brushes the dirt off of Wonwoo’s robes, giving him a reassuring pat.
“Are you hurt anywhere?”
“No.”
“I know when you are lying,” Jeonghan points out. His fingers graze the wound on his shoulder, and Wonwoo winces involuntarily. “Make sure you tend to this later.”
The journey home is mostly quiet. Wonwoo is not one for many words, and Jeonghan is not normally inclined to fill the silence, choosing to bask in it instead. It is late, and all Wonwoo wants is to be able to bathe himself and drift off to sleep before another day arrives. Maybe Mingyu is still awake, he muses, painfully aware of the hunger in his abdomen. It has been days of travel, and there is nothing like being back home.
Wonwoo can feel dawn coming on by the time he has returned to the familiar cluster of small houses. Surely nobody is still up, he tells himself, bidding a good rest to Jeonghan and gently letting the curtains fall behind him. He is carefully silent as he washes up, scrubbing away dried blood and bandaging his wounds in the small yard behind the house.
“Jeon Wonwoo, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Oh, dear. He would know that voice anywhere. He turns to find Hayun standing behind him, arms crossed sternly, and he thinks he’s never been more intimidated by her before.
“What are you doing up so early?”
Hayun purses her lips, frowning, and chooses to ignore the question.
“Is my husband aware that you’ve gone and gotten yourself injured again, or do I need to inform him?”
Wonwoo sighs through his nose. “Please do not do that.”
She softens at this, a little. The look in her eyes shifts from disappointment to concern.
“You must not put yourself in harm’s way on such a whim. How many times has Mingyu entreated you to look after yourself? What on earth even happened?”
“Jeonghan hyung and I were returning from the capital when we were attacked. He is not hurt,” he adds quickly, “but I am inclined to think it was a planned ambush.”
“You boys must be careful,” she emphasizes, taking a seat on a tree stump. “It is more important now than ever.”
He knows she is right. One wrong move, and it will all be for nothing. “Has Mingyu been well?”
“Better, I suppose.” Hayun’s fingers fiddle with the hem of her sleeves. “He is still recovering. But he is able to hunt on his own now, and walk without much pain.”
“That is good news,” he agrees, memories from the fateful night of Mingyu’s injury flashing in the back of his mind. “I have not seen him in a while.”
“Well, you are home now. He will be very glad to see you, and quite upset about your wounds,” she says pointedly.
“He will not know what I do not show him.”
“If you must.” Hayun rises, brushing the dirt off of her hanbok, and pauses. She is several years younger than Wonwoo, but the look in her eyes is one of motherly concern.
“We will be careful,” he insists. She does not respond to this, just smiles wistfully and pats his shoulder.
“Sleep, Wonwoo. It is nearly sunrise, and you have not gotten any rest. You will need it.”
He struggles for words. He does not know how to tell her that sleep has rather successfully evaded him lately.
“Alright,” he says finally, and watches her retreat back behind the wooden door. Still, he does not move. His legs suddenly feel too heavy to stand, and his wounds ache with sorrow for all the blood he has drawn under the dark cover of the night.
Sparse light begins to filter through the sky, harkening the arrival of another dawn. The clouds split, and Wonwoo wonders what he could have been in another life.
Thirty-two casualties, eight injured, three missing. The numbers are against you, and you know it.
You have not had a moment of peace since arriving back at your quarters. This palace is much smaller than the king’s, and therefore busier, but you would not dare to complain. If anything, having company at all times is better than perpetual isolation.
“I do not think His Highness will punish you,” Seokmin assures you. As your right hand man and faithful friend, it is duty to say such things, even when he might not be absolutely certain he is correct.
“He is not a generous man. You know this,” you tell him, undoing and redoing your braid in frustration. “We are looked after as long as we serve his purpose. Tonight was the exact opposite of that.”
Seokmin’s silence vindicates you further. You pace anxiously in the room, awaiting your impending doom. Will he have you banished? Executed perhaps, for sheer and utter failure. You think of your sisters then, somewhere in your small village waiting for your safe return.
There is a series of harsh knocks on the door. A royal guard, by the look of his attire.
“His Highness would like to speak with you,” he says grimly. You throw an apprehensive glance over your shoulder at Seokmin, who merely nods. It is meant to be comforting, however it is everything but.
You follow the guard down the winding halls and into a room that has housed many meetings before, none of which ended remarkably well. The guard leaves you with a polite bow and shuts the door behind him.
The room is dull, windows drawn and curtains closed. It is mostly bare, save for the sparse bookshelves and the table where the second prince Muyeol is hunched over a scroll. You lower your eyes, not daring to speak first.
“I have received news of recent events,” he says, finally. His voice is low, but sharp as an arrow.
“My deepest apologies, Your Highness.” He does not speak further, just watching you with those eyes that have seen years of war and rebellion, and it compels you to explain yourself. “I assure you, we tried our best. I did not anticipate–”
“I did not ask you here to listen to your excuses.” You realize now the way he so easily holds control over his men, and all those coerced into doing his bidding. Fear is a powerful thing. “I want to know how two village boys overpowered some of the palace’s most highly trained and able warriors.”
“I do not–”
“You had one opportunity to prove yourself,” Muyeol remarks, discarding the scroll he had been inspecting. Whatever light there is highlights the faint streaks of gray in his beard as he rises, stepping closer to you. “After all, it is unheard of for a woman to be involved in such activities, let alone be placed in control of the movement. Some of our allies are wondering if it is too much power, to such feeble a person.”
Your fists clench at your sides. This does not go unnoticed – he laughs, an evil and rumbling thing that only stokes the fire in your chest.
“I am far from feeble,” you say with as much venom as you can muster, “and I believe I have proven so in the past. Do not forget I have been loyal to you and your cause for many moons.”
“True loyalty is not bought.” He picks up one of his knives, a beautiful, glistening weapon. Your breath catches as he points the tip at you, tracing the sharp edge along the curve of your throat. “I have not forgotten the circumstances under which you were brought here. Do you truly believe you would still be here if your family was not at stake?”
Tall flames, pungent smoke in your airways. A ransacked village lies in the distant path of your memories. You remember the price many have paid for attempting to cross this man, the consequences you are still living to this day.
“They are getting in the way,” he continues, coldly. “The commoners believe they are fighting for justice against the crown. It is turning into a problem, for I must rid my brother of the throne before they have the chance to.”
What a cruel man, you think. His words make you sick, but you swallow it down for the sake of your survival.
“I do not forget any allegiance I have pledged, Your Highness.”
The blade drops, and you finally take in the breath you’ve been holding. The air feels sickly sweet in your lungs.
“I want them dead.” Muyeol drops the knife with a loud clang. “All of them. The uprising must be quashed. Bring me their bodies, so that we may burn them as an example to those who dare to ruin our kingdom. You know what is at stake if you do not.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
He turns his sharp eyes to you, sly and unsettling. “You may leave.”
The feeling of dread does not leave even as you enter the courtyard, letting the gentle breeze lap against your cheeks. It is so late that you can feel the beginning rays of dawn creep up the horizon, and yet you are not tired. It strikes you then, in the lush expanse of the palace, that you are as good as powerless. That no matter how high you rise in the ranks, you are still a woman where there is room for none. And if only to make matters worse, you are a pawn in a cruel game that you would rather not be playing at all.
For the first time in months, you feel your eyes stinging with tears you should not let fall. You wish someone was there with you – Seokmin, Seungkwan, anyone – but that is not the case.
Under the impassive gaze of the night, you are completely alone.
There is little time before your next mission. You assemble a small group of your most trusted soldiers and start to make your plans.
Your reluctance does not slip past your crew unnoticed. Three of them stay behind after you dismiss the others – your most trusted archers, and confidants. Friend is a precarious title in this line of work, but you have learned to make exceptions for them.
“I hope you know you can speak your mind to us,” Seungkwan begins. “What is holding you back?”
“It is nothing.”
“If it were nothing, we would have left for the foothills tonight.”
It is always uncanny how perceptive he is. “My thoughts do not matter,” you say, “so long as His Highness is satisfied and my sisters are safe.”
Hansol is perched on an armchair, eyes thoughtful. “Do you ever think of what you will do once this is all over? When the king finally abdicates and the people are happy?”
“I do not know if the people will truly ever be happy,” you say truthfully. “The second prince has promised action, and action is better than inaction. But he is not the good and kind man the people want for a ruler.”
“The same man that murdered his own son, for fear that he might lay claim to the throne.” Seokmin shudders. “I feel complicit in all of his crimes.”
You take a moment to really look at him, then, as well as the others. Not as soldiers, not as the deadliest archers this side of the river – but as mere boys of twenty-something, full of locked-up love for fallen friends and slain mothers and burning villages.
What kind of person was Seungkwan at seventeen? What had been Hansol’s favorite fruit to pick and eat in the summertime?
None of that matters, now. They all have shadows in their eyes; sisters, brothers, loved ones they have left behind. Muyeol had been correct. None of them are here because they want to be.
“One day, we will be on the right side of history,” you say, placing a hand on Seokmin’s shoulder. “But we cannot do that as corpses, and that is what we will be if we fail now.”
“You are right,” he says finally, after a few moments. He glances out the window, at the sun spilling the last few drops of light on the earth. “Please rest, Y/N. There will be a long day of travel, and an even longer hunt afterwards.”
“I will try,” you agree absentmindedly. You offer them your best smile, knowing they will always see through it, and bid them a good night, staying behind to watch what is left of the sunset.
That night, a man appears in your dreams. He knows your name, but you don’t seem to find this strange. Instead, you curl yourself further into the calm familiarity of his voice. You have not seen him since you were eleven, just a child who should not have known the grief that was about to befall her.
You are so brave, he tells you. You are so strong. Mother would have been so proud of you.
You reach for him, unconsciously. Am I really?
Yes. You are so much stronger than you know, little tiger.
A single tear seeps through your lashes, illuminated under the moon’s soft glow. You wake up in the morning and cannot remember your brother’s face at all.
The forest had been Wonwoo’s entire childhood. Raised him, in a sense.
There are faint memories of afternoons spent running in the tall grass, peals of carefree laughter while climbing the tall larch trees. His little brother had liked to catch dragonflies, particularly, letting them go after admiring their scintillating wings. Mingyu does the same, when he is able. The bittersweet likeness always puts something of a smile on Wonwoo’s face.
But that had been before the trees burned and the ferns went down in crackling flames, taking everything precious with them. Now, Wonwoo catches a glimpse of forsythia and barely feels anything.
Unlike the others, he has never been able to sleep in for long. It was hours ago when he first rose, shifting the blankets carefully so that he would not wake up Chan. His muscles are still very sore, wounds still stinging, but he basks in the warm sunlight and feels just a little more alive.
“You’re outside quite early.”
Wonwoo turns sharply. He is normally alone at this time, but Seungcheol is standing in the doorway, eyes heavy with sleep. “Mingyu will be elated to see you,” he adds. “Once he is awake, that is.”
“He seems to be more tired as of late.”
“We all are.” Seungcheol’s eyes dart to the bandages on Wonwoo’s shoulder, and across his torso. Unlike Jeonghan, he says nothing – his mouth settles into a thin line that can only be concern. “I am glad the both of you returned safely last night. The attack was a complete surprise. We did not think that the palace would send soldiers so far into the country.”
Wonwoo thinks of you, then, movements as fluid and graceful as a river. Had he dreamt all of it? He cannot quite recall your face, but he remembers the feeling of your sword on his skin and the smell of fresh blood.
“Do you think they will come again?”
Seungcheol takes a seat on the small wooden bench, patting the spot beside him. Wonwoo does as he is told.
“Wonwoo, do you know what makes a far greater weapon than your daggers and swords?” He shakes his head no. Seungcheol only smiles.
“Hope,” he continues. “When our enemies say we are too loud, too demanding, and wish us silenced or dead – that is the greatest ammunition one can have.”
Wonwoo certainly does not feel hopeful, especially not recently. It has been so for many years, under the current king’s rule: starve, or die trying not to. He says so, petulantly, and receives a pat on the shoulder in return.
“You will learn,” is all Seungcheol says. He is not so much older than Wonwoo, but there is a calm wisdom about him that makes it feel like there are many years between them instead of just the one.
The conversation dissipates with the arrival of the others. The sound of laughter, such a rare and precious thing, echoes throughout the clearing. Mingyu approaches him with a grin and an ever so subtle limp in his step.
“You look a little rugged,” he remarks, pulling him into a careful hug.
“You are not so bad yourself,” Wonwoo quips back. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Hayun must have told you, but I’ve recovered very well. Chan still says I look a little silly when I walk, but you should not listen to him.” Mingyu gazes lovingly at his wife and Wonwoo feels a distant sting from a wound he does not have.
“Chan enjoys teasing you,” he says absentmindedly. “You make an easy target.”
“I always say that,” Jeonghan calls from where he’s perched on a tree stump, “and he still never listens to me!”
Mingyu only rolls his eyes at him, before turning back to Wonwoo. “What about you? You are not hurt too badly, I hope? Jeonghan was making a fuss out of it earlier.”
“He always does.” Wonwoo brushes a finger over the freshly changed bandages. “Do not worry. They are only minor injuries.”
Mingyu frowns, like he always does when he inspects and cleans the dried blood off the others’ skin. He often volunteers for it, saying it’s the least he can do to help, but the memories of his own scars never quite leave his eyes.
“You must take care of yourself,” he places a gentle hand on Wonwoo’s shoulder, “especially now. Things are only getting more dangerous.”
“You sound more like your wife every day,” Wonwoo teases, but the tension in the air is real. He chooses to ignore it and leave all the words unsaid, like always. Hayun and Chan bring out steaming bowls of porridge, and they all eat together outside under the mid-morning sun. It is moments like this that feel like family. It never matters that these are friendships forged of blood and battle, never has.
Sometimes Wonwoo wonders if this is what he could have had in a different timeline, laying in the tall grass watching the clouds with his brother. Perhaps his father would have returned home from a long day in the fields, with fresh fruit and flowers for his mother in tow. But dwelling on the past that never existed is futile, and he knows this.
“I would advise you all to be careful being out, particularly after dark,” Seungcheol starts, once everyone has finished eating. He’s wearing that frown again, the one he gets when he’s especially worried. “I received word earlier from one of our ally groups in the southeast. Their village was raided at nighttime – many dead, even more missing. There is no telling which of us may be next.”
A hushed quiet falls over the circle. Mingyu folds his arms, eyebrows furrowed. Even Chan, who usually resorts to lighthearted jokes to handle bad news, is entirely silent.
“I am not trying to scare any of you,” Seungcheol adds. “But this is the truth, however harsh, and you should know.”
“Cheol is right,” Jeonghan agrees, “We should be alert and prepared. Always carry some sort of weapon on you, and never let your guard down.” Wonwoo notes the bleak look on his face – saved only for the rarest of occasions – and exchanges an uncertain glance with Chan. They will talk about it at some point, when they can speculate on their own time.
It is colder in the evening, when the sky begins to dim just a little. Wonwoo had agreed, earlier, to exercise with Jeonghan before dinner, and the breeze serves to cool him down whenever they decide to take a break.
“It has been quite a while since we have sparred,” Jeonghan observes, setting his flask down.
“Shall I get the wooden swords?”
“No need. I think you have been past that for some time.” He only chuckles at the dubious expression on Wonwoo’s face. “Do not worry, I know you will not hurt me.”
“Well, that is not my concern,” Wonwoo laughs, “It is myself I worry about. You know you are a far better swordsman than I.”
At this, Jeonghan sets down his sword with a light sigh. “You must not underestimate yourself like this,” he says, gently this time. “Sometimes I feel that is your greatest obstacle.”
“I like to be realistic.”
“Your reality is shrouded by your own fear.” Jeonghan looks at Wonwoo, and it feels like he is staring straight through to his soul. “Do not be so surprised. It is clear in the way you move, and how you wield your weapons. I always see the regret in your eyes.”
Wonwoo shakes his head, shoulders slumped. “How do you do it, hyung? You make it seem so easy.”
“It is not. It never gets easier,” Jeonghan says, sadly. “Some of us are forged out of necessity. Others, courage. But it all leads to the same thing. These are still lives we are taking, regardless of how they were lived.”
Wonwoo watches him carefully, tries to remember what Jeonghan had been like when they first met. He was never the type of person to show how deeply he felt about anything, and still is not. There is a distinct change, however. He had been lighter back then – happier. The mysterious shine in his eyes is still there, but it is different now.
“What would you have done?” Wonwoo turns his observant eyes to his friend. “If you were not a part of all this, I mean.”
Jeonghan ponders this for a second, long hair shadowing his face. In all the years they have known each other, he has barely spoken about his childhood years. His village, his family – nobody knows much about these things at all.
“I do not know,” he says finally. “There was not much of an option, was there? I would have worked in the fields, like my father, and lived a simple life.” Then his expression turns solemn, and his lips form a tight line. “I might have married Haeun, in that timeline.”
This, Wonwoo knows about. He’s only heard her name once before, one night when Jeonghan had just a little too much makgeolli. Drunk Jeonghan was always very chatty, he recalls. But he doesn’t pry further, instead placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“Wonwoo, do you know what happens when we die?”
“What?”
“My grandmother used to say that our brain still goes on for seven minutes,” he muses, “Even after our heart stops. Those seven minutes are supposed to be our life’s best memories.”
Wonwoo thinks about this for a moment. “Is that true?”
“When I find out, I will not be able to tell you.” Jeonghan chuckles softly, leaning back against the tree trunk. “But I think that you would be in it, and all of our other friends. And Haeun too, I hope.”
“Do not say such things,” Wonwoo chides, turning away so that the troubled look on his face is not visible. “But it is a happy idea that our last moments of consciousness are spent in comfort.”
“Right? I thought so as well.” Jeonghan lifts his head and glances back at the house. The smell of meat cooking – a rare luxury – fills the air, and Wonwoo is suddenly acutely aware of the hunger in his stomach.
“Come, Wonwoo, let us eat. It seems as if Mingyu is finished preparing dinner.”
The journey to the foothills feels much longer than it should be.
It is easy to distract yourself, however, and listen to the others’ chatter. Your horses walk slowly, occasionally getting sidetracked by a stray plant or butterfly, as Seokmin and Seungkwan bicker endlessly behind you.
Hansol’s yawn catches your eye, and you turn to him. “Tired?”
“No,” he says immediately, but the fatigue is evident in his eyes. “I was just thinking.”
“About?”
He only shrugs. It is so very Hansol. “Everything.”
An apt answer, you think. He is not so much younger than you, but he feels it – you wish for him to see and experience more of the world than you have. He still wears a specific type of curiosity in his eyes, the kind that gives you hope.
“What is your favorite fruit, Hansol?”
He thinks about it, then tells you he likes plums. Faintly, you are reminded of your youngest sister, the reddish-purple juice dribbling down her fingers in the summertime. Behind you, Seokmin says something about persimmons. Seungkwan lets out one of those loud, contagious laughs. You wish you could freeze this moment in time.
You glance up at the moon, an early crescent in the darkening sky. One of your men asks whether you will be stopping for the night, but you shake your head.
“We are not too far from our destination,” you explain, “and it is safer to camp nearer to people than here in the woods.”
“I, for one, do not know how I will sleep through Seungkwan’s snoring tonight,” Seokmin announces. “Nobody shall comment on the eyebags I will have tomorrow.”
You wait for the telltale sound of Seungkwan’s fist making contact with his arm – there it is, followed by Seokmin’s pained yelp. You laugh, having grown used to their antics over the years.
Hansol raises an eyebrow. “Are they always like this?”
“More or less,” you tell him. “They are serious when they need to be. I promise you are in good hands.”
“I believe you,” he says sagely.
As the minutes pass, you feel your eyelids growing heavy, the day’s exhaustion hitting you all at once. Seokmin’s bubbling laugh floats over to your ears, and you wonder how he still has the energy for it.
“Tired?” Hansol quips. You shake your head, laughing. It is not long before you begin to see the silhouette of houses in the far distance, glowing lamps dotting the horizon. Seungkwan cheers, eager for some respite.
Suddenly, a sharp sting blossoms at the tip of your ear. The group falls silent at the sound of your surprised yelp, and you bring a hand to your ear in an attempt to stifle the pain.
“What is it?” Seungkwan asks, anxiously.
Your fingers come away red. Blood.
The forest is silent, too silent – the birds have stopped chirping entirely, and the leaves do not carry the wind as they normally do. An eerie feeling rattles down your spine. You grasp the reins a little tighter. Somewhere between the trees, you catch the slightest movement, a flash of blue against the lush foliage. Seokmin sees it too, and his eyes dart to yours, questioning.
“We need to get out of here,” you declare, urging your horse into a gallop. “Now!”
Another arrow whizzes past your head and pierces a tree trunk. Hansol has drawn his bow, letting his own arrows fly. Panic flows through your veins and pools in your chest as you just barely dodge a spear.
Alarmed, you toss a look over your shoulder. The sounds of voices grow louder by the second, accompanied by the thundering hoofbeats of men in pursuit. Seokmin gives you an understanding nod and knocks one of the oncomers clean off his horse.
“What is going on?” Hansol urges, reaching into his quiver. “Who are they?”
“We do not have time to find out.” Some of the men have circled around, approaching you from the sides. You reach for the knife strapped to your thigh and hurl it with precise aim, lodging it into an exposed torso. But one man down does not spell victory – they outnumber you by far, and in a matter of minutes, will have you surrounded. Wildly, you look for something, anything, to provide a way out.
Not so far ahead, half hidden behind bushes, is a slightly less beaten path that branches off to the right. There is another trail further ahead, one that seems to loop around and double back. If you all stay together, you realize, you will be cornered in no time.
“We have to split up!” you shout, amidst the chaos.
You can’t see Seungkwan, but you know he is frowning. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you insist. “You have to trust me!”
From your right, Hansol gives you a concerned look. “I will accompany you,” he says, shooting at someone behind you. You shake your head immediately, not liking the idea.
“No, Hansol. You cannot!”
“I must,” he protests. “I can hold them off with my arrows. Your sword is better suited for a much closer range.”
You think you will never forget this look in his eyes, such a far cry from the young boy he was when you had first met him.
“Alright,” you say reluctantly, catching a glimpse of sudden movement behind him. “Hansol, watch out!”
He whirls around sharply, but his reaction is not fast enough. Without thinking, you pull your sword from your belt and reach over so far you nearly slip off of the saddle, barely managing to pierce the man’s shoulder. Blood spatters across Hansol’s face, dotting his sunkissed skin.
“Thank you,” he gasps. “I did not think they would catch up so fast.”
You glance over your shoulder, catching Seungkwan’s eye. He nods firmly, and it gives you the courage to turn back around so you don’t have to watch him and Seokmin tear off to the side, veering left into the thick forest. They will be able to hold out on their own; you have to believe this to be true.
Your pursuers have split, just like you planned – around half of them remain on the path behind you, fast approaching on horseback. You tug on the reins, a bit harshly. Hansol slows down to let you pass through the narrow side trail first.
“I will cover,” he assures you. “Trust me.”
That is all you can do – making as much distance as you can and dodging stray arrows when they fly just past your head. You do not know who it might be that wants you dead so badly that they would ambush you at night, but as much as you rack your brains looking for an answer, you cannot find one. There are not many who know exactly who you work for, and even less among them who might want to hurt you.
“How much further?” Hansol yells over the commotion, blood dribbling from a gash on his shoulder. “I do not have infinite arrows!”
“I am hoping they will leave us be if we reach the village, if we can make it that far!”
“And how far is that exactly?!”
You turn to face him, but do not get a chance to respond. Before you can open your mouth, an arrowhead lodges itself in the divot beneath your collarbone.
Sharp pain blossoms across your chest as the metallic scent of blood rises in your nostrils. You try to keep your grip on the reins, but your sight goes blurry, and your fingers let the leather slip. Faintly, you hear something that sounds like a shout of your name. But it is too late – your horse rears back, startled, and you cannot stay on any longer. You roll off, hitting the uneven ground with a sickening thud.
The dark red of your blood stains the rocky terrain below you as you attempt to get on your feet, but to no avail. You let out a pained groan, wondering whether Seokmin and Seungkwan have managed to make it to safety.
And what of Hansol? You can only hope he makes it to the village unharmed.
The last thing you see is a vaguely familiar symbol, silver etched on dark velvet fabric, but it soon disappears into the night’s cover. Your fingers tighten around a pebble’s edge, and you send a silent prayer up to whatever god is willing to listen. The world disappears, and your vision goes black.
Have you been well?
Your voice is sticky in your throat. No words come out.
Wake up, little tiger. It is time. A whole world awaits you.
You try to fight it, burrowing yourself into that familiar warmth of your brother’s voice. It does not work. Instead, you feel him tumbling further and further away from you, and a strange light intensifies between your eyes.
You wake with a start. Above you is a ceiling you do not recognize, and around you is a room you have never been inside. Blinking twice, you attempt to orient yourself, but a sharp sting renders you immobile when you try to sit up.
The only other person in the room is seated against the wall, crushing leaves in a mortar. She glances up at the sound of your rustling and lets go of the pestle.
“You are awake,” she observes, carrying the mortar over and kneeling beside you. Carefully, she peels back the layer of bandages and applies the paste to your wound. It stings a little bit, and you wince, not expecting the pain. “This salve should keep it from getting infected.”
The woman is beautiful, with soft features and long lashes. Yet there is a fierceness in her eyes that unsettles and comforts you at the same time.
“Hansol,” you breathe, struggling for words. “Hansol, where is he?”
She arches an eyebrow. “I am assuming you are talking about the boy we found with you,” she says finally. “He was not as badly injured as you are. Do not worry.”
Relief rushes through you, like a spring river. If Hansol is alive and well, then the others have to be, too.
“Where is he?” you repeat, earnestly. “Please, let me see him.”
The woman stares at you for a few moments before heaving a deep sigh, rising to her feet. She leaves the room for a minute or so, and returns with several others in tow. You try to sit up again, leaning yourself up against the wall.
The very first thing you see is Hansol, hands and ankles tied together with thick rope. Behind him are two men, one at each side, wearing grim expressions on their faces.
“What have you done to him?” you demand, albeit weakly. “Let him go!”
Hansol shakes his head at you, as if to tell you to stop talking. The men shuffle him over slowly and deposit him onto the floor so that he sits across from you. He leans forward urgently, eyes desperate.
“Y/N, you have to listen to me, they –”
His sentence is cut short. Without stopping to hesitate, the taller of the two men draws his sword and points it right at this throat.
“Do not hurt him!” you cry out, before succumbing to a coughing fit. The woman rushes to fill a small ceramic bowl with water and brings it to your lips, letting you drink slowly. The man pays no mind at all, and his sword remains in the air.
“Speak,” he says firmly. Hansol throws you a confused glance, the rope chafing his wrists as he fidgets under it.
“I do not know what you ask of me,” he says finally. The man takes a step forward, a subtle limp in his left leg.
“We know everything,” he says coldly. “There is nothing left for you to hide. We know exactly who you are, and who sent you.”
The blade does not drop. You watch Hansol swallow, nervous, as the metal glints threateningly under the morning sun.
“Please, you cannot hurt him,” you entreat once again. “He knows nothing, I swear. I brought him along to aid me.”
The sword’s edge points at you now, sharp and shining. The woman gives him a look, frowning slightly.
“Mingyu, please,” she murmurs. “She is not even able to stand on her own.”
Mingyu does not listen to her. He continues to glare down at you instead, hand steady. “Speak, then,” he demands. “And do not even dare to try and lie to us.”
Your eyes dart from him, to the man beside him, wondering what you could possibly say to save yourselves from the situation you’ve found yourself in right now.
“We are from the capital. The palace,” you clarify. Hansol watches you with wide, terrified eyes, but you are not telling them anything they do not already know.
“That much is clear,” Mingyu says. He gestures towards the sleeve of your robes, where the silver royal emblem sits. “But you have still not told us why you are here.”
“We were given orders,” you begin shakily. The uncertainty in your voice is making Hansol anxious, and you know it. “To find someone.”
Mingyu frowns, sword faltering slightly. “Who?”
You do not know what to say. That is, until another figure emerges behind Mingyu’s broad shoulders. Sharp, catlike eyes that could rival your deadliest blade bore into yours. You’ve seen those eyes somewhere before, for sure, but you cannot put your finger on exactly where.
A dark night flashes in your mind, tense silence in the foothills. You catch the moment of recognition in his eyes too, chapped lips parting just slightly. Yes, you remember that face now, those hands that had skillfully parried your own. The sound of your veil being sliced open still haunts you to this day.
You do not dare break eye contact, but you lift your chin defiantly and stare right back.
“Him.”
As much as he tries, Wonwoo cannot get the image of you out of his head: bandaged and bruised on the floor, and yet sporting the same fierceness he had first seen a few nights ago.
“It seems they came looking for you and Jeonghan,” Mingyu clarifies later. “Orders from the second prince. You heard her.”
Wonwoo just nods, staring out into the woods where Mingyu and Jeonghan had found you during their morning hunt. His nemesis, brought forth from the forest he’d grown up in.
“What should we do, hyung?”
“Well, they are more useful to us alive than dead. And we cannot let them go.” Wonwoo sighs, cracking his knuckles. “Where is she?”
“Hayun is helping her eat. Some porridge, I think.”
“And the boy?”
“He is with them. Do not worry, we have their weapons. And he cannot move with his limbs tied together,” Mingyu reassures him. “I wrote to Seungcheol hyung, too. He should return from the north within a few days.”
“Okay. Good.” Wonwoo laces his fingers together pensively, wonders how you came to be injured so badly in the first place. If you were after him, then who had been after you?
Mingyu takes another tentative step, then takes a seat on the bench beside him. Wonwoo isn’t sure why all his thoughts are stuck in his throat, refusing to present themselves as coherent sentences. It has always been easier to say what is on his mind to Mingyu – he has never once questioned his feelings, taking them all in stride.
“Are you alright?”
“Hm?” He tears his gaze away from the sparrow perched on a tall branch and meets Mingyu’s earnest, concerned eyes. “Yes, Gyu. Do not worry about me.”
“Psh. I always worry about you. What kind of friend would that make me?” Mingyu laughs softly. “How is your shoulder?”
“Much better. I can move it further now. It should be completely healed within a week,” Wonwoo says, experimentally rolling his shoulder back and forth.
“That’s good.”
They fall into that easy silence again. Wonwoo feels the words bubbling up, but they never leave his tongue. There are too many feelings, and speaking feels like a certain kind of blasphemy to the quiet that lets him just be.
“How is your leg now?” he asks instead. Mingyu gives a lopsided smile, the one that exposes his sharp canine teeth.
“I keep telling Hayun I am able to go back out there with you, but she will not hear it,” he admits. Wonwoo sees her point, secretly; but this sentiment he would not say out loud. “I know I have been helping out where I can at home, but I still feel a little useless.”
“You are not–”
“It should have been me,” Mingyu lightly touches Wonwoo’s bandaged shoulder, “that night you were with Jeonghan. And every other night, too. Do not think I have forgotten each time you come home battered up and bleeding.”
“It is my duty too.” Wonwoo says it solemnly, can’t bring himself to look his best friend in the eyes right now. “This is not something you must feel bad about.”
Mingyu says nothing, choosing to blink away the unbidden tears in his eyes. Deep down, Wonwoo wonders if things would have been better today if that fateful injury had never happened. Mingyu had always been stronger – not just physically, but mentally. A born fighter, who would have truly known his place on the battlefield.
But it has been many months since Mingyu has lifted his weapon. Wonwoo, full of regrets and mismatched empathy a warrior should not have, needed to step up in his wake. If it had been Mingyu in the valley with Jeonghan that night, you might not have lived to tell the tale.
Wonwoo does not bring any of this up later, when he encounters Hayun in the kitchen. He just sits on a stool quietly, watching her stir the rice porridge.
“You look like you want to say something,” she begins eventually. He stiffens, not used to openly being called out.
‘No,” he denies. “I was just bored.”
“Now that is something I expect Yoon Jeonghan to say.” Hayun laughs. “It is alright, Wonwoo. You are not obliged to speak if you do not feel like it.”
So he does not, instead watching her tidy things up around the small kitchen. She balances several bowls together, passing him a plate.
“Help me carry the seaweed salad,” she says. “At least the boy will eat it.”
Wonwoo is used to doing as he’s told. He obediently follows her into the small side room, plate precariously in hand. Hansol, still bound by the fraying rope, immediately tenses up at the sight of him, but you do not stir. Well — you are asleep, he realizes, and rightfully so. He knows more than anybody how important rest is for an injury. Still, the sight of your lashes gently brushing the skin under your eyes irks him. He cannot pinpoint why.
Hayun sets the plates and bowls on the ground. The rattling seems to jolt you awake, eyes wide and then narrowing at the sight of Wonwoo.
“I hope you have not come to execute us,” you say sharply. Wonwoo sees straight through your facade, can tell how you’re struggling to speak through the pain. Hayun only purses her lips, setting the bowl of rice porridge beside you.
“I know that we are at odds. But we are not barbarians,” she says gently. “You must eat.”
You lock eyes with Wonwoo once again, gaze unnaturally piercing. He is certain that under different circumstances, you would have your sword at his throat with no hesitation whatsoever.
Hayun brings the spoon up to your lips, but you jerk away slightly, assuring her you can feed yourself. She does not look convinced, but backs away to let you have your space, and glances back at Wonwoo.
“What are you waiting for?” she asks, gesturing towards Hansol. “Untie him.”
Wonwoo gapes at her. “You want me to untie him?”
“How will he be able to eat otherwise? You and Mingyu, really,” she rolls her eyes, “They are hurt and unarmed, and you have got a whole set of knives on you. Do you really see them as a threat right now?”
Wonwoo sighs, reluctantly gets to work on the knots tying Hansol’s wrists together. He is visibly scared; none of the defiance that you hold, and all of the fear you don’t seem to have.
He sits there against the wall as the two of you slowly eat in silence. Hansol eats quickly, and very little, but you take your time. You have to, he supposes, thanks to the lack of mobility in your right arm. Hayun asks for your name, tentatively, and you tell her. Wonwoo lets it ring in the air before deciding that it suits you: sharp and angular but still soft, smooth rolling off your tongue. He doesn’t turn away until you catch him watching you, expression morphing into a glare.
Wonwoo is not as curious as Hayun, for sure. He only needs to know one thing about you.
“Who was following you here?” He tries to sound as commanding as possible, nodding towards your wound. “Did you see who shot you?”
He observes carefully as Hansol immediately looks to you. He knows nothing, that is for sure. But you hesitate, just barely. A troubled look crosses your eyes for just a moment before it’s gone again.
“No,” you say finally. “I do not know.”
Wonwoo holds your stare, almost challenging. You do not break. Still, he senses your lie. He is not sure what exactly it is you are hiding, but there must be something. It does not matter just yet. There will be time to find out later.
He helps Hayun gather the dishes afterwards, almost feels bad binding Hansol’s chafed wrists again. But no measure is too much, and he’d rather be safe than sorry.
“I will keep watch overnight. Just to make sure the boy does not try anything,” he tells her outside. “You should go in and get some sleep.”
Hayun raises an eyebrow at him. “You will stay up all night? Please tell me you are joking, Jeon Wonwoo.”
“Jeonghan and I will keep watch,” he relents, under her stern demeanor. “We will both be adequately rested.”
“You better be. Jeonghan likes to complain when he wakes up with eyebags,” she chuckles, wiping her hands. “I will leave you to it. Goodnight, Wonwoo.”
He mumbles a goodnight in return, trudging back to your room. There is a book lying on a stool, and he brings it with him to read. Why not?
Hansol is as good as asleep when he finally settles in the opposite corner. You are not, but you do not even spare him a glance as he sits down. Whatever, he thinks. At least he has something to bide his time until Jeonghan comes in and he can sleep.
He opens the book eagerly. A romance novel, it seems. Wonwoo wrinkles his nose, and wonders whose it is. He had never been very fond of the genre, but it will have to do. Wonwoo flips to the first page, filled with avid descriptions of a fair maiden and a lush countryside, and wonders exactly how long of a night awaits him.
Sleep is a fickle guest, dipping in and out and toying with your consciousness.
You cannot seem to surrender to any sort of dream for too long. Always your eyes fly open, gasping for breath even though you have not been underwater. The sharp-eyed warrior across from you does not spare you more than a threateningly curious glance.
It is when you wake up next that you notice he is no longer there. This man has rounder, softer eyes, and wilder hair. You remember him, too, from that night in the valley. Subconsciously, you note that he does not look half as vicious as he fights. He seems to sense your eyes on him, looking up suddenly from his paper and ink.
“Oh,” he says, a disarmingly playful smile spreading across his face. He whispers, so as not to wake Hansol. “I see you are healing well. Much better than the wreck you were when I found you, at least.”
This piques your interest, and you sit up straighter. “You found me?”
“She speaks,” he remarks sagely. “Yes, I did.”
His demeanor confuses you, to put it plainly. Everyone else had treated you with such coldness, and rightfully so. But he does not seem to have any qualms about speaking with you at all.
“I am Jeonghan, by the way.” At your bewildered expression he adds, “I know your name, but you do not know mine. Is it not impolite?”
“No,” you say bluntly. “I do not really care about your manners. Or your lack of them.”
He shrugs jovially, returning to his paper. “Just as well.”
A little more time passes in utter silence, before you impulsively break it. “What are you writing?”
Jeonghan raises his eyebrows, setting the brush down and turning the paper towards you. “I draw,” he says simply. “Sometimes.”
His nonchalance does not distract you from the impressive detail of the sketch. It is done with little care, but still executed well, a perfect likeness of a mountain range. You wonder how much this tells you about the kind of person he is.
“You are very different from the other one,” you observe.
“The other one?” Jeonghan tilts his head, before it dawns on him. “Oh. You are talking about Wonwoo? Yes, we are not very similar. But maybe that is why we make great friends.”
So that is the catlike man’s name, after all. You repeat it quietly, letting it coat your tongue and roll off of it. Privately, you decide it suits him — slick and smooth, and prickly where you would not expect.
Friends, Jeonghan had said. A laughable thing – you cannot imagine Wonwoo smiling at all.
“When will we be allowed to leave?” you ask, after some thought. Jeonghan’s hand stills.
“I do not know,” he says. “Mingyu wants you dead. Wonwoo thinks you are more useful to us alive. I, for one, do not particularly care. There is nothing the palace can do to us if we are always one step ahead.”
“How long must we wait, then?”
Jeonghan shrugs without looking up. “I told you. I do not know.”
Your heart sinks a little, but you continue to watch him silently, adding thoughtful strokes here and there to his sketch. Somehow the repeated movement lulls you back to sleep, lids heavy and fluttering closed. Your brother does not show up in your dreams this time. Instead, you are surrounded by nothing. Nothingness is starkly different from darkness. It is simply empty, unsettling.
An oddly familiar symbol flashes underneath your eyelids, burning through your vision. It reflects light from an unknown source, before blood dribbles over it, oozing out of the emptiness. You feel it everywhere, pain buzzing just underneath your skin in unbearable torment.
You wake with a start, breathing heavily. Nothing seems to be out of place – gentle sunlight, the same room you remember, Hansol in the corner. But everything you’ve just seen with your eyes closed continues to haunt you.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. A pang of sympathy strikes you; he has not spoken much since you were brought here.
“I think,” you reply, propping yourself up with your uninjured arm. “Hansol, I must ask you something.”
“What is it?”
“I need you to tell me anything you remember from the attack,” you ask, seriously. “Anything. About what happened after we were separated, and about who they were.”
“I did not make it much farther than you,” he says ruefully. “I panicked after you got knocked off of your horse. I think it was sheer luck that they left after assuming we were dead. But one thing was rather odd, actually.”
“What?”
“Some of their robes,” he continues, frowning. “I am sure the royal symbol was on them. But those cannot have been real, right?”
You feel your heart racing, thumping along in your chest. You search Hansol’s eyes for any sign he’s lying, or joking, but there’s none.
“I saw it, too,” you say, hushed. “Just before I fell. I thought I was hallucinating.”
“I do not think you were.” Such a grim expression feels mismatched on Hansol’s face; so much conflict for one so young. “But how? And why?”
Apt questions, both of them. Your deduction seems almost bizarre, if you really think about it. Laughable, almost. Why would the second prince want to thwart his own plan?
But… it is not impossible.
You purse your lips. “I shall be honest with you, Hansol. I do not know why such a thing would happen – but I also know that man is not to be blindly trusted. So there is that, too.”
Before he can respond, someone clears their throat. Calmly, but loud enough to interrupt. Wonwoo enters the room with narrowed eyes, making his presence known.
“What are you two whispering about?” he demands, folding his arms. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at him.
“We are plotting out how to kill you and get away with it,” you say dryly. He does not laugh, instead staring at you with a coldness that could rival even the iciest glaciers.
“Very funny,” he replies, full of sarcasm. “Humor will not do you any favors here. Remember that.”
God, you really wish you had actually killed him that day. His smooth voice somehow irks you even more, drawing your cantankerous mood to the surface at record speed. However, you tamp it down, settling the frustration in your chest in preparation for the request you are about to make.
“Can I borrow some ink and paper?”
This gets Wonwoo’s immediate attention. He turns, eyebrows raised. For a moment you think he might just laugh it off and ignore you. And he would not be wrong for it, you realize – you are essentially a hostage in this small village, and neither he nor the others owe you a single thing.
“What for?” he says sharply. “Surely you do not think you will be able to trick us?”
“No, of course not,” you shake your head vehemently, heart sinking. “I would not do that.”
Wonwoo scoffs. “As if I am stupid enough to believe such a thing. What are you trying to do this time, call for reinforcements? Leave the target on my and Jeonghan’s back for somebody else to find?”
“No,” you insist, desperation seeping into your voice. “I must write to my sisters. It has been too long – there are some things I must tell them.”
A matter of life or death, you think silently. If Muyeol truly is after you, then he will certainly not draw the line at harming either of them. For a moment, you think Wonwoo might be considering it. He looks at you with that calculating expression he has, probably weighing the decision in his head.
“You are a fool if you think I am that naive,” he says, finally.
You try not to show it, but your face falls. If there was one thing that provided a sense of normalcy for you in the capital, it was being able to keep in touch with your sisters regularly. They are, after all, the only family you have left. But Wonwoo pays you no mind, shuffling about and searching for something before he leaves again. You deflate a little. Hansol’s sympathetic look is meant to soothe, but it only makes you feel a little bit worse.
The rest of your time passes quite uneventfully. Your days are relatively the same now – not like you are able to do much, anyways, with your injury. Hayun helps you out when she can, occasionally stopping to make small talk, but you are otherwise alone.
Mingyu and Wonwoo have decided that they would rather have Hansol help with the errands than waste away in a dark corner – you watch him lift bundles of firewood with a pang in your chest. At least he is accompanied by someone else, a boy named Chan who does not look a day older than him, and likes to make awkward conversation as they work.
You grow more anxious with every passing day, wondering why Muyeol’s men have not found you yet. Realistically, you should be thankful for each peaceful morning, but it does nothing but stir apprehension in your stomach. He may not be a good man, but he is a smart one. There are not many villages this side of the river, and you don’t think it will take him very long to find you.
Suddenly you think of Hayun, who has looked after you ever since you got here. You wonder if she, too, will soon have to face the aftermath of a razed home and a martyred husband, a family vanishing within minutes – a fate you would not wish upon anybody.
It is late one night, with Hansol away doing something or the other for Mingyu. You are moving your right arm back and forth, newfound strength surging into your muscles. With Hayun’s help, you can even stand now, but she is not here.
It takes you a few moments before you realize Wonwoo is at the doorway. He remains silent even as you raise your eyebrows, prompting him to speak. Instead, he just approaches you and gingerly places two sheets of paper as well as a brush and ink on the floor beside you.
“You may write to your sisters,” he says gruffly. “One of us will read it to ensure you are not communicating with the palace. Hayun will have it delivered tomorrow.”
You stare at the paper, not knowing what to say. He watches you with careful eyes, waiting only a beat or two before turning on his heel to leave.
“Wonwoo,” you call just as he’s about to step out. He looks surprised at the sound of his name; perhaps even offended, but he listens anyway. “Thank you.”
Something strange flashes in his eyes, but only for a moment. He does not reply, only sparing you a curt nod before walking away. You sigh, and wait until he’s gone to pick up the brush and dip it into the inkpot. There are important things to be said, and not enough time.
To Soonhee and Soonja –
How are you both? I am sorry I have not been able to write recently. Unfortunately, things have gotten quite hectic as of late. But never mind that. I have gone to the foothills for some important business – I will tell you all about it later.
Please, do not stray far from home. Above all, do not travel to the capital. Send Jihoon, if absolutely necessary. Nobody will recognize him. But do not go yourself. I cannot tell you why just yet, but please, you must trust me.
Speaking of Jihoon – how are my brother-in-law and my darling nephew, Soonhee? I have not seen little Sangmin since he was a newborn, but I will visit as soon as I am able. Have you picked up any new projects lately? Tell me all about it when I come home. I always love to hear about it
Soonja, I have made a friend who is quite like you. He is gentle but strong, and likes to eat plums in the summer. I find myself missing you very much when I speak with him. And the plums, I will bring some home for you. They seem to grow quite abundantly in these regions.
I find that something odd has been happening to me recently. I did not want to ask, but I feel that I must. Sometimes our brother comes to me in my dreams. He feels almost real. Soonja will not remember – but you must, Soonhee, you had been old enough, too. I never see his face; I cannot remember it. But he speaks to me while I am asleep, and I find myself aching when I wake up again. Does this happen to you, too?
I am not sure. Maybe I am going crazy. I have not been sleeping too well; I suppose that would do it.
Anyhow, I hope this reaches you without any sort of delay. Please do not send any correspondence to the palace – or do not send anything more, for that matter. It should not be very long before I am able to come home again, and then I will tell you everything sitting across from you over dinner.
Be well, and take care of yourselves. Give Sangmin and Jihoon my love.
Yours,
Y/N
Wonwoo cannot even make it halfway through your letter before he passes it to Jeonghan, desperately tearing his eyes away from the words on the paper.
“What happened?” the older man questions, unfolding it carefully.
“I cannot,” Wonwoo repeats, shaking his head. “I know it is for our safety. But it feels too personal.”
“Oh, yes. How convenient that I do not have feelings, then,” Jeonghan says dryly, rolling his eyes. Still, he relents, scanning your letter. Satisfied with what he sees, he folds it up again and stands. “I will find Hayun. She should be able to have it delivered when she goes to the market.”
“Thank you,” Wonwoo nods. He likes that Jeonghan never really asks questions, seems to know exactly when to stop digging. It works out for the two of them; neither of them pry, and neither of them answer. And if Jeonghan had asked – what would he have said? Wonwoo does not enjoy feeling most of his emotions, let alone talking about them.
He had not planned on letting you write it in the first place. It was a simple decision, and Mingyu had quite agreed with him when he told him about it later over dinner.
But he had seen Wonjae’s face in the back of his mind, for a brief second. There was not a thing Wonwoo wouldn’t do if it meant he could write to him, or speak to him just once more. In the moment, he had not felt like depriving you of the opportunity he could never have.
Of course, he will not tell Jeonghan any of this. There are things he does not like admitting to himself, much less others.
Seungcheol arrives later that night, after everyone else is asleep. Wonwoo greets him silently, tells him to rest, but he is met with a stern demand to tell him everything. He fetches a bowl of water, sits Seungcheol down, and starts from the beginning.
“This is not good,” Seungcheol frowns. “It is only a matter of time before those same soldiers find their way to us.”
“We can handle them, can we not? We always have.”
“We always have. But that does not mean we always will. It is wise to exercise caution.” Seungcheol casts a wayward glance at the room where you and Hansol sleep. “What of them?”
“I would not worry,” Wonwoo assures him. “They have no weapons, and the girl is injured. I do not believe they are a threat.”
Seungcheol gives him a half smile. “It is good to have faith, Wonwoo. But do not trust blindly. Ever.”
I’m not, he wants to say. Petulant, like a child, and somehow that upsets him even further. Wonwoo wishes he was able to switch this part of him off, just like Jeonghan seems to do, but his mind does not appear to work that way.
“What do you think we should do?” he asks instead.
“Well, we will keep them here for now. There is not much else to be done.” He sighs, glancing up at the sky. “I am tired, Wonwoo. We will speak about this later. Good night.”
“Good night,” Wonwoo echoes, watching Seungcheol and his broad shoulders retreat into the house. He should be heading inside, too. But he does not move just yet, staying out for just a little longer before he sleeps.
When Wonwoo dreams, there are trees everywhere. Larches, like the ones he used to love to climb as a child. What a shame, that he had to grow up so fast. Wonwoo dreams, and there are fireflies. The nostalgic kind, that takes him to another time rather than a place. There is a warm fire, and a meal cooking somewhere off in the distance. If he listens closely, he can hear his brother’s laughter, just loud enough.
Sometimes, Wonwoo dreams of a different universe. Another timeline, perhaps the one in which Jeonghan and Haeun could have been happy together. In this universe, Wonwoo does not fight. He sits in the clearing with his brother on a breezy afternoon, listening to the bush warblers sing.
In this universe, Wonwoo is a fisherman, like his father. He teaches Wonjae how to cast the nets, and which spots along the river are particularly excellent for catching minnows. In his spare time, he reads, collecting books he likes from the market. Soon enough, he cultivates a small library of his own, a personal haven of sorts.
The worst part, however, is that this universe is not real. The river cracks, like glass. Fish scatter everywhere and the water goes dark. Wonwoo reaches out for his brother, but Wonjae has disappeared. The boat rocks wildly, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut out of the nausea it stirs in him.
This moment is when he wakes up. The image of his reflection in the shattering river always haunts him for hours. Like maybe it’s him that’s breaking, instead of the current.
He sits up in his bed, blinking the sleep away. Across from him, Chan rolls over, mumbling something intelligible. He has always been a heavy sleeper, which works out just fine for Wonwoo, who does not make much noise in general. The sky is still quite dark. Wonwoo peers out the window. It will be dawn soon, he realizes, catching the first hints of light at the horizon. No river to dip his feet in, no boat to cross it with.
Just as well. He turns over, pretending none of it matters, and tries to fall asleep again.
It takes you another week and a half, give or take, to be able to walk on your own. Hansol helps, an arm steadying you as you take careful steps.
This development is not welcomed by the majority of the others, particularly Mingyu and Seungcheol. Hayun just gives you a small smile and tells you she is glad you recovered without any complications. Oddly enough, you spend most of your time in the company of Jeonghan, who always drags Wonwoo along with him. It is quite tiring, even though you know it is merely a matter of security to have an eye or two on you at all times.
“Must you always look so surly?” you remark one afternoon. Wonwoo sits across from you in the room, having busied himself with a book, and raises an eyebrow at your question.
“Is that what you think of me?”
“Yes,” you say, emboldened by the challenging look on his face. “I think you choose to present yourself as quite a joyless individual. I did not know it was possible to embody a cantankerous grandfather in a young man’s body.”
“I must say, I have never been so openly affronted by my own hostage before.” His expression does not hold any of the offense that his words portray. Instead, he seems subtly amused, almost – as if this is just child’s play to him. It irks you even more.
“Really?” you scoff. “And how many women have you taken hostage before, exactly?”
Finally, Wonwoo sets his book down. Ha, you think to yourself. I win. He folds his arms, keeps his piercing eyes trained on you. He might have been beautiful, you realize, if you did not despise him so.
“Only those who are bold enough to set a target on my back,” he says, an edge to his deep voice. “You are the first. And I intend you to be the last.”
“How valiant,” you retort.
“How ignorant,” Wonwoo corrects, leaning forward. “You are not invincible. Do yourself a favor and stay off your high horse while you are here.”
You raise your chin, defiantly. “And if I refuse?”
Wonwoo says nothing, only holding your level stare. The heat of his hostility is unmistakable, his sharp eyes burning into yours. You only wish you could reach for your sword and slash the tantalizing column of his neck, the glistening steel against his skin. But your hands remain where they are and you sit in place, jaw clenched and temper boiling over.
“Are you finished attempting to telepathically kill each other?” Jeonghan hesitantly pokes his head through the doorway. “I come bearing news.”
Wonwoo turns his attention to his friend, finally. “What news?”
Jeonghan does not answer him. Instead, he trudges towards you, pulling a folded piece of paper out of a pocket and handing it over. You frown up at him.
“What is this?”
“I think you should read it first.” You don’t like the mildly troubled look on his face, but you follow his advice and open up the folds anyways. Immediately, you recognize the handwriting, and your breath catches in your throat.
Y/N –
I do not have much time to write this. I managed to get away and ride to your village, based on what little you told us. I am taking your sisters to a safe house further away from the capital, as well as Jihoon and the baby. I hope Hansol is still with you.
Those who attacked us had been palace soldiers; Muyeol’s men, every single one of them. This must have been planned – I thought about it every way, but I am not convinced it was an accident. It could not have been. We were never supposed to carry out this mission, Y/N. We were meant to die before even succeeding.
Seungkwan did not make it. He was shot in the neck, and I could do nothing to save him. I buried him near the riverbank with some peonies, just as he would have wanted.
Do not write back, lest it is intercepted. Be safe.
Seokmin
You do not say anything for a few precious moments. It is so much information all at once, on this tiny scrap of paper. How ironic that simple words have such power to change your entire world with one sentence?
Muyeol’s men, every single one of them.
“I knew it,” you mumble to yourself, crumpling the paper beneath your fingers. Dismay gives rise to anger in a volcanic chain reaction that ripples violently through your entire body. “I fucking knew it. Of course. How could I have been so blind?”
“You were unconscious,” Jeonghan interjects, unhelpfully.
The same man who had promised you many things in return for your unwavering loyalty, now targeting you – you are not surprised, and you do not have the right to be, either. The realization is ugly, but it is the truth. You had always known what kind of a person he was, but back then it had only mattered that you and your family were guaranteed safety. It is not like that, anymore.
Jeonghan just sighs. “I am assuming now is not a good time to say ‘I told you so’.”
“I told you so,” Wonwoo says flatly. You glare up at him, blinking the unshed tears away. Suddenly you hate him even more for being able to stand there unflinching, while you slowly lose everything and everyone.
“I wish I had killed you that night,” you tell him with quiet anger. “I never would have had to come here, and Seungkwan would still be alive. I am ashamed I did not have the courage to fulfill my task the first time.”
Wonwoo does not answer, just casts his eyes to the ground with his head slightly bowed. You want more than this absolute silence from him – something, anything in response to everything you throw out. But you get none, just his eyes avoiding yours.
You wait until you are alone to open up the paper again, the words blurring together on the page. Gently, you trace a finger along the characters of Seungkwan’s name, the memories rushing back like a flood. Never in a million years would you have thought you’d be remembering him like this, images flashing in your mind.
Seungkwan, who had liked to lighten things up with a joke or two and a contagious laugh. Seungkwan, who once swore to always have your back, and never broke his promise to the end. You had looked after him with such care, treated him like the little brother you never had. You remember teaching him how to shoot an arrow for the first time ever. It was raining that day, but he had insisted on going out to the grounds regardless. It is a comfort, you suppose, that he had gone down wielding that same beloved weapon.
Hansol does not take the news any better than you had. He does not believe you at first, reads Seokmin’s letter again and again until it finally sinks in that he will never hear one of Seungkwan’s spur-of-the-moment puns again. You want to reassure him, but you do not go to comfort him, recognizing his need for space.
They might not have been very close, but they had always taken well to each other, and they had been the same age. Now Hansol will continue to grow, and Seungkwan will be forever twenty-two.
Neither you or Hansol cry, but both of you come threateningly close.
The letter wears thinner the more you read it, but you cannot help but grasp onto Seokmin’s words – what if you lose him too? You try to soothe yourself with the knowledge that your sisters are safe, but your anxiety does not let your mind rest at all. It is suffocating, to sit in this room with nothing but your and Hansol’s grief and the echoes of a voice you’ll never hear again. With what little strength you have, you wander outside, limping slightly.
The wind is sobering, and you inhale a greedy lungful of the crisp mountain air, letting it linger in your lungs. The treeline is a comforting sight. Seungkwan had always loved nature. At least his soul will rest easy.
“Watch your step there,” Wonwoo’s rough voice comes from behind you. “You will fall.”
You’ve never whipped your head around faster. He stands, a bit awkwardly, hands laced together behind his back. His eyes linger on your injured leg warily.
“Careful,” you retort, “or I might think you actually have a heart deep down in that twisted soul of yours.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Must you make it your absolute mission to constantly antagonize me?”
“You are acting surprised – as if there is any chance on this earth of me tolerating your presence,” you tell him, settling on a wooden bench. To your surprise, he follows suit, perched gingerly on the other end.
“What was he like?”
“Excuse me?”
“Seungkwan,” Wonwoo clarifies. “Your friend.”
Hearing the name sends a pang to your heart, but you cannot help but give him a strange look. “Do you always pretend to have a conscience in front of your hostages?”
Wonwoo scoffs, the first real emotion you have managed to draw from him all night. “You are far too cynical for your own good,” he remarks. “It is truly a wonder how you ever managed to navigate society like that.”
“Do not underestimate me,” you say crossly, “I contain multitudes.”
Both of you fall silent again. The night speaks instead, with the occasional howling of a gust of wind, or an owl hooting in the distance.
“Seungkwan was one of my closest friends,” you murmur, emboldened by the cool breeze. “I would have trusted him with my life. I did, too, on many occasions. There was not a moment where he was not there for me.”
Wonwoo hums, in some sort of agreement. “That is a good friend, indeed.”
“He is. Was,” you amend, attempting to swallow down the lump in your throat.
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“I do not think I believe you,” you let out a mirthless laugh. “But I will pretend so for your esteem, and my own mood.”
He nods sagely. “You have my full permission to take my words purely at face value.”
“I do not need your permission,” comes your quick reply. Wonwoo seems to take it in stride, like that was precisely the sentence he was expecting to leave your mouth. You do not particularly like that he acts as if he has you all figured out. A dangerous thing it is, to be known by essentially a stranger.
“You will keep many heartwarming memories with him,” Wonwoo adds. “Those are forever.”
“I hope so,” you nod, trying to conceal your sniffling. “He loved oranges. God, he was crazy about them,” the words slip from your tongue before you can even think, “He would talk about going to the island for them all the time. And he dearly loved to sing. He was very good at it, too.”
“What kinds of songs?”
“Ballads, mostly. He and Seokmin would burst into song at such random times. I remember being annoyed,” your voice breaks, “I cannot believe I was annoyed. I would give anything to hear him sing again. But I used to scold him so much.”
“Well, it is always a loving heart that chides the most.”
You catch a stray tear on the tip of your finger before casting a wary glance at Wonwoo. He does not meet your eyes, but stares into the woods as if there is something there he longs for. His normally cold gaze shines softly – for the first time, you might even feel a pang of empathy for him.
“Is this another tactic I do not know about?” you ask instead. “Lulling women into a false sense of security, so that you can converse about their dead friends before slashing their throats?”
Wonwoo’s plush lips immediately form a scowl. “I am not so much of a ladies’ man as you might believe.”
“How do I know you are not lying? You certainly look the part!”
He opens his mouth to fire back with his own retort, but he stops short all of a sudden, a small smirk on his face instead. “Did you just call me handsome?”
You give him your most appalled look. “I called you the equivalent of a rake and that is how you understood it?”
He shakes his head, clearly amused. “I hope that was not an insult to my intelligence. I quite know a compliment when I see one.”
“I do not even know why I bother conversing with you,” you say incredulously, standing suddenly out of frustration. There is a half-hidden root before you, but you do not see it – your foot catches, and you stumble forward. On instinct, Wonwoo reaches out, catching your arm before you tumble to the ground.
His touch burns, invisible flames scorching the skin as his fingers encircle your wrist. You lock eyes with him for a mere moment, the surprise in his expression mirroring yours. But the instant passes, and you immediately rip your arm from his grasp.
“Do not touch me,” you say sharply, rubbing your wrist.
“I did not want to,” he defends, “You would have fallen instead.”
You flash him a deep frown. “I would rather faceplant into the ground and lose my two front teeth.”
Guilt flashes in his eyes, and you almost feel bad. Instead, you wrap your arms around yourself, shielding your skin from the cold. The warmth from Wonwoo’s touch is long gone; you find yourself craving the soft burn of his fingertips again. It is all so unexplainably wrong. You really should leave, before you say something you might regret. That sharp tongue has always been your double-edged sword.
But Wonwoo gets to his feet instead, gesturing towards the bench’s smooth wood. “Sit,” he says gruffly.
You arch an eyebrow at him. “I am not interested in taking your place.”
“I insist.”
“Why?”
He hesitates, just a little. “I thought you might want some time with yourself. Alone. Fresh air always helps, too.”
You want to find your most piercing words, fashion them into a venomous retort, and throw it at him – but nothing comes up. He is right, and it does not fail to get under your skin.
“You sound rather confident.”
For the first time, Wonwoo smiles. It is a tragically beautiful thing; the expression does not reach his eyes, and the very corner of his mouth remains slightly downturned. Grief seems to taint him like a shadow that refuses to leave, and for just this moment you forget just how much you loathe his existence.
“You are not the only one who has lost somebody,” he says simply.
“You know, then.”
He shrugs halfheartedly. “It has been quite some time.”
You ponder your next question for a moment before asking it. “Does time truly heal all wounds?”
His mouth opens with an answer, and then it closes again, plush lips forming the beginning of an unsaid word. You watch him consider your query carefully, and wonder just where his thoughts come from. A part of you wants to ask, spurred by curiosity; but at the same time you are not so sure you want to know. Perhaps you are hesitant to see him as he is – not your adversary, but just Wonwoo, carrying his own ghosts on those weary, broad shoulders.
“Only if you want it to,” he says finally.
Softly, a far cry from earlier. All of the bite has disappeared from his voice, replaced by something gentle and raw. His presence is no longer looming; he is simply there, like the sturdy oaks of the village you grew up in. It is a new feeling, and you do not like this strange ease.
But you think more about his answer as the words sink in. Is that why it had been so hard to let go of your brother? It was silly; laughable, even. You had not kept anything to remember him by, but he was always there in your dreams when you truly needed him. Had that subconsciously been your doing? How long would it take for you to let go of Seungkwan, too?
“Maybe I had not willed it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. Wonwoo furrows his eyebrows.
“What?”
You meet his confused eyes. “Oh – nothing.”
“If you did not mumble so much, it might be easier to hear you,” he says, with all the attitude he can muster, and immediately you know that the precious truce-like moment has passed. You paste an equally irritated expression on your face, to match his.
“And I thought you were leaving,” you return sharply. “But you are still here.”
“That I am,” he observes quietly. “Well. Goodnight.”
He lowers his gaze to the ground and turns, footsteps growing farther as he retreats to the house. A conflicting feeling rises in your throat as you watch him walk away, shoulders just a little slumped – the stature of a man with a myriad of stories and no voice to tell them with.
Wonwoo’s eyes, full of misted secrets, flash in your mind once again. Involuntarily, you shiver at the memory. You had never before met a man as calmly infuriating as him. If that does not ultimately spell out danger, then you don’t know what does.
From somewhere between the thick trees, Seungkwan smiles down at you. Reassuring, like a warm hug that you don’t deserve, and it stings. You try to recall his soothing voice, and cry freely into the night’s embrace.
The restless feeling in the pit of Wonwoo’s stomach does not cease.
Instead, it festers, boiling over and into itself by the day. It grows, even when he wills it not to. And worst of all, it seems to heighten inexplicably when you are near, and he is rendered helpless. He is always reminding himself that no matter how familiar your words might feel sometimes, you are everything but – your cynicism and your instantly sharp tongue are just two of the many things he cannot stand about you.
Still, there is that pull. Like a magnet, but only worse. Against his will, a part of him cannot help but be captivated by the enigma that you present yourself to be.
And, of course, there is that other thing.
The thing that, as he sits and watches you tell your story to Seungcheol, becomes more and more difficult to deny. You are no less resplendent in the sun than you are in the night’s glow, he realizes. Perhaps this is what he deems most dangerous about you. In his mind, you are indisputably beautiful – in the way that one might look on in awe as a tsunami’s ominous wave rolls up to the shore, despite being fully aware of the havoc it will wreak.
Wonwoo is sure that if he ever called you a natural disaster to your face, you would attempt to take a knife to his throat. Either way, he keeps the thought to himself, guarded and untouched.
He watches as Seungcheol returns your weapon. Your eyes seem to shine a bit brighter once the sword is in your hands, slender fingers wrapping around the hilt like it is the most familiar thing in the world. Wonwoo cannot help but revisit an old memory as you touch the blade, almost reverently. He had been on the receiving end of that sword once, the cool metal drawing blood from underneath his skin. And he probably should feel a touch of apprehension now that you wield it once again, but strangely enough, there is no such emotion. Only respect, and wonder.
You promise Seungcheol something – he does not hear, too busy in his own loud thoughts – and the older man smiles gently. Belatedly, Wonwoo wonders what it is. Choi Seungcheol does not smile often, especially not with the events that have been happening as of late.
What he does not expect is for you to approach him, sword loose in your grasp. He tries to ascertain something, anything from your expression, but your poker face seems to be quite good. Finally, your lips break into a tiny smirk. Wonwoo’s heartbeat accelerates straight out of nowhere.
“What? Do not tell me you are frightened,” you say, a bit smug. “The blade is still sheathed.”
“That is a bold assumption you are making.”
“You seemed quite worried the last time this sword was pointed at you,” you continue. The wind whips your hair around, and you look viciously wild. It is a sight for sore eyes. “Afraid, even. Was that an assumption, too?”
There is challenge in your eyes. Wonwoo knows that this is effectively the equivalent of playing with fire, but he figures he still has space. It has not burned him yet.
“If it is a duel you wish for, then a duel you will get,” he says, lowly, “but it is in your best interest to wait until you are fully healed. That way you will at least have a fighting chance.”
You scoff, affronted. “Oh, my. These are the words of a man with severely misplaced confidence.”
He returns your inflamed glare. “And the delusion of a woman who stands on her own imbalanced pedestal.”
The air is charged, suddenly. Wonwoo fights the urge to look away and avoid the intensity in your eyes that he just cannot ignore. Eventually, he folds, turning away to clear his throat.
“At least make yourself useful and accompany Jeonghan and Mingyu when they go to hunt,” he retaliates, though it comes out with a little less bite than he originally intended. You only roll your eyes at him before you walk away, loosely braided hair swinging lightly amidst the breeze.
The days pass as they always do, for the most part. Wonwoo is no stranger to routine, and rarely does he find it monotonous. It grounds him, until you come in like a typhoon and leave his brain in a muddled wreck. But he lets it be, for his own sake. Admitting that your aftermath is not as ruinous as it seems feels like a sort of betrayal to the life he has always known. And so he lives with it, warring emotions brewing in his chest. He trains with Jeonghan, teaches Chan how to fight, and the sun keeps on rising.
Good things often arrive with pomp and circumstance, while unfortunate events tend to creep up silently and pounce when you least expect it. It is quite a sunny day, and Wonwoo finds himself feeling more at ease than usual. The tall grass brushes against his knees as he takes his steps, very silently.
And of course, there you are, close behind him. He had not originally intended on bringing you into the forest to hunt with him today, but Mingyu had accompanied his wife to the market, and Jeonghan had insisted on taking an off day. Reluctantly, and upon Seungcheol’s wish, he had asked you to come along.
From his side, you suddenly nock an arrow. Wonwoo pauses for a second to take the sight in – your sword suits you, but you handle the bow so elegantly, the wood smooth beneath your fingers. You close an eye, pulling the string back, and he snaps back to his senses.
“What are you doing?” he hisses, quietly.
“Shh,” comes your reply. “If you end up scaring our lunch away, I will not forgive you.”
Wonwoo searches the foliage for any sign of life, but comes up blank. “What are you even aiming at?” he questions, squinting. “At this rate, we will not have lunch at all.”
You smile then – a sly, knowing thing – and release the arrow. It hits something between the leaves, and the unmistakably distressed crow of a pheasant follows not soon after.
“See?” you tell him, wearing that smirk he detests. “Lunch.”
“Luck,” Wonwoo corrects. Still, he follows along, somewhat astonished. He had not seen anything; not a single movement or flash of color. He wonders if this, too, will remain a mystery.
The way you move through the forest is awfully reminiscent. You slip around the thick bushes and the tall grass, weaving between the trees easily. A part of his heart burns at this. The forest is his realm, not yours, but you have adapted quite seamlessly.
The alarm bells begin to go off in Wonwoo’s head when you are not too far from the house, just skirting the edge of the woods. He tilts his head, listening carefully, before turning to you. To his surprise, you look equally concerned.
“Do you hear that, too?”
“Yes,” you confirm. The sound of hoofbeats on dirt roads grows louder, as does the unease in his chest. He exchanges one troubled glance with you and breaks into a sprint with you following right on his heels.
The very first thing that Wonwoo sees is Seungcheol, standing with his arms folded. A fearsome glower sits on his face, and he is saying something, but Wonwoo cannot quite make the words out. Chan stands behind him, mouth set in a deep frown.
You gasp, suddenly. Wonwoo feels a tug on the edge of his robes, and his eyes trail down to see your fingers clutching the soft fabric.
“Palace soldiers,” you whisper, nodding towards the house. There are at least twenty, if not more. They have not drawn their weapons just yet, but even from this distance the tension in the air is palpable.
“We should go see what this is about,” Wonwoo urges. But you do not move, still crouching beneath the wisps of tall grass.
“I already know what this is about,” you tell him. Your voice is firm, but it’s the look on your face that gives you away. For the first time, Wonwoo sees a sliver of fear in your eyes, and the memories that seem to haunt you by night. “I cannot lose Hansol, too.”
Wonwoo’s heart clenches, and he briefly thinks of Wonjae. “You will not.”
“You do not know that!”
“You will not,” he repeats, insistent this time. “Hansol will be alright. We will go down and see what they want, and hopefully it is something we can reason with them about.”
He almost thinks it won’t work, but you stand finally, still uncertain. You just shake your head, mumbling something under your breath he doesn’t quite catch, but he does not pry any further.
Wonwoo hears your sharp inhale as you approach the scene, and feels a sudden pang of sympathy. He had not thought about how it would feel to be confronted by the very men you had worked alongside with, maybe even the same men who had fought for you, who had ended up turning on you in the very end. You could dissolve into enraged fury here and now, and he would understand.
“What is going on here?” he demands. The others have come out, too, and you make a beeline for the house, presumably trying to find Hansol.
“I do not know,” Seungcheol says quietly. “They have not told us anything.”
Wonwoo does not have any more arrows in his quiver, but he is hyper aware of the daggers he always keeps strapped to his belt. He scans the surroundings; the men have arranged themselves into a half-circle, surrounding them and effectively blocking off any possible escape routes.
From behind him, he hears your panicked voice. “Where is Hansol?!” you ask, desperate, but all Jeonghan can say is that he does not know. The distress in your question is all too familiar, takes him back to a time that had left him desolate and alone.
One of the soldiers shifts, eyebrows raised. He draws his sword, and instinctively, Seungcheol takes a step back.
“You,” he says coldly. It takes Wonwoo a few seconds to realize where exactly the blade is pointing. “It seems we have finally found the traitor.”
“That is bold of you to say. I am not the one who turned my back on those who were loyal to me,” you declare. “By that logic, Lee Muyeol is as much of a traitor as I am.”
One of the foot soldiers steps forward menacingly, and immediately Jeonghan’s hand goes to his sword. The man that had spoken earlier – presumably the captain, due to his robes – just chuckles lazily.
“Do not think we are unaware of who you are. You could be easily thrown into prison,” he says. It is the world’s most diplomatic threat. Wonwoo feels the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “But you are merely country bumpkins, and the second prince has never found much trouble dealing with you lot. Give us the girl, and you live.”
“Only I choose where I go. And I go where I please,” you reply coolly, stepping forward. Wonwoo shoots you a look, wonders if this is another one of those situations where your stubbornness is getting the better of you while he prays that it isn’t.
The captain laughs mirthlessly. “His Highness was certainly right about you. What a foolish decision, indeed, to employ a woman. And one with such a foul mouth as yours, at that.”
Wonwoo isn’t sure what exactly it is that makes him reach for his knives, but his fingers pull at his belt in an attempt to arm himself. The soldier in front of him already has his sword out, though, and before he knows it he’s dodging a well-time slash.
This is the exact moment he will remember as when all hell breaks loose.
Someone charges Seungcheol at full speed – a terrible idea, Wonwoo thinks, to attempt and tackle a man of that stature and build. Jeonghan has already drawn the first blood, deep red splattering all over the light blue robes he had chosen for the day, and Chan quickly follows suit.
You do not have a weapon in hand, but you deliver a strong kick to the gut followed by an elbow to the face that had to have hurt like hell. Wonwoo makes it a point to ask when you were trained in martial arts later.
Both of the soldiers that are on him are significantly taller, and stronger. He feels a sharp sting blossoming at the side of his cheek and doesn’t register the slow trickle of blood down to his jaw until later, instead driving one of his knives deep into a collarbone. The man lets out a pained groan, but he stays on his feet nonetheless.
Wonwoo almost uses his other dagger, almost. But for just a split moment, something stops him, and his hand hesitates. A mistake, for it buys his assailant time to pick up his sword that clattered to the ground sometime earlier.
Thwack!
The man freezes, eyes wide as an arrow pierces his chest. A patch of red blooms on his robes as he slowly falls to the ground. Wonwoo just blinks down at him, breathing heavily at the close call. Where did it come from?
The markings on the arrow look oddly familiar. The fletching is unmistakably Mingyu’s handiwork, recently made. Wonwoo glances behind him, scanning the rocky terrain, and sees a flash of movement, red cloth darting behind a tree. Slowly, he smiles to himself.
Hansol.
Another arrow comes just as quick as the last one, felling the second soldier faster than Wonwoo can retrieve his knife. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jeonghan toss you your sword, and you catch it with a practiced ease, slashing it at another soldier in one fluid motion.
Wonwoo wonders if you should really be out here, considering your bad leg, but he supposes an extra layer of protection in the form of Hansol raining down arrows couldn’t hurt.
Somewhere, something is burning. Wonwoo can smell the crackling at the same time he eats a punch and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth. He loses his footing and stumbles into a tree, rolling over as he narrowly dodges a stab and the blade lodges itself into the trunk.
In the distance, he can hear someone yelling his name. Faintly, like he’s in a world of his own. That familiar buzzing grows louder again, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to stop it from rendering him absolutely immobile. This is the part he dreads, more than anything else. Once again, he wonders what Mingyu would do in his place, the kind of man Seungcheol would expect him to fight like. Even worse, the kind of person you might hate him for being.
“Wonwoo!”
Smoke billows into the air, and he barely manages to sidestep another blow. Without hesitating, he throws a dagger with all the precision in the world, and you whirl in out of nowhere, following up at the last second with a single powerful strike.
“Thank you,” he gasps, feeling every molecule of air in his lungs, “I am sorry, I–”
“No apologies,” you say firmly. Your cheek is bruised, lip split – blood is smeared across your face and stains your fingers as you yank his knife from another not yet dead body. Fearless as you are, as Wonwoo wishes he was. He wonders if this is what the goddess of war incarnate looks like.
“Behind you,” he calls out instead. You do not even bother to look as you sink your blade into the soldier’s abdomen, drawing it out as quickly as you had struck.
“Good call,” you tell him. He feels like his stomach might flip.
Wonwoo’s vision clears a little bit, head still spinning. The soldiers seem to be retreating, at least those who are still alive or somewhat injured; the last few are hasty to mount their horses, riding away in a frenzy. Smoke catches in his throat – why is there smoke?
“The house,” he croaks out, coughing violently. “The roof, it’s on fire.”
“I know,” you say, “A part of it caved, but nobody was inside. Chan is putting it out.” Then you frown, a particularly worried expression. “Wonwoo, what happened? Are you alright?”
“Nothing. Yes.” Wonwoo coughs again, clearing his throat, and tries to bring himself to his feet. “Where is Seungcheol? Is everyone okay?”
He lets you pull him up, against his better judgement. Aside from the fact that he can feel every wounded part of his leg, he is suddenly reminded again of the surprising coolness of your touch. True to your words, half of the roof is sunken in, the wood black and burnt – but it is nothing that is not fixable, if he and Mingyu have at it for an hour or two. Otherwise, he is satisfied to see there is no other damage to the house, and thankful that Hayun had not been inside.
He watches as Hansol emerges from his spot, perched on top of a boulder on the hill. You gasp, pulling him into a tight hug.
“Do not ever disappear on me again,” you say, sternly. “I thought they had found you.”
“No, I am sorry,” he shakes his head, bashful. “I should have fought with you. But I did not have any other weapons, and I was not sure what to do. I thought I could be more useful from a hidden spot.”
“You should not be sorry,” Wonwoo cuts in, “I cannot tell you how many times you nearly saved my life down here. You have excellent aim.”
Hansol takes the compliment with slightly red cheeks and a mumbled thanks under his breath. Wonwoo notices how you lean on him for support as you walk, wincing when you put more weight on your injured leg.
In the distance, Jeonghan and Seungcheol sit together, propped up against the fence. No – Wonwoo squints a little – Seungcheol is propping him up, one arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders and his other hand pressed against his torso. Chan stands above him, speaking frantically.
That cannot be right, he thinks, trying to shake off the dire feeling on his shoulders.
It is not until he gets closer that he realizes Jeonghan barely has his eyes open, lashes fluttering as he rests his head on Seungcheol’s shoulder. To Wonwoo’s complete horror, he understands that it is the deep red of blood that soils Seungcheol’s fingers where they rest over Jeonghan’s robes.
He feels you balk slightly beside him, and that is all the confirmation he needs.
The tears that have caught on Seungcheol’s lashes are unmistakable. Jeonghan himself sports a wry smile, and he has never been a better embodiment of the irony of life than in this moment. There is a small cut just below his eye, and it is clear just how much strength it pulls from him to take each precarious breath.
Wonwoo barely feels anything as his knees hit the ground. He does not know what to say, where to put his hands; he had not been given any time to prepare for what to do as he watches a dear friend breathe his last.
“What happened?” he manages, finally.
Seungcheol shakes his head, starts to say something but none of it comes out intelligible. Wonwoo swallows down his next question, sharp and prickly as it goes down his throat, and carefully takes Jeonghan’s outstretched hand in his instead.
“You promised,” Seungcheol says, clearly this time. But his voice still wobbles, thick with despair. “Before we started all this, remember? I made you swear never to take a blade for me. You promised, Jeonghan.”
The latter only smiles. “Do not be so dramatic,” he rasps weakly. “I did what had to be done.”
Jeonghan’s nonchalance never fails to pull a laugh out of everyone, but this one comes out half like an amused snort, and half like a sob. His fingers tighten just a little around Wonwoo’s, and he holds onto him like he’ll slip away if he doesn’t.
Every memory comes rushing back — each morning he had turned down going to hunt together, all the times he went to bed early saying he was too tired to train. Now he’s stuck wringing out all the time he could have had with him, collecting every precious second.
It’s a wrecking thought, the if only I had known.
Wonwoo slips back into the present at the quiet call of his name.
“Hyung,” he answers, softly. He waits for something, anything more — but no words come. Another laborious breath rattles through Jeonghan’s lungs. Seungcheol presses his face into his dear friend’s hair to hide his expression, but he is not fooling anybody.
In this moment, Wonwoo is not sure of anything. He does not even know where his tears end and the blood begins to pool beneath him. But he feels exactly the moment Jeonghan breathes his last, his fingers losing their grasp on his own hand.
Seungcheol knows it, too, lets the sobs finally wrack through his body. He had not wanted Jeonghan’s last moments to be filled with unpleasant memories, but he is left picking up all of the pieces.
A soft thud interrupts the moment. Mingyu is at the gate, Hayun at his side. Shock is written all over their faces and in the basket that rolls onto the ground.
Mingyu’s eyes are questioning. They have always been able to communicate like this, and right now Wonwoo knows exactly what he is asking. Suddenly, and selfishly, he wishes it was not possible.
He has to shake his head. No.
Jeonghan’s hand is still warm in his. A terrible trick by the universe, he thinks, to rip him away from the earth so cruelly. Bring him back, he wants to shout, but he knows it will not change a thing. It is all out of his hands.
Wonwoo lets another heavy tear fall onto his friend’s lifeless skin, and prays that Jeonghan’s final seven minutes are as happy as he deserves.
The weeks that follow are full of solemnity. Everyone carries a particular kind of guilt, balancing it precariously between their shoulders.
Nobody fixes the roof. It is the least of their worries, and you know this. If anything, it is a reminder – a memorial of sorts. You avoid looking at it, so that you are spared from the recollection of that day’s events.
It is a strange thing, grief. You had not known many things about Yoon Jeonghan; and yet you find yourself mourning him in the pockets of stray minutes you find in the day. Your guilt is different from the others – if the soldiers had killed you in the forest that day, he would be alive still. The universe has a cruel way of keeping balance.
Seungcheol, for one, carries himself like a ghost. You cannot get it out of your head, the way he had sat by Jeonghan’s body for hours and hours afterwards, as if his pleas would magically wake him again. He had seemed hollow, even as he placed the magnolia flowers Jeonghan had adored so much on top of his grave.
Wonwoo barely speaks at all. But where Seungcheol is a blank slate, he is a muddled canvas. You had once thought him emotionless, cold – oh, how wrong you had been. Sorrow hangs from every sharp corner of his body where it does not leave his mouth in the form of words, rolling off his shoulders and crashing against his calves. In his eyes lies an anguish you recognize all too well. An identical one rests somewhere, deep in your heart, and has for years.
Where the others fold in on themselves, Hayun unfurls. She tells you stories; of Jeonghan’s antics when he was younger, of Mingyu when they had known each other as children, and many more. It feels like a revival, and you listen intently as you help her with errands, wanting the full picture.
Occasionally, Wonwoo is already there when you walk in, ready to assist. He does not say much while Hayun talks, but the look he has always given you has changed. It is not so coarse now, smoother round the edges, and significantly less malicious.
Observant as ever, as he has always been.
The air is always thick with settled misery, and you find it difficult to fall asleep at night. Your nightmares wake you, and they are the exact same every time. It is always dark, always empty – you reach out, but for what you do not know. There is nothing there, and you always fall deeper into a black hole that seems to extend infinitely all around you.
Every time, you wake with a gasp. Hansol is always peacefully asleep beside you, dead to the world. You never manage to stay in bed through the sunrise. More than anything else, you wonder why your brother does not appear in your dreams any longer. It is your own personal distress, albeit silly. He is not even real anymore, but you take his sudden silence as desertion.
One day, you find a crumpled piece of paper fallen just behind a shelf. You pick it up to toss it out, but your curiosity gets the better of you at the last minute, and you unfold it carefully.
It is a simple sketch. Not one you have seen before, but after hours of observation, you would recognize the hand that drew this anywhere. The frustrated scribbles in a corner and light retracings are a dead giveaway.
There are footsteps behind you. You do not need to look to know that it is Wonwoo. Belatedly, you wonder when you learned what his presence feels like.
He nods, towards the paper. “What is that?”
You pass it to him. Like you, he recognizes it instantly. The first sound of amusement in weeks leaves his throat, a little snort.
“So very Jeonghan,” he says. You know exactly what he means.
Wonwoo’s eyes are subtly red and puffy. This you had seen not so long ago; you will never forget the way he had wept over Jeonghan’s body, tears streaming down his cheeks relentlessly. It was a sight you did not want to witness again, ever. Just being there had put your own heart in serious danger of cracking, if only a little.
Are you alright? The question almost slips from your mouth. But you already know the answer, so you just hold your tongue.
“Did you need something?” you ask instead.
“No.” Wonwoo shakes his head a bit, a habit you’ve noticed he’s developed to toss the hair away from his forehead. “Hansol wanted to spar a little. Thought it would take my mind off of things.”
You smile to yourself. Hansol had always been this way, knowing just the right thing to do. “And did it?”
Wonwoo thinks about it, tongues his cheek before nodding. You take in his figure – this tall, broad man rooted in hesitation in front of you. The cut on his cheek has healed well, you notice, leaving a scab behind. The bruise on his jaw is not yet gone, but the discoloration should dissipate within a few more days.
The moment hangs, suspended in the air. Neither of you move, but nobody says anything either. You watch him weighing his uncertainty, eyes shifting from the wall to the floor and back to the wall again. The awkwardness only grows by the second.
Wonwoo breaks the silence first. “How did you go on?”
“What?”
“After Seungkwan,” he clarifies. You wonder at how he says his name with a particular sort of reverence that has your chest warming at an inhumane level. “After the letter.”
“I did not have a choice,” you tell him, ruefully. “I have always been fighting, always running. It never stops. Seungkwan knew that, too. If I had given up, I am convinced he would have come back as a spirit to haunt me.”
The corner of Wonwoo’s mouth lifts slightly at your attempt at a joke. As the days blur past, you have come to collect those little smiles and pocket them away. Those rare moments have become tiny fragments you choose to cherish in your masked silence.
“There are so many regrets,” he confesses suddenly. “So many things I wish I had not said, or done. So many times we fought over such stupid things. It all comes back now.”
“It always does. But you cannot change the past.”
It had for you, too – but you suppose it must have been infinitely worse for Wonwoo, who had held Jeonghan’s hand as he drew his last breaths. You had, at least, been spared the agony of watching Seungkwan die. The realization sparks a newfound ache in your heart for all that Seokmin had to go through alone.
Wonwoo’s mouth opens again, and you subconsciously hang onto his next words. It is unexplainable how he sparks your curiosity, your intrigue, snagging your attention at every turn. Somehow you had each already begun to unravel yourselves to the other, whether you knew it or not.
“I must tell you something,” he starts. You nod, gesturing for him to go on. “Seungcheol has been planning something. Not just a resistance – a movement, for change. Something this country has not seen for many years.”
“That is good,” you agree, unsure where this is going.
“We are working with allies, small groups all over the country. It is all coordinated; we will reach the soldiers before they find us,” Wonwoo continues, determined. “We must remove Lee Muyeol from power for good. The people cannot continue to live like this. We are fortunate enough to be able to mostly live off the land, but thousands are left starving. It will not do. Even the young prince would be more just, more caring than his puppet ruler of a father.”
It dawns on you, slowly. “Jeon Wonwoo, are you asking me to help you stage a coup?”
He winces slightly. “It sounds horrible when you put it like that.”
“Alright, then. You are trying to oust the king’s brother from power, effectively also putting a dent in the king’s reign itself.”
“Infinitely worse, for sure.” He chuckles, then, a bit of mirth slipping into his eyes before he grows serious again. “I do not expect you to agree. But I want you to know that you have this choice before you, if you choose to take it.”
You fidget with your fingertips, weighing it in your mind, because you know that after all is said and done, Wonwoo is correct. Your own family had fallen victim to the violence that had erupted after food became a scarcity in the north, and it had torn your childhood apart. Suddenly you think of everyone you have lost – Seungkwan, Jeonghan, your brother whose face you cannot recall. A certain indignance rises to your throat at the very thought.
“You do not have to answer now,” Wonwoo repeats, and he turns to go. But you have already made up your mind in the time it takes him to reach the doorway.
“Wait!” you call out. “Wonwoo, wait. I want in.”
“What?”
You raise your eyebrows. “You should not ask questions if you are not prepared to hear the answer.”
“I heard you,” he confirms, voice gravelly. “But… you are sure?”
“Yes.” You fold your arms. “Why? You do not think I can hold my own?”
“What? Of course I do.” Wonwoo’s eyes soften, just a little, though his tone retains some of the attitude he always seems to have on standby while speaking to you. “I have watched you kill a man with no hesitation in one single blow. Do you think I am stupid, blind, or both?”
“I do not believe you would want me to answer that question,” you say sagely. You succeed in drawing an exasperated half-smile out of him again, and a part of you wonders why you enjoy it so much.
Wonwoo catches your gaze mid-chuckle. You cannot look away, and there is that inevitable pull again, the one that always leaves you a confused mess. A voice inside your head is screaming at you to tear your eyes off of his, but you do not, refusing to be the one to break first.
“We will discuss this more with Seungcheol. After dinner,” he says, at last. “Meet us outside. Do not be late.”
Wonwoo has begun to wonder if this is not as good of an idea as he originally thought.
You and Seungcheol frown at each other, clearly in a standoff. Wonwoo has been keeping time; the two of you have been arguing about the best route to the capital for the past twenty-four minutes, and he does not know how much longer he can listen to this.
“Following the river gives us the best chance at survival,” you point out, tapping the map that is spread out on the table. “I do not see what else is up for discussion.”
“It also makes us easier to follow and find. Do you want to get caught before even reaching the city?”
Wonwoo groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. No progress has been made at all – in fact, he thinks you’ve all taken quite a few steps in the opposite direction.
“Alright, hold on. We cannot take a total detour. That will waste too much time, and we will still be at risk of getting caught early. However,” he continues, even though Seungcheol is currently glaring daggers at him, “We cannot risk going along the river the whole way. Remember, we must travel on foot.”
“An amazing idea,” you mutter, arms folded.
Wonwoo ignores you and traces along a separate route with his finger, dragging it up and eastwards. This path dances along the riverbank before sharply moving out, staying concealed while making the most distance in the interest of time.
“This might be better,” he says. “Or if we set off towards the western mountains before swinging back. That could work, too.”
“I will think about it,” Seungcheol grumbles. You just shake your head indignantly. That, in itself, is a peace offering in his book. Wonwoo doesn’t complain and takes what he can get.
Time passes like this; slow, but grueling. Every second seems to weigh on his bones, shackles on his wrists and ankles. He does his best to ignore the dread pooling in his stomach and soldier on.
He visits Jeonghan every day without fail. Never at the same time as Seungcheol, who makes his visits in the morning – he goes at night, armored by the breeze. It is not much work, for they had buried him over the hill, under the magnolia tree he had loved so much. Sometimes when the wind blows through the branches, it is as if Jeonghan’s voice carries through the wind.
Wonwoo sits, knees hitting the dirt. The sun is low over the hill, flickering as it slowly sets.
“Well,” he starts. “At least Y/N and Seungcheol have stopped fighting now.”
He can almost hear Jeonghan’s response in his mind. The man would have had some witty comment ready, a clever response always at the tip of his tongue.
“We leave in a few days. Just the three of us. Mingyu did not speak to me for a week when I told him he was to stay back with Hayun and the others.” He presses his palm against the soil, remembers what it had felt like to hold Jeonghan’s hand for the last time. “But I do not think he is well enough for this journey, still. I know you would have agreed.”
Wonwoo has developed a habit of pausing between sentences. He does not know why. It is no longer a conversation, just a monologue that Jeonghan will never actually get to hear.
“I wish you were here,” he says finally, throat thick with a feeling he does not really want to name.
There are always many things he catalogues during the day, little tidbits of information he would have told Jeonghan immediately. A new family of rabbits up the hill, or a particularly pretty patch of wildflowers in the woods. But none of it ever matters, really, by the time he sits in front of the lonely headstone again. All of those words disappear again.
It all boils down to this. I miss you. I wish you were still here. Come back. Who am I supposed to tell about the birds when you are no longer with me?
It does not matter. The birds keep chirping, and the world goes on. Quietly, in its own way. The trees and the flowers will not remember Yoon Jeonghan the way Wonwoo does, sharp and playful and gently prickly in all of the right places.
Sometimes, you are there too. You always leave as he arrives, and Wonwoo used to wonder bitterly why you even bothered to come, but he thinks he understands now. Rather, he basks in your presence, knowing that under your rough exterior there is a woman who understands how it feels to constantly grieve.
He even asks you to come with him, the morning of your departure. It is still hours to sunrise, and he would be a little surprised that you are awake, if he did not already know that you’ve always had trouble sleeping. You look a little tired, and a little taken aback by his request, but you follow him anyway, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes.
The silence is thick. He can sense that you are waiting for him to speak first, but he does not feel any pressure. Only patience.
“He was everything I had ever hoped to be,” Wonwoo says quietly, when his mind settles. You give him an odd look.
“You do not need to be Jeonghan,” you tell him. “Just you.”
“I looked up to him. I learned from him.” He clenches his fist, dirt crumbling beneath his fingers. “Chan deserves to have somebody like that, too.”
You meet his broken gaze. “And he already does.”
Wonwoo cannot seem to get enough of that look in your eyes. Sharp, but earnest. A rare thing, and so he tries to preserve every last second and archive it away in some safe corner of his mind. He commits the rise and fall of your shoulders to memory, filing away the soft curve of your lips for a later thought.
The goodbyes are quick, though Wonwoo does not like to call them that. He lets Mingyu hug him, warm hand patting his shoulder, and reaches out to ruffle Chan’s messy hair affectionately.
“I still wish you would let me come with you, hyung,” the younger grumbles, leaning into the embrace. “I can fight, too.”
“I know you can,” Seungcheol soothes him. “But that is why we need you here, in case they come again. You are more than capable.”
Hansol sighs to himself, but Wonwoo catches it anyway. He feels the same way as Chan, burned by the guilt of being told to stay back instead of fighting a battle he was complicit in. But you had told him it would be all right, and promised to return safely. Wonwoo himself made no such promises, and nobody had asked it of him. He knows better than to swear things he will not have control over. Your optimism sends a twinge of sadness to his soul.
He turns to Mingyu, who looks on with an unreadable expression, fingers gently intertwined with Hayun’s. “I hope you are not still upset with me,” he says gingerly.
“I could not ever stay upset with you.” Mingyu’s eyes are shiny, threatening to spill the tears. “Not at a time like this.”
Wonwoo knows what he means. This may well be the last time they speak. There is no telling what will happen at the capital, and who will come back alive. He wants to tell Mingyu not to worry, but the words don’t come, just an understanding nod. Between them, nothing more needs to be said.
The first hints of light begin to peek out as the three of you set off. The dawn emboldens Wonwoo, as it always has. He carries the small satchel of food Hayun had meticulously packed over his shoulder, tying the ends across his torso so he can move hands-free. Seungcheol has the map, currently unfolded in his hands, and you follow with a compass, darting between the trees silently.
None of you speak much – a given, for this sort of journey. Wonwoo trudges on quietly, occasionally mumbling a heads up for you when there is a loose rock or a particularly large root. He waits, always, for your quiet thanks to make its way back to his ears.
He does not dare look back. Not when the sunlight filters through the forest canopy at just the right angle and sets you alight. You are already bright, a blazing force. Wonwoo does not believe himself strong enough a man to behold you in all your illuminated glory. His already grieving heart hurts a little more at the sight of your brilliant eyes.
Instead, he keeps his eyes forward, takes in all the green around him. The forest revives him with every step, every gentle brush of his fingers against a tall blade of grass. Just for now, it allows him to forget – the blood, the blade, the battle. In this moment, there is no war; just the creeping vines and sturdy larch trees that have always been there, and will always be.
“Do you hear that?” you murmur softly. Wonwoo tilts his head, listens carefully. He can just barely make out the sound of a lively current, water splashing onto the stony bank. Seungcheol notices it, too, checking the map again.
“We are making good progress,” he says, satisfied. “This should not take us more than three or four days, give or take. We should arrive at the same time as the others.”
Wonwoo nods, knows exactly what others Seungcheol is talking about. People just like them, who had suffered the same things but worse, and decided to do something about it. Young men and women who had lost families and a means to put food on the table, who had not been as fortunate as they had. Those from the southeast, far from the woodland vegetation, would have had it the hardest.
Seungcheol turns, then, saying it is a good time to stop and eat. You make a beeline for the river eagerly, and Wonwoo follows along, light on his feet the whole way through.
The grass becomes sparser the closer he gets, giving way to rocky ground. The river runs fast, the current swirling up and crashing against the boulders studded alongside it. It is a beautiful sight, for sure, but Wonwoo is distracted by you gently dipping your fingers into the water and basking in the coolness.
“What are you standing there for?” you ask without turning. Faintly, he wonders how you knew he was there, but he approaches you still.
“You seem to enjoy the water,” he observes. You smile, lightly reminiscent.
“Well, I am from the north. Very landlocked,” you say. “I only visited the coast once, when I was a child. I barely remember it. But I do know that the current is a wondrous thing, as alluring as it is dangerous.”
Wonwoo has to bite back the words on his tongue, the ones that want to say that that is exactly how he would describe you. His downfall, his double-edged sword. But he would never say it out loud, knowing what he is to you.
Which begs the question – what is he to you? Not a friend just yet, not a captor anymore. Just someone to fight alongside with, just another person. Just Wonwoo.
Just you, you had told him earlier that morning. It warms him, from the inside. He has not forgotten at all.
Instead, he takes a seat on one of the large boulders beside you, rummaging through the satchel for a flask and something to eat. “Are you hungry?”
“Not particularly,” you shake your head. “But I would not say no to some water.”
He passes you the flask, as well as a small package. “You need to eat,” he says. “Seungcheol says we will not stop until sunset.”
Wonwoo watches you drink, sweat trickling down the column of your throat and pooling at the base of your neck, then looks away sharply. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel, to see you like this – so resplendent as you simply just exist in the world around you.
“Will you visit home again soon?” he asks instead. “You know, after…”
He knows you don’t need him to finish the sentence, the latter half left unsaid. You think about it, popping a slice of dried persimmon in your mouth.
“After,” you agree, swallowing. “I must. It has been too long since I have seen my sisters. Too dangerous, to go there again. I do not want to place a target on their backs.” Your eyelashes sweep your skin as you lower your eyes to the ground. “My presence has already caused two casualties. There cannot be more.”
Wonwoo’s heart aches. He had wanted so badly to blame you in the days following Jeonghan’s death, trying to find somewhere to place the anger in his chest. But he could not, in good conscience, hold you accountable for it.
“It was not your fault,” he says quietly.
“You do not need to say that. I openly blamed you for Seungkwan’s death, and this is the same thing.” A singular tear falls from the corner of your eye into the river below. Wonwoo looks away, to give you some semblance of privacy.
“I did not take offense when you said it.”
“You should have.” Your voice is thick with guilt. “I would have, if I were you. I was so cruel.”
“It is alright, ” Wonwoo says. “I understand.”
You look at him ruefully. “I understand, too.”
The two of you sit like that, side by side, basking in the gentle sunlight. Wonwoo looks on as you remove your boots, dipping your legs into the water. A tiny giggle escapes your throat as you watch the colorful fish that dart around, weaving between the reeds. It is a new sound. He tries his best to memorize it, while he can.
The moment does not last. The reverie is interrupted by Seungcheol’s voice calling out for you, and Wonwoo knows that it is time to keep moving. He packs up his satchel again, standing as you dry off your feet, and offers his hand to help you up the rocky slope once your boots are back on. You eye it warily for a few seconds before taking it, careful with your steps.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” Wonwoo waits for you to let go of him first, the feeling lingering on his fingers. He turns to go, but you pass him the last dried persimmon slice, stopping him in his tracks.
“I did not poison it, if that is why you were hesitating,” you add, before softening a bit. “You did not eat earlier, either.”
Wonwoo can’t find the words to reply just yet. Instead he huffs a little laugh, accepting it graciously. The fruit is chewy and honeyed, but it sits on his tongue just a touch sweeter than he remembers. Whether that is real or his mind’s own doing, he does not know.
Emptiness, again. But it is warm this time, strangely familiar. You stretch your arms out around you, but there is still nothing.
Ah. There you are.
Immediately you relax, relief rushing through your body. What took you so long?
Patience, little tiger. An affectionate laugh, one you recognize all too well. It simply was not the time.
I thought you had gone. For good.
There is no response. Just that familiar tenderness curling itself around you and lifting you up. To where, you do not know. You cannot see anything above you, nor below. It is dark, everywhere.
Remember this, sister. When the truth shows itself, it will never do you good to hide from it.
What does that even mean? You nearly ask the question, but everything begins to spin relentlessly. Your vision blurs – not that there's anything for you to see – and the sheer pressure of it all forces you to tear your eyes open.
You are met directly with an unobstructed view of Wonwoo’s face. Even in sleep, he is rather beautiful. The soft dawn’s glow rests gentle on the slope of his face, leaving his sharp features illuminated. You sit up slowly, shivering when the cool wind hits your face.
This is not new to you. There had been many nights where you had slept beside Seokmin and Seungkwan, on all of those assignments you carried out over the years. Hell, you had even shared the floor with Hansol for the past month or so.
But this is different. You have to fight the urge to observe him closer, taking in the curl of his lashes and the mole that sits beneath his right eye. It is magnetic, and unsettling.
The dream has left you restless. You get to your feet quietly, to avoid waking the others, and duck out of the tent. Seungcheol had said it would be best to leave at dawn, but you had not felt like waking them just yet. They will be up sooner or later, you think, stretching.
You take the time to walk around a bit, taking note of the plants and flowers that are so different from the ones back home. The newness of it all is scintillating. The northern regions are dry, and unwelcoming to both flora and fauna alike. But here they flourish, reflecting bright colors into the surrounding forest. You think about another timeline where your adolescent years might have been filled with this kind of wonder, instead of the smell of burning wood and blood.
The seconds move on their own. You do not know exactly how much time has passed by, just that the sun is a bit stronger now, and you can feel the heat on your back.
A sudden call of your name has you flinching out of surprise. It is muffled by the thick forest, but it comes again, closer this time. Instinctively your hand goes to your belt, but you realize that you have left all of your weapons inside the tent.
There is a loud rustling behind you. You turn sharply, and a few twigs snap. Wonwoo emerges from the leaves, all wide-eyed and panicked. He just stares at you for a few seconds, chest heaving like he had been running.
You blink at him, confused. “... Good morning?”
“You are alright,” he breathes, fingers gripping one of his knives so tight his knuckles go white. It is more of a confirmation to himself than a question. He scans you, like he is checking for any sign of injury. “You disappeared. We did not know where you had gone.”
You arch a brow at him. “Are you okay?”
Wonwoo lets out a painstaking breath. His shoulders shake with relief, and something else. “I fall asleep with you next to me, and when I wake up, you are nowhere to be seen. Do you see the problem here?”
“No, because I am completely fine,” you explain, suddenly provoked. “I just wanted to walk a bit, stretch my legs.”
“How am I supposed to know that if it looks like you have simply vanished?” He folds his arms, jaw tight. “Did it not strike you to wake one of us up if you were going to stray so far?”
“It was not far,” you shoot back crossly. Your surprise is slowly beginning to morph into a specific frustration that only seems to rear its ugly head in front of Wonwoo. “If you did not think I could last twenty minutes by myself, you should not have asked me to come with you.”
Wonwoo frowns deeply. “That is not what I meant.”
“It sounds exactly like it.” You raise your chin, feeling challenged, and take a bold step forward. The ball has been tossed back to your side of the court, and the burning flame in Wonwoo’s eyes only feeds your temper. “I should have known you were the kind of man who underestimates everyone’s capabilities, except your own.”
The words come out much harsher than you intend, and it surprises even yourself. You see it as the sentence leaves your mouth, the flash of hurt in Wonwoo’s sharp, angled eyes. It’s gone before you can truly register it, replaced by something more intense than vexation that you cannot place.
“We are supposed to look after each other,” Wonwoo says, harshly. Yet there is a strange softness in his expression that you would have almost missed if you weren’t paying such close attention. “Your safety is a part of my responsibility.”
“My safety is my own responsibility,” you retort. When had you gotten so close? The mere inches that lie between you and Wonwoo are charged with an anger that eventually pools out into something else, something much more perilous. Your tone picks up all the sarcasm in the world as you say, “Help me understand, Wonwoo. Why should you care so much?”
It all happens so fast, and yet the seconds feel slowed down. You do not know who moves first – you take another step, he leans into you – but the moment Wonwoo’s mouth meets yours, something clicks. His lips are slightly chapped, a consequence of long travel and the dehydration that follows it. You take the opportunity to swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, biting gently, and the groan that leaves his throat is music to your ears. It delights you, the way he seems to melt into your touch, and you kiss him back with matched fervor.
“Why should I care?” Wonwoo’s head dips to your jaw as he repeats your question. “You are a force of nature. The sun and the moon and the stars, all at once. I know you do not need protection. And still my heart seems to ache, when you are not safe.”
“Wonwoo,” you breathe, unable to form any other thoughts. Your fingers tighten even more around the soft cloth of his robes, tugging him closer.
“You are so strong, so clever – so sharp with the words you use. Infuriating, but equally captivating. And that,” he says, dragging his lips down the column of your throat, “is the most dangerous thing of all.”
It is dizzying, so much so that you barely register the tiny sound of satisfaction that escapes your throat. Embarrassing, in any other scenario.
But it is Wonwoo, holding your face with all the gentleness that had not been there just five minutes ago, and so it does not matter at all. Not even as you tilt your head to the side, his soft hair tickling your skin, allowing him room to press an almost reverent kiss to your collarbone. The feeling burns, but in a way that feels like you are floating.
Wonwoo’s eyes are unreadable when he finally looks up at you. The air is fraught; you open your mouth but nothing comes out. All the words are stuck in your throat as you try to hold onto the sensation of his mouth against yours. You probably look a mess, and so does he – but he is a work of art even now, hair mussed and lips slightly swollen, cheeks flushed under the morning sun.
In the distance, you hear your name again. This voice is different, a bit rougher. As if on instinct, you and Wonwoo separate like repelling magnets, immediately putting a few yards’ space between each other.
“Seungcheol,” he says, not looking away from you.
“We should go,” you add quietly. He nods, but you cannot let go of the comfort you had felt in his arms. A strange, new feeling. Did you want more of it? What do you want?
You do not get to finish that line of thought. Seungcheol stumbles in, nearly tripping on a large root and steadying himself with one hand on a tree trunk.
“There you are,” he says, frowning slightly. “Are you okay? You were not there when we woke up. We were worried.”
“Wonwoo is here. I am alright.” You dare to glance over at him, just for a second. He watches you like you are the moon that rises in his night. “I should have woken you both, I am sorry.”
“All that matters right now is that we are all alive and well.” Seungcheol shifts his eyes between you and Wonwoo. Suddenly you are aware of how close you two are standing, and how it must look. You discreetly shuffle backwards, heat rising to your cheeks.
Wonwoo clears his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “Shall we get going? We should have already left by now.”
Seungcheol nods. “We will need to stop at a safe house right outside the capital to regroup with the others. It should not be too long a journey left, if we make good distance.”
You glance up at the sky. The sun is already quite high, growing brighter with each passing minute. To reach the capital by nightfall, you have no choice but to leave now.
It is with an unsteady heart that you make your way back to the tent, chest heavy with the implications of everything that has just happened. You cannot rid your mind of the memory, Wonwoo’s touch setting your body alight. Somewhere along the line you had begun to find him enchanting rather than irritating, reluctant affection replacing the hatred you had harbored so long ago.
You watch him smile at something Seungcheol says, light hitting his features just right, and wonder at how he had once been the man you were set out to kill.
Between your thoughts, you try to ignore the way Wonwoo’s hands gently brush against yours, knuckles knocking against each other. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel the same tension emanating off of his broad shoulders and bowed head. To say something now is to break the precious silence, and so both of you remain quiet.
Seungcheol hoists the supply bag over his shoulder and pulls out the map again. You press your palm against the ground, trying to memorize the sights and sounds, and set off further north.
To say that Wonwoo is losing his mind would be a violent understatement.
He had not known, really, what had possessed him in that moment. All he was thinking was you, you, you, as you had glared up at him fiercely with those eyes. It was a mixture of sheer relief at the sight of you, unharmed, and the utter tenderness that had risen into his chest that had set off his mind.
And you had kissed him back – he cannot forget how your fingers had tangled themselves into his hair, tugging gently. A part of him knew, he thinks, that that would happen. It had been evident in the way you had leaned into him, almost challenging him to do something. But he has never been the type of person to let himself hope on such high stakes; at least, not until now.
Seungcheol eyes him warily. “You look unwell. Did you not sleep enough?”
“I did,” Wonwoo mumbles, for lack of a better answer. He watches Seungcheol accept his response, before glancing back at you. The tension is palpable, and he only hopes the older man remains blissfully unaware of everything that had previously transpired.
“Well, I do hope you both are not at each other’s throats again. We cannot afford to have internal issues right now.”
Oh. That is how he chose to understand it. Wonwoo senses you stiffen behind him, bites back a quick retort about how he technically had been at your throat, and chooses to reply with a quiet hum of agreement. A few beats pass before he speaks again, only filled by the sounds of their quiet footsteps and the occasional songbirds’ chirping.
“What about you, hyung?”
Seungcheol gives a weak half-smile. “I am still walking,” he says. “Still moving, as always. There is no path but forward.”
Wonwoo knows he is not talking about their current journey. He had not spoken to Seungcheol much after they had buried Jeonghan. The older man had often preferred his solitude since then, shutting himself inside his room or throwing himself into busywork. Seungcheol has never been the kind of person to unburden himself unprompted. Wonwoo will never truly know if he does not ask.
“Is it any better?”
Silence. Seungcheol reaches into his pocket, and opens his fist to reveal a small magnolia flower. It is a bit wrinkled and worn, but still beautiful as ever.
“Not really,” he says. “It does not magically happen. Not unless you want it to, and it is stubborn even then.”
The message is somewhat cryptic, but Wonwoo knows just what he means. He senses the lingering grief that swims in the corners of Seungcheol’s eyes and knows that the conversation is over.
He does not get a chance to speak to you again until well past midday. It is hotter now, and with the tree cover slowly growing more and more sparse, there is no shade to seek shelter under. Wonwoo catches you fanning yourself with a hand as you take the new terrain in. He has always enjoyed watching you like this, full of that natural curiosity you like to indulge yourself in away from the life that demands your complete strength. A sparrow takes flight, and you follow its path with your eyes. You are beautiful under the bright sky.
You turn before he can announce his presence somehow, observing him for a moment before gently patting the spot on the rock next to you. Wonwoo does not decline it, settling carefully into the space you’ve designated specifically for him. He almost reaches out for you, almost.
“I can tell you want to say something,” you begin, sounding a tad amused. “Spit it out.”
Wonwoo has a thousand possible questions at the tip of his tongue. Should we talk about it? Do you feel the same? Will I be able to take it if you tell me it was all just a mistake?
“Are you ready?” he asks instead.
You shrug. “No such thing. If this is the last thing I do, I might as well throw myself in headfirst.”
“Do not say that,” Wonwoo murmurs. It is somewhere between a gentle rebuke and a plea. You turn to look at him, eyes brilliant and earnest, and he does not know what to do with himself. If he looks closer, he might see that there is a hint of affection that lies in your gaze.
“Why not?” You laugh dryly. “You know as well as I do that some of us might not make it back home alive. I am not so proud to assume that I might be one of the lucky ones.”
“I wish you would have a little more faith in yourself,” he says.
“Faith will not change a thing. If I am meant to die, it will happen.” You twist a dry blade of grass between your fingers. Wonwoo feels his heart twist in a similar way. “At least that way I might see my brother again.”
Wonwoo turns his head sharply, surprised. “You have never mentioned having a brother.”
You smile, but it does not reach your eyes. For such a usually joyous expression, you look rather despondent, mouth set in a thin line.
“Had,” you correct softly. “Even that is a stretch, I think. He left me with nothing but the sound of his voice and his name. I was so young, I cannot even remember his face. I will never know if we share the same eyes, or nose.”
Wonwoo thinks of Wonjae, briefly. He has always mourned the loss of the years they could have had, but he had never really thought to savor the memories they were able to make instead. He wonders how much more resilient he’d have to be, to honor Wonjae’s life with none of those moments intact.
“Tell me about him,” he says.
“There is not much to tell,” you shake your head, “It will not bring him back.”
“It is the only way you can keep his memory alive,” Wonwoo counters. “You can start with simple things. Like his name.”
A tiny grin curves your mouth upwards. “Kwon Soonyoung,” you say. “If you think I am a force of nature, you would have thought him a storm. A torrent.”
Wonwoo tries to ignore your recollection of his own words and focuses on the newness of the name. Powerful, and smooth as it is strong. “Like brother, like sister, then.”
“Well, of course. He was my twin. We shared a lot of things.” Subconsciously, you lean closer to him as you talk. “But he was older, by several seconds, and he never let me forget it. Little tiger, he used to call me. He was not even that much taller. I always told him to knock it off,” you huff, “but he never did.”
“That is a fitting nickname,” Wonwoo says, just a tad amused.
“He thought so, too.” You smile fondly. “He was obsessed with tigers – I remember this, at least. Very passionate, strong animals. I suppose I can see where the resemblance lies.”
“He sounds like quite the character.”
“He was. Or he might have been; I do not really know. He did not get a chance to grow into the person he wanted to become.”
Wonwoo hesitates just barely before asking his next question. “How did he…?”
You smile gently. “You can say it, Wonwoo. It has been over a decade.”
“Still. There are some wounds that time cannot heal.”
“I suppose that is true.” Wonwoo watches your shoulders tremble just a little, and takes the leap of faith, letting his arm rest around them comfortingly. He is half surprised when you do not reject it, instead melting further into his warm touch. “Soonyoung was always brave, almost to a fault. It cost him his own life, in the end.”
“You do not have to talk about it,” he says gingerly. “I should not have asked.”
“No,” you chuckle through the welling tears. Wonwoo wants so desperately to wipe them aside, to kiss the salty sorrow away from your skin. But he knows that if you do not cry about it now, you never will. “I have kept it to myself far too long. Even Soonhee and Soonja do not know what truly happened in those last moments. The royal guard arrived out of nowhere, and within minutes it was obvious that it was a losing battle. But I stayed back to help him, like a fool. I did not want to leave him behind.”
“I believe you are far more courageous than you think.”
“Not then. At that moment, I was being stupid,” you say, voice shaky. “I think I knew, even then, that he would not survive it. We were so young, and he had hardly been trained with a sword. I remember him yelling at us to leave while we could.”
“And you stayed.”
“I did. I thought there had to be some way we could all escape, for sure. But it became clear that it was not possible.” He watches you shut your eyes tightly, exhaling. “That was the first time I had ever lifted a sword in my entire life. I barely made it out. His sacrifice was almost for nothing.”
“But it was not,” Wonwoo points out gently. “You are still here. Still fighting. I am sure he would be proud of the woman you have become.”
“I hope so,” you whisper. “I try to live fearlessly, as he did. As brave as he was, even when he knew it was the end.”
Wonwoo hums, lets your words sink in. You had comforted him just like this, not so long ago. The memory is not lost on him.
“You do not need to live like your brother,” he says. “Just live for yourself.”
A quiet sob leaves your throat. He had not intended on saying anything that would make you feel even worse, but your head drops to his shoulder as your tears soak the fabric of his clothes. Wonwoo does not say anything, instead opting to rub his thumb in consoling circles over your skin. He feels his heart ache impossibly as you cry, but remains still. Sometimes, silence is the best remedy.
He waits until your breathing slows and your sniffling comes to an end to shift slightly, using the large misshapen rock behind him as support. Your head still lies on his shoulder, and he basks in the feeling of being someone you would let yourself lean on.
“Sorry about that,” you say softly, wiping your eyes.
“No need to apologize.” He rests his chin against the top of your head, doesn’t push any further. The two of you just sit together, taking in the moment before it is time for the inevitable trek to continue yet again. For the moment, the conversation is more or less over.
But Wonwoo grapples with the swirling feelings in his chest for far longer than that. You have him utterly curious, safely storing away each new piece of information he learns about you. Yes, you are one of the strongest people he knows – but when did that begin? What made you have to build up these sturdy walls? If anything, you only prove more and more admirable each time.
The more he learns, the more in love he thinks he is.
It is well past nightfall by the time the dirt path gives way to the paved roads of the capital and the surrounding towns. Seungcheol tells both of you to stay as quiet as possible and follow him discreetly down the bustling roads.
The safe house is tucked away in a more isolated part of town, far from the crowded centers with their night markets and food stalls. It is small and unassuming, with the lights dimmed inside. As they approach, Wonwoo can just barely make out hushed voices from inside.
Seungcheol raises a hand to the door, knocking in a particular rhythm. There is a few seconds of silence before it opens slowly, a shrewd-looking man at the door. He eyes the three of you warily.
“Name?”
“Choi Seungcheol. Fourth southwestern province.”
The man considers it for a moment before swinging the door open. It is warm inside, a sharp contrast from the night’s cool breeze. Wonwoo offers you his hand first, helping you up the steps and into the house.
He can’t quite hear what Seungcheol and the man are talking about. He only catches a name —Myungho, it sounds like. He’s got an interesting accent to his words, but only a light one. Wonwoo would not have caught it if it weren’t for the complexity of the words, consonants rolling over like waves.
“Tomorrow night is when we fight,” Myungho says quietly. “Make yourselves comfortable here, in the meantime.” Then his gaze flickers back to you, somewhat surprised. “You did not mention you were bringing a lady.”
Seungcheol raises his eyebrows. “Is that a problem?”
Wonwoo watches as Myungho’s eyes linger on you. Not judging, but evaluating. There is something in his narrowed eyes that seems like it should sting, but does not.
“Not at all,” he answers simply. “We will adjust sleeping arrangements accordingly. Would the lady prefer a separate area?”
“No need,” you say firmly. “I know space is a bit tight here. Just a corner will do. Thank you, though.”
Myungho bows his head. “Of course.”
Wonwoo follows you and Seungcheol further into the house. It is not so big, but there are not that many men inside in the first place. Just as well. There is a genuine concern for lack of safety in great numbers.
Suddenly, you gasp. “Seokmin?!”
One of the men by the kitchen area looks up at the sudden call of his name. Wonwoo watches as he rushes towards you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders excitedly.
Of course, this is no stranger. He recognizes the sharp nose and the shape of his side profile, has heard about the deep friendship you share with him, but still — a sharp pang of a feeling he doesn’t really like travels straight through his chest.
“I did not know whether you were alive,” Seokmin says, tears already spilling from his eyes. “I only had to hope that after losing Seungkwan, I had not lost you, too.”
You laugh, but Wonwoo knows the sound too well. That specific laugh is reserved for when you are trying not to cry. “You have not, Seokmin. I have been well.”
“And Hansol?”
“Hansol is well, too. He stayed back,” you explain. “I did not want to risk his life, as well.”
Seokmin sighs out of utter relief, then turns his earnest eyes to Wonwoo. There is a flicker of recognition in them.
“Oh, right. This is Seokmin,” you tell Wonwoo. He returns the polite nod, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Wait, I remember you,” Seokmin says, a bit sheepishly. He does not need to explain any further. It is all written in the slightly embarrassed expression on his face. Of course – as one of your most trusted men, he would have fought alongside you at every turn.
“You, too,” Wonwoo returns awkwardly. He glances between you and Seokmin, sensing there is much to be said. “Well, you both should catch up. I will be with Seungcheol if you need anything, okay?”
You grace him with a small, grateful smile. Somehow you glow even brighter, though the lights are dimmed. “Alright. Thank you.”
He bows, bidding Seokmin a good night, before meandering around the house. The smell of cooking stew rises from the kitchen, and he is suddenly aware of the hunger in his stomach. He pokes his head into the kitchen area and finds Myungho speaking in another language with the man chopping up radish on the counter. Seungcheol sits behind them, conversing with an older man with streaks of gray in his hair.
He raises his eyes once he registers Wonwoo’s presence. “All okay?”
“Mm.” Wonwoo takes his seat, perching on another wooden stool. “Y/N seems to be settling in well. She seems comfortable.”
“That is good.” Seungcheol gestures to the man sitting across from him. “This is Kim Minseok. He used to serve in the royal guard. He is retired now, but he has been extremely helpful to us in terms of intelligence and communication.”
Wonwoo bows his head in greeting. Minseok just laughs heartily, watching him with a mix of pride and amusement.
“Well, it is nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Choi here has told me all about you over the years. I had thought you were just a myth until now!”
Wonwoo flushes deeply. “All good things, I hope.”
“Ah, you worry too much. You are too young to be so cautious! Enjoy it while you can, eh?” Minseok takes another long sip of whatever liquid in his cup. “I hope to see this prowess Seungcheol speaks of soon enough, then.”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
Wonwoo zones out for the rest of the conversation, just letting in a few words here and there. They discuss strategy, and possible routes – he knows that none of that will truly matter in the end. There are only two ways tomorrow night will go, and out of those only one will prevail. It is already written. No matter how much Minseok or Myungho might want it, it will not change to their whims.
From the corner of his eye, he catches your reclined figure against a wooden chair. You laugh at something Seokmin says, eyes crinkling in that rare joy he so loves to see in your face. Wonwoo has never wanted more for all of this to be over sooner, just so that you might be happier, like this. No more fighting, no more spilt blood. Just you and your smile.
Myungho’s voice pulls Wonwoo out of his swirling thoughts. Seungcheol stands, pushing his stool out, and pats him on the shoulder gently.
“Come,” he says, offering a warm smile. It is one of the first Wonwoo has seen in weeks, and he savors it. “Dinner is ready.”
The stew is comforting, the heat warming your fingers through the ceramic of the bowl. You fold in on yourself even more, pulling your limbs closer to ward off the cold. Beside you, Seokmin is in a similar position as he spoons another piece of eggplant into his mouth.
You savor the taste carefully, mulling over everything he has told you so far. Of utmost importance was any sort of news from your sisters, and hearing that they were doing well brought you the most relief. Sangmin suffered through a fever, he mentioned, but he had recovered within a few days. That, thankfully, had been the worst of it.
Briefly, your eyes wander over to Wonwoo’s broad figure, listening intently as Myungho talks. His hair falls just short of his eyes, veiling his sharp brows and his tanned skin. A sight to see, under the low lights.
“You are distracted,” Seokmin observes, hiding a smile.
You tear your eyes from Wonwoo with a start. “No?”
“Oh, come on. You are not as closed a book as you think. And am I not allowed to be curious?” he asks. “You have told me quite literally everything, except for the man you arrived with. How can I not have questions?”
“I arrived with two men, Seokmin.”
“Yes, and only one of them has bothered to look in your direction twenty-five times in the past ten minutes. I am not blind, you know.”
This makes you sigh deeply, wondering if what he’s said is true. But it might very well be. You are not blind, either, as much as you would like to delude yourself into believing.
You do not tell Seokmin about the incident in the forest. That memory burns too bright to be shared. But you recount the slow evolution of your feelings towards Wonwoo, the slippery slope that had started as resentment and has now brought you to a precarious camaraderie.
You do not tell him about the strange new feeling in your chest, either. Or the fact that the deep-rooted affection in some corner of your heart has begun to sprout too prominent for you to ignore. This, you keep to yourself. If you do not say it, it does not have to sound as real.
Seokmin listens intently while you speak, as he always has. Nods along, as you describe the particularly difficult moments. He laces his fingers together once you finish, ever thoughtful.
“Well, he is quite handsome,” he says. “No complaints from me.”
“Seokmin!”
“Alright, alright,” he soothes, rubbing the spot on his arm where you had just hit him. “You are so violent. What sort of friend would I be if I did not give you my two cents, after all?”
You glare at him playfully. “An uninjured one.”
He holds both his arms up, feigning surrender. It draws another laugh out of you as you take another bite of stew, the flavorful spices dancing on your tongue. It is a sharp reminder for you to enjoy these happy moments while they last.
The house quiets down after most everyone has finished eating. You offer to help with the dishes, but Myungho insists that you sit, so you make yourself useful and towel dry the bowls after he washes them. Another man takes it upon himself to wipe down the counter, and the two of them chatter away in a vaguely familiar language as they work.
“Oh, dear. Forgive my manners,” the newcomer says suddenly. His accent is quite similar to Myungho’s, but a little less noticeable and smoother around the edges. “My name is Junhui. I live across town, actually, but I came over here to help however I can.”
“Nice to meet you,” you say, offering your own name in response. He smiles widely, eyes forming half crescents. “How do you both know each other?”
“Junhui and I are cousins,” Myungho explains. “But my family came here from China many years after his. My father was a paper merchant, and it was easier to find business here at the time than back home.”
You hum in understanding, taking in the new information. “You did not follow in his footsteps?”
“Almost. But I backed out, in the end.” Myungho smiles, his first of the night. “I did not want to sentence myself to something I knew I would detest. Instead, I moved up here to start a new life. I opened a restaurant here four years ago, along with Junhui.”
“That is a sharp pivot,” you remark.
“Perhaps. But you do not truly live until you dare to change.”
You look around the house again. If you squint, you can see it in your mind’s eye– remnants of a lively business, steaming bowls of soup and the chatter that comes with a well-fed crowd. The walls might have been painted red, decorated with small golden flowers. None of it is there now, only the ghosts of happy times.
“Customers began to dwindle. It was not safe for them to be out so often, so of course it was not good for business.” He frowns as the memory sets in. “Eventually it was not enough to sustain ourselves. So we closed it down.”
“Royal intelligence was not fond of us, either,” Myungho adds. “There were many people who would gather here to discuss the government, and propose political change. Of course, none of it went under the radar. It was all rather frustrating for those in power.”
You watch as Junhui looks down at his hands as if he’s mourning those precious years. Everyone carries their own ghosts, grieving in a different way. But more than that, you feel guilty – you had, after all, fought on the side of those who abused their power and oppressed their people for years. The circumstances are beyond the fact. You are still complicit.
“That is terrible,” you say honestly. “I am sorry it happened that way. Truly.”
“No need.” Myungho smiles again, but it is sadder this time. “Nothing really ever dies, does it? We were not about to let the space go to waste. Now we operate out of here. It was two years ago, I think, that we started to use this house for… what do you call it?”
He fumbles to find the word for several seconds, before Junhui says something in a smooth Chinese dialect.
“Ah,” Myungho says finally. “Resistance.”
You understand, now. The spark in their eyes is one that has been burning for a long time, and it will not go out anytime soon.
“We are very thankful,” you tell him. “Without you both, this would not be possible.”
Junhui waves it off sheepishly, shaking the dark hair away from his forehead. “Alright, alright. That is not so. It has taken the effort and cooperation of many people for the movement to reach where it is right now.”
“Still,” you insist. “You have laid a sturdy foundation. Your work will not go in vain.”
“That is not something you or anyone else can guarantee,” he says sagely, “but I will accept the sentiment in the name of hope.”
You give him a wry smile. “Hope is all we have.”
Junhui mirrors your expression, but there is a particular weariness in his eyes. “I only wonder if it will be enough.”
The three of you finish cleaning up in silence, only broken by the occasional remark or stray joke, and you bid them goodnight when the dishes have been done and the kitchen is spotless. The others seem to be settling down, and you wander around for a bit before finding your spot beside a wall, just as you had requested.
The day weighs down on you, and you are suddenly aware of the soreness in your muscles from the days’ travel you’ve been doing. You lie down and let your body rest against the floor, reveling in the warmth of the heavy blanket. Apprehension pools in your stomach, but you try not to think about the events to come, instead focusing on your own steady breath.
You hear Seungcheol and Wonwoo speaking quietly before they lie down on their mats, too. The light goes out, and you close your eyes to feign sleep until you actually succumb to your dreams. However, you are not fooling anybody. Wonwoo shifts a little beside you, and you are painfully aware of the distance between you and him.
“I know you are awake,” he whispers. You peek out from under your blanket – you can barely see him in the dark, but your eyes adjust to the lack of light rather quickly. “You are quite terrible at pretending.”
“I did not ask for your opinion, Wonwoo.”
“I am giving it regardless.” He is quiet for the next few seconds, then says, “Having trouble sleeping?”
“What do you care?”
He laughs dryly, a twinge of melancholy in his voice. “Please do not make me answer that question again. I do not think I can bear it.”
Heat rises to your cheeks suddenly as the memory rushes back to you. It replays in your mind like a flashback, and you will your heart to slow itself. And yet, you savor the closeness, aware of the heat radiating from him next to you.
“Sleep,” you say instead. “There is a long day ahead of us.”
“You cannot say that as you look so deep in thought,” he counters. “Tell me what is going on that intricate brain of yours.”
You try to ignore the deepness of his voice and the rough edge it carries as you sort through your thoughts, attempting to find the words for them. There is no easy way to do it, but it feels a little better when Wonwoo is right beside you.
“I am afraid,” you confess suddenly. “As much as I try not to be. I spend my time wondering, what would Soonyoung do? And after that I wonder if I am capable of being half the person he was.”
“You are,” Wonwoo says firmly. “And I know that you know it, too.”
How strange a feeling, to have him pinpoint your exact thought so quickly! You peer at him, just barely making out his features, and grip the blanket just a little tighter. The realization that this could well be the last night you ever spend in his company is chilling.
“I had a brother, too, once,” he continues softly. “I carry his ghost on my shoulders as I once carried him. But I cannot let that memory hold me back from fighting for what is important. And neither can you. Does that make sense?”
You hum in agreement, letting it sink in. “You know, you did not strike me as the older brother type.”
He wrinkles his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I thought you were an only child, for sure.”
“Now you are just slandering me for the fun of it,” Wonwoo complains. A sudden laugh bubbles from your throat, spilling out into the silence, and you clap a hand over your mouth immediately to stifle the following giggles. He smiles, chuckling softly. “And you will wake everyone in this house, if you keep doing that.”
“Oh, be quiet,” you rebuke, settling back in. The weight of his previous words sits on your mind again. “You understand then, how it feels.”
“Mm.”
The two of you lie there, staring up at the ceiling of what used to be Myungho and Junhui’s livelihood. Silent understanding passes over you, like it always seems to. Your heart beats twice as strong somehow, when it is him that occupies the place at your side, and you fall asleep with that sense of security blanketing your mind.
Morning comes in the form of Myungho’s sharp voice. You quickly learn that as kind as he is, he does not seem to like coming off that way, and much prefers a steady routine. The floor is clear within minutes under his supervision, while Junhui gets to work on breakfast. You offer to help him, but he just waves you off, so you sit on the countertop and chat with him as the porridge cooks.
Wonwoo joins you both a few minutes later. You almost laugh at the sight of him – messy hair and tired eyes – and it warms your heart.
“There you are,” he says, voice still heavy with sleep. “I was wondering where you had gone.”
“Nowhere far. Just keeping Junhui company.”
“I see that.” He sits on the taller wooden stool, wincing as he rolls his shoulder. At your questioning look he says, “Definitely slept wrong last night. I think Seungcheol might have kicked me in his sleep, too. Multiple times.”
“Maybe you deserve it,” you shoot back playfully. Wonwoo’s mouth curves up into a knowing smirk that has your knees just a little weak.
“Anyhow, he seems very stressed,” he says. “I did not want to bring it up unnecessarily.”
“Everyone is on edge today,” Junhui agrees, stirring the porridge. “Even Myungho woke up in a terrible mood, if you could not already tell. Tonight is the night everything could change, for better or worse. Some of the men have already come to terms with the fact that this might be their last day alive.”
“But it might not be,” Wonwoo puts in thoughtfully. “Not necessarily.”
“That is true. But nobody knows.” Junhui sprinkles a pinch of salt into the pot. “Some feel it is better to resign themselves for the worst than to hope for the best. And who am I to tell them how to think?”
His words settle solemnly into the air, and he notices the sudden tension, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.
“Oh, do not be so serious. Would you want to live your last day in such gloom?” You shake your head no. “I thought so! Now get out of your head, and come eat this while it is still hot. I can see the gears in your brain turning already.”
You take the bowl he hands you gratefully, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. The first spoon of porridge is almost magical as it goes down your throat, and you savor the different flavors on your tongue.
“This is so good,” you tell him. “What did you even put in this?”
Junhui just winks at you. “Years and years of practice,” is all he will say. “Chef’s secret.”
The afternoon that follows is sweltering, at best. Sweat trickles down your back as you spar with Seokmin, wood knocking against wood as he parries your every strike. Wonwoo watches from the side, letting the last few drops of water fall from the flask into his throat.
“This weapon feels so wrong in my hand,” Seokmin says when you finally take a break, catching his breath. “I fear I am utterly dreadful with a sword.”
“Why did you not bring your bow?”
“I thought about it.” He shakes his head wryly. “It feels so detached. There is only so much you can do with limited arrows and such great distance. It is a great weapon, to be sure, but I feel quite useless at times.”
“Seokmin,” you scold, “you know you are one of the greatest archers I have ever met in my life. You are the opposite of useless.”
“But this is not the time to be passive. I wanted to do more.” Seokmin smiles wistfully, dangling the wooden sword from his fingers. “So I started training with one of Jihoon’s old swords. I am by no means perfect, but it will do.”
You pause for a moment, taking it in. He had never done anything but follow orders, both Muyeol’s and yours. And yet the guilt still hangs over his shoulders, ever present.
“Seokmin.”
“Yes?”
“You are certainly not dreadful.” You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It is new, that is all. And your skill is quite excellent for someone who has wielded a vastly different weapon for most of his life.”
A bright grin spreads across his face, a bit sheepish. “That is kind of you to say.”
“I mean it. Truly.” You pat his back gently. “Go rest, alright? You did well today.”
He nods and bows his head slightly. You watch his retreating back until he disappears behind the doorway, one hand on your hip as you bear the brunt of the midday sun. I need water, you think, walking back towards the rock Wonwoo’s sitting against.
He seems to know what you want before you have to ask, passing you a filled flask before you sit down beside him. “Good fight?”
“Definitely.” You take a long sip of the cool water. “Seokmin has improved so much. He used to hate it back at the palace. He only ever wanted to shoot arrows all day.”
“He seems very dedicated,” Wonwoo agrees. “That will serve him well in every regard.”
“Certainly.”
There is a heavy pause. Neither of you looks at the other. You can tell there are words at the tip of his tongue that he won’t say. But you do not comment on it; the same is true for you. You sit there beside him, watching the clouds hang in the sky, and savor the moment.
Eventually, you break the silence. “If I do not make it –”
“No.”
You give him a funny look. “You do not even know what I was going to say!”
“I do,” he says quietly. “I feel like you have been meaning to say it for a while. But I was hoping I could delay it.”
You soften at his words, intense tenderness squeezing at your heart. Gently you lay your head onto his waiting and ready shoulder, your chest rising and falling in time with his.
“It is like Junhui said,” you tell him. “Nobody knows. Neither you, nor I. But I wanted to tell you, just in case.”
“Don’t,” Wonwoo pleads. “You can tell me afterwards. We will have all the time then.”
“You cannot be sure.” A small smile forms on your face despite yourself, and you tuck yourself further into him. “Listen, Wonwoo. I know you have detested me for a majority of the time we have known each other.”
“I–”
“I do not fault you for it.” You place a hand on his arm to calm him down. “If I said I did not reciprocate that feeling, it would be a blatant lie.”
Wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “Are you seriously monologuing about how much you despise me right now?”
This pulls a sharp laugh out of you. “You would know if you listened instead of talking!”
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, amused. “Please continue.”
You huff in acceptance, pulling your legs closer to your body. “If we do not have tomorrow, then you should know I have appreciated every gesture of kindness you have shown me, at every turn. For giving me space, when I needed it. For talking, when I needed that instead. You have always given me room to breathe.”
“I would do it over and over,” he whispers, breath tickling the top of your head. “For you.”
You sigh deeply, shutting your eyes and willing yourself not to cry. “Please, Wonwoo. It is far too soon to say that.”
“It cannot be. I have been thinking it for quite some time.” He brings his hand to your wrist, fingers tracing light circles over your skin. “Only I did not know when to say it. Or how. But if we do not have tomorrow, as you said, then you should know this.”
“I think I have known for a while,” you say soberly. Wonwoo lets out a quiet ha!, a half-laugh.
“Even better, then.”
You are about to vocalize the next witty comeback that materializes in your mind to dissipate the rising tension when a sudden noise breaks out back inside the house. You hear someone yelling for backup, doors slamming, and a pained scream – in that order.
You exchange one worried look with Wonwoo, rising to your feet, and break into a sprint.
Seungcheol finds you first, a rare panic in his eyes. He heaves a relieved sigh at the sight of you both, taking Wonwoo by the shoulders. “Where is Minseok?”
“What?”
Seungcheol repeats his question, more frantic this time. You watch Wonwoo shake his head, immensely confused.
“Hyung, what happened?”
“Kim Minseok, that bastard,” he fumes. “I should have known. All of the signs were there. That lying son of a bitch handed over every single piece of information he had and ran for his life. He’s been working with them for years!”
Shock ripples across Wonwoo’s face. You had not met the man, but you get the idea that even he had not seen it coming at all.
“You must go,” Seungcheol urges. “Both of you. Find somewhere safe to stay for now. You cannot let them find you!”
“No,” you say firmly, drawing your sword. “This is my battle. I am not going anywhere.”
Wonwoo nods, knives already in his hands. “I cannot, hyung. I swore to fight with you. You cannot expect me to break it now.”
There is sheer despair written all over Seungcheol’s face – but no time to do anything about it. A soldier steps through the doorway, swinging his axe, and you slash at his torso furiously. Blood splatters all over your clothes and the side of your face, the metallic scent quickly filling your nostrils.
You turn and look at Wonwoo. The fierceness in his eyes mimics yours, and you feel a new confidence begin to rise into your chest.
“Now or never,” you say.
Chaos reigns inside the house. The walls are as red as they may have been four years ago – but with blood this time, instead of paint. Myungho is backed up against a wall, holding off two royal guards with his spear. You lunge, stabbing one of them in the side, and he quickly finishes off the other, returning your gesture with a grim nod.
You do not know where Seokmin is. You do not think you could pick him out amidst the mayhem; everything begins to blur together impossibly. Only the metal of your blade remains clear in your vision as you defend yourself with everything you have left.
The noise seems to lessen, just a little. You stumble outside, only to be met with a horrific sight.
“Junhui!” You rush towards him, and he winces as you approach. He struggles to keep himself on his feet, one hand pressed firmly against a deep gash in his side.
“Go,” he says weakly. “I will be fine.”
“But –”
“Go!” His hand comes away deep red, blood dripping from his fingers onto the ground. “We do not have time. You have to go now!”
You stare at him for a few conflicted seconds, before tearing your eyes away from him and swinging wildly at the man behind you. But your footing is unsteady, and you slip on a stray rock. His dagger brushes the corner of your ear, and faintly you register the sharp sting that begins to blossom.
When you catch your breath again, you come face to face with a pair of eyes that send chills down your spine.
Muyeol’s expression reflects none of the panic that’s in yours. In fact, he seems almost amused at the look on your face, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he cleans off his sword against the tall grass. It has been so long since you’ve seen him, that you’d forgotten how disturbing his presence could be.
“I thought my soldiers had finished you at least the second time around,” he says. The cruelty in his voice never fails to make you flinch. “But to see that you have joined these fools? Tch. I am wounded.”
Your hand does not tremble, sword still in the air. “Drop the act. I am not so stupid as to be fooled by your words again.”
“Oh, my.” He chuckles, an evil sound. “You were not fooled even the first time, my dear. I made no effort to hide my intentions. But you willingly carried out all the dirty work you were told to do.”
“You held my family and their lives over my head,” you snap back. “I was not willing, then.”
He merely shrugs. “I did what I had to do.”
Anger bubbles up into your throat, and you lunge instinctively, bringing your sword down in what would have been a harsh strike. Muyeol parries it lazily, slicing your arm instead. You hiss at the sudden pain and come forward again, unable to stay calm.
He clicks his tongue again. “Still the same,” he remarks. “I would have thought you learned how to control that inconvenient temper of yours by now.”
“You do not get to have to say in when I get angry!” You punctuate your last word with a furious slash. This one lands – the sound of blade against skin is satisfying, and you draw blood just shy of his collarbone. He looks a bit surprised. Good, you think. You deserve it.
Muyeol seems to have as easily inflamed a temper as yours. He is much older, for sure, but his movements are rather fluid for his age. You are light on your feet, just barely dodging his well-timed strikes.
“You should have died that day,” he snarls furiously. He feints with his right – and you fall for it, a short lapse in judgement. One strong kick sends you tumbling to the ground, and before you know it the edge of his sword is flush with the skin of your neck. “What a shame, then. But do not worry. I will be sure you meet your fate today.”
“You will do no such thing.”
Muyeol laughs, a deep rumbling that comes from his chest. It is a sound that you have learned to detest over the many years.
“The words of a woman on her knees,” he muses, pressing the blade into your throat. You wince at the sensation of it piercing skin, feeling the first drop of blood trickle down to your collarbone. “Choose them wisely, would you? They may well be your last.”
You open your mouth to give another sarcastic remark. But out of nowhere, a sharp dagger flies through the air just past your head, lodging itself squarely into Muyeol’s shoulder. He roars in pain; you take the short window of opportunity to grab your sword and lunge for his neck.
This time, you do not miss.
His dark eyes widen in momentary surprise – he loses his grasp on his own weapon, crashing to the ground as he struggles to draw his next breath. He falls with one arm outstretched, clinging to a last hope, and you might have taken it a year or two ago.
Things are different, now. You regard him coldly, and you do not move.
You wipe the side of your face, catching your breath. And you should have some remorse, but it is hard to find it for the man who had a hand in turning your life into a living hell. All you can feel is the subsiding rage, still coursing through your veins.
Wonwoo is beside you before you know it. He does not ask anything. His eyes only shift between you, and Muyeol’s body on the ground. You meet his questioning eyes and nod slowly.
“Wait. The knife,” you say, before he can get a word out. You crouch down, fingers closing around the hilt and pulling it from the lifeless shoulder. When you pass it to Wonwoo, your fingers brush ever so subtly, staining his fingertips dark red. “Thank you.”
“Always.” His answer comes without hesitation. It bears relief, and something else you don’t dare name. “Are you… are you alright?”
“Alive,” you say, huffing out a weak laugh.
Wonwoo shakes his head, fingers coming up to swipe a stray drop of blood away from the cut on your face. You startle at the sight of his eyes welling up with tears, face battered and bruised, and it stirs up a whole torrent of emotions in your own chest.
“You are so strong,” he says, thumb brushing your jaw reverently. “You did it. You are free now.”
Your vision goes blurry as the weight of Wonwoo’s words sink into your soul. Tenderly, with all the care carried in his deep voice. You let yourself crash into him, fingers grasping his robes as his arms wrap around your torso gently, holding you close. For the first time, the weight that has been sitting on your heart for years feels lifted, light. You can even hear Soonyoung’s voice in your head now, quietly under the current.
Live now, little tiger. Live the way you always wanted to.
The sky bursts, and it begins to pour. The heavy drizzle takes the dried blood on your skin with it, but the open wounds still burn. It is no matter, not anymore. The white cotton of your clothes runs deep red, and your decade long battle is over.
There are quite a few more hurdles to go over, even after Muyeol’s death. None of them are easy to swallow down.
The attack had resulted in more lives lost than injuries, a significant dent in everyone’s esteem. You are particularly shocked to see Junhui’s body among them, his cold hand in his cousin’s. It had not been so long ago that you had last spoken to him; it weighs on you still that you may have had a chance to save his life, if only you had listened to your gut.
Myungho does not shed a single tear. Perhaps this is his way of mourning a loved one, in powerful silence.
“I cannot control the passage of time,” he says quietly, over his dearest friend’s grave. Still he does not cry, but you think he might come awfully close. “We are all victims. Junhui’s fate has only collected him first.”
You watch him murmur something softly in muffled Cantonese; some sort of farewell, perhaps. You will never know. It is very likely that you will never see Myungho again, even if he chooses to remain in town.
“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely. “For everything. Truly.”
He waves you off, wearing a faint smile. “No need. It was the least I could do for you all.”
You wonder how he will hold up now, whether the little old house meant for two will feel a bit too lonely and large for just him. He might repaint the walls a bright red, but it will never be the same again.
It is with a heavy heart that you regroup with Seungcheol and Wonwoo. The latter is tending to a small wound on his arm, wrapping the bandage around it carefully. You stop him and offer to do it instead. He lets you.
“When will you leave for home?”
Wonwoo swallows thickly. “Soon, I suppose.”
“You will travel overnight?” Gently, you finish dressing the cut, but your fingers linger over his skin. “I do not think that is very safe.”
“After everything we have done so far, this might be the least dangerous journey we make.”
You take him in solemnly, allowing yourself to lean into him a little. Seungcheol takes note, but says nothing — turns away a bit, as if to give you a little space.
“This will bring a new dawn to the country,” he continues. “The young prince Jisoo is said to be a fair and just man. He will be twice the ruler his father is. The council members are in overwhelming support of him, so the king will likely be pressured into abdicating.”
“It is about time,” you agree. “I have quite high hopes for him.”
“Mm.” Wonwoo turns his hand over so that his fingers are laced with yours, warmth seeping into your skin. “Will you go home now? I would imagine you have much to say to your family.”
Family. You think of your sisters and Jihoon, and little Sangmin. Of Wonwoo, and how easily he seems to fit into your life, like the final piece of a puzzle.
“Come with me,” you say. “Seungcheol, too. Stay the night, at least, and have a warm meal. Seokmin will be able to take us there.”
He shakes his head. “Y/N, I cannot impose on your family like that.”
“You would not be imposing,” you insist. “I am asking because I want you there with me, Wonwoo. Besides, I might join you both on your journey back. I want to see Hansol, and visit Seungkwan one more time.”
Wonwoo’s firm expression softens as the last words sink in, thumb rubbing soft circles into your hand. “All right,” he finally concedes. He glances back at Seungcheol, who gives a willing shrug. “If you say so.”
It is not so far to your sisters’ house, once you have bid your sad goodbyes to Myungho and the others. The familiarity of your surroundings slowly comes back to you as you follow Seokmin through the winding stone roads and grassy hills. Every step unlocks childhood memories you had shelved away, years and years ago.
You point at a large pine tree nearby. “I used to sneak out and come here with Soonyoung all the time,” you tell Wonwoo. “We would play around, making up stories. He taught me how to read there, too.”
“Sometimes the stories you tell make me wish we knew each other as children,” he muses, chuckling softly.
“That might have been nice,” you say, looping your arm in his. “But this is just as precious.”
“That it is.”
You feel Seokmin’s knowing eyes on you – he will say a range of things later, from ‘I told you so’ to ‘So you did think he was handsome!’, and you will laugh and tell him that sometimes love will find you even when you do not necessarily ask for it. He glances away, amused, and you have to resist the urge to click your tongue at him.
The gate is drawn shut as you first approach, but you could not ever forget the familiar slope of the roof, and the tiny patch of flowers to the right of the main doorway. Seokmin calls out brightly for Jihoon, breaking into a jog, and you look back at Seungcheol and Wonwoo with a smile.
“Home,” you say.
Soonja runs out first, crashing into you with a loud squeal. You let her cling to you. It has been far too long since you have listened to her excited stories and endless chatter, and you hug her tightly.
“I missed you,” she says petulantly. “You always take so long!”
“I am sorry,” you chuckle, tearing up. “Really. But I will not be away for weeks at a time anymore. My work is done.”
She brightens at this. “Promise?”
You laugh, intertwining your pinky finger with hers. “Promise.”
The sun is softer now, in the sky, and the heat does not burn as much anymore. You make introductions as the air settles into something more comfortable. The ghosts still linger, but they are not heavy anymore. You wear them like a warm scarf now, instead of shackles. It is a new kind of homage.
The house is lively, with more people inside. Seungcheol and Jihoon seem to get along perfectly, discussing something between themselves, while Seokmin entertains Soonja’s endless questions. Soonyoung should be here, but his absence does not leave a hollow space quite like it used to. He is in every pillar instead, his life written into every single corner of the room.
You sit with Soonhee, helping her here and there in the kitchen, updating her on the events that have occurred while you were away.
“You have had quite a life so far,” she says, once you’re finished. “But I admire you for it, you know. You have never once let it stop you from anything. Never said ‘it is what it is’ and sat down. That is a sign of resilience.”
“I did not have a choice,” you tell her.
“All the same.” She smiles, reaching over to dust a stray piece of straw out of your hair. “You grew up faster than you should have. I always worried it would hold you back.”
“And now?”
“Now I see I did not have to worry in the first place.” Soonhee glances over her shoulder, back to the main room. Wonwoo sits cross-legged by Sangmin’s cradle, listening to the infant babble endlessly. He nods along as he smiles, pretending to hold the conversation. It is a tender sight. “I am curious about this man you have brought with you, though.”
You flush deeply, not sure what to say. Soonhee notices and merely laughs, thinly slicing up a carrot.
“I hope you know you are not as hard to read as you might believe,” she adds. “He clearly brings you a lot of joy.”
Seokmin had said the exact same thing. You bring your hands to your cheeks, resting your chin in your palm. For as long as you can remember, there was always a torrent in your heart, restless emotions brewing and spilling over. But there is something about Wonwoo that allows you a rare peace, an ease that you had previously thought impossible.
“He does,” you say quietly. “He learned to love me as I am, even when I did not want to know myself.”
Soonhee gives you a knowing look. “You have found yourself a good man, then.”
Everyone gathers on the floor to eat, a feeling you have not experienced in a long time. But you know that the wait was worth it. What better way to spend an evening than in good company, with good food? The soup is warm as it goes down your throat, and so is your heart.
Jihoon laughs at the sight of his son happily blowing raspberries into Wonwoo’s face – a funny sight, for sure. The latter just smiles contentedly, one hand carefully balancing the baby in his lap.
“What can I say?” he shrugs, meeting your sparkling eyes. “I must be awfully good with children.”
This pulls another round of laughter from everyone else, you included. Wonwoo’s gaze does not leave yours, even from across the room. Impossibly magnetic, but you no longer resist it. Instead, you let it tug at you, reveling in the feeling.
It is not until all the dishes are put away later that you finally sidle up to him again, having stepped outside for some fresh air. Wonwoo sits on the front step, eyes turned up to the sky, and you carefully tuck yourself into his side.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” you ask of him. He takes your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.
“I am thinking about the nice weather we are having,” he murmurs. “And your sister’s small garden. Junhui would have been quite delighted to see it.”
“He would have.” Your heart aches, then. “I pray that his soul rests easy. He was a good man.”
“Me, too.” Wonwoo squeezes your hand, a way of comforting you. It will be alright. “But above all, I am thinking about how content I feel right now. My mind is at peace.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm,” he hums, thumb brushing against yours. “You cannot pretend to believe otherwise, Y/N. Not when you are with me. Not when you are the reason.”
Warmth spreads throughout your body. You remain silent, no words coming up – but they do not need to. Even without saying anything, Wonwoo seems to understand your love. Quietly, carefully, as he is. As he always has been.
It occurs to you now that perhaps this was what you had been chasing after your entire life. Serenity.
From inside the house, Sangmin’s little giggles carry out into the open air, followed by his mother’s cooing and Jihoon’s satisfied laugh. The breeze is cool, but not too chilly – a perfect summer night. Wonwoo brings his head down to rest on top of yours, and you sit there taking in the peaceful quiet by each other’s side.
You think you will be alright.
thank you so much for reading dotssotw! have a wonderful rest of your day! much love, hershey xx
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Summary: Leon comes home from Spain a little... different. Lost without you close, he does everything he can to make sure everyone knows you're his and he's yours.
Word count: 3176
Additional tags: 18+ only/MDNI, smut, established relationship, a little bit of body horror, oral (fem receiving), penetration, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, Leon being absolutely infatuated with you, so much marking and cum everywhere (someone put this parasitic idiot in the shower ffs), cock warming, implied breeding kink, Leon's a little possessive (but still really sweet)
Author's note: Well look at that, I am capable of writing Las Plagas Leon without it ending absolutely horrible lmao I just made Sebastian suffer instead... Sorry Seb
Inspired by Rats by Motionless In White; title from lyrics in Synthetic Love by Motionless In White
read on ao3 | Promptcember masterlist
Leon was never quite the same since Spain. The nightmares, the time trying to heal after all the horrors, that was all expected, something he was used to. A little too used to. Every mission had that cost, every mission chipped away at his soul. That was his life, he just had to put his head down and push through the storm. There wasn't much he could do about it.
Spain, however, was different than any other mission previous.
Nothing could have prepared him for being infected with Las Plagas, for being turned into a puppet for some parasitic bastard, trapped within his own body and helpless to whatever was decided for him. Nothing could ever prepare him for being controlled and helpless quite like that.
He could handle being controlled, whether it was his superiors and whatever bullshit they forced him into, or you and whatever fun idea you had for him at home. Being utterly helpless as his body threatened to rip itself to shreds to let out the parasite within at the hands of that bastard, that was something he wouldn't wish on anyone, no matter how monstrous.
Somehow, the lingering effects didn't stop after the procedure. He couldn't remember much, only the haze of the crazed cult leader's voice in his mind and Ashley's screams as he'd forced himself to get her to safety. Seeing Ashley passed out on the chair, exhausted and in overwhelming agony was the last thing he remembered before waking up in her place on that dreaded chair.
Everything past that was just the lingering effects of the infection and the traumatic mission. He was used to his body constantly being on edge, ready to flee or fight, whichever was necessary and everything else fading into an unmemorable haze. Yet the closer to home he got, the weirder the lingering effects got.
No mission had ever left him with an aching in his gut anytime he looked at you, a haze over his mind anytime he thought of you, that wasn't something he knew what to do with. Aching muscles, countless injuries, beaten and bloodied skin was normal. Not an ache in his gut, leaving him panting and desperate, the smallest, most innocent thought of you making his cock twitch.
At first, he brushed it off as just being eager to see you again after having no contact at all. He always got a little pent up and stir-crazy when spending too much time away from you.
The first night home, you and him hadn't left the bed until well into the next day, bodies sticky and aching, bed sheets ruined.
He blamed it off on finding you at home, lonely after being left alone for so long and wrapped up in his jacket. What else was he supposed to do but make you cum over and over until you cried when he found you that way? There was no way he could've kept his hands to himself after seeing you in his jacket.
Too many nights he'd dreamed of making love you in only his jacket – among other things – but it'd been even better than he could've thought. Having you crying his name, keening and all but sobbing as he kept pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you, leaving you completely boneless under him, was his favourite thing in the world.
Dark purple marks littered his and your skin, the shape of your hands against his arms as you'd clung to him, hickeys littering your neck, chest, anywhere he could reach. All marking you as his.
Leon wasn't a possessive man, never was, yet the sight of you so obviously his made something in his chest twinge, a need to make it known that you were his and his alone. Seeing you in his jacket only inflated such feelings, now more so than ever.
He'd always been one to fall asleep fairly soon after sex, needing to force himself up to clean himself up before exhaustion took him – especially after missions. That night the stickiness didn't bother him. Being coated in the sticky mix of yours and his cum didn't make his skin crawl afterwards. Any other time he would've cringed from the sticky mess – what was he even thinking marking you that way? All but painting you, completely marking you as his in his cum. Just the thought should've made him cringe – why did you let him do that? Why would he even consider doing that to you?
It was gross and it should've made him regretful. It didn't though.
In the morning when he finally woke up, body aching and left alone in the cooling sheets, his desperation should've caught up with him now that he wasn't thinking with his cock. Yet it did the very opposite. He was coated in your scent, the aroma clinging to his nose, comforting and the sticky skin feeling better than freshly washed skin. He had to force himself up despite everything in him screaming at him to stay in the ruined sheets.
Forcing himself to go to the bathroom, he finally made it into the shower and turned on the water. Scalding water ran down his skin, soaking through his hair and leaving his skin rosy. Normally, he'd stand under the water, enjoying the feeling of the heat soaking into his aching body, this time it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He couldn't bring himself to really wash himself, the overpowering scent of his normal soap and shampoo assaulting his nose, making him question how he – or you – ever could handle such a disgusting smell all day. Why would anyone willingly use these things? It was disgusting, the faint clean smell making his stomach churn.
Even the water falling over his skin didn't feel right. Why would he wash off your scent? He was yours, body and soul – if anything he should always smell like you! Just the thought of not being yours made his chest hurt, the pang making him tremble as if his heart was about to seize up.
The moment he was out of the shower again, he dried himself enough that he wouldn't slip on the floor while he rushed back to your arms.
Walking out of the bathroom, he found you in the kitchen, back to him, nothing but a loose shirt of his on and fiddling with something he can't quite remember what it's called. The scent was making it too hard to think, too hard to breathe. After a moment it hit him – coffee pot! That's what you were doing – the same thing you do every morning.
Why did he forget that?
As he tried to figure out what was going on, you noticed him standing in the doorway, seemingly lost.
"No pants today, huh?" you teased, drawing his attention back to you. Arms outstretched, welcoming him in and he quickly buried himself in your neck. It didn't matter that he was stark naked in the kitchen, curtains not drawn closed where anyone driving by could see him. All he cared for was getting that horrid scent replaced with yours.
"Don't need 'em," he mumbled against your skin. Nose squished against your neck, almost drowning in the scent of him all over you. You hadn't showered yet, leaving it for him first like always. He'd never been so grateful you hadn't rushed in there afterwards. If you also smelt of those disgusting soaps, he might've puked. Instead, you smelled perfect. Fuck, you smell so good, he thought as he nuzzled against your neck like an overgrown lap dog.
"I'm sure our neighbours would disagree," you hummed. Pulling away long enough to draw the curtains closed.
Leon followed, half a step behind, any thought of modesty the furthest thing from his mind. Why should I give a fuck what anyone but my mate thinks of me? The thought stopped him in his tracks – since when did he ever call you his mate? That was weird – weird even for him. Calling you odd nicknames, things that didn't make sense to even him, that was 'normal'. If it earned a smile, or laughter, or even amused disgust, then he couldn't care less what anyone else thought.
But his mate? That was weird.
"Fuck them," he finally replied, stepping back into your space. Even the few moments not against you was too much. The dull ache deep in his chest begun again, the thudding more intense the closer he got yet less painful. As if he was meant to be attached to you at the hip.
"Please don't," you sighed, looking up at him unimpressed. "I don't share."
Neither do I. Mine. He huffed in amusement, gently pulling your chin up to kiss you. "Don't worry sweetheart, you're the only one who gets me," he murmured before pressing his lips to yours. Hungrily pushing against you, his tongue snaking it's way between your lips, he didn't give you a chance to pull away from him.
Leaning into him, you parted your lips and eagerly let him kiss you. He was always needy, desperate for your touch after coming home – this was normal. Around you he never could control just how badly he needed you.
The more he kissed you, his hands grabbing your hips and forcing you to push against his swelling cock, the more he could smell you. He could smell the slick dripping from your cunt, the fresh slick waiting for him.
Was this normal? It was one thing, being able to smell your arousal so strongly while being buried between your thighs, almost suffocating himself in your cunt, but this was even stronger. He couldn't think with the overpowering scent.
Did it even matter if was normal when his favourite taste in the world was so damn close?
No.
Why would it matter? He certainly wasn't about to think about it when he could have his face in your cunt instead.
Pulling away, he sank to his knees in front of you, ignoring the faint sound of protest as he pulled away from your lips.
"Leon?" you questioned, watching with wide eyes. Desperate for you was one thing but this was even more forward than normal, lending to even more of a sticky mess he normally loathed outside the bedroom.
"Just hungry, sweetheart," he murmured, eyes focused on his prize. Without hesitation he shoved his face against your cunt, lips parted and running his tongue over you. Slick flooded his mouth, the taste muddled by his dried cum, though it didn't slow him down at all. Mine. My pretty girl, my mate.
Any thoughts of the rest of the day were chased away by the slick dripping onto his face, by your trembling thighs as you tried to keep yourself upright every time his nose bumped into your clit.
You whined, fingers tangling into his hair, "fuck, fuck, Leon!" With the other hand against the wall in an attempt to keep yourself upright, using it and him to prop yourself up. The added weight against him didn't slow him down, only encouraging him as each flick of his tongue drew out small gasps and whimpers.
Slick dripped down his chin as he pushed his tongue into you, desperately trying to drown out all the other scent but you. Your soft thighs bracketed his face, almost squishing him as you trembled, making him moan.
If he had to choose a way to go, being suffocated between his favourite thighs, drowning in your slick, that'd be what he'd choose without a second thought.
Nose brushing against your clit with each shift, his tongue quickly brought you through the second orgasm this morning. Or was it the third? Fifth? Even he couldn't remember anymore.
It hit you you harder than all the last. Wordlessly crying out, your knees gave out on you and he was forced to grab your hips, taking all of your weight onto him. Growling, he pushed his face against your cunt more, slick coating his tongue.
He didn't stop, too wrapped up in you all over him despite the whimpering and breathless cries of his name. The scent drove him forward, too lost within your cunt, his mind hazy and everything melting away.
His cock twitched against his stomach, precum smearing over his skin as it lay untouched and forgotten. Nothing else mattered to him, not even the growing desire to pin you down and not let you go until you always smelt of him.
Leon pushed two fingers into your cunt, curling them inwards and making more slick gush out as you came again.
Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, the countless orgasms over the past day leaving you a boneless mess over him.
Eventually the haze settled over his mind, allowing him enough presence of mind to pull away and let you breathe. His hands stayed firmly around your hips, taking all of your weight so you didn't collapse and hurt yourself.
"Are you trying to kill me?" you laughed breathlessly. Leaning back against the wall, panting and trying to recover despite the ache and exhaustion settling over you.
Did I get too carried away? he thought briefly, biting his lip in worry. "Sorry sweetheart," he murmured softly, kissing your thigh gently. Pulling away, a thin line of slick dripping off his chin connected to your thigh, breaking as he pulled back. What is wrong with me?
"I'm okay," you said quickly in reassurance. "Just give me a warning, 'kay? Or better yet, just bring me back to bed. My knees aren't good enough for this," you added with a breathless laugh.
The words meant more than you realize, helping to settle the anxiety over his mind. The last thing he ever wanted was to hurt you.
"The bed it is," he replied, lips quirking upward in a smile. Standing up, he grabbed you and carried you back to the bed, everything else forgotten. Nothing would keep him away from you. Just being apart while he showered make it hard to breathe, he needed you more than anything in the world.
You were so hazy and drunk off of his tongue you didn't even notice the black lines snaking across his skin, the blackness settling into his veins the closer he got to you.
He didn't notice nor did he care, even if he could focus on anything other than you in his arms. Everything was hazy, your scent overwhelming and leaving everything a blurry mess as if he was about to faint.
Stumbling into the bedroom, his shoulder slamming into the door, he rushed to the bed, gently placing you down and climbing on top of you. Everything grew more overwhelming, his muscles trembling and the thudding in his chest beginning to ache, the pain slowly edging towards something he couldn't ignore.
Fuck, what's happening to me?
It wasn't a panic attack, that he knew– though it was close to causing one. The only thing close was those few minutes as he'd coughed up blood, moments away from collapsing.
His thoughts are broken, all hint of panic chased away as you pulled him down, lips against his. Hungrily kissing you back, he reaches down to grab your thighs. Pulling you up to meet him, he pushed his cock into you slowly, whimpering at the feeling.
The painful thunder in his chest settled as your wet cunt wrapped around him, everything relaxing and leaving his mind clear – as clear as it could be while he was in you.
"Are you okay?" you murmured, breaking the trance over him.
"Never been better, sweetheart."
Somehow, the words didn't feel like the bitter lie he'd expected them to be. Moments ago, certain he was about to collapse and nearly crush you under him and now, almost completely himself once more.
He thrust into you, slowly as the fog settled, leaving everything focused and clear, almost too clear.
Mine. All mine.
With your cunt wrapped around him, sucking him in further he sighed contently, eyes fluttering closed. Everything in his mind settled, the painful twinge in his chest no more. Fully sheathed in you, he leaned down and captured your lips again, forcing his tongue past your lips once more.
All of it feels wrong, a small part of him too caught up in the worry over the thunder in his chest. Though, the thoughts are snuffed out quickly, all of it turned on it's head as he sought to claim you further.
His hips pushed against you, taking his time as he thrust into you, each time jolting your body. A primal need to lay claim over you, to give all of himself to you. Each time he pushed into you, hands grabbing at your hips to keep you close as if he'd fade into nothing if you weren't touching him. It's overwhelming, leaving him panting and whining against your lips.
"My pretty girl," he cooed, his voice sounding foreign to him. Kissing down your neck, he begun to add to the purple marks littering your skin as a hand snaked downwards, between your bodies to delicately stroke your clit.
Overstimulated and already exhausted, he quickly drew out another orgasm, your body shaking under him and hands clawing at his body. Blood wells up under your nails, small drops trickling down his bicep. Keening and clawing at him, your cunt fluttered around his cock, quickly pulling him over the edge with you.
Grunting he thrust into you again, as if he was trying to lose himself within you. He bit down as he thrust into you a final time, cum spilling into you once again. Cum drips out around his cock, leaking onto the ruined sheets below you.
What a waste.
Carefully he laid down on top of you, trying to keep most of his weight on his limbs. He couldn't bring himself to pull out, desperate to feel himself buried within you. The disgusting soap smell had completely disappeared, smothered under the scent of your cum all over him. Slick all over him, leaving the thunder pounding in his chest finally sated.
"You gonna get off?" you questioned. Poking at his ribs with one hand, the other gently wiping away the smudge of blood across his bicep.
Seeing the blood instilled a sense of pride, seeing how he'd fucked you so senseless you'd completely lost yourself in him, unable to hold back at all. Lips quirking upwards, he pulled you closer and rolled over so you lay over him instead. "Nope. Staying right here, sweetheart."
You were so tired, exhausted beyond measure as you settled back down onto him, nearly passing out already. "You're exhausting," you grumbled.
"You love it though."
"Guess I do," you hummed tiredly. "Love you."
"I love you too."
All thoughts of anything not including you melted away, fading into the background haze. Completely enraptured with you, he watched as you began to fall asleep on him, his hand rubbing your back soothingly.
My pretty girl, my mate. I love you so much.
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Summary: Leon comes home from Spain a little... different. Lost without you close, he does everything he can to make sure everyone knows you're his and he's yours.
Word count: 3176
Additional tags: 18+ only/MDNI, smut, established relationship, a little bit of body horror, oral (fem receiving), penetration, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, Leon being absolutely infatuated with you, so much marking and cum everywhere (someone put this parasitic idiot in the shower ffs), cock warming, implied breeding kink, Leon's a little possessive (but still really sweet)
Author's note: Well look at that, I am capable of writing Las Plagas Leon without it ending absolutely horrible lmao I just made Sebastian suffer instead... Sorry Seb
Inspired by Rats by Motionless In White; title from lyrics in Synthetic Love by Motionless In White
read on ao3 | Promptcember masterlist
Leon was never quite the same since Spain. The nightmares, the time trying to heal after all the horrors, that was all expected, something he was used to. A little too used to. Every mission had that cost, every mission chipped away at his soul. That was his life, he just had to put his head down and push through the storm. There wasn't much he could do about it.
Spain, however, was different than any other mission previous.
Nothing could have prepared him for being infected with Las Plagas, for being turned into a puppet for some parasitic bastard, trapped within his own body and helpless to whatever was decided for him. Nothing could ever prepare him for being controlled and helpless quite like that.
He could handle being controlled, whether it was his superiors and whatever bullshit they forced him into, or you and whatever fun idea you had for him at home. Being utterly helpless as his body threatened to rip itself to shreds to let out the parasite within at the hands of that bastard, that was something he wouldn't wish on anyone, no matter how monstrous.
Somehow, the lingering effects didn't stop after the procedure. He couldn't remember much, only the haze of the crazed cult leader's voice in his mind and Ashley's screams as he'd forced himself to get her to safety. Seeing Ashley passed out on the chair, exhausted and in overwhelming agony was the last thing he remembered before waking up in her place on that dreaded chair.
Everything past that was just the lingering effects of the infection and the traumatic mission. He was used to his body constantly being on edge, ready to flee or fight, whichever was necessary and everything else fading into an unmemorable haze. Yet the closer to home he got, the weirder the lingering effects got.
No mission had ever left him with an aching in his gut anytime he looked at you, a haze over his mind anytime he thought of you, that wasn't something he knew what to do with. Aching muscles, countless injuries, beaten and bloodied skin was normal. Not an ache in his gut, leaving him panting and desperate, the smallest, most innocent thought of you making his cock twitch.
At first, he brushed it off as just being eager to see you again after having no contact at all. He always got a little pent up and stir-crazy when spending too much time away from you.
The first night home, you and him hadn't left the bed until well into the next day, bodies sticky and aching, bed sheets ruined.
He blamed it off on finding you at home, lonely after being left alone for so long and wrapped up in his jacket. What else was he supposed to do but make you cum over and over until you cried when he found you that way? There was no way he could've kept his hands to himself after seeing you in his jacket.
Too many nights he'd dreamed of making love you in only his jacket – among other things – but it'd been even better than he could've thought. Having you crying his name, keening and all but sobbing as he kept pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you, leaving you completely boneless under him, was his favourite thing in the world.
Dark purple marks littered his and your skin, the shape of your hands against his arms as you'd clung to him, hickeys littering your neck, chest, anywhere he could reach. All marking you as his.
Leon wasn't a possessive man, never was, yet the sight of you so obviously his made something in his chest twinge, a need to make it known that you were his and his alone. Seeing you in his jacket only inflated such feelings, now more so than ever.
He'd always been one to fall asleep fairly soon after sex, needing to force himself up to clean himself up before exhaustion took him – especially after missions. That night the stickiness didn't bother him. Being coated in the sticky mix of yours and his cum didn't make his skin crawl afterwards. Any other time he would've cringed from the sticky mess – what was he even thinking marking you that way? All but painting you, completely marking you as his in his cum. Just the thought should've made him cringe – why did you let him do that? Why would he even consider doing that to you?
It was gross and it should've made him regretful. It didn't though.
In the morning when he finally woke up, body aching and left alone in the cooling sheets, his desperation should've caught up with him now that he wasn't thinking with his cock. Yet it did the very opposite. He was coated in your scent, the aroma clinging to his nose, comforting and the sticky skin feeling better than freshly washed skin. He had to force himself up despite everything in him screaming at him to stay in the ruined sheets.
Forcing himself to go to the bathroom, he finally made it into the shower and turned on the water. Scalding water ran down his skin, soaking through his hair and leaving his skin rosy. Normally, he'd stand under the water, enjoying the feeling of the heat soaking into his aching body, this time it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
He couldn't bring himself to really wash himself, the overpowering scent of his normal soap and shampoo assaulting his nose, making him question how he – or you – ever could handle such a disgusting smell all day. Why would anyone willingly use these things? It was disgusting, the faint clean smell making his stomach churn.
Even the water falling over his skin didn't feel right. Why would he wash off your scent? He was yours, body and soul – if anything he should always smell like you! Just the thought of not being yours made his chest hurt, the pang making him tremble as if his heart was about to seize up.
The moment he was out of the shower again, he dried himself enough that he wouldn't slip on the floor while he rushed back to your arms.
Walking out of the bathroom, he found you in the kitchen, back to him, nothing but a loose shirt of his on and fiddling with something he can't quite remember what it's called. The scent was making it too hard to think, too hard to breathe. After a moment it hit him – coffee pot! That's what you were doing – the same thing you do every morning.
Why did he forget that?
As he tried to figure out what was going on, you noticed him standing in the doorway, seemingly lost.
"No pants today, huh?" you teased, drawing his attention back to you. Arms outstretched, welcoming him in and he quickly buried himself in your neck. It didn't matter that he was stark naked in the kitchen, curtains not drawn closed where anyone driving by could see him. All he cared for was getting that horrid scent replaced with yours.
"Don't need 'em," he mumbled against your skin. Nose squished against your neck, almost drowning in the scent of him all over you. You hadn't showered yet, leaving it for him first like always. He'd never been so grateful you hadn't rushed in there afterwards. If you also smelt of those disgusting soaps, he might've puked. Instead, you smelled perfect. Fuck, you smell so good, he thought as he nuzzled against your neck like an overgrown lap dog.
"I'm sure our neighbours would disagree," you hummed. Pulling away long enough to draw the curtains closed.
Leon followed, half a step behind, any thought of modesty the furthest thing from his mind. Why should I give a fuck what anyone but my mate thinks of me? The thought stopped him in his tracks – since when did he ever call you his mate? That was weird – weird even for him. Calling you odd nicknames, things that didn't make sense to even him, that was 'normal'. If it earned a smile, or laughter, or even amused disgust, then he couldn't care less what anyone else thought.
But his mate? That was weird.
"Fuck them," he finally replied, stepping back into your space. Even the few moments not against you was too much. The dull ache deep in his chest begun again, the thudding more intense the closer he got yet less painful. As if he was meant to be attached to you at the hip.
"Please don't," you sighed, looking up at him unimpressed. "I don't share."
Neither do I. Mine. He huffed in amusement, gently pulling your chin up to kiss you. "Don't worry sweetheart, you're the only one who gets me," he murmured before pressing his lips to yours. Hungrily pushing against you, his tongue snaking it's way between your lips, he didn't give you a chance to pull away from him.
Leaning into him, you parted your lips and eagerly let him kiss you. He was always needy, desperate for your touch after coming home – this was normal. Around you he never could control just how badly he needed you.
The more he kissed you, his hands grabbing your hips and forcing you to push against his swelling cock, the more he could smell you. He could smell the slick dripping from your cunt, the fresh slick waiting for him.
Was this normal? It was one thing, being able to smell your arousal so strongly while being buried between your thighs, almost suffocating himself in your cunt, but this was even stronger. He couldn't think with the overpowering scent.
Did it even matter if was normal when his favourite taste in the world was so damn close?
No.
Why would it matter? He certainly wasn't about to think about it when he could have his face in your cunt instead.
Pulling away, he sank to his knees in front of you, ignoring the faint sound of protest as he pulled away from your lips.
"Leon?" you questioned, watching with wide eyes. Desperate for you was one thing but this was even more forward than normal, lending to even more of a sticky mess he normally loathed outside the bedroom.
"Just hungry, sweetheart," he murmured, eyes focused on his prize. Without hesitation he shoved his face against your cunt, lips parted and running his tongue over you. Slick flooded his mouth, the taste muddled by his dried cum, though it didn't slow him down at all. Mine. My pretty girl, my mate.
Any thoughts of the rest of the day were chased away by the slick dripping onto his face, by your trembling thighs as you tried to keep yourself upright every time his nose bumped into your clit.
You whined, fingers tangling into his hair, "fuck, fuck, Leon!" With the other hand against the wall in an attempt to keep yourself upright, using it and him to prop yourself up. The added weight against him didn't slow him down, only encouraging him as each flick of his tongue drew out small gasps and whimpers.
Slick dripped down his chin as he pushed his tongue into you, desperately trying to drown out all the other scent but you. Your soft thighs bracketed his face, almost squishing him as you trembled, making him moan.
If he had to choose a way to go, being suffocated between his favourite thighs, drowning in your slick, that'd be what he'd choose without a second thought.
Nose brushing against your clit with each shift, his tongue quickly brought you through the second orgasm this morning. Or was it the third? Fifth? Even he couldn't remember anymore.
It hit you you harder than all the last. Wordlessly crying out, your knees gave out on you and he was forced to grab your hips, taking all of your weight onto him. Growling, he pushed his face against your cunt more, slick coating his tongue.
He didn't stop, too wrapped up in you all over him despite the whimpering and breathless cries of his name. The scent drove him forward, too lost within your cunt, his mind hazy and everything melting away.
His cock twitched against his stomach, precum smearing over his skin as it lay untouched and forgotten. Nothing else mattered to him, not even the growing desire to pin you down and not let you go until you always smelt of him.
Leon pushed two fingers into your cunt, curling them inwards and making more slick gush out as you came again.
Tears gathered in the corners of your eyes, the countless orgasms over the past day leaving you a boneless mess over him.
Eventually the haze settled over his mind, allowing him enough presence of mind to pull away and let you breathe. His hands stayed firmly around your hips, taking all of your weight so you didn't collapse and hurt yourself.
"Are you trying to kill me?" you laughed breathlessly. Leaning back against the wall, panting and trying to recover despite the ache and exhaustion settling over you.
Did I get too carried away? he thought briefly, biting his lip in worry. "Sorry sweetheart," he murmured softly, kissing your thigh gently. Pulling away, a thin line of slick dripping off his chin connected to your thigh, breaking as he pulled back. What is wrong with me?
"I'm okay," you said quickly in reassurance. "Just give me a warning, 'kay? Or better yet, just bring me back to bed. My knees aren't good enough for this," you added with a breathless laugh.
The words meant more than you realize, helping to settle the anxiety over his mind. The last thing he ever wanted was to hurt you.
"The bed it is," he replied, lips quirking upward in a smile. Standing up, he grabbed you and carried you back to the bed, everything else forgotten. Nothing would keep him away from you. Just being apart while he showered make it hard to breathe, he needed you more than anything in the world.
You were so hazy and drunk off of his tongue you didn't even notice the black lines snaking across his skin, the blackness settling into his veins the closer he got to you.
He didn't notice nor did he care, even if he could focus on anything other than you in his arms. Everything was hazy, your scent overwhelming and leaving everything a blurry mess as if he was about to faint.
Stumbling into the bedroom, his shoulder slamming into the door, he rushed to the bed, gently placing you down and climbing on top of you. Everything grew more overwhelming, his muscles trembling and the thudding in his chest beginning to ache, the pain slowly edging towards something he couldn't ignore.
Fuck, what's happening to me?
It wasn't a panic attack, that he knew– though it was close to causing one. The only thing close was those few minutes as he'd coughed up blood, moments away from collapsing.
His thoughts are broken, all hint of panic chased away as you pulled him down, lips against his. Hungrily kissing you back, he reaches down to grab your thighs. Pulling you up to meet him, he pushed his cock into you slowly, whimpering at the feeling.
The painful thunder in his chest settled as your wet cunt wrapped around him, everything relaxing and leaving his mind clear – as clear as it could be while he was in you.
"Are you okay?" you murmured, breaking the trance over him.
"Never been better, sweetheart."
Somehow, the words didn't feel like the bitter lie he'd expected them to be. Moments ago, certain he was about to collapse and nearly crush you under him and now, almost completely himself once more.
He thrust into you, slowly as the fog settled, leaving everything focused and clear, almost too clear.
Mine. All mine.
With your cunt wrapped around him, sucking him in further he sighed contently, eyes fluttering closed. Everything in his mind settled, the painful twinge in his chest no more. Fully sheathed in you, he leaned down and captured your lips again, forcing his tongue past your lips once more.
All of it feels wrong, a small part of him too caught up in the worry over the thunder in his chest. Though, the thoughts are snuffed out quickly, all of it turned on it's head as he sought to claim you further.
His hips pushed against you, taking his time as he thrust into you, each time jolting your body. A primal need to lay claim over you, to give all of himself to you. Each time he pushed into you, hands grabbing at your hips to keep you close as if he'd fade into nothing if you weren't touching him. It's overwhelming, leaving him panting and whining against your lips.
"My pretty girl," he cooed, his voice sounding foreign to him. Kissing down your neck, he begun to add to the purple marks littering your skin as a hand snaked downwards, between your bodies to delicately stroke your clit.
Overstimulated and already exhausted, he quickly drew out another orgasm, your body shaking under him and hands clawing at his body. Blood wells up under your nails, small drops trickling down his bicep. Keening and clawing at him, your cunt fluttered around his cock, quickly pulling him over the edge with you.
Grunting he thrust into you again, as if he was trying to lose himself within you. He bit down as he thrust into you a final time, cum spilling into you once again. Cum drips out around his cock, leaking onto the ruined sheets below you.
What a waste.
Carefully he laid down on top of you, trying to keep most of his weight on his limbs. He couldn't bring himself to pull out, desperate to feel himself buried within you. The disgusting soap smell had completely disappeared, smothered under the scent of your cum all over him. Slick all over him, leaving the thunder pounding in his chest finally sated.
"You gonna get off?" you questioned. Poking at his ribs with one hand, the other gently wiping away the smudge of blood across his bicep.
Seeing the blood instilled a sense of pride, seeing how he'd fucked you so senseless you'd completely lost yourself in him, unable to hold back at all. Lips quirking upwards, he pulled you closer and rolled over so you lay over him instead. "Nope. Staying right here, sweetheart."
You were so tired, exhausted beyond measure as you settled back down onto him, nearly passing out already. "You're exhausting," you grumbled.
"You love it though."
"Guess I do," you hummed tiredly. "Love you."
"I love you too."
All thoughts of anything not including you melted away, fading into the background haze. Completely enraptured with you, he watched as you began to fall asleep on him, his hand rubbing your back soothingly.
My pretty girl, my mate. I love you so much.
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part two; so, this is christmas…and what have we done?
leon kennedy x fem!reader
summary: you're sent on an undercover mission to a remote village with your coworker. except you pretty much hate each other. except leon has always spent the holidays alone...until now.
cw: first part of it gives off romcom and fluff, second part is kind of smut with plot. 18+; MDNI. oral sex (f receiving), praising, fingering, kissing after oral, unprotected sex, mutual pining. biting, blood mention.
a/n: hello! if this is your first encounter with this story I’ll leave the first part here. you can read this without it I guess, but if you lack context, there it is!
Tumblr is a place to express yourself, discover yourself, and bond over the stuff you love. It's where your interests connect you with your
wc: 5k
Leon rang the doorbell and stepped back, standing next to you again.
You felt like running away.
“Does this dress look too tight on me?” You asked under your breath, giving him a pleading look for help.
“What? No…why?”
“‘Cause I’m running out of fucking oxygen here.”
Leon's lips had barely parted, but when you spoke they closed and he looked down at the ground, as if weighing the situation for a second. You started to regret opening your mouth in the first place. He was your coworker, for god’s sake. You weren't supposed to burden him with your worries, but rather try to bring out the best in each other and function as the team you're supposed to be.
Leon took your hand.
All your bad thoughts vanished. In fact, every other thought you had flew away too. You were blank.
You met his gaze. It was completely dark, only a few streetlights worked in that town, but he looked like the damn sun. You noticed from the brief twitch of lips that he was about to say something.
“You made it!” Sila’s voice was really deep, but it still managed to burst your eardrums like a high note.
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” Leon immediately turned to the door, automatically painting on his face that charming smile you only saw in magazines.
With the hand he wasn’t using to hold you, he passed the target a bottle of Champagne you bought along the way.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Silas accepted it most gratefully, stepping aside and inviting us in. “Come on in.”
Just one step inside and we realized it wasn’t at all what it looked from the outside; Chandeliers, enormous paintings with gilded frames, spiral staircases, velvet carpets and immersive music emanating from nothing less than a record player.
Happy Christmas, Kyoko
Happy Christmas, Julian
“I know this was a song from John's solo career, but oh well…I got Paul to sign the album cover for me.” Paul as in Paul McCartney? Was he freaking serious? “Ah!” He suddenly stopped in his place, turning around in a swing like an animated character from a comic series. “We mustn’t forget, tradition first.”
Leon and I shared the same frown.
“The kiss, dummies! You’re under the mistletoe.”
The…kiss…he said?
We looked above our heads, and there it was hanging the damned sentence.
“Oh, right.” Leon laughed, I followed. But Silas kept standing there, expecting for us to complete the ritual.
I figured it was like stripping off a band-aid.
I turned to face him and rose onto my Mary Janes, my tipping toes looking effortlessly natural, perfectly calculated to reach his height. I cupped his cheek with my left hand, the one wearing the fake ring, and kissed him.
I was about to pull away, perhaps suspiciously quickly, when I felt him reciprocate.
The initial contact with his lips had already been too much to process. As if it were a disturbing mystery that had been lurking in a corner of my mind for years, a myth to be debunked, a voice to be silenced. But suddenly it happened, just like that, in one fell swoop, and there was nothing to refute; it was as good as I feared it would be.
Now this…this was another deal entirely.
It wasn't just the sensation of his moist, soft lips, that intoxicating taste he had—but the movement of his whole mouth over mine—as if he were trying to make room, to bite, to possess.
Something separated us. To my surprise, it wasn't him or me, but a shock, something electrical.
“Aren’t you cute?” Silas was practically clapping with joy, moved by the scene. “Follow me, lovebirds!”
We let him walk alone for a few seconds while we tried to compose ourselves.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out eventually, walking down the hallway. “For jumping at you like that, I mean, it wasn’t right.”
“It was.” Leon assured. “For the mission, it was perfect.” He added.
I nodded and swallowed my newly discovered emotions; I had to bury them. Fast.
Upon arriving at the dining room, we found an eternally long table. The Last Supper type of shit. And of course, it was full of guests.
“Big family guy, I see.” Leon murmured, you contained a laugh holding his arm tighter.
“Everyone, this is…” Silas started introducing you.
“Hawthorne.”
You had talked about this. Obviously you couldn’t use your real names. Especially not when one of those names had already crossed the country back and forth through the lips of many. So tonight, you were Emily and Benjamin Hawthorne, an ordinary couple whose wealth lay in a quiet jewelry business in Georgetown.
“Marvellous…Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne, meet everyone!”
The various faces smiled at you, you couldn’t tell if every single one was a genuinely welcoming one, you assumed not.
You found a seat. It wouldn't be catalogued as the best, but it was comfortable and quite far from the rest, so it would do. The evening began, and each group seemed to be in their own little world. Silas came and went, but he never brought his partner with him, although you knew he had one because of the ring on his finger. Anyway, you spoke with other couples, and you answered all their questions successfully. Even the sneaky one who ventured: “Why do you have those rings if you own a big jewelry company?” — “Ah…these. It’s a symbolism my wife and I share, a representation of our pure love, unpretentious.” Leon answered.
“We’ll have to sneak at some point…” Leon insisted through gritted teeth, finishing his third glass of wine.
“Oh, we’ll do, I’m just a bit worried about your ability to climb the stairs right now.” You retorted.
“You’ve seen nothing.”
“Actually, I’m afraid I’ve seen too much.”
God, two hours in character and you were already starting to fight like a real married couple.
Before Leon could throw the glass at you or you could smash the bottle over his head, music louder than the record player filled the entire house. People began to rise from their seats with delight, following the rhythm, swaying.
Leon stood up and offered you his hand.
You looked at it with narrowed eyes.
“It’s our way out.”
“Of course.” You sighed and took it, without expecting the push up that lifted you up in one swift motion.
The common lights had been turned off, replaced by the candles at the tables and some faint colors that you couldn’t quite place where they came from. The only thing you could see clearly was Leon’s hand walking you through the crowd.
The song playing wasn’t Christmas related, but it was a perfect slow dance. Every Breath You Take by The Police.
You reached the stairs without a witness and climbed up fast. The hallway was dim, carpet muffling your steps. Three doors—two locked, one a cramped bathroom—and a glass one at the end, spilling cold light from the terrace.
“Fucking great.” Leon muttered, jiggling the last handle.
“At least we escaped the interrogations,” you tried cheering him up.
“Yeah. Too bad the ass music is still hearable.”
“It’s not that bad,” you snorted. “It reminds me of home in a way, all this shit show. Drunk uncles, someone crying in a corner—just…on a much larger scale.”
That earned you a faint smirk.
He pushed open the terrace door. Snow fell like dust from a fairy tale. The air was sharp, and the world below you—rooftops, small glowing windows—looked far too peaceful for the night you’d had. He tilted his head back, letting the flakes melt on his face, his chest rising in a slow exhale that steamed into the cold.
You leaned on the doorway, watching. The calm didn’t fit him. “Aren’t you going to ask me for this dance?” you said, half a tease, half a dare. Truth be told, you have had a couple of glasses yourself.
“I’m not a dancer.”
“And I sure ain’t going to be your wife, but we’re pretending, aren’t we?”
Leon’s eyes widened, then a smile drew in his face. “Sure.” He placed your hand on his shoulder, his palm sliding to your hip and pulling you closer, ending the distance between your bodies. The warmth of his closeness burned through the thin fabric. He began to sway, uncertain at first, then steadier. You followed his lead, the snow brushing both of you like dusted silk.
The song below faded out, but Leon kept moving, humming the tune low against your ear.
“Oh, so you do know it.”
“It’s not a preference of mine, but I’m not uncultured.”
Leon’s hum trailed off, and for a second you both just stood there, swaying to a rhythm that didn’t exist anymore. His eyes flicked down—your joined hands, your breath fogging between you, the faint tremor in your shoulders.
“You’re tense,” he said quietly.
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.”
The word came out softer than you expected, almost fond. You wanted to reply, to deflect like always, but something about the quiet made it hard to. The whole village below seemed to have gone still, awaiting.
He brushed a snowflake from your hair without thinking. The touch lingered a heartbeat too long.
“You’re getting good at it yourself,” you finally responded, though it came out shaky. “Lying.”
His mouth curved, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Except I am not, for once in my life.”
The air between you thickened, that strange gravity pulling tighter with every breath. You didn’t step back, and neither did he. The distance was fragile now—thin enough that a thought could shatter it.
Then, from below, a voice shouted—“Ten!”—followed by a chorus of laughter, joined by the faint ring of glasses and the hum of voices too blurred to separate.
You blinked, almost startled.
“Nine!”
The sound grew louder, spilling up the stairwell, mixed with muffled cheers and off-key singing. Leon’s eyes met yours again, and you couldn’t look away even if you felt too far from protocol to be safe.
“Eight!”
You felt like running away once more.
“Seven!”
“We should go back,” you said, not as steadily as you’d like.
He shook his head once. “Not yet.”
“Six!”
The hand that was holding yours slid gently up your arm until it found your jaw, tracing its outline.
“Five!”
He rested his forehead against yours. Something in your chest gave — a quiet, dangerous flutter. You didn’t step back, but you didn’t close the gap either.
“Four!”
“Leon—”
“This is a bad idea, right? Tell me to stop.”
“Three!”
You reached up, fingers curling into the collar of his coat. “I…honestly can’t think of a better one right now.”
“Two!”
He exhaled, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a surrender.
“One!”
The terrace filled with the muffled roar of celebration—cheers, fireworks, the world waking up again. And Leon kissed you. For real this time, without being forced, without being observed by anyone…out of pure will. It was rougher, hungrier, much deeper than at the entrance. It was desperate, unrestrained, impossible to fake. His hand found the back of your neck, steady but needy, pulling you closer. You felt the tightness of his jaw, the chill of his hand, and the warmth of his mouth bleeding through it all.
The fireworks cracked again, their light flashing across his face when he broke the kiss, eyes dark and unfocused, chest heaving like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“So, this is Christmas.” He said at last, looking at the starry sky in awe.
You chuckled, hugging his side and resting your head on his shoulder. “Yep…Happy Christmas, Leon.”
“Happy Christmas, sweetheart.”
You returned to the cabin.
Truth is, you didn’t get much out of Silas. Either he was very good at hiding his tracks, or he was just a good guy. Anyway, you didn’t know what to report to base.
Leon was kneeling with his sleeves rolled up by the fire, adding some wood, and you couldn’t think of anything to write with the sight of his back moving through the action. You just watched the line of his shoulders shift under the half-undone shirt, still the one from the mission.
How in hell did you end up like this?
Two agents, still in party clothes, hiding out in a mountain cabin while the world outside froze over. The hem of your dress brushed your legs when you moved; you’d stopped noticing the cold hours ago. Maybe the adrenaline helped. Or maybe it was him.
“You know,” Leon said, voice rough from disuse, “before Silas opened the door…” He hesitated, then glanced at you over his shoulder. “I wanted to tell you I was scared, too.”
You tilted your head. “Scared?”
“Yeah, I mean—” He sat back, rubbing his palms together as if unsure what to do with them. “Not about the mission, but the whole celebration around it, I guess.”
The wood creaked, giving in to the fire, burning.
“Before tonight, I hadn’t had a proper Christmas in years. I didn’t remember what it was like. And I was scared I wouldn’t know how to… act. But you did. You just—fit into it somehow. And then you kissed me under the mistletoe…”
He met your eyes, this time without flinching. “What I’m trying to say is, you made me feel something I’d forgotten existed. Joy—”
He breathed in.
“Love.” He let out. “And it was…really nice, to let the guard down, to feel real again.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The word hung in the air between you.
Leon turned back to the flames, his jaw tightening as if he regretted saying it. You could almost hear his thoughts—how quickly he’d build his walls again.
You stood up and took a step closer. Praying inwardly that touch could communicate what words could not. You dropped down beside him and wrapped your arms around him, your cheek resting against the curve of his neck. You could almost feel the chill that ran down his spine, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. Then Leon moved—quickly, almost startled by his own need. He turned, hands finding your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. His gaze lingered on your lips, searching for approval. You nodded, slowly.
And he kissed you.
It was the third time that night, but you still couldn’t make sense of it. It felt so fragile, so ephemeral and dreamlike. You melted into him, barely aware of anything beyond the heat of his mouth and the soft drag of his breath. The kiss wasn’t desperate this time—it was hesitant, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize something he knew wouldn’t last.
Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, low and restless. The fire guttered once, throwing the room into shadow, then steadied again, glowing faintly against your skin.
Your trembling fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, becoming entangled with each other. The firelight danced across his chest as the shirt fell open, tracing amber lines down the planes of him.
He reached for you then, slow and unsure. His hands skimmed your shoulders, the silk of your dress catching slightly when he pulled it down. You gasped once when you felt freed from it, dress half-lowered, skirt still covering your legs. Heat filled the room, breaths growing uneven.
Every movement felt suspended in that small, flickering world: your heartbeat echoing against his ribs, his pulse answering in kind. Time folded in on itself, and all that existed was this quiet collision of warmth and ache—two people holding on to something already slipping through their grasp.
“Are you sure about this?” He asked, breath catching as his forehead rested against yours.
“I…don’t know, but I need you.” You admitted with raw honesty.
He licked his lips at that statement, eyes darkening with a desperate need for release.
“Fuck.”
His hands moved to your shoulders, a gentle but firm pressure guiding you downward. You didn’t resist. You sank to the floor, never breaking eye contact, transitioning from your elbows to lying flat against the cool surface. He admired you from above for a moment as he finished taking off his shirt.
“We don’t have to report this,” he said, a sharp, reckless smirk tugging at his mouth as his fingers moved to his belt.
Your hair fanned out across the floor like a dark halo as you mirrored his expression.
“How beautiful you look right now… it’s unforgivable,” he groaned. He dropped to his knees, hovering over you before trailing a path of searing kisses from the line of your jaw to the hollow of your throat. His touch moved lower, tracing your collarbones and the rise of your chest, his focus singular and intense.
Your hands found the broad expanse of his back, your palms grazing his skin before your fingers dug in, anchoring him closer as his lips traveled over your body. Every time he moved lower, your breath hitched, coming in shallow, rapid cycles that imitated the frantic drumming of your heart—a cocktail of anticipation and a sharp, nervous edge. As he left your abdomen, he reached the hem of your dress where it bunched at your hips. Leon’s hands hooked into the fabric, his knuckles brushing your skin as he prepared to slide it away.
He didn’t move fast. He lingered there, his thumbs tracing the sensitive skin of your hip bones just above the hem. The "fear" in your chest wasn't a desire to stop, but rather the overwhelming realization that once this threshold was crossed, the power dynamic between you would be irrevocably shattered.
“Still with me?” he rasped, his voice low and roughened by his own restraint.
You nodded, a small, shaky movement, as your fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders. That was all the permission he needed. With a steady, fluid motion, Leon gathered the fabric and slid the dress down your legs. The cool air hit your skin for only a moment before his warmth replaced it, his body settling between your knees as he cast the garment aside.
He hovered over you, bracing himself on his forearms, looking down at you with an expression that was almost pained in its intensity. "I'm going to ruin us both," he murmured, more to himself than to you.
He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He claimed your mouth again, his kiss no longer questioning but demanding, his hands sliding up to frame your face as if to ensure you were looking at him when he pulled back and directed two fingers to your mouth, brushing your lips, asking you to let him in.
You swallowed, then slowly let your mouth part. A wordless agreement to his request.
A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest at the gesture—a mix of pleasure and agony. He didn't rush; he slid his fingers past your teeth, testing the heat and depth of your mouth. Your eyes fluttered half-shut, a soft, broken hum catching in your throat. Leon didn’t look away; he tracked every tremor of your lashes and the way your breath hitched, his own jaw locking so tight the muscle leaped. He could feel the heavy, pulsing thrum of his own body reacting to you—a sharp, demanding ache that grew more insistent with every small sound you made.
When he finally withdrew his fingers, they left a glistening trail against your lower lip, a stray drop that escaped the corner of your mouth and tracked slowly down your chin. You didn’t move to wipe it away; you were far too gone, completely intoxicated by the dizzying newness of this sensation. Leon’s presence shifted, the weight of him moving as he crouched lower, his knees spreading yours to settle himself between them. He guided those same fingers downward, his gaze dark and heavy as he surveyed your entrance. There was a pause—a final, breathless moment where he looked up, his eyes searching yours for that last spark of silent consent.
When he saw the hunger mirrored in your expression, he finally made contact. His fingers, still slick and warm, grazed your most sensitive skin with a feather-light touch that made your entire body bolt upright.
A low, shaky breath escaped you as he began to move, his touch transitioning from a graze to a slow, rhythmic pressure. He watched the way your hips instinctively bucked toward his hand, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Do you like that?” he murmured, his voice a gravelly vibration that seemed to hum right through your skin. “You feel them inside?”
“Mhm…” you managed to answer
He leaned forward, bracing one hand beside your head on the floor while the other continued its torturous work. “Good, baby.” He began to kiss your inner thighs with a gentleness that contrasted with his constant in and out from you.
Every time you tried to close your eyes, he was there, his voice commanding you to stay present. “Look at me,” he whispered against your skin. “I want to see exactly what I’m doing to you.”
The friction of his fingers, the heat of his breath, and the hard weight of him hovering over you turned the room into a hazy blur. You reached out, your nails scratching against his shoulders, desperate to pull him up and close the agonizing gap between your bodies.
“So impatient,” he rasped, though there was no rebuke in it. “Wait for me just a little bit more, I’m not done with you here.”
He shifted his weight, his large hands sliding beneath your thighs to hook them over his shoulders, exposing you completely to the dim light of the room. You let out a broken gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair as he leaned down.
When his mouth finally replaced his fingers, the sensation was a revelation. He started with slow, swirling grazes, his tongue tasting your inner folds with a devastating precision. The rough silk of his tongue against your most sensitive nerves made your back arch in a desperate search for more.
“Leon,” you choked out, his name a plea that died in the back of your throat.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he deepened the contact, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising intensity to hold you still for him. He was thorough, his focus singular and obsessive, searching for your spot.
You were unraveling, your senses peaking as he caught your rhythm, his pace quickening until you were hovering on the very edge of a precipice.
Leon felt the way your muscles coiled with an intensity that signaled you were reaching your limit. He didn't break the contact, but he slowed the rhythm of his tongue just enough to make you ache for it, forcing you to linger in that white-hot space of near-release.
Slowly, he looked up.
His face was flushed, his lips wet and glistening, but his eyes were what caught your breath. They were dark, blown wide with a mixture of predatory focus and raw adoration. He stayed right there, his chin resting against the inside of your thigh, watching the way your chest heaved and your pupils dilated, the way your lips parted to let out a silent, shaking breath.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his finger grazing over the center of your tension while his eyes stayed locked on yours. “I want to see exactly when you break. I want to see you lose it for me.”
Slowly, he pulled himself up. He moved like a predator, his body a heavy, muscular shadow as he crawled over you, his knees sliding between yours to reclaim his place. He was flushed, his lips swollen and his hair a mess from where your fingers had been tangling in it.
You were thoroughly prepared—unraveled, slick, and aching for the weight of him to fill the void his mouth had just left behind.
“You’re perfect,” he said in a whisper.
He didn't wait this time. He reached down, his fingers finding his belt once more, but this time his movements were fast, fueled by a desperation he could no longer hide. He cast his remaining clothes aside. The report you were supposed to write, the jobs you were supposed to protect—it all burned away the second his bare skin pressed against your inner thighs.
He braced himself on his forearms, his chest hovering just a hair’s breadth from yours. He was trembling now, his own restraint finally snapping.
“I told you I wasn't done.” he whispered against your lips, his hands sliding under your hips to tilt you upward, aligning you perfectly.
With a slow, deliberate push, he began to bridge the final gap, his eyes locked onto yours so he could see if you needed to stop—
“Are you okay?” He asked, looking for reassurance, a sign that he hadn’t pushed too far, too fast.
—but you didn’t.
“God, yeah…” you breathed, the words trembling as they left your lips. Your hands moved from his shoulders to his face, your fingers caressing his cheek as you looked back at him with a dazed genuineness. “Don’t stop. Please, Leon…I really want this.”
A flash of something primal—relief mixed with an even deeper hunger—crossed his face at your confession. The tension in his shoulders seemed to snap, his resolve finally giving way to the sheer need he had been holding back.
“Good,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to yours for a fleeting second. “Because I don’t think I could stop now if I tried.”
Leon let out a low, tortured groan into the crook of your neck, his muscles locking as he buried himself to the hilt. He stayed there for a heartbeat, unmoving, his forehead pressed against the cool floor beside your head as he fought for breath. The sensation of being completely filled by him was overwhelming, a grounding weight that finally anchored the frantic energy of the last hour.
“You feel…” he started, but the words broke. He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
He began to move, his pace deliberate and punishingly deep. Each thrust was a heavy, rhythmic pulse that echoed against the hard floor beneath you, a stark reminder of your surroundings. His hands were everywhere—pinning your wrists to the floor one moment, then sliding under your back to pull you flush against his chest the next, desperate to minimize any space between you.
The friction was electric. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into his back as you matched his desperate tempo. Every time your skin collided, the sound was a sharp, wet slap in the silence of the room, punctuating the raw, unscripted nature of what was happening.
Leon looked down at you, his face a mask of intense concentration and raw need. He wasn't the composed, calculating man who worried about the mission anymore. He was a man possessed, his eyes tracking the way your head tossed from side to side and the way your fingers clawed at his shoulders.
You reached up, your fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, forcing him to look at you so you could kiss him. You savored yourself in his mouth, invading every corner, playing with his tongue. In a sudden spark of boldness, you even caught his lower lip between your teeth and bit down—hard enough to feel the metallic tang of his blood, ripping a guttural pained moan from his throat. The sound never made it past his lips; it died instantly in your mouth, swallowed whole by your kiss.
When he pulled away you could see how his lips bloomed red and curved into a smile that you knew meant your end.
With a sudden, explosive surge of strength, he hauled you up from the floor, sitting you squarely atop him.
The change in gravity was dizzying. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself as you slid down the full length of him. Leon didn't give you a second to adjust; his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, his knuckles white as he took control of the rhythm. He began to thrust upward with a punishing, relentless depth, his head falling back as a jagged groan tore from his throat. From this position, every sensation was amplified as he drove into you again and again. You arched your back, your fingers digging into the corded muscles of his chest, your own voice breaking into high, shattered moans that filled the small space between you. He contemplated you, his lips still stained a bruised red from your bite, savoring the sight of you completely undone.
“Ah— Leon… please,” you choked out, your head tilting back, letting your hair fall as your eyes rolled shut.
He didn't slow down. If anything, the sound of his name in that wrecked tone made him push harder.
“It’s too much,” you cried, a soft, high-pitched oh escaping you as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. “Leon, I’m… I’m going to…”
“I know, baby, I know.” He recognized at once, going gently but steady. “I’ve got you,” he continued, his breathing coming in heavy, jagged stabs. “Don't fight it. Just give it to me. Give it all to me.”
You let out a shuddering moan, your fingers curling into his hair to pull his mouth back to yours. “I love you,” you managed to breathe against his lips, the confession lost in the middle of a desperate, messy kiss.
Leon didn’t hesitate. “I love you too,” he breathed out, the words sounding like they had been torn from his chest. “So fucking much.”
You buried your face in his shoulder, your teeth grazing his skin as the first wave of the peak hit you. It was a total eclipse of the senses. You cried out his name, a broken, melodic sound that was swallowed by his own guttural roar as he finally lost his grip on reality.
Leon thrust himself inside you one last time, his body locking beneath yours, every muscle in his frame feeling the electricity as he followed you over the edge.
For a long, suspended minute, the only sound was the frantic, echoing thud of two hearts trying to beat as one. He held you with a bruising intensity, his fingers trembling, finding their way to your hair.
The first thing you felt was the biting chill of the air, the second thing was the sore he left in your entire body.
When you fully opened your eyes you realized you were no longer on the floor, you were tucked safely into the heat of the bed, your skin clean and the sheets pulled high against your chest.
The sound of footsteps made you turn your head. Leon drifted into view, a stark, beautiful contrast to the morning light. He was wearing nothing but his pants, his chest bare and his hair still damp and tousled from a recent shower. He looked softer than you had ever seen him, the lethal edge of the mission replaced by a quiet, domestic calm.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of him dipping the bed as he leaned forward to offer you a steaming cup of coffee. A faint, secret smile played on his lips—the kind only you were allowed to see.
“And Happy Christmas… again.”
You reached out a trembling hand to take the mug, your fingers brushing against his—a small contact that managed to bring alive a memory of what you did hours ago. You took a slow, grounding sip, the heat of the coffee mirroring the warmth spreading through your chest as you looked at him.
“You’re a lifesaver,” you rasped, the sound of your own voice a raw, husky betrayal of just how much you’d cried out his name in the dark. You shifted beneath the heavy weight of the blankets, the deep ache in your thighs and core serving as a delicious, lingering map of his strength. A soft, playful smile finally tugged at your lips as you looked up at him.
“And Happy Christmas, Leon,” you added, your voice dropping to a tender whisper. “Though I think we both know I already got exactly what I wanted.”
Leon’s gaze heated, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he set his coffee aside. He leaned over you, his bare chest radiating a warmth that made the morning chill vanish instantly.
“Is that so?” he murmured and you nodded, your thumb caressing his lower lip—still slightly bruised from the night before. “And here I thought I was being subtle by bringing you coffee before demanding a rematch.”
You let out a soft, airy laugh, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair. “Subtle? Leon, you’re sitting on bed half-naked with that look in your eyes. You’ve never been subtle a day in your life.”
He chuckled, a low, vibration that you felt deep in your chest as he surged forward, pinning your wrists gently against the pillows.
“Fair point,” he admitted, his nose sliding against yours. “Then I’ll be direct.”
He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and sending a fresh wave of goosebumps down your spine. “You moaning my name? It’s the best thing I’ve heard all year,” he whispered. “And since it’s still Christmas morning...”
You looked for his eyes, “I think you are just in time to add it to your list.”
“God, that’s great.” Leon’s smirk deepened, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Cause I’d love to hear it again.”
You laughed softly.
“Oh,” Leon breathed, his expression shifting as a sudden realization hit him. “Almost forgot.”
He reached into his pocket, and as his fingers uncurled, your heart did a slow somersault.
“One last gift.”
“Leon, what the fuck—”
“I’m tired of the wire,” he took your hand with a steady gentleness, sliding the crude, twisted copper wire off your finger. In its place, he slid a cold, heavy band of real gold onto your finger. He met your eyes, a trace of that rare, private smile tugging at his mouth.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the new metal against your skin just like he had with the wire. “It’s only symbolic.”
summary: you're sent on an undercover mission to a remote village with your coworker. except you pretty much hate each other. except leon has always spent the holidays alone...until now.
cw: this part is pure tension and forced proximity, even with some fluff i would say! + fake marriage.
a/n: heyy so..back in the ring. i know christmas already passed but i didn’t want to let go of the opportunity to post this while the spirit still hangs around. if it goes well, i would love to make the second part :)—didn’t write it all together cause i thought it was getting so long—so lmk what you think ❗️
“Are you certain this is the route?” Leon’s voice was dangerously level, a low-frequency hum that vibrated through the floorboards of the rented sedan. It was the fifth time he had posed the question, and the meticulous, almost white-knuckled grip of his hand upon the steering wheel hadn't loosened once. His eyes, perpetually narrowed against the gathering dusk, never left the ribbon of asphalt unraveling ahead.
And for the fifth time, you forced the single, crisp syllable out. “Yes.”
You were practically squatting on the stiff leather seat, your body hunched, both hands rigidly clutching the source of his doubt: a colossal, crinkled paper map, its edges yellowing. It was so absurdly large it draped over your lap and rose like a fortified curtain, effectively bisecting the vehicle. You couldn't see the passenger window; you couldn't see him.
“Then why are you still looking at it..?”
You let out a sharp, ragged puff of air—a sound that was pure, unfiltered annoyance.
“Maybe because I don’t want to see your face.”
A beat of charged silence hung between you, thick and cold as the mountain air. Then, a sudden, forced agreement that stung more than any argument. “Lovely. The feeling is entirely mutual.”
You've been paired together for a covert data-gathering mission. The worst of their kind, you thought, because you didn't really have to do anything except to keep a low profile and stay proximate to the target for passive scanning. Observe, wait, pretend — report, repeat. Ridiculous, isn't it? You two being high-ranking, risk-qualified agents now stuck in this..holiday postcard.
Fat, wet snowflakes began to crash against the windshield. Leon activated the wipers, and the blades swept away the melting snow in rhythmic, frantic arcs, leaving less and less of a trace with each stroke. The road had become a monotonous path lined with towering, identical pines. The light was fading rapidly, and the silence in the car felt less like a truce and more like the prelude to an explosion.
A knot began to tighten in your stomach. You were now actively doubting whether this was really the designated service road, but the very thought of admitting that Leon Know It All Kennedy had been right to question your direction felt like a surrender you simply couldn't afford. You gripped the map harder, the paper protesting with a dry, ripping sound.
With a final, desperate sigh of defeat, you let your head fall to your knees, the map finally slipping from your numb fingers to crumple into the space beneath the seat.
“So it 's not.” Leon stated instantly, his voice now calm, terrifyingly victorious.
You shoot him a withering look out of the corner of your eye.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆
You pull the sedan into what it looked like the last gas station there’ll be. It was less a business and more a skeletal relic: the pumps were faded yellow, the main building was dark and the windows opaque with dust and neglect. It smelled faintly of stale diesel and pine resin.
You catch yourself thinking it’s the perfect, forgotten backdrop for an apocalyptic scenario—a typical, desolate refugee point. The thought flashes through your mind: you and Leon, surviving a week here, armed, before the supply run turns bloody. It's a darkly humorous fantasy that grounds you, a reminder that the real-world threats you face are just as absurd, if less eccentric, than zombies.
Leon stretched the map out on the hood while you fill the tank. "...As much as it genuinely pains me to say this," he mutters, running a gloved finger along a marked blue line, "your guiding was technically correct. We are heading the right way."
You let the gas pump click off, pulling the nozzle free with a satisfying, metallic clink. “Of course we are. I’m a freaking genius.”
He didn’t look up. “You just read a map, don’t get so excited.”
You rolled your eyes, a small smile touching your lips. “Hardly.” You tap the sedan's roof twice—a familiar signal. “Ready to get back on the road.”
Leon finally lifted his head, his eyes widening marginally as he watched you bypass the passenger side and open the driver’s door. The look of faint, weary betrayal was instantly readable. You simply settled in, your hands already on the steering wheel. He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of inevitability. “I guess,” he conceded, dragging himself around the hood.
The next two hours passed in the same way as the sun set, a constant tug-of-war between you two; if you weren't fighting over a sliver of air from an open window, you were fighting over the overhead light, and if not that, over the radio station. You wanted to listen to cheesy Christmas songs because come on, let’s get in the mood, right? But Leon simply clung to the station that played nothing but Three Days Grace, with a few songs by My Chemical Romance and Smashing Pumpkins thrown in.
“Home sweet…home?” You let the car door slam, the sound echoing too loudly in the frozen silence of the woods. You gripped your suitcase, eyeing the structure looming ahead. You didn't want to call it old; perhaps "rustic" is the right word. The wood was still standing, but it wasn't in its best condition... and that's okay, you weren't expecting a 5-star hotel, given the story that had been put together for you. You're a couple on vacation before your wedding. Yeah, right.
“It’s probably going to collapse on us the moment we close our eyes.” Leon muttered, stepping past you.
“One can only dream.” You shot back, following him up the rotting porch steps.
Leon kicked the door open with a sharp thrust of his hip, his hands full of tactical gear and duffels. The frame groaned in protest, shaking loose a flurry of dust and wood shavings that drifted down like grim confetti. Something small and furry scurried into the shadows, but Leon didn’t flinch. He just stopped dead in the entryway.
“Oh,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.
You craned your neck to look over his shoulder “Oh.”
In the center of the cramped room sat a single, solitary bed.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩
The winter chill didn't take long to find the gaps in the cabin’s cedar walls. As the sun dipped below the treeline, the room turned into an icebox, leaving you no choice but to drag the heavy mattress across the floor until it was flush against the stone hearth.
“I’m taking the side by the fire,” you declared, claiming the spot before he could even look at it. “Non-negotiable.”
“All yours.” With his back turned on you, Leon didn’t even bother to protest.
“Right. Good.” You exhaled, feeling the smallness of the victory.
After a quick, cold wash and a change into your thermals, you slid under the heavy wool blankets. You stared at the ceiling, tracing the knots in the wood and trying to regulate your breathing. You were a professional; sharing a bed was just logistics. But then, the rustle of fabric caught your attention. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Leon’s hands hook into the hem of his shirt.
Don’t look. Do not look.
“Sorry,” Leon’s voice was a low rasp in the quiet room. He paused, the shirt pulled halfway up his torso, bunching around his ribs. “I usually sleep like this. Does it bother you?”
“Wha—no. No, it’s fine,” you blurted out, the words tripping over each other. You waved a hand dismissively, silently cursing the heat rising in your cheeks.
You couldn't be sure in the flickering amber light of the fire, but you thought you saw the ghost of a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.
“Great.” He finished the motion, tossing the shirt onto a nearby chair.
You whipped around almost instantly. “Night,” you snapped.
“Night-night,” he replied, his tone far too amused for your liking.
The silence in the cabin was thick, broken only by the frantic whistling of the wind through the eaves. You lay as stiff as a board, eyes wide open, staring at the darkened wall. You could hear everything: the slow, steady rhythm of Leon’s breathing, the rustle of the sheets when he adjusted his weight, the heat of him radiating like a second hearth.
An hour dragged by. Your mind was a frantic loop of mission parameters, but your body was hyper-aware of the man inches away.
Suddenly, the floorboards outside groaned.
You felt the bed shift violently as Leon moved. Before you could even draw a breath to ask, his hand was over your mouth—warm, calloused, and smelling faintly of gun oil.
“Quiet,” he breathed against your ear. His chest was pressed firmly against your shoulder, his bare skin shocking against your thermal top.
You didn't nod; you went limp. With his other hand, he reached under his pillow, the distinct click of a safety being disengaged echoing in the dark. You reached slowly for the holster you’d tucked into the side of the mattress.
For three agonizing minutes, neither of you moved. You were fused together, two predators waiting in the dark. You could feel his heart thudding against your back—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of the hunt. It was the first time you’d been this close without trying to throw a punch at him.
The sound didn't repeat. A heavy thud followed—the sound of snow sliding off the roof and hitting the porch.
Leon didn't let go immediately. He stayed there, his hand lingering over your lips for a second too long, his breath hitching as the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only the awareness of the position you were in.
He slowly retracted his hand, but he didn't pull away.
“Just the snow,” he rasped, his voice rougher than usual.
“I knew that,” you whispered, though your heart was still hammering against your ribs. You finally turned your head, finding his face only inches from yours in the gloom. The "enemy" you’d been bickering with all day looked different in the dark—less like a rival and more like the only person in the world you could trust to keep you alive.
“Sure you did,” he murmured. He didn't move back to his side. Instead, he settled back into the pillow, his arm inadvertently brushing yours. “Go to sleep. I’ll take the first watch.”
“We’re supposed to be on vacation, Leon. Agents don't take watches on their honeymoon.”
“Then pretend I’m protecting my investment,” he said dryly, though there was no bite in it this time. “Sleep.”
You turned back toward the fire, but you didn't feel the cold anymore.
The sun hadn't even cleared the pines when a heavy, rhythmic thudding echoed through the cabin. Someone was pounding on the front door.
Beside you, Leon was already a blur of motion, rolling out of bed and grabbing his shirt in one fluid movement.
"Company," he hissed, sliding his sidearm into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. "Remember: we’re a 'happy couple.' Lose the killer glare."
"I’ll lose the glare when you lose the attitude," you whispered back, frantically smoothing your messy hair and trying to look like someone who had just spent a romantic night by the fire rather than a night on high alert.
Leon reached the door, took a centering breath that transformed his entire posture from lethal to lethargic, and swung it open.
Standing on the porch was an older man in a thick flannel coat, holding a crate of firewood. He looked exactly like the kind of local who kept a mental map of everyone in a ten-mile radius.
"Morning!" the man boomed, his eyes immediately darting past Leon to find you. "Saw the smoke from the chimney. Thought the city folks might need some more birch. The storm’s coming back tonight."
Leon leaned against the doorframe, a lazy, charming smile spreading across his face—the kind of look he never gave you. "Much appreciated. We were just debating who had to go out and forage." He reached back, blindly finding your hand and pulling you toward him.
You stumbled into his side, and his arm draped naturally, heavily, around your shoulders. He pulled you flush against his warm chest.
"Sweetheart, this is...?" Leon trailed off, prompting the man.
"Arthur. I manage the properties around the lake." The man peered at you both, his gaze lingering on the way you were tucked under Leon’s arm. "You two look a bit peaked. Cabin fever setting in already?"
"Just a long night," Leon murmured, his fingers idly tracing circles on your shoulder. It was a calculated move, a performance, but the heat of his touch through your thin thermal shirt felt dangerously real. "Wedding planning is exhausting. We came here to forget the world exists for a bit."
"Is that so?" Arthur looked down as if searching for something and that’s when you realized: the rings. Neither of you had them. You subtly ran your left hand down Leon's hip, toward his back. Arthur raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He looked at the bed pushed up against the hearth. "Resourceful. Most folks just complain about the draft. I see you’re keeping each other warm, at least."
You felt Leon’s chest vibrate as he let out a low chuckle. "Doing our best." He looked down at you, his eyes brimming with a fake devotion that made your stomach do a somersault. "Right, darling?"
"Absolutely," you said, forcing your voice to go soft and honeyed. You leaned your head against his shoulder, looking up at him with a gaze that felt like a lie and a confession all at once. "Though I wouldn't mind if he let me sleep past dawn just once."
Arthur laughed, a deep, hearty sound. "That’s the spirit. Well, I’ll leave you to it. There’s a market down the road if you need supplies, though I’d get there before the ice sets in."
As soon as the door clicked shut and Arthur’s footsteps faded into the snow, the warmth vanished. Leon dropped his arm and stepped back, the charming "fiancé" mask sliding away to reveal the cold professional underneath.
The silence in the cabin suddenly felt much heavier than it had before the visitor arrived.
"He was checking our story," Leon said, his voice flat as he moved toward the window to watch the man drive away. "He didn't buy the 'vacation' bit entirely. We need to be more convincing if we go into town."
"More convincing?" You crossed your arms, trying to shake the lingering sensation of his hand on your shoulder. "You were practically purring, Leon. Any more 'convincing' and he’ll expect a wedding invitation."
Leon turned back to you, his eyes unreadable. "Then maybe you should start acting like you actually like me. It’ll make the lie easier to swallow."
“What I believe will make us seem more real is a pair of engagement rings.”
The confidence on Leon's face vanished at that statement. He had forgotten that detail and now he knew you thought about it first.
“..Fuck”
Where were you supposed to get a couple of rings in the middle of fucking nowhere? That was a great question.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆
Whether you were officially engaged or not in the eyes of the neighbor, you still had to get on with your work, so the situation was temporarily relegated to the "Low Priority Pending Matters" mental folder.
The cabin, which had felt tiny during the night, felt even smaller as a makeshift command center. You set up your laptop on the rickety pine table, the screen’s blue glow clashing with the warm orange of the dying fire. A few feet away, the bed served as Leon’s workbench. The only sounds were the rhythmic clicking of your keys and the metallic snick-slide of Leon’s weapons maintenance. You were deep-diving into the target’s digital footprint—analyzing travel routes and encrypted comms—while Leon methodically stripped his sidearm. He worked with a silent, terrifying grace, his large hands moving over the steel components with the same focus he’d used to caress your skin earlier.
"Target just pinged a local cell tower," you muttered, your eyes scanning lines of scrolling green data. "He’s early. He’s not waiting for the holiday—he’s moving into the estate across the valley tonight."
Leon didn't miss a beat. He slid a fresh magazine into his sidearm with a sharp, echoing clack. "That changes the window. We’ve gone from forty-eight hours to six."
He stood up and moved toward you, leaning over your shoulder to see the monitor. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. One of his hands planted on the table right next to your mouse—you didn’t want to move your hand.
"Look at the encryption on the security feed," you said, trying to ignore how his scent was filling your senses. "He’s not just hiding. He’s expecting a delivery."
"Or an extraction," Leon countered, his voice a low vibration near your ear. He pointed a finger at a shimmering heat signature on the satellite map. "There. That’s a landing pad. If we don’t move by sunset, we lose him."
“Right,” you murmured, biting your lower lip as you ran the numbers. “We can't roll in as a strike team..”
“No,” Leon agreed, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was the look he wore right before something exploded. “We go in as two lovesick idiots looking for a scenic spot to watch the sunset. Very romantic. Very loud.”
He reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he snapped your laptop shut. The sudden darkness of the room made his eyes seem brighter. “Get your coat, darling. We’ve got a date.”
The scenic route involved a grueling mile-long trek through waist-deep snow, circling the perimeter of the coordinates you’d pulled from the satellite. You and Leon moved with synchronized silence, despite your "tourist" gear.
"The landing platform is just over this ridge," Leon whispered, his hand going to the grip of his concealed weapon. "If the delivery is happening now, he’ll have at least four guards on the perimeter."
"On my mark," you breathed, heart hammering. "Three... two... one."
You both crested the ridge, weapons ready, prepared for a tactical nightmare.
Instead, you were met with a glow of warm, tacky neon lights and the muffled sound of Jingle Bell Rock.
You blinked. Below you wasn't a secret compound or a black-market exchange point. It was Miller’s General Store & Outpost. The "landing platform" you’d seen on the thermal map was actually a reinforced flat roof used for heavy supply drops during the off-season, currently decorated with a giant, inflatable, illuminated Santa.
And there, standing by a rack of somewhat pathetic-looking Christmas trees, was your target. He wasn't holding a briefcase of plutonium; he was squinting at a box of tangled tinsel and holding a frozen turkey like it was a precious artifact.
"Is he... is he checking the expiration date on that poultry?" Leon hissed, his tactical intensity crumbling into pure confusion.
"The intel said 'High-Value Acquisition,'" you whispered, feeling your face heat up. "I think he's just buying dinner."
"We have to get closer," Leon muttered. "If we turn back now, we have nothing."
You both descended toward the store, trying to shed your 'special-ops' aura for 'annoying tourists.' You entered the store, the bell above the door ringing loudly. The target looked up, and for a split second, you panicked. You needed a distraction—something to make you look harmless.
Leon reached for a shelf of ornaments, but his gloved hand was still clumsy from the cold. He bumped a massive display of "Handcrafted Vermont Cider" bottles.
"Leon, watch out—"
It was too late. He lunged to catch a falling bottle; you tried to grab him, but you tripped over a bale of decorative hay in the way, and you both tumbled embarrassingly. You were trapped beneath him, amidst a pile of tinsel and spilled cider.
A pair of polished boots appeared in your field of vision. You looked up to see the target—the man you were supposed to be investigating—looking down at you with a mix of pity and amusement.
"Rough start to the holiday, eh?" the target asked, chuckling as he offered a hand to help Leon up. "I haven't seen a spill that graceful since the ice storm of '98."
Leon took the hand, looking appropriately embarrassed—though you knew he was actually recalculating the entire mission in his head. "Sorry. I’m a bit of a klutz when I’m trying to impress my fiancée."
The target’s eyes softened. "Fiancée, huh? Newlyweds-to-be? You two look like you've had a hell of a trek. You staying at the old Miller cabin?"
"We are," you said, brushing fake snow off your coat. "We just... wanted to make this Christmas different. Clearly, we’re getting there."
The man laughed, a warm, booming sound that didn't fit a criminal mastermind at all. "Do not worry, in this valley it is all about survival, not perfection…” Was that a threat, or a motivation? Had he already discovered you? “Listen, my place is just up the hill. I’m hosting a small dinner tomorrow night—mostly just my family and some local friends. It’s better than eating canned beans in a musty cabin. Why don't you two join us? Bring some of that 'city energy' to the mountain."
Leon looked at you, a silent, panicked conversation happening in the span of a heartbeat.
"We wouldn't want to intrude," Leon started.
"I insist!" the target said, patting Leon on the shoulder. "I like your spirit. Seven o'clock. Don't be late, or the turkey gets it."
As he walked away toward the checkout, you let out the air you were holding in.
Leon leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, mocking rasp that barely carried over the store’s tinny Christmas music. "Well, looks like we’ve got a dinner date with a ghost. Try to keep your feet under you this time, sweetheart. I'm not sure the hay bales can take another hit."
"And you," you shot back, brushing a stray bit of tinsel off his shoulder with more force than necessary, "try not to let your sudden love for cider blow our cover before the appetizers are served."
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚ *ੈ✩
Unfortunately, you didn't have time to watch the sunset like the couple you pretended to be would. You had to get your costumes.
Advising Leon on his wardrobe was surprisingly entertaining, though the man was annoyingly easy to dress. He had the kind of frame that made off-the-rack pieces look like custom tailoring. You settled on a crisp, designer white shirt—simple, but with a thread count that whispered "private wealth"—and tailored black trousers that hugged his legs in all the right places. The burgundy vest was your final touch, a splash of festive warmth that made his eyes look darker, more dangerous. As for your appearance, you were quite pleased with a dress you had spotted at the same store; it was earthy green, with a tie at the waist that accentuated your figure and then fell to just above your knees. It was pretty, modest and practical, but a hand on your waist interrupted your moment of great femininity.
"Green's not your color” Leon said in an unnecessary whisper, he stepped closer, resting his chin near the side of your head. In the mirror you looked like a portrait—a perfect, golden couple.
“So which one is it, then? Since you know me so damn we–”
“Red.” He stated it without hesitation and without letting you finish. "Red like your scarf. Like your nails. Like your lipstick. It simply suits you."
Oh.
“And as always, I believe the darkest red is the safest option…” he continued, his hand sliding slowly down from your waist, his touch deliberate and grounding. He reached past you, his arm brushing yours as he hooked a finger under a different hanger. “Something like this.”
He pulled out a deep, wine-red dress. It was silk, the kind of fabric that didn't just hang—it draped. It was bold, elegant, and..
“It is..beautiful”
“Because I know you so damn well,” he murmured, meeting your eyes in the reflection with a look that felt far too honest “I know that sometimes you might overlook things that are right in front of you.”
“Take it and let’s go” his tone turned back to normal–careless, indifferent–as he stepped back and left.
What the hell was wrong with him?
That night in the cabin, it was all about restructuring the plan. It was no longer just distant surveillance; now social infiltration was included, and you had to be prepared for it. You had your looks, but that was just a tiny part of it. The trick was almost entirely not just on acting, but on the little details nobody thinks about.
“We need a story,” you said, laying your dress out on the bed. “Arthur and the target—Silas—are going to dig. They’ll ask how we met, who proposed, what our first fight was about..”
“Our first fight was about who would drive the first leg of the trip and what radio station we should listen to.” he reminded you, unbuttoning the shirt he had worn from the shop.
“I know that.” You sighed, scratching the bridge of your nose as you subtly turned away, avoiding seeing him and his bare chest, again. “But that´s not even nearly romantic, is it? It could be more like.. we met at a rainy bus stop. You gave me your umbrella and got soaked. You looked like a drowned rat, but I still gave you my number sort-of-thing.”
Leon let out a short, dry laugh. “A drowned rat. Endearing. Fine. Who proposed?”
“You did. Six months ago. On a bridge,” you said firmly.
“Which bridge?”
“Does it matter?”
“Silas is a structural engineer by trade,” Leon said, his eyes narrowing. “If I say ‘a bridge,’ he’ll ask which one. Let’s say the Key Bridge at sunset. I’m a traditionalist.”
You scoffed.
“Alright, most important part.” You turned to face him, regardless of his condition. “The first kiss.”
The air in the tiny room went still. The old clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have. For a second, neither of you moved. Then his eyes flicked to your mouth—quick, instinctive—before snapping back to yours.
“Third date,” he said, his voice lower now. “Outside a jazz club. It was snowing, just like here. I didn't want to let you go home yet.”
The way he said it—so effortlessly, so convincingly—It gave you a feeling you didn't welcome, a lurch in your stomach, a dizziness.
“Good,” you managed.
“And what about..personal space?” he asked the question lingering in your mind, stuck in your throat.
Leon tilted his head. “And what about personal space?”
You scratched at your eyebrow, buying a second. “We… stay close, I guess.”
“How close?”
He stepped in, close enough for the firelight to catch the sweat on his skin and the faint lines of old scars. You put a hand on his chest, meaning to stop him there.
“Like this,” you said. “Exactly like this.” You expected him to step back. Instead, Leon’s hand came up, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that wasn’t meant to hurt, but to hold. He didn't move your hand away; he just looked down at it, his thumb beginning a slow, hypnotic stroke over the copper wire band you’d twisted earlier and used as a ring.
“No one’s buying this”
“Well, maybe we are metaphorical and these are..symbolic”
He laughed under his breath.
After years of missions and late-night watches, that sound was still rare enough to catch you off guard.
You turned over in bed, stretching, to find Leon hugging his pillow. He looked so annoyingly undisturbed, the sun didn't seem to bother him; his hair blocked it and acted like a reflective shield, creating golden twinkles.
You wanted to punch the beauty out of him. But instead you got up and channeled all that anger in two very hot coffees.
“Hey,” you said softly at first, almost tender. “Leon…” You insisted, cup in hand. Which was trying to burn, actually. “Come on.” Your free hand landed on his bare shoulder, slightly pushing it.
Finally, he reacted, lazily opening his eyes and making cute strange noises as he fully woke up.
“Welcome to the world of the living, I thought you left us for a sec.” You greeted him, handing him the cup once he sat up in bed.
One side of his hair seemed to suffer a little friction during sleep and was now pretty disheveled.
“Sorry, practicing our bonding last night really drowned me, I suppose.” He raised his eyebrows and took a long sip.
“That sounds really bad if you take it out of context…I’d prefer calling it a Chemistry Test.” You sat in front of your computer, reviewing data and names, connections and companies. All you needed to know by heart at the end of the day.
“Well, that. Exhausting.”
“You'll find that it won't be tiring at all when it comes to getting to know the one you truly love…” You said naturally, without giving it much deep thought, while clicking. Leon kept quiet for a second that seemed imperceptible for you.
⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅*°⋆
“Are we forgetting something?” You ask one last time, double-checking the list on your mind before leaving the cabin.
Leon lifts your dress slightly and confirms that your knife is tied to your leg.
“I believe we have everything we need.”
“I knew I had that, Idiot.” You glared at him as if you were about to bite him in defense. “I meant you, do you have your stuff?”
Leon doesn't answer but opens his vest, revealing 3 knives of different sizes and textures on one side, a small pistol on the other and a set of bullets that he takes from his pocket, hidden in a pack of cigarettes.
“Nice.” You smiled, satisfied. “We have a Christmas party to attend to.”
