Warnings: swearing, kissing, use of restraints, mention of choking, reference to previous sex, blood, allusions to murder, Yoongi is not a good guy here (ymmv)
Word Count: 1.1k
Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me
Summary: His hand rises of its own accord, seeking the soft skin of your cheek. Craving one last gentle touch before…. “This could’ve been something, you know.”
A/N: Another installment in the BadCop!AU! OC's about to find out what happens when you fuck with Yoongi's money. Spoiler alert: nothing good.
Unbeta’d as usual. I’d love to know what you think - my inbox is always open! 💕
Part 2 💵 Bad Cop Masterlist 💵 Part 4
“Please! You don’t have to do this.”
Yoongi finishes binding your wrists to the back of the wooden chair, ignoring your pleas. Stupid. How could he be so fucking stupid?
He whips out his mobile phone from his silk pajama pants pocket and presses a button. A click and a voice.
“Jimin. I’m going to need a cleanup. Yeah. At home.”
He snaps the phone shut and sets it on his workbench. Thank god his daughter is sleeping over at a friend’s house tonight, so he can take care of this mess quickly.
You try again. “Let’s just talk this out. No one needs to get hurt, okay?”
Ha. Too fucking late.
Yoongi should’ve listened to his head when he met you. It told him you were too good to be true. But no, he’d listened to his dick. And then to his–
“Please. Yoongi.” Your voice is remarkably steady. Probably your training kicking in. The Bureau did a bang-up job with you, Yoongi thinks sullenly. “Listen to me. You can cut a deal. I want to help you. Trust me.”
You screech as Yoongi suddenly spins in the cramped garage, tossing all the tools cluttering his workbench to the ground with one sweep of his arm. The metal instruments clang on the cement floor as you stare wide-eyed in fear. He sneers as he stalks towards you, bare chest heaving.
“Trust you?! Are you fucking kidding me?!” He drops to his knees and grabs your ankles, yanking on the rope to tie them tighter to the chair. His face hovers above yours. A scorching fury radiates from him in waves, burning the words forming on your lips to ash. “I did trust you! And look what happened!”
Why had he kept that safe in the house? When he’d awoken to an empty bed, a horrible sinking feeling had stolen over him. He thought for a moment that it had happened again, that he’d been left behind once more. The sight of you in his study brought relief, but it was fleeting.
As most good things in his life are.
“It was only a matter of time!” you shout, calm replaced by anger, leaning forward, nose bumping against his, making him recoil. “Someone was going to catch you eventually! Why not me? Why not someone who cares about you and Da-”
“Don’t,” he growls, nearly spitting in his rage. “Don’t you fucking say her name.” Everything he did was for his daughter. You could never understand. You didn’t deserve to understand. And you didn’t deserve to even speak her name anymore.
"If you kill me, that won't kill the investigation." Your voice is composed again, but your lip quivers as you speak.
Yoongi smirks, a cold smile that comes nowhere near reaching his eyes. "You just don't get it," he growls. "I run this fucking town. I'm the one with the money. I'm the one with the power. I just need to make you disappear. Then I'll pay a few people in the right places to make this investigation disappear, too."
He didn’t get to where he is without learning which palms to grease. Now that his biggest competition is out of the way, the money’s streaming in so steadily that he should have no problem getting out of this. If he can just do what he needs to do next.
But he can’t stop thinking about earlier tonight. The expression on your face as he came apart inside you. The way you’d fallen asleep in his arms, sighing his name contentedly. Had any of it been real? Fuck, he’d been such an epic fool, to believe that he could be the king, and provide for Da-som, and maybe, maybe even find l-
He can’t let himself finish the thought, snarling as he reaches out and lays his long fingers around your throat like a heavy collar, thumbs slipping easily into the notch of your collarbones. Only mere hours ago you’d begged him to choke you as he fucked you towards oblivion. You’re trembling now, as you did then, but Yoongi knows it’s a different kind of anticipation.
“Wait. Please.” He feels your breath catch under his fingertips. “Please.”
“I can’t let them take her away from me,” he explains, heated glare meeting your frantic gaze, and you nod.
“I know. But please… Yoongi… I can help you. It doesn’t have to end like this.”
But it does. Because he knows that if he goes along with you, and turns himself in and strikes a deal, he’ll still lose Da-som. Even if they can stay together, once he confesses, she’ll know exactly who he is. What he is. And she’ll never look at him the same way again.
He can’t lose her love. If he loses that, he’ll truly have nothing.
“No, I’m afraid it does.” His hand rises of its own accord, seeking the soft skin of your cheek. Craving one last gentle touch before…. “This could’ve been something, you know.”
“I know,” you repeat softly, a sad echo, and before he loses his nerve, Yoongi kisses you. He tastes salt on your lips, feels a shudder pass through you, and he breaks away, lowering his head.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“So am I,” you reply, and he can’t stop himself from peering at you again, heart jolting at the regret he finds reflecting in your eyes. “For this.”
CRACK
“You bitch!” Yoongi’s hands fly to his nose. Blood streams from his nostrils, veins cut by broken bone thanks to your headbutt. The pain is blinding, but his wrath moreso. With a mad howl, he lunges for you, but you merely crack him again, forehead to forehead. This time, he goes down.
Inhaling desperately, you watch his prone body for a moment before you start to rock, working up some momentum before throwing yourself onto your back. The chair doesn’t smash completely as you’d hoped, but the back does break off enough for you to slip the rope under the rungs. Contorting your body, you manage to slide your constrained arms under your ass and then bend forward until your chest is pressed against your thighs. As soon as you can feel the rope around your ankles with your fingertips, you work the knot loose enough to slip your feet free.
Kicking the remnants of the chair away, you crawl towards Yoongi’s phone. Bound hands fumble through his contacts until you find the name you need. A click and a voice.
“Sir?” The voice is confused. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s not Yoongi. It’s me.”
Yoongi moans, stirring slightly, and you hold your breath until he stills again.
Leon wakes almost abruptly, and for a few heartbeats he does not remember where he is—only the feeling of a presence close enough to steady his breathing. A hand at his shoulder. A voice low and firm, saying his name in reassurance. In the dream, Mathias was there with him. Gentle, guiding him from sleep, from the remnants of whatever had plagued him.
The loss of it hurts more than waking usually does.
-------00000000000-------------
Leon’s eyes flutter open, and for one brief, foolish instant, he expects to see Mathias standing nearby, watching as he sometimes does. Leon had been moved with the older boys into his own room; he had impressed them enough and played the part the Church wanted well enough to earn that small luxury—having only one or two others with him now instead of a whole cluster of boys.
Instead, the figure at the foot of the bed is taller somehow. Straighter. Less familiar.
Roland. Ah… he was one of the first to show him around.
The room sharpens into focus quickly after that as pale morning light creeps through the narrow window. Roland stands with his hands folded behind his back, posture immaculate, expression unreadable in the way men learn when they have survived much in their time.
Leon startles upright, pulling the blankets closer out of instinct rather than modesty.
“I—” His voice catches. He clears his throat. “Sir Roland. I didn’t hear you enter.”
Roland inclines his head slightly, an amused smile touching his mouth. “You were sleeping deeply.”
Leon rubs at his eyes, disoriented. Mathias never lets him sleep too long, so this feels… odd. Mathias keeps him on a strict schedule. To sleep in this late—
Roland studies him a moment longer than is comfortable before speaking again.
“Mathias has been summoned away,” he says. “Church business. He will be gone for several weeks.”
Leon’s mouth opens, then closes. Several weeks feels like something he should have been prepared for—Mathias is always being called elsewhere—but that knowledge does little to soften the sting. He nods anyway, because that is what is expected of him. He cannot hope to expect Mathias by his side at all times, can he?
“Oh,” he manages. “I see.”
Roland’s gaze flickers, and Leon suspects nothing about his face is subtle.
“In his absence,” Roland continues, “I will be overseeing your instruction.”
Leon straightens instinctively. “Yes, sir.”
Roland turns toward the door. “Dress. We will begin shortly.”
—
Already he feels an odd sort of unease. Leon is brought to a small chamber off the main hall, a place more often used for clerical meetings than anything resembling combat. This was a room he visited often with Mathias when going over scripture or when they needed to be away from others.
A table. Two chairs. Scrolls stacked neatly at one end.
Leon hesitates at the threshold, and Roland notices, a gentle smile on his lips.
“Sit.”
Leon obeys.
Roland does not sit immediately. Instead, he circles the room, eyes thoughtful.
“Mathias has trained you well in endurance,” Roland says at last. “In discipline. In restraint.”
Leon nods, unsure whether this is praise or preamble to a lecture—or something else entirely.
“What he has not emphasized,” Roland continues, finally taking his seat across from him, “is perception.”
Leon blinks. “Perception, sir?”
“How you are seen. How you are spoken of when you are not present.” Roland folds his hands atop the table. “The Church is not merely a matter of faith, Leon. It is a structure. A living one, and you, whether you wish it or not, exist within it.”
Leon shifts in his chair.
“You have drawn attention,” Roland says calmly. “Some of it is favorable. Some of it… less so.”
“I don’t understand,” he admits.
“That,” Roland replies, “is precisely why this instruction is necessary.”
He speaks of doctrine, of decorum, of the careful balance between devotion and obedience. Of how young men—especially those without noble lineage—must learn when to speak, when to bow, and when to disappear entirely. These are absolute lessons. Even within the Church, money speaks, and those without noble blood must prove themselves twice over.
Leon listens, heart sinking slowly as the shape of the lesson reveals itself. This is about shaping his future into something that will exist outside of battle. Outside of being a—
“At present,” Roland says, “your standing with certain members of the clergy is… strained.”
Leon stiffens. “I did not mean to offend anyone.”
Roland allows himself a thin, knowing smile. “Intent is rarely the deciding factor.”
Silence stretches between them. Still, Leon nods.
“I’ll do whatever is required.”
Roland’s gaze softens, just a touch. “I expect you will.”
Although Leon cannot yet name it, something in him recognizes that this is the beginning of a different kind of trial—one without Mathias standing by him.
Roland had expected resistance, naturally. Not open defiance—Leon was too well-mannered for that—but the subtle stiffness of a boy accustomed to what he knows. Instead, Leon sits where he is told, hands folded awkwardly in his lap, eyes attentive in an earnest way.
Roland watches him from across the table, measuring. Fifteen—but when he gazes upon him, he still sees a child. Roland had seen it before in Mathias, years ago, when he had still been new to knighthood and far too willing to be shaped by men who think they knew better. Men like his father.
The thought sours Roland’s expression, disgust rising before it is quickly pushed down. He returns to the present.
“Mathias has taught you the basics,” Roland says evenly. “Courtly conduct. Scripture. The outward signs of obedience.”
Leon nods immediately. “Yes, sir. He explains things… in a simple way. He breaks things down for me if I don’t understand.”
That, Roland thinks, is very like Mathias—using what is needed to help another grow and to learn. He is well respected for a reason. There is no surprise many had wanted Mathias—or even his father—to take their sons on as squires. His skill in battle, his knowledge—very few could match him. However…
“Unfortunately, what you have learned—mannerisms and the like, the cursory understanding of it all—will not help you navigate the maws of the Church and the underbelly of the beast.”
Leon’s brow furrows. “Sir?”
Roland leans back slightly. “The Church is not concerned with what you know. It is concerned with what you represent. And at present, my dear boy, you represent a question.”
Leon sits quietly, chewing his inner cheek: a nervous tick Mathias would gently scold him for, but Mathias is not here. He lets the words roll about, lets them fill him with a soft sort of dread.
Was it bad, then? Did he do something wrong to make them question their decision to help him?
Roland continues, outlining the realities Mathias had never emphasized—the necessity of alliances, the quiet violence of reputation, the way campaigns and credentials serve as proof of loyalty in a world that does not trust promise or potential. He talks about the importance of maintaining one’s appearance, physically and otherwise. That what one says and does can and will come back to haunt them.
As he speaks, Roland watches understanding dawn in pieces rather than all at once. Leon’s eyes sharpen as his doubts quiet, but in that quiet even more begin to rise. Roland notices the faint uptick in his breathing, the way he nervously plays with his curls, trying to be subtle and failing.
Mathias, Roland realizes, has not taught him what to do with these doubts: with these fears that will eventually surface. Fears and questions any young person would have as they grow older and carve out their own path.
“Be at ease, Leon. You are not in danger, and you will not be thrown from these halls. You are safe, my dear boy.”
Leon shifts in his seat. “Sir Roland?”
“Yes?”
Leon hesitates. “Was Mathias… did he ever have doubts? Was he always so serious? Did he…?”
The question catches Roland off guard.
“Ever act like a human?” Roland asks.
“Yes,” Leon says. “He never speaks much of himself and… I—I just want to know what he does… how he was.”
Roland considers that. He thinks of a younger Mathias—a boy who learned early that excellence was the only acceptable form of safety. Doubt caused weakness, and weakness could not be afforded. He had to be absolute. He had to be certain. He had to be what his father wanted. He had an image. Roland had seen the younger man express doubts, and had once been there much like this.
Leon frowns deeper. “Has he always been so cold?”
Roland blinks. “In what way?”
Leon flushes. “He’s so passionate… and yet he’s always so cold. His fire feels…”
Ah.
Roland feels the conversation shift. Leon leans forward now, elbows on the table, his curiosity no longer entirely academic.
“Does he love his wife?” Leon asks. “Has he ever shown warmth to her? Does he kiss her? Does she make him smile? Does—”
Roland answers honestly. “He loves her in the only way he knows how. As for his passion… well, Mathias is different from you and me. I do not claim to speak for the man, but I can say that when it comes to doubts or worries, he tosses them aside. He moves on. He continues without being held down. You will never get through life if you let yourself be cruel to yourself. You must be kind, Leon. To yourself.”
Leon nods slowly. Then, quieter: “Do you think he’s attractive?”
Roland sees the moment Leon realizes what he has asked, watches panic bloom across his face.
“I—I didn’t mean—” Leon stumbles over himself, words tangling. “I was just asking because—never mind.”
Roland says nothing.
Leon swallows hard, color rising in his cheeks. He tries again, voice barely steady. “I’m so sorry, I—” There it is.
Roland stands before Leon can spiral further, moving around the table and placing a firm hand on his shoulder in a grounding gesture.
“Stop,” he says.
Leon obeys immediately, eyes wide, breathing shallow.
Roland remains standing for a moment, looking down at him.
Mathias has not taught him this. Has not prepared him for the danger of asking such questions aloud. Roland feels a flare of irritation—not at Leon, but at the man who shielded him.
Roland steps back.
“Enough,” he says at last. “How about we go for a ride?”
In that unspoken space, Roland wonders how much Mathias truly believes in his own plan—and how much he is willing to sacrifice to make it work.
Roland chooses the horses because stillness would have broken the boy further. Something about idle hands—whatever the phrasing was, he cannot be bothered to remember—but what he does remember, what he has observed, is that distraction works well with Leon. He has seen Mathias do it before.
Leon follows him to the stables without question, too shaken to do otherwise. Roland says nothing as tack is prepared, as leather creaks and buckles are fastened. He lets the rhythm of routine do what words cannot.
Leon’s hands tremble as he mounts.
They ride without destination at first, circling the outer edge of the estate where the land slopes gently and the air smells of damp earth and trampled grass. The sky is pale, the sun low and dull, as though even the day itself has grown weary.
Roland watches Leon from the corner of his eye.
The boy rides well—too well for someone so young. Balanced. Attentive. Roland feels a flicker of something close to admiration, followed swiftly by unease.
“You like riding,” Roland says eventually, not as a question.
Leon nods, relief visible in the way his shoulders ease. “I do. I like… I like how free it feels. If I make the horse run—when I feel the wind in my hair—I feel so free and unburdened. I—”
A pause. Roland listens with a soft smile.
“My father was a hunter. One thing he always did with me, if my mind was ever too loud, was take me riding. We would race each other, and it was so fun. Mother would scold us if we came back late or covered in mud.”
There is a sadness to the warmth. Leon falls quiet, and Roland realizes there will be nothing more on the subject.
They ride farther out, toward the fields where the ground opens and the estate walls feel less oppressive. Roland speaks then of tournaments and melees where men disappear into dust and noise and emerge victorious. He speaks lightly, deliberately, letting excitement replace dread.
Leon drinks in every word.
“When you’re of age,” Roland says carefully, casually, “you might compete. A skill like yours does not go unnoticed forever.”
Leon’s face lights with something fierce and hopeful, something so young it hurts to look at. They turn back as the light fades.
By the time they dismount, Leon is smiling again, flushed from the ride, carrying the idea of a future that feels newly possible. Roland watches him go with the quiet certainty of a man who has just delayed a storm.
Leon does not notice.
That night, sleep does not come easily, and when rest finally claims him, it is not peace that follows but longing—and longing, unmoored, has a way of haunting.
—000—
The moon hangs heavy over the estate gardens as Leon stands by the fountain, carrying a heaviness of his own.
Leon remembers this night. The night Mathias broke his heart. The memory—
When he hears footsteps, he does not turn immediately; he knows the cadence easily enough by now. He watches the scene unfold anyway.
“You came,” Mathias says.
Leon turns to gaze at him, but he is cloaked in shadow, as if afraid to be seen.
“You said I could.”
“I say many things.” Mathias’s voice is weary, stripped of its usual calm. He steps closer, allowing the moonlight to catch the exhaustion in his eyes. “And you listen to them all as if they are gospel.”
“Aren’t they?” Leon steps forward. “You are all I know, all I can think of. Whenever I am confused, your voice breaks through that. You bring me clarity…”
Mathias looks at him then.
The boy he had taken under his wing is gone. Before him stands a young man—cheeks flushed, eyes bright with a devotion so pure it borders on ruin. It terrifies Mathias more than any battlefield ever has.
For a moment, the garden dissolves, and another memory takes its place.
The autumn air had been crisp that day. Cold, but gentle in its wind—a blessing, considering how much of a wind tunnel the practice grounds could be.
Mathias, barely twenty and already weary of courtly nonsense, leans against the rough wooden fence of the yard. Beside him stands Captain Roland, solid as the earth beneath their boots. His beard looks both soft and scratchy, his posture that of a man who knows his worth because he has earned it.
“That one,” Roland grunts, nodding toward the far end of the paddock. “The new stray the Church dragged in.”
Mathias follows his gaze.
A small boy—no more than ten—struggles beneath the weight of two heavy water buckets meant for the horses. His tunic is oversized and patched. He is not thin by any means; he is simply toned and lean, like one used to farm work.
Mathias sees it immediately.
“He’s small,” Mathias notes.
“Aye,” Roland agrees, arms crossed. “But watch him with the mare.”
The boy sets the buckets down. The mare—temperamental, sharp-toothed, having bitten two squires that week—lowers her head as Leon reaches out. His small hand rests against her nose, voice low, steady, murmuring something only she can hear.
The mare goes still.
Roland lets out a low sound of surprise. “Saw him tackle a thief twice his size in the market before the priests grabbed him. He’d make a fine scout in a few years.”
Leon wipes sweat from his brow and turns.
For a heartbeat, his eyes meet Mathias’s across the yard.
There is a fire there. White-hot and unyielding. A brilliance he knows will burn him one day.
He shines, Mathias realizes.
“You should take him,” Mathias says abruptly, turning away. “He needs a soldier’s hand. Someone steady. Someone simple.”
“And you?” Roland raises a brow. “You’ve got an eye for talent, Cronqvist. Why not you?”
“I have no patience for children,” Mathias lies, adjusting his gloves. He walks away that day.
Leaves Leon to mud and horses and Roland’s guidance, convinced he has chosen wisely. Leon looks over once the other man walks away.
He remembers thinking they may not have realized he heard them—but when he sees that dark-haired young man turn away, something sparks inside Leon’s chest. He recalls this memory now that he is older, and he knows its name: desire. Desire to be recognized by him.
The memory flickers and fades, and they are back in the garden once more. Why is his mind showing him this? Why is he thinking of it?
Mathias stares at the young man before him in the moonlit garden. He hadn’t stayed away, had he? He had circled back, drawn like a moth to the very flame he recognized years ago.
He had taken Roland’s place.
Usurped the Church’s role.
Molded Leon into this.
“Mathias?” Leon reaches out, fingers brushing the sleeve of Mathias’s coat.
Mathias recoils. “Don’t.”
Leon freezes, hand suspended. “Mathias?”
“I should have left you to Roland,” Mathias says, the words sharp with truth. “I saw you that day. I knew what you were, and I walked away because I knew I would ruin you.”
“Ruin me?” Leon’s voice cracks. “You made me.”
“I made you want things you cannot have!” Mathias snaps, control finally shattering. “I made you look at me instead of Heaven.”
He turns his back, unable to bear the hurt in Leon’s eyes.
“Go back to the dorms, Leon.”
“Mathias!”
—000—
Leon wakes with his heart in his throat.
“Leon.”
He startles upright, breath ragged, hands clutching at the blankets as though they might anchor him to the bed.
Roland sits nearby, occupying the small chair beside the wall with the patient solidity of a man who has waited through worse nights than this. He has not touched Leon, has not shaken him awake. He has simply spoken his name until it reached him.
“It was a dream,” Roland says softly.
Leon swallows hard, eyes burning. He nods, though his chest still aches as if the words had been spoken aloud rather than imagined.
Roland watches him carefully. The boy’s breathing slows.
“Get dressed,” Roland says after a moment. “We’ll be continuing where we left off.”
Leon hesitates. “Continue…?”
“Our lessons,” Roland replies.
Leon blinks, surprised. “I—”
Roland stands. “Come now. I will await you outside.”
—
They do not return to the table.
Instead, Roland leads Leon to a smaller adjoining chamber, one used rarely, its purpose utilitarian rather than ceremonial. A basket of tack sits near the wall, alongside leather straps in various stages of wear, metal buckles dull with use.
Roland selects a length of worn leather and a small knife, setting them between them.
“Sit,” he instructs. “And braid this.”
Leon’s fingers close around the leather instinctively. The tension in his shoulders eases almost at once as he begins to work, movements quick but careful.
Roland watches the change with interest.
As they speak, Roland resumes where he left off—how doctrine can be framed as structure, obligation presented as survival. But now, as Leon works, his responses sharpen. He asks questions related to each lesson, offers observations that reveal how deeply Mathias’s influence has already taken root.
Leon quotes scripture easily, but always with Mathias’s interpretations woven through it. Never his own. How fascinating.
“Leon,” Roland says suddenly, “did you ever want friends?”
The boy’s hands still for just a fraction of a second, mid-braid.
“I have friends,” Leon says carefully.
Roland waits.
“…I think,” Leon adds.
Roland nods once. “When I was younger, I had a student,” he says steadily. “My friend’s son. Gabrijel. He would be about your age now, perhaps older.”
Leon glances up, curiosity brightening his tired eyes. “What is he like?”
Roland grins. “Too clever for his own good.”
Leon smiles softly at that.
“He is extraordinary,” Roland continues. “I taught him discipline. Structure. I allowed him to grow. To make mistakes—and oh, mistakes he has made. Still does. But he learns, and I guide him. Even now.”
Roland studies Leon: the way his posture mirrors Mathias’s without him realizing, the way he seeks approval, the way devotion drives his every action. Devotion to a man who would ruin him…
Mathias has sharpened him into a weapon. But Roland sees now what Mathias missed—or refused to see. Leon is not dangerous because of what he could become. He is dangerous because of who he loves.
Roland leans back slightly, folding his arms. What am I meant to do with you? he wonders.
Protect him from the Church? From Mathias? From himself?
For now, he says only:
“Keep braiding.”
Leon obeys.
And as his hands work, his breathing steadies. The dream recedes, and the world settles once more.
