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prettypinklass · 4 years

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I might start posting oneshots on here, like this one. Maybe.

The Queen's Songstress, the Songstress's Queen

Author: Pink

Word Count: 2513

Warnings/Notes: Fluff, Petra Works too Hard, orphans, Dagda OC, implied/mentioned racism, implied homophobia

Prompt: Paired Endings (Intertwined Destinies event from the Fire Emblem Amino)

~♡~

When she had first returned to Brigid, she had acted as a translator for her friend, who despite pleading to join her, knew nothing of the language.

Now, years later, Dorothea could speak the common language of Brigid as easily as she could Fodlan's.

"It's because you're such a good teacher, Petra," she teased, after Petra had praised her skills.

Despite her grandfather's approval, the people of Brigid had been skeptical of their marriage at first. Dorothea's Fodlanese heritage didn't help. Nonetheless, they didn't argue. Their new queen was happy, and that was what mattered.

Now, years later, the people praised them as one of the best pairs of rulers they had.

Queen Petra worked tirelessly to improve their relationship with Fodlan after declaring independence. Her wife, the Lady Dorothea, used her connections with the Opera to help. It was hard work, but they succeeded eventually.

Now, Petra lived her life working tirelessly to help her citizens. Everyday she could be found holding public hearings to address their problems, or in her room, signing paperwork, and on some occasions in a meeting, dealing with the other nobles. It was tiring work, but she would endure it for her kingdom.

Dorothea had built an Opera house in the capital city of Brigid, after extensively studying the nature of Brigid's fine arts and music. She ran the place on her own, wrote their plays, and held weekly singing practices that were open to all, where people could gather and and sing together. Her troupe became famous throughout not only Brigid, but Fodlan as well, eventually even receiving audiences from Dagda and Almyra.

Today in particular had been a hard day.

The queen had visitors not only from Fodlan, but from Almyra and Dagda as well. The meeting had been… tiring, to say the least. Seeing an old classmate again after so long on strictly professional terms had been… difficult, the man from Almyra was beefy, and loud, which was a stark contrast to the noble from Dadga, who was posh and professional.

Petra had collapsed into her desk chair after the meeting.

Dorothea had been laying on their bed, humming. Her day had been rough as well, having to deal not only with racist participants in the day's open singing practice, but also guide visitors from the foreign countries in the song. Though she had seen one familiar face, it had still been… difficult.

She jumped up when Petra entered though, before her face fell. The queen had sat down at her desk, and immediately reached for her paperwork.

"Petra…" the singer stood up with a small sigh, walking over, "Come on, you need to get some rest."

"I don't have time for rest," Petra replied, "I must get this work done…"

"Love, you're exhausted…" Dorothea sighed, resting her hands on the queens shoulders and beginning to rub slowly, "Why don't you take a break? Let me sing for you."

She hesitated, "Are… you sure? I must get this paperwork done…"

"You can do it later," the songstress insisted, "Take a break, love. You need one."

Petra frowned at her, shifting to face her wife. Dorothea smiled reassuringly at her, and smiled wider when the queen began to relax, "I have a day off tomorrow…"

"You can finish the paperwork first thing tomorrow, and then we can go out together."

It was quiet for a moment.

Petra sighed, and stood up as she gave in, "Okay… Will you sing for me, Thea?"

"Of course," Dorothea smiled even brighter in response, and pulled her wife over to the bed. The two laid next to each other, as she hummed softly.

"What song would you like me to sing?"

"No preference."

"Hmm… okay," Dorothea sat up, and began humming. The humming went on for a few moments, changing pitch and tune to match a song, and then…

"Reach for my hand," she began to sing softly, "I'll soar away. Into the dawn, oh, I wish I could stay."

Petra rolled over and smiled at her.

"In cherished halls, in peaceful days, I fear the edge of dawn… knowing time betrays."

Her voice was soft, soothing, and before long… the queen had fallen asleep.

And when she had finished the song, as she was never one to leave something half done, Dorothea fell asleep too.

~♡~

As promised, Petra finished her paperwork early, and Dorothea had dragged her off to see the town shortly afterward.

People waved as they passed by, and the pair waved back happily. Brigid's capital really was a lively and friendly place.

Just after noon had come, Dorothea brought her wife to the opera house. There was a public singing session today, and even half an hour before it started, people were beginning to gather.

A certain indigo haired woman was there already, looking around. Dorothea smiled.

"Shamir!"

Shamir looked up, and grinned, "Well well. We meet again, kid. Your Majesty," she bowed to Petra, "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Petra fumbled for words. She still wasn't the best at Fodlanese…

"This day- er, Today, is my free day. I am not having work to do."

"Lucky you," Shamir replied, "It's good to see you both again."

"Am I assuming you came with the Dagda noble?" Petra asked.

"Fodlan actually," she shrugged, "Mercenary life gets me plenty of jobs. Just so happened I was in town, and the lord was looking for a suitable guard."

"Interesting," the queen hummed.

"Are you here for choir?" Dorothea asked, tilting her head to the side with a happy smile.

"I guess so. Lord Aegir wanted to come and I'm kind of obligated to follow him everywhere unless he specifically says so," Shamir shrugged, "He's talking to some of the singers, along with that guy from Almyra. Nader or something."

"You didn't tell me Ferdie was the visiting noble!" Dorothea turned to pout at Petra.

"It never came up," Petra admitted, laughing a little.

"Anyway, I'm going to go find something to do… singing isn't my thing."

"You joined yesterday," Dorothea blinked at Shamir.

"I was exploring town and got caught up in it somehow," Shamir sighed, "Lord Aegir's over there if you want to talk to him."

"Alright then… bye!" The songstress waved. Petra waved as well.

The pair turned, and walked over to the ginger haired noble.

"Ferdie!"

Ferdinand turned, and broke into a huge smile, "Dorothea! The ugly maiden!"

Everyone paused to stare at him.

Someone in the back began snickering.

"Uhh…"

"Ferdie," Dorothea frowned, "Um… Do you know what 'aklos' means Brigid?"

"Why, I was told it meant lovely!" Ferdinand replied, smiling brightly, "Impressive, right?"

Dorothea began giggling, as Petra sighed.

"Ah, Ferdinand… The Brigidian word for 'lovely', is 'akLAS'. Aklos is our word for ugly."

The noble blinked.

His face turned pink.

"B-by the goddess! Please, accept my sincerest apologies!" He bowed, "I have been tricked it seems…"

"Don't worry about it," Dorothea laughed, "Are you here for choir?"

"Why yes! I heard from Manuela that you run your own opera house here! She misses you by the way, and is hoping to one day collaborate with your opera."

"Oh, I would love to! I'll have to send a letter to her!" Dorothea exclaimed happily, "Thank you Ferdie!"

"But of course! It is my duty to assist!"

One of the actresses, a young woman, called over, "Miss Dorothea! We're ready to begin!"

"Oh! That's my cue," Dorothea smiled, and giggled slightly, "Have fun Love," she pecked Petra on the cheek, and waved at Ferdinand, before running up to join the singers at the podium.

Choir was always a joy for Petra to attend. Not only did she get to hear her wife's beautiful voice, but the act made her feel… closer to others, not only to her Dorothea, but to her citizens as well. The same citizens loved it when she would join them as well.

Ferdinand sang loudly, and he sounded well enough. Nader on the other hand, sounded like a dying bird. The look Dorothea gave him at the end of the first song would've scared the pants off of even the most fiercest soldier.

He ended up being asked to sing... quietly, so that the others could be heard over him.

Even Shamir participated, though at the request of Ferdinand. She seemed to enjoy herself though, if only for one song.

It seemed like only a few minutes later when choir ended, though it had been at least an hour.

"You were great Petra!" The songstress quickly began gushing, "Even better than before!"

"You're making me blush Thea," Petra laughed in embarrassment, "You sounded much better than I did."

"Even so," she giggled, "Well, what would you like to do now?"

"Why don't we visit the orphanage?"

"Sounds like a wonderful idea," Dorothea replied, "Let's head there now, and then we can be home in time for dinner."

"Right," the queen nodded, and after saying goodbye to Ferdinand and Shamir, they began walking to the orphanage.

~♡~

The orphanage was as lively as ever.

Though the place was small, and the only residents were a few children and their caretaker, it was always lively. The children were often running around and playing together, making noise and sometimes causing chaos. The 4 of them were quite the handful for their caretaker, but they managed.

A jingle sounded as they entered.

"Just a moment!" Came a call from the back. A few seconds later, the caretaker appeared, carrying a box.

"Oh!" She gasped, "Your Majesty, Lady Dorothea! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Hello Chey," Petra smiled, "We came to visit."

"The children were just wondering when they would be able to see you again," Chey laughed, smiling, "Children! You have a visitor!"

Light footsteps were heard immediately. The quick pitter patter of small feet echoed in the building, as a group came tumbling out of the bedrooms.

First came Fiona, a 7 year old. She was quickly followed by the 8 year old, Darrell, who stumbled and tripped onto her. Fiona squealed.

Lily came next, the oldest at age 11, "Hey! Be careful, I'm holding Harry!"

Harry let out a "Bubba!" and burst into giggles. He was the youngest of the four, being just barely a year in age. Fiona and Darrell fumed at each other.

"Now now,' Chey frowned, walking over to them, "Don't get into a fight. Look who came to visit!"

"Kween Petwa! Dorufea!' Harry babbled excitedly, "Petwa and Dorufea! Yay!"

"Q-Queen Petra! Lady Dorothea!" Lily gasped, and did a quick bow still holding the toddler, "It's a pleasure to see you again!"

"Petra! Dorothea! Hi!' Fiona brightened up quickly and waved.

"Idiot, it's QUEEN Petra and LADY Dorothea! Don't forget your manners!" Darrell hissed at her.

"What do titles matter?" She crossed her arms with a huff.

"A lot!"

"How?"

"Because-"

"That's enough," Chey sighed, "No fighting. Apologize to Her Majesty and Lady Dorothea."

The pair glared at each other. She nudged them.

Darrell was first.

"I'm sorry Queen Petra, Lady Dorothea…"

"Sorry…" Fiona mumbled quickly just after him.

Harry babbled something that nobody understood. Dorothea laughed, and took him from Lily. He squealed happily, and pulled her hair. She winced, but laughed.

"Your apology is accepted, little ones," Petra knelt down to smile at Fiona and Darrell, "It is a pleasure to see you again."

The two smiled brightly at her in response.

"What do you say?" Chey prompted.

"Thank you Queen Petra!" The two chorused, before running off into the back playfully shoving each other.

"Ah…" the caretaker watched them run off, "I'll have to scold them later… I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Dorothea laughed, "You seem to be handling them well."

"Ah, well… I'm not quite sure how I ended up with four of them. I picked up Lily off the streets and since then… Well I haven't been able to say no to them like that," the caretaker laughed softly, "Will you be staying for a visit your Majesty? Lady Dorothea?"

"Please?" Lily added with a smile.

Harry babbled and giggled happily.

"I'm sure we can stay for a little bit," Petra nodded.

"Of course," Dorothea smiled brightly, "It would be a pleasure."

Lily cheered, and Harry babbled. The royal pair followed her into the backroom with a laugh.

~♡~

The meeting room was silent.

Dorothea suppressed a sigh. Shamir glanced at her from across the room.

"...and that is why I believe we should cut off trade entirely. I don't mean to be accusing, but recent affairs have proven my suspicions."

The noble from Dagda would not shut up. He kept going on and on about how Fodlan's recent battles proved them unstable, and their rocky relationship with surrounding areas didn't help.

"Lord Hanth, please," Ferdinand sighed, "I can assure you with 100% positivity that Fodlan is unified in all ways. I ask that you please refrain from this incessant blabbering about us being unstable, when it is not backed up by factual evidence."

Hanth scowled, "Of course you would say that, Lord Aegir. You're FROM Fodlan-"

Petra sighed, "Lord Hanth, with all due respect, I can fully support Lord Aegir's claims as witness. Dorothea and I were present for the unification of Fodlan."

"That is not the only issue!" Hanth snapped, "Her, for example!" He pointed at Shamir, "Why is a citizen of Dagda-"

"I'm from Dagda, yeah," Shamir crossed her arms, "I came to Fodlan as a mercenary. Lord Aegir hired me."

Ferdinand raised an eyebrow at the Dadga lord.

"We were invaded once-"

"You started that fight," Dorothea pointed out.

He scowled, "I refuse to do trade until both Fodlan and Brigid have proven their stability. With that, I believe this meeting is over."

He turned and stomped out.

"...Geez," Nader sighed, "What a guy."

Dorothea jumped. She had forgotten about the Almyran general.

"General Nader, thoughts?" Petra looked over.

"I got no problem with trade, long as Fodlan doesn't interfere with our merchants," the general shrugged, "Might have to double check with the king on that though."

"I see. In that case, do what you must," she nodded.

"...Shamir, are all the nobles from Dagda like that?" Ferdinand asked.

"Dunno," Shamir shrugged, "I haven't been there in years."

"Well," Dorothea sighed, "I suppose not trading with Dagda isn't too much of a loss…"

"I am sure we can manage," Petra nodded, "Ferdinand? Are you confirming a trade with Brigid?"

"But of course!" Ferdinand smiled, "And I hope we can establish trade with Almyra as well!"

"Hah! Sounds good!" Nader laughed.

"Shall we shake on it then?" The nobleman asked.

"Yes," Petra nodded, and held out her hand. She shook with Ferdinand, then Nader, and then the two shook hands with each other.

It was agreed.

Ruling a country that once was a vassal to another wasn't easy. Especially not when there were relationships she had to repair with other kingdoms, but maybe… just maybe, she could do it.

As long as she had Dorothea, the person whom she is said to have loved the most, standing at her side.

~♡~

#LOOK THESE TWO ARE SUPER FCKING CUTE #fluff #petrathea #doropetra #dorothea arnault #petra macneary #fire emblem #fe3h #three houses #fire emblem three houses #Petra works too hard #writing #writing prompt #FE amino #dagda #implied/mentioned racism #implied homophobia #don't worry it's barely mentioned

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junghelioseok · 6 years

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budapest.

↳ over many years and across several dozen cities, you fell in love.

◇ yoongi x reader ◇ fluff | smut | secret agent!au ◇ 11.1k [1/1]

notes: so i fully intended to post this on yoongi’s actual birthday, but that didn’t quite work out. i’m very bad at writing on a schedule, and yoongi kind of took this plot in unexpected directions. also, this is a little different from anything i’ve written prior, and i’m still not sure how i feel about it. nonetheless, happy belated birthday to our lovely genius, min yoongi!

⇢ now updated with a moodboard by @whimsicalliethereal aka cara! thank you, dear!!!

[Seoul, present day]

Don’t, you want to say. Please, please, please don’t.

“Christ, not this shit again,” is what you say instead, shaking your head. After all, begging and pleading is hardly your style, and you know that the man standing beside you is just going to do as he pleases, anyhow.

From across the room, Jungkook grins at you, his dark eyes twinkling with mirth underneath equally dark hair. Slowly—deliberately—he lets his gaze slide over to your companion, grin widening impossibly as he raises one finger and curls it in a beckoning motion. If you have learned anything about the platinum-haired man next to you over these past few years, it’s that he never, ever backs down from a challenge. And Jungkook knows it.

“He’s...” you start, unsure of how the sentence will end. Goading you? An asshole? Both are true, but your companion doesn’t give you the chance to finish speaking, his sleepy eyes narrowing at the insolent young man on the other side of the room.

“Come on, Yoongi,” Jungkook lilts mockingly. “You scared?”

“As if, brat,” is Yoongi’s harsh retort as he stalks forward, brushing past Jungkook roughly to stand at the machine looming behind him.

The impish grin on Jungkook’s face doesn’t even falter as he recovers his balance. “Let’s go,” he proclaims cheerily, grabbing the plastic gun from its holster and taking aim at the screen. Yoongi mirrors his movements, irritably raking his pale hair out of his eyes, and you can only sigh and follow after him.

Not for the first time, you recall why you hate downtime. Quiet days are hard to come by in your line of work, but on the rare occasion that you do have a break, your colleagues inevitably find a way to stir up trouble. You’re still not sure how Jungkook and Taehyung managed to convince a group of highly trained secret agents to go to an arcade, of all places, but this early in the afternoon the place is nearly deserted and you are grateful for that. The fewer witnesses there are, the better—and you’re certain that the aftermath of this shooting match won’t be pretty. Almost as if sensing the impending trouble, Taehyung and Jimin flock to your side. A few feet away, you spot Hoseok and Jin at the air hockey table, the puck floating around aimlessly, forgotten, as their attentions refocus on the new game unfolding.

Tinny gunshots ring out, drawing your attention back to the two men facing off. Jungkook’s brow is furrowed in concentration, alert gaze fixated on the screen in front of him as his finger twitches on the plastic trigger. The young man is practically humming with energy, the thrill of competition radiating off of his body in waves. But it’s nothing compared to Yoongi, whose dark eyes are narrowed to slits. He radiates serenity even with every inch of his lithe frame tensed like a coiling snake ready to strike, and an icy chill runs down your spine at the sudden, palpable aura of danger suffusing the room.

“This is fucking child’s play,” Yoongi drawls as he fires off another round. His eyes find yours, indolent and shining with the barest glimmer of amusement. “Remember Budapest?”

A smile stretches across your lips, ignoring the curious glances of your colleagues. “How could I forget?”

The corner of Yoongi’s mouth tilts up into a smirk. Enemy soldiers begin to swarm on the game screen, toy weapons raised, but they are no match for Jungkook’s quick reflexes and Yoongi’s deadly precision. Their scores fluctuate back and forth, neither one staying in the lead for very long before the other manages to pull ahead again, and you hold your breath as the clock slowly ticks down toward zero.

And then your phone is buzzing in your pocket—a unique staccato rhythm that can only mean one thing. Beside you, Taehyung’s hand twitches for his own device, pulling it out and reading the new message. “It’s RM,” he says, and that’s all you need to hear. The game is forgotten, plastic guns abandoned in their stands, as the seven of you stride out of the dark arcade and into the bright afternoon sun.

///

[Incheon, seven years ago]

You meet RM for the first time on a sunny Friday afternoon, in the final stretch of your frantic dash to work. To this day, you still don’t know who ran into who—all you know is that one minute you are skidding around the corner and the next, you are sprawled out on the sidewalk with all the air knocked out of your lungs.

“Are you all right?”

For a few seconds, you can only blink dumbly, squinting against the bright sunlight as you try to regain your bearings. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses hovers above you, fluttering back and forth like a worried hummingbird, and you think for a moment that perhaps you’ve hit your head and lost your mind completely. But then the glasses float downward, closer and closer until a man’s face finally materializes behind the distinctive black frames, his features creased in concern. Golden sunlight illuminates him like a halo, and you blink blearily up at him—once, twice, three times. Maybe he’s an angel, a dazed part of your mind whispers.

Then he’s speaking again, his voice low and comforting and warmer than any other you’ve heard in a long time. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for knocking you over… Here, let me help you up.” He stretches out a hand and you instinctively take it, feeling the way his fingers tighten over yours.

When you are back on your feet, your voice finally returns. “Uh, thanks. Sorry for running into you.”

The man straightens to his full height, dimples dotting his cheeks as he laughs. “Please, don’t apologize. If anything, we were both at fault. I’ve always been clumsy, and I have a tendency to get lost in my thoughts at the worst times.” His sharp gaze rakes over you worriedly. “I hope you’re not hurt. Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine,” you confirm. “Thanks for helping me up.” Brushing off your jacket, you begin inspecting your uniform for any rips. With the current state of your bank account, you really couldn’t afford to buy a new one. Picking at a loose thread on the hem of your shirt, you start when you realize that the tall man still hasn’t left. “Um, did you need something else?” you query tentatively, looking up at him. “I’m kind of running late for work as it is…”

He smiles. “Ah, of course. You work at the restaurant down the street, right?”

You open your mouth to ask him how he knew that when you realize that the name of the restaurant is printed on the front pocket of your uniform shirt. Quickly, you shut your mouth and nod in affirmation as you begin walking. The man immediately falls into stride beside you, his dark overcoat fluttering with every step.

“You’re very good at your job, you know,” he says conversationally, as if remarking on the weather. When he catches sight of your shocked expression, he holds up his hands and huffs out an embarrassed chuckle. “Please don’t think of me as some sort of creep. I happened upon your workplace one day, developed a fondness for the herbed chicken, and now I can’t seem to stop going back for more.”

His dimples are almost disarmingly charming, and you can find no trace of deceit in his open, honest expression. “The chicken is really good,” you concede with a small smile.

He nods and offers you another dimpled grin. “I’ve always admired chefs. It’s amazing that they can consistently produce quality food, even under pressure and time constraints.”

“That’s very true,” you agree, surprised by his observation. “Not many people think like that.”

“Servers are amazing too,” he continues. “You work under constant pressure, and with very little room for mistakes. It’s really quite admirable what you do.”

“Admirable?” You can’t help but laugh. “Maybe. But it’s hardly the most lucrative career choice.”

“Perhaps not,” he says, and you swear that a glimmer of triumph flashes in his eyes before he wipes it away. “What is it you would like to do, then?”

No one has asked you that in years—not since a drunk driver hit your parents’ car when you were in high school and left you orphaned—so you give the only honest response you can muster. “I… I don’t know.”

The tall man nods slowly, contemplatively. “I might be able to help, if you’re willing to take a chance and trust me,” he says as he reaches into his overcoat pocket and pulls out a black card bearing only the word ‘Bangtan’ in shimmering black text, a phone number emblazoned underneath in pale gray. He hands it to you, long fingers skimming across yours, and the brief touch is electric, tingling with promises of new beginnings.

Dumbfounded, you stare at the stiff, glossy rectangle for a few long seconds. By the time you look up again, the tall man is already halfway across the street, striding purposefully toward a destination unbeknownst to you. “Wait!” you call, hating the desperation tingeing your tone as he turns around curiously. “What’s your name?”

He only flashes you another smile, boyish dimples a stark contrast to his mysterious, powerful aura. “You can call me RM,” he replies smoothly. “It’s nice to meet you, {Name}.”

Then he is walking again, leaving you alone in front of the restaurant you have worked at for the last four years. You glance at the door, and then at the business card—thick, heavy, and undoubtedly expensive—in your palm. You feel as if you are standing at the edge of a cliff, teetering at the brink.

You hesitate, taking a deep breath.

Inhale, exhale.

And you take the plunge.

///

[Seoul, present day]

Bangtan’s headquarters are housed in a nondescript, modern building in downtown Seoul, the monochrome steel and polished glass front tucked away on a side street where everyone is much too preoccupied with their own day-to-day lives to notice anything amiss. To casual passersby, it simply appears to be a regular office with regular employees, nestled between the surrounding stores and restaurants—nothing worth a second, closer look and certainly nothing that exposes it as the headquarters of one of the most dangerous spy organizations in the world.

Seokjin is the first one to the door, leading the way inside with Yoongi just behind him, his platinum blond head shining like a beacon in the sudden dimness. You follow after, gaze darting left, right, and upward as you pass through the threshold, ever on the alert. Undoubtedly, the others are doing the same—in your line of work, there is no such thing as too careful, and all of you are well aware of that fact.

After a series of twisting corridors and an elevator ride, you end up in the conference room where Bangtan’s leader is already waiting, seated at the head of the table with his chin propped up in his palm. The man you first met as RM all those years ago you now know as Namjoon, and over time, you have grown as close as family.

“Hey,” Namjoon greets, waving as everyone files inside and finds a seat. “Welcome back.”

You flash him a smile as you sit down; the others murmur their greetings as well. Then Seokjin speaks up, plopping down beside the ashy-haired leader. “Your message sounded pretty urgent,” Jin says, leaning back in his chair. “What’s up?”

Namjoon glances around the table searchingly before answering, his voice low and brimming with an undercurrent of suppressed energy. “There have been rumors of a rising terrorist sect in Brazil in the last few months. My sources tell me that they’re growing stronger by the day, and that’s something that we cannot afford to let happen.”

Hoseok leans forward, a grin stretching his lips. “Sounds like you want us to scout it out, Namjoon,” he says with a wink. “Where are they based?”

Namjoon smiles back. “Rio de Janeiro.”

///

[Rio de Janeiro, six years ago]

You remember your last trip to Rio de Janeiro with vivid clarity. If you close your eyes, you can still see Christ the Redeemer perched on the mountaintop, watching over the sprawling city with his stony gaze. But even a statue is no match for the glowering man slouched beside you, cold irritation suffusing every inch of his face.

“I think you were supposed to take a right back there, Tae,” you mumble helplessly from the backseat of the car. Next to you, Yoongi’s gaze hardens even more, if possible.

Taehyung shoots you a smile in the rearview mirror, oblivious to the looming, pale-haired threat in the backseat. “Guess we’ll just have to take the next exit!”

“That won’t take us to the same place, you idiot,” Yoongi grits out, his entire body stiffening.

“You never know,” is Taehyung’s carefree response, and you lay a tentative hand on Yoongi’s shoulder before he decides to do something drastic, like leap forward and wrestle the younger man out of the driver’s seat.

“Here, I’ve got directions to the hotel on my phone,” you say hurriedly, leaning forward and showing him the screen. “All you have to do is turn around at this light and make a left.”

Taehyung barely glances at your phone, but follows the directions nonetheless. As the car veers back onto the right route, you sense Yoongi relaxing back into the seat, the tension dissipating like fog on a sunny day.

The rest of the ride passes quietly. Before you know it, Taehyung is slowing to a stop in front of the hotel, a valet striding over to take the keys from him. By the time you free yourself from the seatbelt, Yoongi is already outside unloading the trunk, and you quickly climb out to help.

Twenty minutes later, the three of you are checked into your room—a well-furnished suite with two bedrooms and a wide living area with a pullout couch. Yoongi tosses his bag into one of the bedrooms before Taehyung can even walk through the front door, and you sheepishly take the other.

“Think of this as hazing,” he curtly tells the younger man. “There should be extra blankets in the closet over there.”

Taehyung follows the direction of Yoongi’s finger and nods resignedly, dragging a few blankets and a lopsided pillow over to the couch. You trail after, intent on helping him set up his bed.

“Sorry you have to sleep on the couch,” you say as you toss the cushions aside.

The copper-haired man offers you a small smile. “Don’t worry about it. I can fall asleep just about anywhere.” Grasping the metal frame folded inside the couch, he heaves it out, and together you manage to flatten the contraption into a bed.

“Don’t mind him, by the way,” you say as you smooth out the wrinkled mattress. “He’s not usually like this.”

A low hum from behind you sends your heart palpitating quicker in your chest. “I’m not?” Yoongi asks coolly, plucking up a pillow from the ground and eyeing it with disinterest. “Then tell me, what am I usually like?”

“A little nicer, I guess?” you offer lamely.

He snorts. “You’ve only known me for a year. We’ve never even been on a mission together.”

“Sure, but I’ve seen you around headquarters with the others,” you retort. “Believe it or not, I’ve been able to pick up on your overall personality through those interactions.”

Yoongi arches a brow, and you hate that you can’t read his expression. “How very perceptive of you,” he jabs, voice steeped in sarcasm, and you open your mouth, ready to offer up a biting response.

Taehyung chooses that moment to interrupt, effectively breaking the tension by clearing his throat loudly and throwing a sheet down on the makeshift bed, dramatically pretending to struggle with the corners. “I’m so bad at this,” he laments, and you can’t help but giggle as he practically rolls himself into the sheet.

“Stay still and let me untangle you, you goof,” you tell him, tugging gently on the soft cotton wrapped around his chest. “Christ. How did you even manage to do this?”

The young man shrugs, brown eyes glimmering with mirth behind his coppery hair. “What can I say? I have a talent.”

You laugh, finally managing to extricate him from the tangled mess. Together, the two of you finish making the bed—an effort Yoongi steadfastly ignores as he takes a seat in the armchair by the window and stares out over the city pensively. When Taehyung tosses the last pillow down and declares his intent to go scope out the hotel amenities, you decide against accompanying him. The door clicks shut behind the copper-haired man, and you turn to your other companion, his platinum hair shining almost golden in the setting sun.

“Hey,” you start, sitting down at the edge of the newly made bed. “Why do you hate me so much?”

He is silent for a moment. Then, in a voice so low that you can barely make it out over the muted hum of traffic from outside, he murmurs, “I don’t.”

“Really? You sure have a funny way of showing affection, then.”

Yoongi blinks slowly, lazily, eyes still fixated on the window. “I never said I liked you.”

You lean back on your hands, feeling the mattress dip under your fingertips. “Ah, so you’re just apathetic. Don’t care at all. Got it.”

He hums in agreement. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

A stifling silence fills the room, and you suddenly wish Taehyung were here to provide a distraction. Returning to your room feels like a defeat you’re not willing to admit, so you make yourself comfortable and pull out your phone instead, intent on brushing up on your Portuguese. But as minutes turn into an hour without the younger man’s return, you finally retreat to your bedroom, escaping the cool indifference radiating off the silent, pale-haired man hovering in the corner of the room like a ghost.

Sleep comes slowly. At some point in the night, you hear Taehyung return to the suite, listening through the door as the mattress springs creak under his weight. You guess that he’s probably sliding off his shoes and getting ready to go to bed. You’re not sure where Yoongi is, but you assume that he’s probably shut away in the other bedroom. It’s not as if you care, anyway.

When you wake up the next morning, the sky is still dark. From the other side of the wall, you can hear the shower running, so you drag yourself out of bed with a resigned sigh. Opening your door and peering out into the living area, you can just barely make out the shape of the Taehyung’s pullout couch. A low groan sounds from within the mess of blankets and sheets piled in the center, and you suppress a snicker as you pad over, poking at the head of hair peeking out from beneath the pillow.

“Morning, Tae.”

The only response you receive comes in the form of a grumbled curse. You grin. Grasping the corner of the pillow obscuring his face, you tug it away and toss it aside.

“Up and at ‘em, buddy,” you insist, laughing at the petulant expression on his face as he sits up slowly, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Something crosses his features then, something playful and dangerous. Mere seconds later, a couch cushion collides with your head, knocking the air straight out of your lungs in a surprised gasp.

“Oh, hell no,” you growl, grabbing a pillow and adopting a defensive stance.

“Come and get me,” Taehyung challenges with a brash grin, jumping up and inching toward his discarded cushion. Immediately, you begin circling around the couch in an attempt to cut him off, but he is quicker and manages to grab the soft weapon with a triumphant cry. Squeaking, you dodge his blow and leap over the back of the couch, using it as cover.

Preoccupied with the impromptu pillow fight, neither of you notice that the shower is no longer running. The fact that a third presence is now in the room also goes by unnoticed—only when Yoongi speaks up do you realize that he’s standing in the doorway with a raised brow.

“What the fuck is this?”

You wince at the annoyance lacing his tone, meekly dropping your pillow. Taehyung, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to notice the older man’s irritation—or if he does, he chooses to ignore it completely. “A pillow fight, of course,” he responds cheerfully, all traces of his previous tiredness gone.

Yoongi’s expression is one of pure disbelief, and you can’t really blame him. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he hisses, raking a hand through his damp hair. “Did you both somehow forget that we’re on a goddamn mission?”

You haven’t, of course. Today, the leader of one of Brazil’s most radical political parties is holding a rally with the intent to announce his plans to run for president, but it’s an announcement he won’t get to make if Bangtan has a say in the matter. You glance at the coffee table where a sleek black case rests, housing Yoongi’s sniper rifle. Your own weapon is still sitting on your nightstand, clean and ready for action.

“Doesn’t the rally start at eleven?” Taehyung asks. “We’ve still got four hours to get over to the park.”

“You’re not even dressed yet,” Yoongi replies pointedly, eyeing the younger man’s checkered blue pajamas. “Or is that what you’re wearing today?”

Taehyung brushes off the sarcasm, instead choosing to pick up his bag of toiletries. “I’m going to go shower, if that’s okay with you, {Name}.”

“Go for it,” you tell him.

“I’ll be quick, promise,” he assures with a grin, and you laugh as you give him a gentle push toward the bathroom.

“I trust you. Now go!”

Yoongi lets out a disbelieving snort when Taehyung disappears around the corner. “You trust that kid?”

You shrug, wandering over to the little kitchenette in the corner and filling the electric kettle with water. “He’s not that much younger than you, you know. Besides, we have to trust him. He’s our partner, and I’m sure Joon assigned him here for a reason.”

He doesn’t look convinced as he follows you, leaning against the counter and eyeing the instant coffee packets distastefully. “Namjoon makes mistakes sometimes,” he grumbles, and if you didn’t know better, you would say that he almost sounds petulant.

“Sure, Namjoon’s not perfect, but I trust him and his judgment. And if he trusts Tae, I do too.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond right away. Pouring himself a glass of water, he takes a long sip as he stares out the window at the gradually lightening sky. Then he mutters, “You’re too optimistic.”

You ponder that for a moment. “Maybe you’re just a pessimist,” you respond with a shrug, only to immediately think that perhaps you need to get your hearing checked, because Yoongi laughs. It’s a short, low chuckle that brims with more than a bit of derision, but it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him amused and you’re pleasantly surprised by how agreeable his lingering smile is.

“Maybe I am.”

And then the conversation is over. The bathroom door creaks open and Taehyung steps out, hair dripping and dressed entirely in black. “Your turn,” he says cheerily, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the room he just vacated, and you thank him with a nod. A hot shower to clear your head is exactly what you need.

A little over an hour later, the three of you are in the car, on the way to the park where the political rally is being held. Yoongi had insisted on driving this time, leaving you and Taehyung in the backseat, calling out occasional directions to the pale-haired man.

Taehyung squints at the screen of his phone. “Okay, so it looks like you want to take a left here?”

“Don’t listen to him, Yoongi, you want to take a right!” you exclaim, slapping the phone out of Taehyung’s hand and jabbing your finger insistently in the correct direction.

The vehicle veers right—Yoongi cursing all the while—but you make it to your destination with no additional mishaps. Yoongi parks the car and the three of you pile out, equipment in hand.

“I’ll let RM know we’ve arrived,” you say, pulling out your phone and typing out the message.

Yoongi nods. “Everyone remember their positions?” he asks. In his black suit, he looks like a young CEO on his way to a meeting, but you know that the heavy case in his hand spells impending death, not a business deal.

“Roger!” Taehyung responds with a mock salute. Beside him, you nod.

“Good. Let’s go.”

People are already beginning to stream into the park, and Taehyung disappears surreptitiously into the crowd with ease. Meanwhile, you and Yoongi split up—you heading into one of the tall surrounding buildings while he takes another on the opposite side.

“Can you both hear me?” Taehyung’s chipper voice filters through your earpiece.

“Loud and clear, V,” you murmur as you enter the stairwell, using his codename. Taking the steps two at a time, you make your way toward the twelfth floor.

“Ditto,” Yoongi’s voice drawls. “Are you in position?”

“Affirmative,” Taehyung confirms, and you smile. As playful and carefree as the young man can be, you knew that you were right in your original assessment of him as a valuable, trusted colleague.

“I’m almost in position too,” you mutter as you leave the stairwell and peer carefully out the window at the lush park below. A sizeable crowd has gathered in front of the makeshift stage near the fountain in the center. Opening up your case, you pull out your rifle and begin getting ready, adjusting the sight.

“Ready, Siren?” Yoongi’s voice comes through the earpiece, low and urgent. “It’s almost eleven. The target should be entering soon.”

“Give me ten seconds, Suga,” you respond, mounting your weapon and checking the barrel one last time.

“Target spotted,” Taehyung says in a hushed voice. “Entering from stage left. That’s you, Suga.”

You hear Yoongi exhale harshly through his nose. Glancing down, you see the radical party leader getting ready to ascend the short flight of stairs to a stage that he will never set foot on if all goes according to plan. “Copy, V,” Yoongi says softly, voice deadly calm. “Ready in three, two, one—”

You don’t hear the gunshot, but the man crumples before he can even make it to the second step. A shocked murmur rises from the crowd gathered around, security rushing forward to assess the damage done and prevent any more injuries.

Taehyung whistles lowly. “Nice shot. Looks like you won’t have to go in for a second, Siren.”

“Shut the hell up and get out of there,” Yoongi orders. “Rendezvous at the car.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” the younger man says. Even through the earpiece, you can hear the grin in his voice. Quickly, you begin breaking down your equipment, packing it back into the sleek black case. As you dash back into the stairwell, you hear footsteps echoing from above your head, and you aren’t eager to find out whether they’re friends or foes.

You make it down the stairs and out of the building in record time, dashing into the crowd and hiding among the panicked civilians. Slowly, you wade through the frantic people milling about, resorting to shoving several out of your way in your attempt to get to the rendezvous point.

Just as you finally break free of the crowd, gunshots sound from behind you. Chancing a glance back, you spot the security forces swarming forward, weapons raised. Just down the block—less than one hundred meters away—you can see the car, Taehyung waving at you from the driver’s seat.

“Fuck!” Yoongi’s voice crackles through your earpiece suddenly. “They must have been tipped off. Where are you guys?”

“V is at the rendezvous point, and I’m making my way there now,” you hiss, walking faster and hoping that you simply look like a bystander trying to avoid the outbreak of violence. But when a bullet whizzes past your shoulder, you give up all pretenses and break into a full-blown run. Shouting erupts from behind you, but you ignore it, feet thudding against the pavement as you dash toward the waiting car. From the opposite end of the block, you spot Yoongi rounding a corner and sprinting toward you, his platinum hair gleaming in the sun.

The two of you reach the car at the same time, ducking behind the vehicle as the security forces bear down, stalking ever closer. A few bullets ricochet off the vehicle and Yoongi snarls out another curse, wrenching the car door open and shoving you inside. Surprised by the gesture, you watch as he ducks behind the car again and pulls a pistol from within his jacket. Rapidly, he fires off a few rounds before jumping into the backseat beside you. “Drive, V!”

Taehyung doesn’t have to be told twice. Slamming down on the gas pedal, he tears away from the curb and down the street in a fit of squealing tires. The gunfire doesn’t cease, but none of the shots manage to penetrate the bulletproof windows and Yoongi keeps his grip on his gun just in case.

When you are certain that you are no longer in danger and Taehyung is no longer driving like a madman, you turn toward Yoongi with only one thought on your mind. He narrows his eyes at your mild expression, and you suppress the urge to smile. “So, Yoongi,” you start, removing your earpiece and tucking it away in your pocket. “It seemed to me that you were trying to protect me back there. But weren’t you just telling me yesterday that you didn’t care about me?”

The platinum-haired man can only stare, jaw dropping a little. “You’re fucking insane,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now? Not how we barely managed to get away, or who tipped off the Brazilian police, but that?”

“People react strangely in life-threatening scenarios,” you tell him placidly.

“You’re insane,” he repeats.

You just grin, turning your gaze to the window and watching the city of Rio de Janeiro flash by.

///

[Seoul, present day]

“Rio, huh?” Hoseok hums thoughtfully. “Been a while since I’ve been there.”

“I’ve never been there,” Jimin pipes up. “Namjoon never sends me.”

“That’s because your Portuguese is terrible,” Yoongi points out coolly, propping a foot up on the conference table and relaxing into his chair. “You’d stick out like sore thumb.”

Jimin pouts. “Hey! You don’t speak Finnish, but you were still in Helsinki last week.”

“No one speaks fucking Finnish outside of Finland,” Yoongi replies with a careless shrug. Then his gaze flickers over to you, glinting with amusement. “Just like how no one speaks Hungarian outside of Hungary.”

“Not that we needed to know the language, anyway,” you say with a smirk, catching on to his drift immediately. “There wasn’t exactly much room for discussion in Budapest.”

“True,” the platinum-haired man responds easily.

Inquiring eyes stare back at you from all around the table. “What the hell are you talki—“ Jimin starts to ask, but you are quick to interrupt.

“Hey, you know what I just realized? You’re the only one who hasn’t been to South America, Jimin!”

“Ahh, why are you pointing that out?” the blond man whines, immediately distracted by your remark. “It’s not even that big of a deal!”

Yoongi raises a brow. “You might be the only person here who hasn’t been to every continent,” he points out, a subtle smirk flickering across his face.

“Excluding Antarctica,” you interject.

“Excluding Antarctica,” Yoongi agrees.

Jimin rakes a hand through his golden hair, clearly frazzled by the sudden attack. “That can’t be true,” he protests, brown eyes darting between you and Yoongi before flitting over to the other members of Bangtan gathered around the conference table. “Have you been to South America, Jin?”

“Buenos Aires, about two years ago. And Montevideo, just a few months back,” the older man replies.

The blond deflates slightly. “Okay, how about the rest of you? Jungkook?”

“I went to Lima with Tae last year,” the youngest member says solemnly.

Jimin’s shoulders slump even further. “Have you all really been to every continent already?”

Yoongi doesn’t even pause to think about it. “Yes.”

“Yeah, me too,” you confirm.

“Wait, are we counting the Middle East separately?” Taehyung asks, raising a hand.

Jin shakes his head. “No, the Middle East is part of Asia.”

“Oh, really? Then I’ve been to every continent too.”

“Okay, sheesh,” Jimin says sullenly. “It’s not my fault I keep getting sent to the United States over and over.” His lower lip is beginning to jut out in a gloomy pout, and you finally take pity on him, patting his shoulder reassuringly.

“Hey, you know we’re just teasing, right?”

Namjoon chooses that moment to comment as well, flashing Jimin a disarming, dimpled smile. “I know I send you to Washington a lot, but it’s only because you’re one of the most diplomatic members of Bangtan. Please don’t misunderstand, Jimin.”

The praise seems to soothe the blond man as he straightens back up to his regular height. “Thanks, Namjoon.” He pauses for a second, pursing his lips thoughtfully before continuing. “But if you could send me somewhere other than the District of Columbia next time, that’d be great.”

Namjoon laughs. “Consider it done.”

///

[Washington DC, five years ago]

It is absolutely, ridiculously, mind-numbingly hot. The heat engulfs you from the moment you step off the plane, raising sweat on your temples during the brief walk through the jetway and making you squirm until you finally find solace in the air-conditioned comfort of the airport.

“I hate this,” you grumble under your breath. “Stupid swamp.”

“It’s summer,” Yoongi says simply, as if that will placate you.

You throw him the dirtiest look you can muster, stalking toward the exit with your suitcase in tow. “Yes, and I hate it.” Stopping in front of the sliding glass doors, you take a deep breath and prepare to step out into the scorching heat again.

“You’re holding up traffic,” Yoongi prods, brushing past you. “Come on, it’s not even that bad.”

“Do you not feel the humidity?” you ask in disbelief. Still, you join him outside, standing on the curb to wait for a cab.

“It could be worse,” he replies. “Have you ever been to Hong Kong? Or Kuala Lumpur?”

“Kuala Lumpur, no. Hong Kong…” you trail off, lost in memories of your last trip to the sweltering Asian metropolis. “…yeah, okay. Point taken.”

A bright yellow cab pulls up, and Yoongi ushers you inside before climbing in after, leaving the middle seat open between you. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he gives the driver the address of the hotel you are staying at, settling more comfortably in the seat as the car begins to move.

It isn’t often that you get a chance to observe Min Yoongi. He’s always been one of the more elusive members of Bangtan—disappearing whenever there isn’t a mission—but you have the opportunity to watch him now so you take it, silently admiring the soft curve of his jaw and the sleepy slant of his dark eyes. His pale hair glows white hot in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the sleek black suit he’s wearing.

He’s handsome. All of your colleagues are, in their own ways, but there’s something about Yoongi that draws you in more than you like to admit. He’s icy without being callous, sarcastic without being condescending, and you’re certain that his hard exterior masks something warmer and more compassionate. You’ve seen it in subtle ways during your missions together, whether through brief words of reassurance or silent gestures that assure your safety. And maybe—just maybe—he makes your heart beat a little bit faster, but you’ve steadfastly ignored that detail and pushed it to the darkest recesses of your mind.

The car veers into an exit lane, the Washington Monument rising like a stone beacon on the right, and you finally avert your gaze from your quiet companion to focus on the mission at hand. Dropping off your luggage at the hotel takes no time at all, and within the hour you and Yoongi are sauntering down the street, playing the perfect part of tourists visiting the capital city. You’ve donned a light sundress, while Yoongi has abandoned his suit for a plain black t-shirt and a backwards snapback, his pale hair brushed off his forehead. Both of you agreed that it would be most inconspicuous to pose as a couple, so you aren’t surprised when his hand knocks against yours gently before enveloping it in a firm grip. Still, you can’t help the fluttering in your tummy as you lace your fingers with his.

“I don’t think we’ve ever worked together like this,” he remarks suddenly.

“I don’t think I’ve ever worked with anyone like this,” you reply, glancing down pointedly at your intertwined hands.

He snickers, his fingers tightening around yours almost imperceptibly. “Me either.”

///

[Seoul, present day]

As Jimin settles back into his seat, satisfied with Namjoon’s promise, Yoongi’s hand finds yours underneath the table. You give it a soft squeeze before asking, “So who are you thinking of sending to Rio this time, Joon?”

Namjoon props his elbows on the table, regarding the seven of you over his folded hands. “Since we’re just checking out the situation for now, I’d like you and Hoseok to fly out next week.”

The red-haired man sitting across from you shoots you a wink and a bright smile. “Sounds good to me!”

You grin back—his enthusiasm is positively infectious. “How long will we be out there?”

Namjoon shuffles through the papers spread before him, adjusting the glasses perched on his nose. “Not long. It’s just a reconnaissance mission for now, so two days should be enough.”

“Two days,” you repeat, smiling at Hoseok again. “This will be fun; we’ve never worked one-on-one before.”

“First time for everything, right?” Hoseok beams, and you nod.

“Absolutely.”

///

[Dubai, four years ago]

You will always remember Dubai as a city of firsts. Late summer has faded into a mild autumn when you and Yoongi find yourselves traipsing along the bustling strip leading to the Palm Jumeirah, tailing a wealthy government official who has suddenly developed some erratic tendencies, much to the South Korean government’s concern. The sky darkens steadily as night falls, but the neon lights flickering on in every window illuminate the street so brightly that you have no trouble staying on the target’s trail.

“Where to now, Mr. Choi?” you murmur under your breath, watching as the middle-aged man wavers in the middle of the sidewalk, glancing around furtively before ducking underneath an awning and holding his phone up to his ear. You and Yoongi quickly pretend that a nearby newspaper stand has drawn your attention, flipping through the pages idly while keeping an eye on the man talking rapidly into the receiver.

“I can barely hear him,” Yoongi complains after a few moments. “I’m going to move a little closer. Don’t come with me.”

You hum in acknowledgment and watch as your partner ambles closer to Mr. Choi, thumbing through his phone notifications with his free hand tucked casually in the pocket of his jeans. When he’s a few meters shy of the awning, Yoongi suddenly stops, his features scrunched in concern. He glances around in confusion for a few seconds, biding his time to eavesdrop, before returning his attention to his phone and beginning to type. Any onlooker would assume that he was simply lost and trying to look up directions, but you know better, especially when your own phone vibrates in your hand seconds later.

[7:52pm] MYG: Sounds like he’s being blackmailed

[7:52pm] MYG: Hotshot defense ministry official like him, bet whoever’s blackmailing him is after arms research

You don’t get a chance to respond to his texts. Mr. Choi ends his phone conversation abruptly, rubbing his temples. He eyes Yoongi suspiciously for a few seconds, but the pale-haired man has his baseball cap pulled low, hiding most of his face. With a scowl, the ministry worker turns on his heel and stalks away hastily, and you resist the urge to run to Yoongi immediately, instead strolling over leisurely and offering him a smile. “Where should we head next, babe?” The term of endearment sticks to your tongue and makes it feel too big for your mouth, but you swallow the odd feeling and continue, “That restaurant down the street has great reviews online.”

Yoongi takes your hand—a gesture that has become almost as natural as breathing when the two of you are partnered on missions. “Or,” he says, keeping on eye on Mr. Choi up ahead as the two of you begin walking, “we can grab a drink. I’m not that hungry.”

“Neither am I,” you reply, following his gaze and watching as your target’s coattails disappear through the doorway of what appears to be a nightclub across the street. “A drink sounds great. How about that place over there?”

Your platinum-haired partner nods, dark eyes narrowing under the brim of his cap. “Lead the way.”

As it turns out, the low building is indeed a nightclub, dark and pulsating with the rhythm of the bass. Neon lights strobe across the dance floor filled with grinding bodies, and the entire place reeks of cheap liquor, sweat, and sex.

“Nice place,” Yoongi remarks dryly as the two of you step inside, pulling off his cap and raking a hand through his hair. The flashing lights bathe the pale strands in a lurid glow—pink and green transforming into blue and yellow in the span of seconds—and you repress the laughter threatening to bubble up at the absurdity of the sight.

“You know, I never thought I’d find myself in a club with you,” you admit honestly as he replaces his cap and turns it backwards.

He huffs out a chuckle, mouth tilting into a crooked smile. “Oh? Did you think you’d be in a club with someone else, then?”

You shrug, tugging on his hand gently and leading the way through the throng of dancing bodies toward the bar on the far end of the room. “Maybe Hope? He likes to dance.”

“Do you?”

Confusion crinkles your features. “Do I… what?”

Yoongi jerks you to a halt in the center of the dance floor, his head tilted curiously. “Like to dance,” he clarifies, regarding you with unreadable eyes.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “Um, yeah, I guess so. Not that I have much time for it these days…”

The words barely leave your mouth before Yoongi is releasing your hand, only to grip your waist loosely and pull you closer to his chest. A startled gasp escapes you at the sudden proximity. His nose is mere inches away from yours as he begins to move to the beat of the pounding music, and for a split second you swear that his tongue pokes out to swipe across his bottom lip.

And then he’s tugging you even closer, his mouth at your ear. “Target spotted at twelve o’clock,” he murmurs, hot breath washing across the column of your neck.

Oh. Your body deflates and you feebly allow him to maneuver you in a slow circle, chin still on your shoulder. Mr. Choi must be on the move. “Status update?” you mumble, staunchly ignoring the fact that if you crane your neck just a bit you can vaguely smell the scent of whatever cologne he uses.

A low chuckle sounds in your ear, and you suppress a shiver. “He’s chatting up a girl at the bar,” Yoongi drawls, amusement evident in his tone.

“Could be an accomplice,” you offer weakly, placing your hands gingerly on his shoulders when he shows no sign of letting you go.

He snickers. “Doubt it. She’s clearly not interested at all.”

You chance a quick glance at the bar and the girl in question. Everything about her body language screams blatant disgust, and a tiny smile crosses your face, unbidden. “Looks like our guy can’t take a hint.”

“You’d have him writhing on the ground by now, I bet,” Yoongi murmurs, a note of appreciation tingeing his voice as his warm breath ghosts across your nape again. The music morphs into something darker and sultrier, his hands sliding down to your hips. You wrap your arms around his neck, allowing him to tug you flush against his firm chest.

Maybe it’s the heated atmosphere of the nightclub, or maybe it’s the heat between your bodies. You can no longer be certain, because all you can focus on is the way his hips are moving against yours. He’s a surprisingly good dancer, and it takes an inordinate amount of effort to find your voice again. “Do you always dance with your partners on missions?” you joke breathlessly, trying to ignore the arousal pooling in your core.

Yoongi pulls away from your shoulder and straightens to his full height. A few strands of platinum hair have escaped the confines of his baseball cap, falling across his forehead and into darkened, indolent eyes. “Believe me, this is a first. And I don’t plan on making a habit of it,” he murmurs, lips tilting into a crooked smirk.

“So then why are you dancing with me?” you ask, almost afraid to hear his response.

“Because—“ he starts to say, before his hands suddenly tighten on your hips, gaze leaving yours momentarily to dart behind you. Then he’s burying his face in the crook of your neck again, words escaping his mouth in a voice that’s barely above a whisper. “He’s watching us.”

Your eyes widen before you remember to control your expression. Slowly, you wind your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “He must be suspicious,” you breathe, gently urging him to straighten up. “We have to throw him off.”

Dark eyes bore into yours searchingly, brimming with an emotion you can’t quite place. For a moment, time seems to stand still. Your gaze zeroes in on his mouth, heart beating out an erratic rhythm against your ribcage. He’s so close that you can count every dark eyelash standing out against his pale cheeks. “And how do you propose we do that?” he finally asks softly.

You don’t give him a verbal answer. Tightening your fingers on his nape, you pull him down to your level and brush your lips against his. His response is immediate—hands curling more firmly around your hips as he presses urgently against you, mouth slanting across yours and pouring pure heat into the kiss.

By the time you pull apart, both of you are breathless, chests heaving as your lungs try to recover lost oxygen. “That was… uh, new,” you manage after a few seconds.

Yoongi glances furtively at the target out of the corner of his eye. “At least he’s not looking at us anymore,” he drawls, lazily reaching up and twirling a lock of your hair around his finger.

“That’s good,” you whisper, entranced by his lingering proximity.

“But,” he continues, a crooked smirk spreading slowly across his face, self-assured and indolent. “Just to make sure, why don’t we do that again?”

///

[Seoul, present day]

“It’ll be nice to visit Rio again,” you remark quietly to the platinum-haired man beside you. The warmth of Yoongi’s hand curled around yours is reassuring, even as Namjoon drones on about the more mundane details of the mounting terrorist threat in Brazil.

Yoongi glances over at you, mouth set in a straight line, before directing his gaze to Namjoon. “Are you sure it’ll be fine with just the two of them, Joon?” he asks. “Last time {Name} and I were there with Taehyung. It might be a good idea to send a third person.”

“Someone sounds jealous,” Jungkook laughs. “What, do you think Hobi’s going to try and steal your girlfriend?”

Yoongi’s hand leaves yours as he leans forward, eyes narrowing at the youngest member of Bangtan. “As if.”

Jungkook just cackles again, his entire face crinkling with mirth. From across the table, Hoseok shrugs at you helplessly—a gesture you return with an apologetic smile. “No one’s stealing anyone from anybody,” you begin, trying to placate the two men. Jungkook opens his mouth to retort, but you shoot him a withering glare and he hesitantly closes it again.

Namjoon regards the seven of you calmly from behind his glasses, watching over all the bickering with a slight smile. “I appreciate your concern, Yoongi. But since this is just a recon mission, I believe Hoseok and {Name} will be fine on their own.” He pushes two folders across the table toward you and Hoseok before continuing, “Everything you need is in there—background information, photos, travel documents, etcetera.”

“What about that list of restaurants I recommended?” Jin asks, perking up.

“Of course,” Namjoon says, inclining his head.

“The list you gave me and Jimin for Prague was awful,” Jungkook pipes up with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I think you’re losing your touch.”

Jin’s mouth falls open comically, one hand coming down to slap the table. “What did you just say to me?”

“Are you losing your hearing too? Jeez, you’re really getting old…”

You know from experience that arguments between the oldest and youngest member of Bangtan devolve into physical fights more often than not—a scene you’d rather avoid, if at all possible. “The list for Cape Town was excellent,” you interject quickly. A thought strikes you then, a smirk settling on your lips as you add, “And don’t even get me started on your recommendations in Budapest.”

Beside you, Yoongi lets out an appreciative hum. “Damn, I almost forgot about that. I’d go through it all again just to get a fresh lángos.”

“Really? I don’t know if a lángos would be worth everything that happened…”

He chuckles. “No?”

You shrug, distinctly aware of six pairs of curious eyes staring. A secretive smirk splits across Yoongi’s face, which he quickly hides behind a raised hand and a fake cough. It’s all you can do to feign concern, patting him soundly on the back as he tries to contain a snicker threatening to escape. Once he’s certain that the danger has passed, he reaches out and grabs your hand again, threading his fingers with yours.

Jungkook groans. “Ugh, get a room.”

Yoongi doesn’t even bother to respond as he turns back to Namjoon, his thumb rubbing idle circles along your palm.

///

[Paris, three years ago]

It is an undeniable fact that you and Yoongi don’t have time for romance. Candlelit dinners and rose petals strewn across sheets are just distant fantasies—ones you never really entertained for long or very ardently. But sometimes—just sometimes—you can forget about the dangerous work that the two of you are constantly embroiled in and pretend that you are just a regular couple, strolling hand-in-hand down the Avenue des Champs-Élysées on a balmy spring evening.

Except you aren’t a couple. No, Min Yoongi is just your colleague—one whose hand you hold more often than strictly necessary, and kiss on occasion, and have fallen into bed with every now and then. Your unconventional relationship isn’t something that you have ever discussed, and you aren’t about to start now. It works for you, and that’s all that matters.

“We’re here,” Yoongi murmurs out of the corner of his mouth, slowing down in front of the stately building rising up on your right.

“Fancy,” you remark, fiddling with the silky material of your gown. It’s long enough to conceal your weapons and the material has enough give to allow you freedom of movement, but you still wish you could have donned your usual pantsuit instead. Enviously, you glance over at your pale-haired companion in his tailored tuxedo. Yoongi looks crisp and immaculate with his hair parted neatly over his forehead, but most importantly he looks comfortable, and you have to suppress a wave of jealousy as you adjust your skirt for the umpteenth time.

Ascending the steps, you make it through security with no hassle and a silent, subtle nod of acknowledgement from Minho, the tall, uniformed man standing at the door. Minho is the head of the security detail for Mr. Kwon, the host of tonight’s gala and your mission for the week. As a top ministry official, Mr. Kwon required the best security that could be offered, and for the price that the South Korean government was willing to offer Bangtan, Namjoon was more than happy to accept the job. Two nights ago, you and Yoongi had flown into Paris to meet up with Minho and the rest of his team to secure the venue. Together, you’d agreed that it would be best for you and Yoongi to go undercover as gala attendees, which led to where you are now, entering the grand ballroom where people are milling around with champagne flutes in hand, chattering away beneath the glittering chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

“There’s Mr. Kwon.” You nod toward the buffet table, where the dark-haired ministry official is entertaining his guests with twinkling eyes and loud laughter.

Yoongi glances in the direction you had indicated, sharp eyes flitting across the crowd surrounding the man in silent scrutiny. “He’s surprisingly young.”

“Not bad to look at either,” you remark, tilting your head to get a better look and laughing when you spot one of Yoongi’s brows disappear into his hair. “Relax, it’s not like I’m actually interested.”

“But that doesn’t mean he’s not,” is Yoongi’s snappish response, his gaze darting up and over your shoulder. Surprised, you turn around to find yourself face-to-face with Mr. Kwon himself, his handsome, angular face lit up with a radiant smile.

“Hello,” he greets you, offering Yoongi a polite nod as well. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You smile and introduce yourself, using the first alias that comes to mind. “It’s very nice to meet you, Minister.”

Mr. Kwon waves you off in embarrassment, a shy smile overtaking his elfin features. “Please, the pleasure’s all mine. And there’s no need to be so formal. Jiyong will suffice.”

“Jiyong, then,” you repeat, letting the name slide off your tongue like honey. Furtively, you glance over at Yoongi, whose jaw is clenched.

Mr. Kwon doesn’t seem to notice the irritation radiating off the platinum-haired man beside you—or if he does, he chooses to disregard it. “I believe the band is still setting up, but I would love it if you gave me the honor of a dance this evening,” he says as he takes your hand and raises it, brushing his lips across your knuckles.

“Nothing would make me happier, Jiyong,” you reply with a coy smile.

He returns the look, mischief glimmering in his dark gaze. “Then I’ll see you later,” he says, releasing your hand reluctantly and heading across the room to mingle with a group of important-looking people.

You hide a giggle behind your hand and open your mouth to say something to Yoongi, but before you can even process what’s happening, said man’s fingers are wrapped tightly around your wrist, dragging you out of the ballroom and into the deserted corridor. Marching around the corner, he doesn’t stop until you can no longer hear the hum of conversation and music from the gala. Only then does he turn around, backing you up against the wall with a swift step forward, his chest just inches from your own.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses, dark eyes boring into yours as his hands come up to rest on either side of your head.

“I’m keeping an eye on our target,” you reply, stubbornly refusing to look away from his piercing gaze.

“Like hell that’s all you were doing,” he growls, leaning closer. Hot anger radiates off of him, and you can hear every labored breath he takes as he tilts your chin up with a single finger.

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry, Yoongi,” you whisper, shaking him free. He flinches back at your use of his given name, but the fury simmering in his eyes doesn’t disappear. “It’s not like you’re my boyfriend. We’re just fucking, for god’s sake—“

His lips cut off the rest of your sentence, crashing against yours with almost bruising force. You respond immediately, hands flying up to tangle in his hair and tug him closer. He doesn’t waste any time in exploring your mouth, tongue mapping out every detail as his hands slide down your sides and stop at your hips. “Christ,” he grunts, pulling away from the searing kiss and grabbing at the tight silk of your gown. “I’ve wanted to rip this goddamn dress off you since I saw it this afternoon.”

“You can’t,” you whisper frantically, trying to bat his hands away. “We still have to go back to the gala!”

“Later, then,” he rasps, ignoring your attempts to stop him. “But for now…” A positively sinful smirk stretches his lips as he drops gracefully to his knees and raises the hem of your long skirt. “Tug this up for me, sweetheart.”

Your sarcastic retort dies on your lips at the dark promise in his voice. Almost automatically, your hands are reaching for your skirt, bunching the silk up around your hips and giving him full access to your lower half. Yoongi skims his fingers across the knives strapped to your right calf before eyeing the holster on your thigh appreciatively.

“Fuck, that’s hot.”

And then his warm hands are trailing up your thighs, rubbing patterns into the soft, sensitive skin. You let out a gasp when he cups your covered mound gently, the pad of his middle finger curling upward and dipping inside you through the lace of your underwear. “Oh, god.”

Yoongi gazes up at you, dark pupils blown wide with lust. “Oh, yes,” he purrs, digging his finger deeper and smirking when you keen out something that sounds suspiciously like his name.

When he peels back your panties, you blush and shy away from his wandering hands, suddenly realizing just how exposed you are, holding your skirt up as your partner kneels before you with wicked intent written all over his face. “Are you insane?” you hiss, glancing toward the end of the hallway where it merges with the main corridor. “Anyone could walk by and see us! And there could be cameras!”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he surges forward and presses a teasing kiss to your inner thigh, lips hovering dangerously close to where you need him most. Pulling away slightly, he meets your gaze again, one eyebrow arched in amusement. “Did you forget about our meeting with the security team the other day? We secured the entire building and checked all the cameras. This is the only blind spot. And I doubt anyone’s going to come down this way, but judging by how soaked you already are, I’d say that you’re enjoying the thrill of maybe getting caught.” Leaning forward, he licks a long, slow stripe along your entrance, ending with a teasing flick of his tongue against your swollen clit. “Am I wrong?”

Your knees practically buckle, your core already craving his tongue again. “Sh-shut up.”

Yoongi snickers but obliges. Grabbing one of your legs, he throws it over his shoulder, effectively spreading you open as he pulls your panties to the side again and settles between your thighs. His scorching mouth finds your clit, giving it a hard suck before he flattens his tongue and begins laving at you in earnest. A low, appreciative groan leaves him, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending sparks up your spine. The air fills with the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth against your drenched core, his questing tongue dipping inside you experimentally, and you groan as you try to anchor yourself, fingers tangling into his soft hair.

Your orgasm is building inside you rapidly, coiling in the pit of your stomach like a spring, and when Yoongi’s mouth latches onto your clit once more, you are pushed clean off the edge with a silent scream, chest heaving as you gasp for air. Weightless, your hips buck against him sporadically and Yoongi is kind enough to flatten his tongue, letting you grind against him and draw out every bit of white-hot pleasure.

By the time you return to your body, still feeling rather boneless, Yoongi is already on his feet and molding his mouth to yours. It’s wet and sloppy and you can taste your own tang on his tongue, but it’s perfect nonetheless. He doesn’t break the kiss even when his hands smooth down your back to the fleshy curve of your ass, scooping you up and pinning you firmly against the wall and wrapping your legs around his waist. You can feel his erection pressing up against your core, still covered by his slacks, and a jolt of pure heat shoots straight up your spine.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to stuff you full of my cock,” he groans in your ear and you moan, rutting shamelessly against him and pulling him in for another smoldering kiss.

You never did get that dance with Mr. Kwon.

///

[Seoul, present day]

Namjoon clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to the task at hand. “Let’s wrap this meeting up,” he says, a touch of irritation shining in his eyes at the constant flood of interruptions and tangents. “Are we clear on the mission to Rio?” he asks, giving you and Hoseok a pointed look.

“Yes, sir!” Hoseok proclaims cheerily, saluting.

“Clear as day,” you agree with a grin. “After all,” you continue, shooting Yoongi a mischievous glance and a flagrant wink, “it’ll be nothing compared to Budapest.”

///

[Budapest, two years ago]

It’s a brisk December day, the blue sky stretching out over the Danube as far as the eye can see. Sunlight turns the river into a glittering expanse of liquid diamonds, endlessly eddying and whirling underneath the bridge you are standing on. Yoongi leans against the railing beside you, as silent and expressionless as the stone lions guarding either end, and you reach out after a few moments, gently running your fingers across his knuckles.

Your touch seems to snap him out of whatever reverie he’d been immersed in. Dark, sleepy eyes flicker up to meet yours, the slightest of smiles curling his lips. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” you reply. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

You wait, knowing that he’ll continue when he’s ready. Staring out over the river, you watch as a ferry slows to a stop and docks. A flock of gulls soars overhead, occasionally diving down and skimming across the water. Beside you, Yoongi lets out a quiet sigh. And then he speaks.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

For a moment, you are confused, and it must have shown on your face because your platinum-haired companion is quick to clarify.

“Since we started… whatever it is that we have. I haven’t slept with anyone else, or dated, or anything.” Yoongi finally looks at you, still stone-faced, but after five years of working with him, you can see the hesitance shining in his eyes.

You can’t help the slow smile that spreads across your face. “I haven’t either,” you confess, warmth bubbling up in your chest when he reaches down and grasps your hand tightly. His expression melts into something softer, something that’s so radiant that he’s practically glowing, and though you can’t be certain if it’s due to your words or the bright afternoon sunlight, your instincts tell you that it’s the former and they have yet to prove wrong.

“Good.” His fingers twine with yours, warm and comfortable, and you realize that you never want to let go.

“So, uh,” you begin cautiously. “What does this mean?”

Yoongi’s lips stretch into a gummy smile—the first genuinely joyful expression you’ve ever seen grace his features. “Well, hopefully it means that you’ll be my girlfriend,” he says simply.

You grin. “Are you asking me out?”

“Depends,” he replies. “Are you saying yes?”

Unable to wait any longer, you close the distance between your bodies and push up to your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Of course, Yoongi,” you say when you pull away, his name leaving your lips in a reverent whisper. “Of course I’m saying yes.”

Somehow, his smile widens, lips chasing yours and meeting them in a sweet kiss, brimming with an underlying heat that promises much more sinful things to come.

And Yoongi makes good on those promises twenty minutes later, when the two of you stumble through the threshold of your hotel room, clothes dropping to the floor and disappearing, forgotten, in tangled sheets. And then again, a few hours after that.

You are still basking in the afterglow when your phones go off simultaneously, buzzing in a unique staccato that can only belong to one person. Pulling away from Yoongi’s addicting mouth, you grab the nefarious device off the nightstand and glare at the screen.

“Namjoon wants a status update on the bomb threat on the Hungarian Parliament building,” you read slowly, still a little breathless. Blinking, your gaze slides back to your platinum-haired boyfriend. “Should I tell him it was a false alarm?”

Yoongi smirks, plucking your phone from your hand and typing out a quick response before tossing it on the carpeted floor. Then he’s reaching for you again, tugging you flush against his bare chest and peppering lazy kisses along your jaw. “And have him order us back to Seoul early?” he drawls. “Nah. What Joon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. We deserve a vacation, anyway.”

You nestle comfortably against him, huffing out a soft laugh. “That, we do.”

And then Yoongi is dragging the blankets over you, arms settling firmly around your waist as the two of you settle down for a well-deserved nap.

⇢ a bit more.

also set in this universe:

[jjk] [jhs]

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siren-dragon · 7 years

Text

Long Live the King - (Ardyn Izunia x Reader) Ch. 7

I finally finished chapter 7, yay! I do apologize if this one seems a little scattered as it is currently 23:43 PM as I am posting this. -__-

As always, a big thank you to everyone who has been reading this story as both @maty-yami and myself greatly appreciate it. ^_^ And without further ado, let’s get this story started!

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

You paced restlessly along the balcony of Cartonica Station, waiting for the boys to return after they phoned you of their successful retrieval of the royal weapon. The entire night you spent emptying the box of pregnancy testers to see if at least one of them were lying. Though your hopes were dashed as every single one showed the exact same result: you were pregnant.

It was obvious who the father was, as you only slept with Ardyn; but that was not what worried you. A child was something you did not plan on having again; especially after your previous child was murdered before your very eyes. And if Noctis and the others were to discover that you were pregnant, and with Ardyn’s child at that, they would never trust you again. And then there was Ardyn himself to consider. What would he say, if you told him? Judging from his note, he didn’t want any more connections with you, let alone a child. His departure and your now raging hormones left you angry then depressed, and running on nothing but 2 hours of sleep was certainly not helping.

But as you lay a hand against your stomach, you couldn’t help the small smile that came to your face. Children were a happy occasion to celebrate; regardless of timing or convenience. And it was then and there you refused to lose another child, vowing to protect this one with all your strength…no matter what.

“Hey (f/n)!” Prompto greeted you happily. “I hope you weren’t too bored by yourself.”

“Not in the slightest,” you replied. “I take it we’re off to Gralea then?”

“Actually…we’ll be stopping in Tenebrae for a bit.” Noctis spoke quietly.

You gave Noctis an understanding nod, “we might as well since we’ll be passing through.”

“So long as it helps him move on,” Gladio shrugged.

As the five of you boarded the train once more, you noticed a light change between the four boys. They appeared to walk with more purpose, heads held high despite their journey into enemy territory. It seemed they had finally finished their bickering and have become stronger from their trial, making you beam with pride.

It was just a shame that your trial was only beginning...

“(f/n) ...are you alright?”

You turned to face Ignis, his unseeing gaze focused on the table between you. The train shook and rattled beneath your feet as it pulled you ever closer to Gralea; and to Ardyn.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

Ignis turned his scarred eyes to you, making you shudder slightly. “You’ve seemed rather distracted as of late. I was simply curious if something was troubling you.”

That question felt like a slap to the face. You looked down to the table in shame, knowing Ignis couldn’t see your expression of guilt and anger. What were you to say? How were you to answer such an innocent question?

You felt gloved hands gently, but firmly take hold of your own, causing you to look toward Ignis’ face. “If you do not wish to tell me, then you need not say. But when you are ready to talk…I will be here if you need me (f/n).”

“Thank you, Ignis.” You spoke softly, wishing the serious advisor could see the smile of gratitude that came across your lips.

“Hey guys, morning.” Noctis spoke, coming to sit beside you, “anything I miss?”

“Nothing of any consequence. Though it feels good to ride the rails again. Eager to drive once we are in Gralea?” Ignis replied, expertly switching the subject to your relief.

Noctis snorted, “if they let me.”

“We are fortunate to have the Regalia at all. We owe the First Secretary our thanks.”

“She’d get even more thanks if she gave us a discount,” you sighed.

“Those transceivers are top-notch.” Ignis said, “I recall when the Hydraean raged- in the midst of the empire’s retreat, one conspicuous craft remained behind: The Chancellor’s.”

You frowned, recalling the tale Noctis had told you of his battle with the Hydraean, and the unexpected visitor who murdered Lunafreya. Your grip tightened ever so slightly around the Styrofoam cup in your hands. Oh yes, there was much to talk about…

“The last thing I remember was his ship, heading for the alter. I fell unconscious…and was powerless to stop him,” Ignis admitted.

“I’m just glad you’re alive.” Noctis sighed in relief.

“Oh, is someone else there?” Ignis asked, turning his head to the left.

“Just Gladio,” you answered.

Noctis frowned, “where did he go anyway?”

“On a brief reconnaissance. Something caught my ear…”

“Hey Captain, Lieutenant; mission complete.” Gladio announced, coming to a halt at the table.

“Splendid.” “Thank you Gladio.” Both you and Ignis spoke.

“So, what ‘caught your ear’?”

“Rumors of longer nights.”

“They’ve been growing longer day by day,” Gladio added.

You nodded, “there was talk of it back in Lucis, even within Insomnia. But recently there has been an unseasonably sharp change.”

“Should this trend continue, before long…”

“There won’t be daylight.” Noctis finished.

“Well, it’s not out of the question. The empire’s already slain half of the Six. No wonder the whole world’s in disarray.”

“And longer nights mean more daemons,” Ignis continued.

Gladio hummed in agreement, “seen that with our own eyes.”

“I happened to overhear a fellow passenger discussing this very same phenomenon.”

“So, we sent Gladio to seek ‘em out,” you grinned.

Noctis laughed, “nice police work.”

“Well, don’t want to keep ‘em waiting. You coming (f/n)?” Gladio asked.

You shook your head, “don’t want to spook them with too many people. I think I’ll stay here with Noct for now.”

“Suit yourself,” Gladio shrugged before leading Ignis down the train to the next car.

Noctis looked out the window while you picked up the menu, wondering what to eat when the prince gasped. Following his gaze, you turned to the window and felt your jaw drop at the sight of a massive snow-storm sitting right beside the deserts of Eusciello. There was the sound of a hand smacking the table when Prompto leaned beside the two of you. “Oh, there you guys are. Are you seeing this?”

“Yeah…never seen anything like it…” Noctis replied. “What’s going on…”

“It’s a real mystery,” Prompto shrugged. “But I’m not liking the look of that snow-cloud, kinda gives me the chills. Like who comes up with this stuff? I couldn’t even dream it up if I tried. Heh, it’s a marvelous world.”

You turned to speak with Prompto only to have Noctis to rush toward the blonde, aiming a punch right toward his face. Fortunately, the gunner’s reflexes were quicker and he managed to side step out of the way. “Whoa, what’s going on?”

“Noctis, are you alright? What’s gotten into you?” you asked, confused at your friend’s sudden change in demeanor. “Yeah buddy, you okay?” Prompto spoke, equally as confused as you yourself was.

Noctis spun about to face you both, a look of rage twisting his facial features as he summoned a royal weapon and swung it at Prompto. You both dodged in the nick of time, causing Noctis to embed his blade into the floor before banishing it once more. “Shut up!” Noctis screamed.

“Be careful there!” Prompto exclaimed, scurrying backwards. “Wait…is this for real?”

“Noct, what the hell is the matter with you?!” You shouted, summoning your bow to block Noctis’ next attack.

“Stay out of my way (f/n)! I’m gonna KILL HIM!” Noctis roared, knocking you to the floor.

“Run!” you shouted to Prompto, causing the blonde to quickly climb to his feet and race toward the next car with Noctis at his heels.

You chased after them, watching Noctis rip open a compartment door in anger as he searched the contents within. Coming to a halt beside the prince you put a gentle hand on his shoulder, “Um…Noct are you oka- ugh!” you exclaimed as his fist swung out, slamming against your cheek and causing you to lose balance. Stars danced across your vision as you watched Noctis rush away down the rest of the train. You moved to stand once more before feeling a blow to the back of your head, causing you to gasp in pain and slump backwards into a pair of strong arms that smelt of sandalwood.

“My sincerest apologizes, (f/n), but I mustn’t have you interfere. Sleep well, my dear.” Ardyn whispered in your ear before your eyes closed and the world faded from view…

You opened your eyes and groaned, feeling a slight pain coming from your cheek and the back of your head. Slowly you tried to recall what happened; remembering the train, Noctis losing it and attacking Prompto, and then Ardyn knocking you unconscious. You fumed angrily at having been caught off guard so easily, but the damage was already done. Gently you rose from the bed you were laying on and glanced around at your surroundings with confusion and suspicion.

Wherever you were, it was certainly not the train.

Bunk beds lay in two rows across from one another, each with its own bedside table. On the far end of the room was a row of lockers with a few coats thrown across empty chairs. To the right was a large metal door that was the only exit which currently remained closed. You moved toward the wall where a plaque sat alongside a map and fire-safety guidelines.

“Zegnautus Dormitory, Number 601,” you spoke aloud. “Zegnautus? Wait, I’m in Gralea?”

Riffling through your pockets you sighed in frustration to discover your mobile phone was missing, knowing exactly who took it. Glancing back at the map, you tried to pinpoint a route toward an exit or control room to contact the boys, finally finding one that would lead you toward the communications room that was bound to have an emergency phone line. Memorizing the route, you opened the door and quickly knocked back an arrow before cautiously walking out of the dormitory.

The air was still and the silent, only to be broken by the light tapping of your boots upon the metal floors. Why were there no guards? No researchers? Not even a lost secretary wandering the empty halls. Something did not feel right, and that thought alone made you raise your guard even higher. Taking the last left toward the communications room, you opened the door in front of you and froze at the sight that lay before you. Across the floor lay clothes; multiple copies of the same uniform strewn about the entire room, including shoes. Kneeling beside the closest set, you searched through the pockets and retrieved an ID card, wallet, and keys.

“That’s strange, why would they leave their valuables?” You murmured to yourself, “what in the world could have happened here?”

Standing up you entered the next room, which was filled with metal cages. Clothing was thrown about in this room as well, though broken shackles also laid about within the cages, making you frown. What the hell was going on here?

You moved toward the desk and picked up a stack of papers, flipping through the pages as you read the words written.

“Military Applications of Mutative Plasmodia,” you read aloud. “In light of the large sample size, the test results can be considered conclusive: commonly occurring parasitic protozoa are the are the agents of daemonification. These findings pave the way for the weaponization of daemons, and the first step involves finding a way to control mutated organisms. This report recommends Minister of Research Verstael Besithia submit a detailed budget request for the Deathless Project.”

“A parasitic protozoon….so the daemons are from a disease?” You spoke before a look of horror came to your face, “Then that means, all the daemons…they’re people….”

“Were people; I’m afraid they no longer remember their previous lives.”

You spun about toward the source of the voice, bow drawn and raised in defense. Ardyn stood before you with his hands stretched out in a non-threatening manner, a hint of a smirk drawn across his lips. “Tell me why I should not release this arrow into you right now,” you spoke harshly.

“Because you still have questions that I hold the answers to,” Ardyn replied simply.

You narrowed your eyes in anger before lowering the bow and sheathing the arrow into your quiver once more. “Explain please,” you snapped.

“It is fascinating what one would do for power over their enemies,” Ardyn said, running a hand across the cage door. “All the Empire need was one little push and they were corrupting their own citizens to create their magitek.”

“So, you spread the scourge to Niflheim,” you finished. “Is that why you left? To try to protect me from this! By the Six Ardyn, why couldn’t you just tell me!?”

“I couldn’t get you involved.”

“That’s not an answer Ardyn! Tell me the truth!”

“BECAUSE I HAVE TO DIE!” Ardyn roared in anger, his voice reverberating around the room causing you to freeze in your tracks. “Don’t you understand (f/n)? I have been wandering this world with nothing but these damned daemons, as the ‘Immortal Accursed’! Did you really think I could trap you within that darkness?!”

You watched his sclera turn black as obsidian tears began to fall from his eyes, leaving trails of liquid shadows across his greying skin. Clenching your hand into a fist, you slowly walked toward him and raised your hand; allowing the fist to slam straight into his right cheek. Ardyn yelped in surprise, staggering backward from the blow before looking to you with a expression of pure shock.

“You are a FUCKING IDIOT Ardyn Lucis Caelum!” you shouted. “Did you really think I would turn my back on you again? Did you not think to explain what happened here?!”

Ardyn stared at your outburst in surprise, knowing that curses did not often fall from your lips.

“You destroyed an Empire!” you continued, too angry to care. “Corrupted innocent people into daemons, killed your own descendant and the Oracle; among countless others, and felled gods! And I am furious with you, horrified at what you’ve done! And yet still I....I want to stand beside you.”

Moving closer to him you wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face into his chest. “I love you, Ardyn Lucis Caelum; now and forever.”

He remained as still as stone against you before his arms slowly returned the embrace. “You still wish to remain with me, even after all I’ve done.”

“I’m your wife, you fool. I have to inspire you somehow.”

“(f/n)…I cannot give you a happy ending.” Ardyn whispered.

You raised your head to look into his eyes, a small smile coming to your face. “I know…but perhaps I could give you one…. we both could.” You said, moving his hand toward your stomach.

Ardyn stared at your stomach with wide, terrified eyes. But you could see deep within those golden eyes the small spark of hope lingering in their depths. “Are you certain?”

“Positive,” you answered back.

“It seems the gods have not forsaken me,” Ardyn chuckled humorlessly. “Though I will ask you once more (f/n), will you stay with me?”

“If you will have me,” you replied, mimicking his words to you in Altissia.

“Now and forever, my dear.”

9 Months Later:

“Congratulations Madame, it’s a boy!”

You panted heavily as you laid against the multiple pillows behind your head. Your (h/c) locks were plastered to your face by sweat from the labor you had endured. Looking to the bundle within the doctor’s arms, you reached your arms for your child. “May I see him?” you asked softly, your voice all but gone from the screaming you did.

“Of course, Madame, there you go. I’ll go and retrieve your husband,” the doctor replied before depositing your child within your arms and disappearing out of the room.

Cuddling the bundle to your chest you smiled down at your son, laughing at the tuft of magenta hair that was just touch darker than his father’s. Running a finger gently against his hand he grabbed hold of your finger with all his might before a content smile pulled at his lips.

“How is he?” Ardyn asked, the concern he felt evident in his tone.

“Come see,” you answered, moving to show Ardyn. “I would like you to meet Ausel Lucis Caelum.”

“Hello there, little one.” Ardyn smiled, “it is nice to finally meet you.”

And there is the end of the chapter! Stay tuned for the final two chapters, and I’ll try to post them as soon as I can. See ya and good night! ^_^

#ffxv #fanfiction #ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #ardyn izunia x reader #Long Live the King - ch.7

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