The night held them in a loving embraced. They were the darkness and all the life it held. Feared and forgotten warriors of old. Not good, not bad, but somewhere in the grey.
BTS X READER | based/ inspired of Ryan Kirks Nightblade trilogy. You DON'T...
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As the sun's golden rays poured through the large gap in the tent door, casting elongated shadows across the room, two figures sat opposite each other, bathed in an icy atmosphere. The morning sun did nothing to warm the mood. The air hung heavy. Two bodies subtly angled away from each other as if seeking physical distance to match the emotional abyss that had formed between them. Every movement was calculated and cautious as they navigated the space. Their eyes locked. It was the first time Namjoon had lifted his head from the papers with a stern profile. He leaned back on the wooden bench, exuding an aura of bitterness. His voice carried a hint of impatience as if time itself bowed to his whims. "Who came up with this?" he said, pushing the loose pages across the table to the other side where (y/n) sat.
"Mosty, Hoseok and Seokjin." She answered, copying his action and reclining back to lean on the red walls of the canvas, her hand coming up to scrap and pull at the dry skin on her bottom lip. Her nerves manifested as a surge of acidic contents from her stomach, rising upwards with an unpleasant vengeance. The experience had begun subtle, a slight burning sensation at the back of the throat, like the smouldering embers of a forgotten flame. But as (y/n) had watched Namjoons eyes scan over the content of each page, it had intensified, growing into a relentless onslaught. She had seen Namjoons lips twitch as if forming words that refused to be spoken. His jaw would clench and unclench. Then his eyes would flicker with a spark of inspiration for a moment. His fingers moved with purpose, scribbling furiously on the page. Now there was an acidic tide washing against the delicate lining of the oesophagus, leaving a trail of discomfort in its wake. Her hand moved from her lips to rub her throat as she asked the question plaguing her mind. "Will it work?"
She needed it to work; her lift was resting on it.
Namjoon straightened up. His eyes gaze became distant, lost in thought. As his fingers absently tapped on the table, his mind tried to piece the puzzle of their idea; he broke it down and built it up repeatedly, scattered and disarrayed, waiting to be rearranged into a coherent picture. (y/n) knew the weight of responsibility she had rested upon his shoulders, saw how it was tugging at the corners of his consciousness. His brow furrowed, and the creases on his forehead deepened. His eyes narrowed, focusing on an unseen point in the distance as if trying to unravel every possible outcome. Then he met her eyes once more.
"I think it might work." His voice was full of apprehension. After all, he couldn't tell the future.
The method was risky; if any section of the borders caved, everything would end, but it was all they had. (y/n) nodded, a little bit of relief entering her mind.
The next question she had for the man across from her felt far more weighted though its consequence was less dire. "Can you present it at the meeting this afternoon?" She paused, eyes shifting to the door, itching to get out. "I'm not going?"
"Why?" His voice carried a sharp edge, his words punctuated by a touch of frustration. It was as if an undercurrent of irritation propelled him to speak so coldly.
