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heesvnqie · 17 days ago

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Digital Shadows- Yang Jungwon

pairing: yang jungwon x f!reader genre: hacker x reader, psychological thriller, dark romance, suspense warnings: obsessive behavior, hacking, privacy invasion, psychological tension, explicit sexual content (18+, minors DNI), unprotected sex (wrap it up IRL!), oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, teasing, begging, strong language word count: 9.6k a/n: A thrilling mix of suspense and dark romance, this fanfiction dives into Jungwon’s obsessive hacking of Y/N’s life and their intense, twisted love. Written with vivid emotional detail, it’s a wild ride of fear, desire, and digital danger. Thanks for reading this tale—more to come!

The faint hum of your laptop filled the quiet of your bedroom, its blue light casting jagged shadows across the walls. You sat cross-legged on your bed, scrolling through your inbox, when a new email notification popped up. The sender’s name was just a single letter: J. No subject line, no greeting, just a single sentence that made your skin prickle: “You looked nice in that red hoodie today, Y/N.” Your fingers froze over the trackpad. You hadn’t worn that hoodie since yesterday, and you’d only gone to the library and back—alone.

This wasn’t the first message. For three weeks, J had been slipping into your digital life like a ghost. It started with a text from an unknown number: “That latte art at Brew Haven is overrated, don’t you think?” You’d brushed it off as a prank, but then came the DMs on your private Instagram—comments about songs you’d played, books you’d posted, even the exact time you’d left your house one evening. Whoever J was, they weren’t just guessing. They knew you.

You clicked the email shut and glanced at your phone, its screen dark but somehow menacing. Downstairs, your sister Ryujin’s laughter rang out, sharp and carefree, mingling with the low voices of her boyfriend Jay and his best friend, Jungwon. They’d been over all afternoon, sprawled across the living room couch, playing some co-op game on Jay’s PlayStation. You’d kept your distance, as usual. Jay was fine—sweet, reliable, the kind of guy who’d help with dishes unprompted. But Jungwon? He was different. Too smooth, too sharp, like he was always calculating something behind those dark eyes.

You shook your head, trying to dislodge the creeping suspicion. Jungwon was just a guy, not some shadowy cyberstalker. Still, the timing of J’s messages felt too convenient. They always came when you were alone, late at night or early in the morning, when Jungwon wasn’t around. Or was he? You couldn’t be sure anymore.

The doorbell had rung earlier that day, and Ryujin had let Jungwon in, his black backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly messy from the wind. He’d flashed you a grin as he passed your room, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Y/N, still glued to that laptop? You’re gonna turn into a robot.” You’d rolled your eyes, muttering something about schoolwork, but his gaze lingered a second too long, like he was reading you instead of just looking.

Now, alone in your room, you opened your CCTV app, a habit you’d picked up since your parents installed the system last year. The feed loaded: the front porch, empty; the backyard, still; the living room, where Ryujin, Jay, and Jungwon were laughing over a spilled bowl of popcorn. Jungwon’s head was tilted toward his phone, his fingers moving swiftly across the screen. You squinted, trying to make out what he was doing, but the feed was too grainy. Probably just texting, you told yourself. But your gut churned.

Another ping. A new message from J: “Why’re you checking the cameras, Y/N? Don’t trust your guests?” Your breath caught. The CCTV app was still open on your phone, the living room feed staring back at you. You slammed the app shut, your heart hammering. This wasn’t a coincidence. Whoever J was, they could see what you were doing—right now.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the clatter of dishes downstairs. Ryujin was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, while Jay hovered nearby, stealing bites of batter. Jungwon was there too, leaning against the counter, his laptop open and his fingers flying across the keys. He looked up as you entered, his smile easy but sharp, like a blade hidden in velvet. “Morning, Y/N. Sleep okay?”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze as you grabbed a mug. “Fine.”

“Rough night?” he pressed, closing his laptop with a soft click. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Ryujin laughed, oblivious. “She’s just stressed about finals, right, Y/N? You’ve been glued to your laptop 24/7.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, pouring coffee to avoid the conversation. But Jungwon’s eyes didn’t leave you, and you felt them like a weight. He was always like this—too observant, too interested. Last week, he’d “accidentally” bumped into you at the café you frequented, claiming he was just passing by. The week before, he’d shown up at your house with Jay, offering to fix your router when it started lagging. You’d declined, but he’d lingered, asking questions about your tech setup with a curiosity that felt too intense.

“Hey, Y/N,” Jungwon said now, his tone casual but his eyes anything but. “Your laptop’s pretty high-end, right? Mind if I borrow it later? Mine’s been crashing, and I’ve got some… projects to finish.”

Your grip tightened on the mug. “Why not use Jay’s?”

Jay snorted, tossing a pancake onto a plate. “My laptop’s ancient, dude. It can barely run Netflix.”

Jungwon shrugged, his smile disarming. “Yours is faster, Y/N. I’ll be careful, promise.”

Every instinct screamed no. But Ryujin was watching, and Jay was nodding like it was no big deal, and saying no without a reason would sound paranoid. “Fine,” you said finally, your voice tighter than you meant. “But don’t mess with anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jungwon replied, his grin widening. He opened his laptop again, and you caught a glimpse of green code scrolling across the screen before he angled it away.

That afternoon, you handed over your laptop, your reluctance masked by a forced shrug. Jungwon settled on the living room couch, his posture relaxed but his focus razor-sharp. You hovered nearby, pretending to scroll on your phone, but your eyes kept darting to him. His fingers moved like they were born for this, typing commands you couldn’t follow, his expression unreadable. Occasionally, he’d glance up, catching your eye with a smirk that made your stomach twist.

“Got some cool stuff on here,” he said after a while, not looking up. “Your playlists are wild. Didn’t know you were into screamo.”

“It’s not screamo,” you snapped, defensive. “And don’t snoop.”

He chuckled, low and teasing. “Relax, Y/N. Just making conversation.”

But you didn’t relax. You couldn’t. Not when your phone buzzed in your hand, a new email from J popping up: “He’s in your system now. Careful what you let him touch.” Your blood ran cold. You glanced at Jungwon, still typing, oblivious—or was he? The CCTV app was still on your phone, tempting you to check. You opened it, the living room feed loading instantly. There he was, Jungwon, on the couch, his laptop screen reflected faintly in his glasses. You zoomed in, heart pounding, and saw it: lines of code, a terminal window, and what looked like a mirrored image of your laptop’s desktop.

You closed the app, your hands shaking. “I’m grabbing a drink,” you mumbled, fleeing to the kitchen. Alone, you opened the email again, rereading the message. He’s in your system now. It couldn’t be Jungwon. Could it? He was Jay’s best friend, practically family. But the messages, the timing, the way he watched you—it all lined up too perfectly.

Your phone buzzed again. Another message from J: “Check your webcam. Smile for me.” You froze, your eyes darting to your laptop on the couch. The webcam light was off, but that didn’t mean anything. Not if J was as good as they seemed. Not if J was Jungwon.

That night, you lay awake, the house silent except for the faint creak of pipes. Ryujin and Jay had gone to bed hours ago, and Jungwon had left with a casual “Thanks for the laptop, Y/N. You’re a lifesaver.” But you weren’t sleeping. You couldn’t. Every creak, every shadow, felt like a threat. You’d taped over your webcam, changed your passwords, even unplugged your router, but the unease lingered.

Your phone lit up. A text, not an email this time, from an unknown number: “You’re cute when you’re scared, Y/N. But you don’t have to be. I’m not here to hurt you.” Attached was a grainy image—a still from your bedroom CCTV, showing you sitting on your bed, staring at your phone. The timestamp? Five minutes ago.

You dropped the phone, your breath hitching. The cameras. He was in the cameras. And if Jungwon was J, he’d been in your house, in your life, closer than you ever realized. The question wasn’t just who he was—it was what he wanted. And whether you were scared enough to run… or curious enough to find out.

The next morning, you woke with a jolt, the memory of last night’s CCTV image burning behind your eyes. Your phone lay face-down on the nightstand, as if ignoring it could erase the message from J: a grainy still of you in your bedroom, timestamped just minutes before it arrived. You hadn’t slept properly, your dreams a jumble of code and Jungwon’s sly smirk. Now, sunlight streamed through your curtains, but it did nothing to ease the chill in your bones.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Ryujin had left early for a study group, and Jay was probably with her. You were alone—or so you hoped. Your laptop sat on your desk, its lid closed like a sleeping predator. You hesitated, then opened it, half-expecting something to leap out. The screen flickered to life, normal at first glance. But as you opened your notes app to jot down your thoughts—anything to make sense of the chaos—something was wrong.

Words appeared on the screen. Not yours.

“You’re up early, Y/N. Thinking about me?”

Your fingers froze above the keyboard. The cursor blinked, then moved again, typing in real-time: “Don’t look so freaked out. It’s just a little fun.” You slammed the laptop shut, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. You hadn’t touched the keys. Someone—J—was in your system, watching, typing, playing with you.

You grabbed your phone, opening the CCTV app to check the house. The feeds loaded: kitchen, empty; front porch, empty; living room, empty. Your bedroom feed was last. You hesitated, then tapped it. The screen showed your room, your bed, you—right now, hunched over your phone, eyes wide.

The angle was from the ceiling camera, its lens unblinking. You forced yourself to look at the laptop. The webcam light was still off, covered by the tape you’d slapped on last night. But the notes app incident told you tape wasn’t enough.

Another ping. A text from an unknown number: “You can’t hide from me, Y/N. But why would you want to?” Attached was a screenshot of your notes app, the words J had typed still visible. Your stomach lurched. This wasn’t just emails or texts anymore. They were inside your devices, real-time, like a shadow moving with you.

You skipped breakfast, too rattled to eat. Instead, you sat at the kitchen table, your laptop and phone in front of you like evidence in a crime scene. Jungwon’s face kept flashing in your mind—his quick fingers on his keyboard, his too-knowing smile when he borrowed your laptop yesterday. It had to be him.

He was Jay’s best friend, always around, always too close. And he’d had access to your laptop, your house, your life. The CCTV system was Ryujin’s idea, installed after a string of neighborhood break-ins, but Jungwon had been here when the techs set it up. You remembered him asking questions, leaning over the technician’s shoulder, his curiosity seeming innocent at the time.

Now, it felt like a setup.

Your phone buzzed again, this time a notification from your music app. A new playlist had been created: “For Y/N, From J.” The songs were eerily specific—your favorite obscure indie tracks, a metal song you’d only listened to once in private, even a demo you’d downloaded from a sketchy site years ago. No one could know this. No one but someone who’d dug deep into your digital footprint.

You opened your laptop again, determined to fight back. You ran every antivirus you had, the scans coming up clean. Frustrated, you opened a browser, but before you could type, the search bar autofilled: “How to know if you’re being hacked.” You stared, your hands nowhere near the keyboard. The browser loaded a page, but instead of search results, it displayed a single line in bold: “You’re asking the right questions, Y/N. Keep going.”

You yanked the laptop’s power cord, shutting it down manually. Your hands shook as you grabbed your phone, ready to call Ryujin and spill everything. But what would you say? That her boyfriend’s best friend was a psycho hacker? That he was stalking you through your own devices? She’d think you were unhinged. You needed proof.

That afternoon, Jungwon showed up again, uninvited as usual. Ryujin and Jay were back, laughing in the living room as Jungwon dropped his backpack by the couch. He caught your eye, his smile as disarming as ever. “Hey, Y/N. Thanks for the laptop loan yesterday. Worked like a charm.”

You forced a nod, your throat tight. “No problem.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “You okay? You look… tense.”

“Just tired,” you lied, avoiding his gaze. You retreated to the kitchen, pretending to busy yourself with dishes, but you kept your phone’s CCTV app open, watching him. Jungwon pulled out his laptop, his fingers moving with that same fluid precision. You zoomed in on the feed, catching a glimpse of his screen: a black terminal window, green text scrolling too fast to read. Your pulse quickened. Was he doing it now?

Your phone vibrated in your hand. Another text from J: “You’re staring. Like what you see?” Your eyes flicked to Jungwon, still typing, his expression unchanged. But the timing was too perfect. You opened the CCTV feed again, switching to the kitchen camera. There you were, standing by the sink, phone in hand, looking rattled. The feed glitched for a split second, and when it cleared, a tiny text overlay appeared in the corner: “Hi, Y/N.”

You dropped the phone, the clatter echoing in the quiet kitchen. Ryujin called out, “You good in there?” You mumbled a reply, scrambling to pick up the phone. The text overlay was gone, but the message was clear: J was in the cameras, and they were taunting you.

That evening, you locked yourself in your room, your laptop powered off and your phone on airplane mode. You needed to think. Jungwon was the only person who made sense as J. His tech skills, his access to your house, his weirdly intense interest in you—it all fit. But why? Was it a game? A crush? Something darker? You remembered the way he’d looked at you yesterday, his voice soft but edged when he said, “You’re fascinating, Y/N.” The memory made your skin crawl, but there was something else too—a flicker of curiosity you couldn’t shake.

You grabbed a notebook, scribbling everything you knew about J. The messages started three weeks ago, right after Jungwon had “fixed” Ryujin’s Wi-Fi. He’d been in the house more often since, always with his laptop or phone, always watching you a little too closely. The CCTV system was cloud-based, accessible with a login Ryujin had shared with Jay—and probably Jungwon, by extension. Your laptop, your notes app, your music app—all compromised after he’d borrowed it. The evidence was circumstantial but overwhelming.

Your phone buzzed despite airplane mode, making you jump. A notification from your calendar app: “Meet J at midnight. Your room.” Your blood ran cold. You hadn’t set that event. You opened the app, and the entry vanished before your eyes, replaced by a single word: “Soon.”

You glanced at the clock. 10:47 p.m. Whatever J—Jungwon?—was planning, it was escalating. You needed a plan, fast. Confront him? Record him? Or wait and see what he’d do next? The thought of facing him alone terrified you, but so did the idea of doing nothing. He was in your systems, your home, your head. And he knew it.

The house creaked, and you froze, listening. Footsteps, soft but deliberate, moved down the hall. Ryujin and Jay were asleep—you’d heard them go to bed an hour ago. Which left only one person who could be out there.

Your phone lit up again. No notification, just a single image on the lock screen: your bedroom door, from the hallway camera, with a shadow just outside.

The shadow outside your bedroom door lingered on your phone screen, a dark silhouette against the grainy hallway feed. Your heart thudded so loudly you swore it echoed in the silent room. The clock on your nightstand read 10:52 p.m.—just over an hour until the mysterious “Meet J at midnight” calendar event that had appeared and vanished like a ghost. Your phone, despite being in airplane mode, felt like a live wire in your hand, buzzing with the weight of J’s presence. You were certain now: J was Jungwon. The messages, the hacked apps, the CCTV access—it all pointed to him. But knowing didn’t make it less terrifying. If anything, it made it worse.

You crept to your door, pressing your ear against the wood. The footsteps you’d heard moments ago had stopped, but the air felt heavy, like someone was still out there, waiting. You glanced at your laptop, powered off and unplugged, its webcam still taped over. Your notebook lay open on the bed, pages filled with your frantic scribbles: timelines of J’s messages, Jungwon’s visits, every suspicious moment. It wasn’t enough. You needed proof—something concrete to confront him with, or to take it to Ryujin and Jay without sounding like you’d lost it.

Your phone vibrated, startling you. Airplane mode should’ve blocked notifications, but there it was: a new text from an unknown number. “You’re thinking too hard, Y/N. Just open the door.” Your breath hitched. You swiped to the CCTV app, the hallway feed loading instantly. The shadow was gone, the corridor empty, but a new text popped up: “I’m faster than you think.” Your hands shook as you switched to the living room feed. There was Jungwon, sprawled on the couch, his laptop open, typing with that effortless speed you’d come to dread. He looked relaxed, almost bored, but his fingers were a blur, and the faint reflection in his glasses showed lines of code scrolling like a digital heartbeat.

You forced yourself to breathe. He was downstairs, not outside your door. But the timing, the messages—it was him. It had to be. You needed to act before midnight, before whatever he was planning came to a head. You grabbed your notebook, flipping to a fresh page, and started mapping a plan. Confronting him directly was risky; he was too smart, too slippery. Recording him might work, but your devices were compromised. You needed something he couldn’t hack—something analog.

You tiptoed downstairs, avoiding the creaky third step. The living room was dimly lit, the TV casting a flickering glow across Jungwon’s face. He didn’t look up as you entered, but his lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, almost playful.

“Something like that,” you replied, keeping your distance. You clutched your phone, the CCTV app still open in the background, showing the kitchen feed now. You’d left a small voice recorder—one of your dad’s old gadgets—hidden under a stack of magazines on the coffee table earlier. If Jungwon said anything incriminating, you’d have it on tape, untouchable by his digital tricks.

He closed his laptop with a soft click, his eyes finally meeting yours. They were sharp, like he could see through your casual facade. “You’ve been acting weird, Y/N. Something on your mind?”

You shrugged, forcing a laugh. “Just stressed. Finals, you know?”

He tilted his head, studying you. “You sure? You’ve been… jumpy. Like you’re waiting for something to happen.” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it, a challenge. Your skin prickled. He knew you were onto him, didn’t he?

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed again. You glanced down, unable to stop yourself. A new email from J: “You’re cute when you play detective. Check your notes app.” Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t opened the notes app since this morning, when it had typed on its own. Against your better judgment, you swiped it open. A new note was there, timestamped seconds ago: “Stop trying to outsmart me, Y/N. You’re making this too easy.”

You looked up, and Jungwon was watching you, his smirk wider now. “Problem?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock concern.

“You tell me,” you shot back, your voice sharper than you meant. His eyebrows raised, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, like you’d just made the game more interesting.

“Careful, Y/N,” he said softly. “You’re starting to sound paranoid.”

You wanted to snap at him, to demand answers, but Ryujin’s voice cut through from upstairs. “Y/N? Jungwon? You guys still up?” You heard her footsteps descending, and Jungwon leaned back, his expression shifting to innocent in a heartbeat.

“Just chilling,” he called back, winking at you. Ryujin appeared, yawning, her hair messy from sleep. She glanced between you and Jungwon, oblivious to the tension.

“Go to bed, Y/N,” she said, grabbing a glass of water. “You look like a zombie.”

You muttered a goodnight and retreated, your mind racing. Jungwon’s eyes followed you until you were out of sight.

Back in your room, you locked the door and checked the CCTV feed again. Jungwon was still on the couch, but his laptop was open again, and he was typing. You zoomed in, catching a glimpse of a terminal window, but the text was too small to read. Your phone buzzed, another text: “You forgot to check your browser history.” Dread pooled in your chest. You opened your laptop, powering it on despite every instinct screaming not to. The browser loaded, and the history showed searches you hadn’t made: “How to secure a webcam,” “Signs of remote access,” “CCTV vulnerabilities.” All timestamped from the last hour, while you were downstairs.

Your hands trembled as you opened the notes app again. Another new note: “You’re getting warmer, Y/N. But you’re still not fast enough.” You slammed the laptop shut, your breath ragged. He was toying with you, leaving breadcrumbs to prove he could reach you anywhere, anytime.

You grabbed the voice recorder from the living room when Jungwon stepped out to use the bathroom, praying it had caught something. You played it back, but it was just static and snippets of your conversation—nothing damning. Either he hadn’t said anything incriminating, or he’d known the recorder was there. You wouldn’t put it past him.

The clock ticked closer to midnight. You sat on your bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the locked door. Your phone was off now, battery removed for good measure. The laptop was unplugged, stashed under your bed. But the CCTV camera in the corner of your room felt like an eye, unblinking and merciless. You’d covered it with a scarf, but it didn’t feel like enough.

At 11:58 p.m., a soft knock came at your door. You froze, your heart in your throat. “Y/N?” Jungwon’s voice, low and calm, seeped through the wood. “You awake?”

You didn’t answer, your eyes locked on the doorknob. It didn’t turn, but your phone—off, battery out—somehow lit up on the nightstand. The screen displayed a single word: “Open.”

You stood, legs shaky, and backed away from the door. Another knock, sharper this time. “Come on, Y/N,” Jungwon said, his tone still light but with a hint of impatience. “I just want to talk.”

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s late, Jungwon. I’m tired.”

A pause, then a soft laugh. “You’re not tired. You’re scared.” He said it like a fact, not a question. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not the bad guy here.”

Your notebook was still open on the bed, and you glanced at it, at the list of J’s messages. Every instinct screamed that Jungwon was J, but a tiny, reckless part of you wondered if you were wrong. If he was just a guy, teasing you, flirting in his weird, intense way. You shook your head. No. The hacked apps, the CCTV, the real-time taunts—it was too much for coincidence.

“I’m not opening the door,” you said, louder now, trying to sound firm.

Another pause, longer this time. Then, softly: “Your choice, Y/N. But I’ll see you soon.” His footsteps retreated, and you heard the creak of the stairs as he went back downstairs. You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until the house was silent again.

You stayed up all night, the scarf over the camera, the door locked, your notebook clutched like a lifeline. At 3 a.m., your laptop—still unplugged—emitted a soft hum. You stared, horrified, as the screen flickered on, displaying a live feed of your room. Not from the CCTV, but from another angle—lower, closer. Your webcam. The tape was still there, but the feed showed you, sitting on your bed, staring at the laptop in real-time.

A text overlay appeared: “I told you, Y/N. I’m always watching.”

You screamed, shoving the laptop off the bed. It hit the floor with a thud, the screen going black. You didn’t sleep again that night, your mind spiraling. Jungwon wasn’t just hacking your devices. He was hacking your life. And the worst part? You still didn’t know why—or what he’d do next.

The morning after Jungwon’s midnight knock, your room felt like a cage. The scarf over the CCTV camera hung limp, useless against the violation of last night’s webcam feed. Your laptop, now shoved into a drawer, was a traitor you couldn’t trust. Your phone, battery still removed, sat dead on your nightstand. You hadn’t slept, your eyes burning from staring at the ceiling, replaying every message from J, every glance from Jungwon, every moment that had led to this suffocating dread. You knew it was him. You knew. But knowing wasn’t enough—you needed to end this.

Downstairs, the house was alive with normalcy that felt obscene. Ryujin was humming in the kitchen, flipping eggs, while Jay laughed at something on his phone. Jungwon was there too, perched on a stool at the counter, his black hoodie swapped for a clean white tee, his hair slightly damp from a shower. He looked infuriatingly normal, sipping coffee like he hadn’t spent the night terrorizing you. But when his eyes met yours, that familiar smirk flickered—just for a second, just for you.

“Morning, Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth as ever. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

Ryujin glanced over, frowning. “Seriously, Y/N, you okay? You’re paler than my bedsheets.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, grabbing a glass of water to avoid Jungwon’s gaze. Your hands shook slightly, and you prayed he didn’t notice. But of course he did. His eyes tracked you like a predator, and you felt it in your bones: he was J, and he was enjoying this.

You needed a plan—something to trap him, expose him, or at least make him back off. Confronting him directly hadn’t worked; he was too slippery, too good at playing innocent. You needed evidence, something Ryujin and Jay couldn’t dismiss. And you needed it before he escalated further. The webcam feed last night, showing through the tape, was a warning. He was closing in, and midnight—his promised “meeting”—had passed, but you didn’t feel safe. You felt hunted.

You spent the morning pretending to study, your notebook open to a page of meaningless notes while you brainstormed. Jungwon stayed downstairs, but his presence was a shadow, lingering in every ping of your phone, every flicker of your laptop screen. You’d reinserted your phone’s battery to check for new messages, half-expecting another taunt. Nothing yet, but the silence was worse—it felt like he was waiting, letting you stew.

By noon, you had an idea. Jungwon was good, but no one was perfect. If he was hacking your devices, he was leaving traces—logs, IP addresses, something. You weren’t a tech genius, but you’d taken a coding class last semester, enough to know the basics. You needed to bait him, catch him in the act, and record it in a way he couldn’t erase. The voice recorder hadn’t worked, but maybe something simpler would.

You grabbed an old USB drive from your desk, one you hadn’t used in years. It was clean, unconnected to any network. You plugged it into your laptop, quickly setting up a dummy file—a text document labeled “Y/N’s Secrets.” Inside, you wrote nonsense: fake diary entries, random thoughts, anything to make it look personal. If Jungwon was as nosy as you thought, he’d take the bait. You left the laptop on your desk, screen unlocked, and headed downstairs, leaving the USB plugged in.

“Hey, Ryujin,” you called, keeping your voice casual. “I’m running to the store for snacks. Want anything?”

She looked up from her phone, sprawled on the couch next to Jay. “Chips. Spicy ones. You sure you’re okay? You’re acting weird.”

“Just need some air,” you said, forcing a smile. Jungwon was at the counter, scrolling on his phone. He didn’t look up, but you saw his fingers pause for a split second. Got you, you thought.

You left the house, circling around to the backyard where you could peek through the living room window. The CCTV app was open on your phone, showing Jungwon still at the counter—but then he stood, stretching, and wandered toward the stairs. Your pulse quickened. You switched to the bedroom feed, watching as he appeared in your room, casual as ever, like he belonged there. He glanced at the laptop, then at the door, before sitting at your desk. His fingers moved over the trackpad, opening the USB drive.

You held your breath. The dummy file was rigged with a simple tracking script you’d found online—a long shot, but it logged access times and device IDs. If he opened it, you’d have proof he was snooping. Jungwon’s expression didn’t change as he clicked the file, his eyes scanning the screen. Then, infuriatingly, he smirked, typed something, and closed the laptop. He left the room, and you hurried back inside, heart pounding.

Upstairs, you checked the USB. The file was still there, but a new note had been added at the bottom: “Cute try, Y/N. But I’m better than that.” Your stomach sank. The tracking script’s log was empty—wiped clean. He’d seen through it, turned your trap against you. But worse was the new email waiting in your inbox: “Nice USB trick. Want to see something cooler?” Attached was a video file. You hesitated, then clicked.

It was your bedroom, filmed from an angle you didn’t recognize—not the CCTV, not the webcam. You were in it, sleeping, two nights ago, the covers pulled up to your chin. The video zoomed in, slow and deliberate, on your face. A text overlay appeared: “Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

You dropped your phone, bile rising in your throat. He wasn’t just in your devices. He was everywhere.

That evening, you couldn’t pretend anymore. You cornered Ryujin in the kitchen while Jay and Jungwon were gaming in the living room. “I need to talk to you,” you whispered, pulling her aside. “It’s about Jungwon.”

Her brow furrowed. “What about him? He’s been here all day, Y/N. What’s got you so freaked?”

You hesitated, knowing how crazy it would sound. “I think he’s… hacking me. My phone, my laptop, the CCTV. Someone’s been sending me messages, watching me, and it started when he started coming around more.”

Ryujin stared, then laughed, short and sharp. “Jungwon? The guy who can’t even set up his own Netflix account without Jay’s help? Y/N, you’re spiraling. Maybe you’ve been online too much.”

“I’m not crazy,” you snapped, shoving your phone at her, showing the video from J. “Explain this.”

Her face paled as the video played, but she shook her head. “This could be anyone. Some creep from the internet. Why would Jungwon do this? He’s practically family.”

“Because he’s obsessed,” you said, your voice low. “He’s always watching me, always here. He borrowed my laptop, Ryujin. The messages got worse after that.”

She frowned, glancing toward the living room where Jungwon’s laughter mixed with Jay’s. “Okay, that’s… weird. But we need proof. Real proof. I’ll talk to Jay, see if Jungwon’s been acting off. But don’t do anything rash, Y/N. If it’s not him, you’ll look insane.”

You nodded, but you weren’t waiting for her. You had one last idea—a risky one. If Jungwon wanted to play, you’d play back.

That night, you set the trap. You left your laptop open, a blank text document on the screen, and typed a single line: “I know it’s you, Jungwon. Stop this, or I go to the police.” You left it visible, then hid in the closet, your phone recording through a crack in the door. The CCTV app was open on another device, an old tablet, showing the room. You waited, barely breathing.

At 11:47 p.m., your bedroom door creaked open. Jungwon stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He glanced at the laptop, read the message, and chuckled—a low, dangerous sound. “Oh, Y/N,” he murmured, sitting at your desk. “You’re so close.”

He typed something, his fingers flying, then leaned back, staring at the screen. Your phone buzzed in your hand, a new text: “Police? That’s adorable. But you don’t want to end this. Not yet.” He stood, looking directly at the closet—directly at you. “Come out, Y/N. Let’s talk.”

You froze, your heart stopping. He knew. He’d always known. The tablet’s CCTV feed glitched, then cut to a new angle: inside the closet, showing you, crouched, phone in hand. A text overlay blinked: “Game over.”

Jungwon opened the closet door, his smile soft but chilling. “I told you, Y/N. I’m not the bad guy. I just… like you. A lot.” He crouched to your level, his eyes locking onto yours. “You’re fascinating, you know that? The way you think, the way you fight back. I couldn’t stop watching.”

You clutched your phone, your voice shaking. “You’re sick, Jungwon. This isn’t a game.”

His smile faded, and for a moment, he looked almost hurt. “It’s not about hurting you. It’s about knowing you. Everything—your music, your fears, your secrets. I wanted to be close to you. Closer than anyone.”

You stood, backing away. “Stay away from me. I’m telling Ryujin. Jay. The police.”

He sighed, standing too. “They won’t believe you. I’m careful, Y/N. No traces, no proof. Just you and me.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “But I’ll stop. If you want me to. Say it, and I’ll delete everything—every hack, every feed. Or… you can let me show you what I can do. For you. With you.”

Your mind raced. He was offering a way out, but it felt like a trap. Yet the intensity in his eyes, the sincerity beneath the madness, made you pause. Was he dangerous, or just obsessed? Could you trust him to stop? Did you want him to?

“I need time,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the fear.

He nodded, stepping back. “Fair. I’m patient. But don’t take too long, Y/N. I’m always watching.” He left, the door clicking shut behind him.

You collapsed onto your bed, the tablet still showing the glitched CCTV feed. A new message appeared on your phone: “Your move.”

You had a choice to make. Expose him, risk everything, and hope for proof. Or play his game, dive deeper, and maybe—just maybe—find a way to beat him at it.

The silence was a weapon. For three weeks after Jungwon’s midnight confession in your closet, the absence of J’s messages left a void that gnawed at you. No pings, no glitched CCTV feeds, no eerie texts taunting you from the shadows of your phone. Your laptop, locked away in a drawer, was a sleeping beast you didn’t dare touch. Your phone, battery removed half the time, felt like a grenade with the pin pulled. The scarf over your bedroom’s CCTV camera hung like a flag of surrender, a reminder of Jungwon’s eyes—sharp, piercing, obsessive—watching you through every digital crack in your life.

You’d checked your systems obsessively, running scans, scouring logs, even enlisting a friend from your coding class to double-check. Nothing. No traces of J, no hidden connections, no signs of intrusion. Jungwon had kept his promise: he’d wiped his presence clean. It should’ve calmed you, but it didn’t. The silence was his new game, a dare to see what you’d do without his shadow looming. And the worst part? You missed it. Not the fear, but the thrill—the way his messages made your heart race, the way his obsession made you feel seen, wanted, known.

Jungwon was still a constant in your life, showing up with Jay like nothing had changed. He’d lounge in your living room, his leather jacket tossed over a chair, his dark hair falling just right over his eyes, his smirks sharp enough to cut. Every glance he sent your way was a spark, igniting a fire you couldn’t extinguish. Ryujin and Jay were oblivious, laughing and joking as if the world hadn’t shifted under your feet. But you saw it—the way Jungwon’s eyes lingered, the way his voice dropped when he spoke to you, the way his fingers brushed yours when he passed you a drink. It was subtle, deliberate, and it drove you wild.

You should’ve hated him. He’d hacked your life, your privacy, your mind. But the truth was uglier: you were falling for him. His obsession, his ability to unravel every piece of you—your late-night playlists, your unsent rants, the way you danced alone in your room—was terrifying but intoxicating. He’d seen you at your rawest, your most vulnerable, and instead of running, he’d stayed. Devoted. Consumed. And now, you were consumed too, caught in a web of fear and fascination that felt like love.

It was a stormy Thursday night, the kind where the sky roared and the rain lashed the windows like it wanted to break in. Ryujin and Jay were at a friend’s game night, leaving the house empty, the air thick with the scent of wet pavement and anticipation. You were in your room, trying to focus on a coding project, but your mind kept drifting to Jungwon—his voice, his hands, the way he’d looked at you in the closet, like you were the only thing in his universe.

Your phone buzzed, a motion alert from the CCTV app. You opened it, your heart already racing, and there he was: Jungwon, standing on your porch, soaked to the bone, his black hoodie clinging to his frame like a second skin. He looked up at the camera, his eyes dark and unreadable, and smiled—a slow, deliberate curve that sent a shiver through you. You didn’t hesitate. You were already moving, down the stairs, to the door, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears.

You opened the door, the cold air rushing in with the scent of rain and his cologne, cedar and steel. “You shouldn’t be here,” you said, but your voice was soft, almost inviting.

He stepped closer, water dripping from his hair, his eyes locked on yours. “You didn’t change the locks. Or the Wi-Fi. Or the CCTV codes.” His voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it, a hunger. “Why, Y/N? Hoping I’d come back?”

You crossed your arms, trying to hold your ground, but your cheeks flushed. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d keep your promise.”

He laughed, a sound that vibrated through you, warm and dangerous. “I did. No hacks, no messages. I’ve been good.” He took another step, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him despite the rain. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I know you’re thinking about me too.”

Your breath caught. He was right, and you hated it. You’d spent weeks replaying his words, his messages, the way he’d seen you—really seen you. It was invasive, yes, but it was also intimate, like he’d cracked open your soul and memorized every piece. “You scared me,” you said, your voice trembling but honest. “You crossed lines. My phone, my laptop, my cameras. But…”

“But?” he prompted, his eyes darkening, his smirk softening into something more vulnerable.

“But I can’t stop thinking about you either,” you admitted, the words spilling out like a confession. “The way you saw me—everything about me. It’s terrifying, but it’s… it’s hot, Jungwon. Knowing you were watching, knowing you wanted me that much—it’s messed up, but it makes me feel… alive.”

His smile was gone now, replaced by something raw, intense. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, his voice rough. “I saw you—your music, your rants, the way you laugh when you think no one’s around. I couldn’t look away. I tried, Y/N. I stopped the hacks, I deleted everything, but I can’t stop wanting you.”

You swallowed, your heart racing. “Then don’t,” you said, the words reckless but true. “I want you too. All of you—the hacker, the guy, the obsession. I want you in my life, Jungwon. In my systems, my world, everything.”

His eyes widened, surprise flickering before it was swallowed by hunger. “You mean that? You’re giving me access—your phone, your laptop, your secrets?”

You nodded, stepping closer, your hands trembling but sure. “Yes. I want you to know me, like I want to know you. No walls, no games. You get my servers, my data, my everything. But you give me yours too.”

He stared at you, like he was trying to process the weight of your words. Then he laughed, a low, thrilled sound, and closed the distance between you, his hands cupping your face. “You’re insane,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek, warm despite the rain. “You’re giving me your world, Y/N. You sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” you said, your voice steady now, your eyes locked on his. “I want you, Jungwon. I want the guy who hacked my life because he couldn’t stay away. I want the guy who sees me like no one else ever has. Hack me, watch me, know me—I’m yours.”

His lips crashed into yours, and the world tilted. The kiss was fire, desperate and consuming, like he was pouring every moment of his obsession into it. His hands were everywhere—on your face, your neck, your waist—pulling you against him, the wet fabric of his hoodie soaking into your shirt. You kissed him back, just as hungry, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He tasted like rain and mint, sharp and addictive, and you couldn’t get enough.

The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours, slow and deliberate, then fast and reckless, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. You gasped, and he took advantage, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, sending a shiver through you. Your hands slid under his hoodie, finding warm skin, lean muscle, the rapid beat of his heart under your fingers. He hissed softly, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

“You’re killing me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with want. “I watched you for so long, wanted you for so long, and now you’re here, letting me in.” His lips trailed to your jaw, leaving a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses that made you arch against him. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whispered, your voice shaky but bold, your hands sliding up his chest, nails grazing lightly. “Show me how much you wanted me.”

He groaned, low and deep, and kissed you again, harder, his hands roaming your back, possessive and urgent. You stumbled back, pulling him with you, until you hit the couch, and he followed, his body pressing you into the cushions. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he moaned, the sound vibrating against your lips, making your head spin. His lips found your neck, sucking lightly, leaving a trail of heat that had you gasping, your fingers tangling in his hair, urging him on.

“I saw everything,” he murmured against your skin, his voice raw. “Your late-night dances, your rants about bad coffee, the way you sing when you think no one’s listening. I wanted to be there, Y/N. Not just watching—touching you, feeling you.” His teeth grazed your collarbone, and you shivered, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him back to your mouth.

“Then don’t stop,” you said, your voice breathless, your lips brushing his. “You have me now. All of me.”

He kissed you like it was a vow, slow and deliberate, his hands sliding under your shirt, warm against your skin. The touch was electric, every point of contact burning, and you arched into him, wanting more. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, possessive but careful, like he was still afraid you’d vanish.

You kissed him back, pouring every confusing, thrilling emotion into it—fear, desire, love, all tangled together. Your teeth nipped his lip, and he groaned again, his hands tightening, pulling you so close you could feel his heartbeat, fast and erratic, matching yours.

The kiss stretched on, a blur of lips and tongues, gasps and moans, until your lungs burned and your body felt alive in a way it never had. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’m yours. Every code, every server, every secret—I’m giving you everything, Y/N.”

You nodded, your chest heaving, your hands still tangled in his hair. “And I’m giving you mine,” you said, your voice steady despite the fire in your veins. “My phone, my laptop, my life. Hack me, Jungwon. I want you to.”

His eyes darkened, a mix of awe and hunger, and he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second. His lips moved against yours like he was memorizing you, his hands roaming your sides, your back, your hips, like he couldn’t get enough.

You kissed him back, just as deep, your hands sliding under his hoodie again, feeling the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles. He groaned softly, his teeth grazing your ear, and you shivered, pulling him closer, wanting every piece of him.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “Every detail, every moment—I knew it when I watched you, but this… this is everything.” His voice was raw, almost reverent, and it made your heart ache, made you want him more.

You pulled him back to your mouth, kissing him with a desperation that matched his, your hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, his hair. The couch creaked under you, the rain a distant roar, the world shrinking to just the two of you. His lips were swollen now, his breath uneven, but he didn’t stop, kissing you like he’d been starving for it, like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

The rain roared outside, a relentless curtain that sealed you and Jungwon in Ryujin’s living room, the world shrinking to the heat of his lips, the press of his body, the fire of his obsession. His kiss was a storm—teeth grazing, tongues tangling, a desperate edge that matched the chaos in your heart. Jungwon, Jay’s best friend, the hacker who’d slipped into your digital life as J, was now unraveling you in the flesh, and you were letting him, craving him, falling for him in a way that felt like love and madness intertwined. His wet hoodie clung to his lean frame, your hands greedy under the fabric, tracing the hard lines of his abs, the rapid beat of his heart. You’d spent weeks terrified of J’s messages, his eyes in your cameras, but now you knew—Jungwon was J, and you wanted every byte of him.

His obsession was a mirror to your own, a twisted thrill that made you feel seen, wanted, alive.

Every night since, you’d waited for him—not by a window, but by your phone, your laptop, your heart racing for a ping, a glitch, a sign of J. You’d refresh your inbox, check your CCTV feeds, even play your obscure playlists, hoping he’d notice, hoping he’d break his silence. The absence of his messages was torture, but it only deepened your hunger. He’d hacked your life, your privacy, your soul, and you’d fallen for it, for him, for the way he knew you better than anyone.

Last night, alone in your room, the longing had been unbearable. You’d lain back, the darkness thick, your body humming with need. Your fingers slipped beneath your panties, finding the damp folds of your pussy, slick with thoughts of Jungwon—his voice, his smirk, the way he’d seen you through your webcam. You gasped, imagining his hands, precise and skilled, his hacker’s fingers teasing you apart. You circled your clit, slow at first, then faster, picturing his eyes on a hidden feed, knowing exactly how you arched, how you moaned. “Fuck, Jungwon,” you’d whispered, your hips bucking, your fingers plunging into your wet heat, chasing the image of him—his obsession, his control. The release hit hard, a shuddering moan spilling from your lips, but it wasn’t enough. You needed him, not just his shadow.

Now, he was here, real and burning, his lips on yours, his body pinning you to the couch. “You’re killing me,” he growled against your mouth, his voice rough with want. “I watched you for so long, wanted you for so long, and now you’re here, letting me in.” His lips trailed to your jaw, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a path of fire that made you arch against him. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you gasped, your voice bold, your hands sliding under his hoodie, nails grazing his abs, hard and warm. “Show me how much you wanted me.”

His groan was primal, his lips crashing back to yours, kissing you like he’d die without it. His hands slid under your shirt, fingers rough against your skin, tracing your ribs, your waist, sending sparks through you. You arched into him, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer, feeling the hard press of his cock through his jeans against your thigh. He hissed, his teeth grazing your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice a growl. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“Good,” you moaned, tugging his hoodie off, your hands greedy for his skin—smooth, taut, fever-hot. His lips found your collarbone, kissing, biting, leaving a trail of heat that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. The couch creaked, the rain a distant roar, the world shrinking to his mouth, his hands, his body against yours.

He pulled back, his eyes dark and wild, his breath ragged. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice thick with possession. “Every song, every secret, every fucking moment—I’ve seen it all, and I want it all.” His hands gripped your hips, yanking you up, and you straddled him, your thighs squeezing his, feeling the bulge of his cock pressing against your core through your leggings. You ground against him, slow and deliberate, and he cursed, his head falling back, his hands tightening on your ass.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his eyes locked on yours, watching every roll of your hips, every flush on your cheeks. “You have no idea how many nights I watched you, wishing I could touch you like this.” His fingers dug into your ass, guiding your movements, making you grind harder, the friction sending heat coiling low in your belly.

“Then do it,” you challenged, your voice breathless, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging hard. “Touch me, Jungwon. Fuck me like you’ve been dreaming of.”

His control snapped, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He flipped you onto your back, the couch creaking under the force, his body hovering over yours, all lean muscle and hunger. He yanked your shirt up, exposing your bra, and his mouth was on you, kissing the swell of your breasts, his tongue flicking under the lace. You moaned, arching up, your hands scrambling to unhook it, and he helped, tossing it aside, his lips closing over your nipple, sucking hard. The sensation shot straight to your pussy, making you writhe, your legs wrapping around him, desperate for more.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing your nipple, his hand palming your other breast, pinching just hard enough to make you gasp. “I knew you’d feel like this, taste like this.” His lips trailed down your stomach, kissing, licking, until he reached the waistband of your leggings. He looked up, eyes burning, and you nodded, your breath hitching.

He peeled your leggings and panties off in one swift motion, leaving you bare, your pussy glistening with want. He cursed under his breath, his hands spreading your thighs, his eyes locked on your dripping core. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he said, his voice raw, his fingers brushing your folds, teasing, not enough. You bucked your hips, whining, and he smirked, that J smirk, the one that haunted your feeds. “Patient, Y/N. I’ve waited this long. I’m gonna savor you.”

His finger slid inside, slow and deliberate, curling just right, and you moaned, your head falling back. He added another, stretching you, his thumb circling your clit, the pressure building fast. “So tight,” he groaned, his voice strained, his eyes flicking between your face and your pussy, watching every reaction. “You’re gonna feel so fucking good around my cock.”

“Then give it to me,” you snapped, your voice needy, your hands tugging at his jeans, fumbling with the button. He laughed, low and dark, helping you, shoving his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free—hard, thick, the tip glistening with precum. Your mouth watered, your pussy clenching at the sight, and he noticed, his smirk widening.

“Like what you see?” he teased, stroking himself, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’ve got no idea how many times I jerked off thinking of you, watching you on those feeds.”

You reached for him, your hand wrapping around his cock, stroking him, feeling the hot, velvet weight of him. He hissed, his hips jerking, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, leaning down, kissing you hard, his tongue fucking your mouth like he was claiming it. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you whispered against his lips, guiding his cock to your entrance, rubbing the tip against your slick folds. “Fuck me, Jungwon. Now.”

He didn’t need another invitation. He thrust in, hard and deep, filling you in one brutal stroke, and you cried out, your nails digging into his back, the stretch burning and perfect. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, pausing, his breath ragged, his eyes locked on yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, your body adjusting, the fullness sending heat spiraling through you. “Move,” you begged, your hips rocking, needing more. He pulled back, then slammed in again, setting a relentless pace, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. You moaned, loud and shameless, your hands gripping his ass, pulling him deeper.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he panted, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider, his thrusts brutal and precise, like he’d memorized every inch of you. “My perfect little slut, letting me fuck you like this, letting me own you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your pussy clenching around him, the dirty words sending you higher. “I’m yours, Jungwon. Fuck, I’m yours.”

He groaned, his lips crashing to yours, kissing you sloppy and desperate, his hips snapping faster, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. His hand slid between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you screamed, the pleasure overwhelming, your body shaking. “Come for me,” he growled, his voice rough, his thrusts erratic, his own release close. “Come all over my cock, Y/N.”

The command broke you. Your orgasm hit like a wave, your pussy clamping down, your body arching, a choked moan ripping from your throat. Jungwon cursed, his thrusts faltering, and he pulled out, stroking his cock fast, his cum spilling hot and thick across your stomach, marking you. He collapsed beside you, both of you panting, the couch damp with sweat and rain.

For a moment, it was quiet, just the rain and your breaths. Then he turned, his eyes soft, his hand brushing your hair back. “You’re everything,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Every code, every secret, every moment—I want it all.”

You nodded, your heart still racing, your body buzzing. “And I want you,” you said, your voice steady. “Hack me, watch me, love me—I’m yours.”

"I'll always be watching you, my love." Jungwon whispered in your ear. "Always through your digital shadows."

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@rosepetals09 @yenienha

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fructosetolerant · 3 months ago

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Showdown in Chinatown Review 🎥

I just finished R1999's 2.5 patch yesterday, I wrote a review of it on my privtwt but the character limit of Twitter is seriously unbearable so I'm taking my reviews to Tumblr (⁠ب⁠_⁠ب⁠)

⚠️ THIS IS ONLY THE EVENT STORY no character stories yet because I want to review them seperately also SPOILERS AHEAD!! ⚠️

Favourite Character: Liang Yue

She's the limited character of this patch so I will admit there is some bias, but it's very little since I also love Noire loads. I really loved her character in the story: how she has the heavy expectations from her parents, her love for films, and how she was able to distinguish fiction from reality.

Favourite Moment: Liang Yue's flashback to the first time she watched a C07 movie as the CG shows her child self sitting at the bench, then shows her current self sitting at the same bench as she has never forgotten Qi Xing's words from that interview.

Favourite OST: Originally it was the EP Rock Solid but I'm currently listening to The Truth Will Come as I'm writing this.

Favourite NPC: Poitier / Constance Scott (I CAN EXPLAIN MYSELF FOR SCOTT)

Let's first clear my name. Scott was someone who parallels Liang Yue in the sense that they have expectations placed onto them, it's just that Scott's one is in the negatives. (Now that I think about it Maltida makes sense too) She was raised in an environment where her mother didn't really acknowledge her and always looked down on her so when she meets Latham/Loggerhead she looks down upon her so that she can feel superior in something. She wasn't cold or calculating, she was lashing out. Go forth inferiority complex.

Liang Yue Family expectations: You must fulfill your duty as the Zhenzi of Qiangliang. Liang Yue feels this duty yet also feels like she doesn't live up to it. (Like how she sees Qiangliang responding to her call as a coincidence)

Maltida Bouanich Family expectations: Beryl Bouanich don't care 😭😭😭😭. Yet Maltida wants to be the best (fostered positively)

Constance Scott Family Expectations: You are nothing... Scott wants to prove herself (fostered negatively) (self fulfilling prophecy)

I get where Scott is coming from and yes I do very much hate her, yet I understand her. She shouldn't have treated Loggerhead like that. That was foul.

Main Themes

The main themes, from what I could gather are:

Diaspora (shown in the earlier chapters)

Liang Yue and Noire are both characters that show this (while they haven't moved there we see cultural clashes, familial expectations, and connections with the community in Chinatown). I do wish this was further explored seeing the strong start from the beginning but I do hope and think we'll get more patches with this theme in the future.

The roles people play / peeling off to appreciate one's individuality

Double entendre with the roles in a movie, the role of the Zhenzi, etc. As someone who has experienced some form of parasociality from my YT channel (I'd like to keep it a secret but it's pretty obvious), I think that this is conveyed well as Liang Yue peels back the layers with sense. Going in blindly will create problems for both sides and I'm glad that this was tackled so well as coming to embrace someone's individuality is beautiful, like Noire says.

How fiction affects reality

The line between C07 and Qi Xing was blurred for the actress. How C07 inspired conviction in Liang Yue. I love it as it reminds me of when I watched Youzitsu and felt so inspired I put my life together for a few months.

Identity (We're Reverse: 1999 guys of course we have identity)

This is a really bad transition but this is my blog we BALL!! But I need to write an apology letter to Noire because for the whole time I thought she was based of off Wong Kar Wai (I love In the Mood for Love it's the only film I've watched from him but well I made this blog for a reason it's time to consume media) because her name was Noire like Noir films. But she makes action films oh I'm stupid (⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠_⁠_⁠_⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠-̩̩̩⁠)

I really love how Noire is written: how she is passionately in pursuit of the better film, how she shows that deep down creators will always want to create, and especially how reckless she was in the past. I was like Noire in the past as well, reckless and selfish, and honestly a jerk but I've learnt from those mistakes. It takes a team to create something better as we are limited to our own brains when we think alone.

⭐ AFFLATUS TALK 🌱

Liang Yue: Star

The aspiration to be a hero that brings happy endings to everyone, the desire to prove herself. The star that she saw that day was in the Detective C07 films.

Noire: Plant

The care for her set (environment). I don't really see anything else other than that. I also think maybe it's because they wouldn't want to release too many star afflatus characters (including Barcarola from last patch as well) but I think that plant is very fitting for her. Like I see the vision y'know.

I'm out of things to yap about now but if you read this all thank you so much 🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️ I hope to remember to write the next review. I'm always open for discussion, thank you again!

#reverse 1999 #showdown in chinatown #story review #liang yue #noire #constance scott #idk how to use tumblr

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chishiyasdearjacket · 4 months ago

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Chapter 1: A Game of Wits

Part 1: Their first meeting in the Hearts game, where they begin to observe and test each other.

Masterlist: The King's Decree

Chishiya didn’t believe in fate.

Coincidences? Sure. Predictable patterns? Absolutely. But fate was just an excuse people used when they didn’t want to admit that their lives were ruled by probabilities, not destiny.

And yet, when he stepped into the game arena that night, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something unexpected was about to happen.

The building was a massive, abandoned shopping mall—dark, silent, except for the flickering emergency lights casting eerie shadows along the cracked tile floors. Players gathered near the registration screen, their faces a mix of fear, caution, and empty resignation.

Chishiya leaned against a support column, taking in the group.

Then, his gaze landed on her.

She wasn’t trembling like the others. If anything, she looked bored—arms crossed, weight shifted onto one hip, eyes scanning the crowd with quiet calculation. Most players wore their emotions like a mask slipping off their faces, but not her.

Interesting.

Before he could make any further observations, the monitors above them flickered to life, displaying the game details.

Game: "The King's Decree"

Difficulty: Five of Hearts

A soft murmur ran through the crowd. Hearts games were the worst. Chishiya barely reacted, already turning his attention back to the girl. If she was as cunning as she seemed, she wouldn’t panic over this, either.

He smirked. This could be entertaining.

----

Y/N felt his gaze before she saw him.

A subtle weight, an awareness creeping up her spine. She turned her head slightly, and there he was—leaning casually against a column, wearing that infuriatingly smug expression. White hoodie, silver hair, sharp eyes that held the kind of amusement most people in the Borderland had lost long ago.

She didn’t trust him.

Which meant she liked him already.

The game details loaded. A five of Hearts. That meant manipulation, deceit, emotional warfare. People would cry. People would turn on each other. And someone—probably more than one—wouldn’t make it out alive.

The instructions came next.

RULES:

1. A "King" has already been chosen among the players.

2. Every round, the King issues a decree that all players must follow.

3. If a player disobeys, they die.

4. The goal: Find the King and eliminate them before time runs out.

Y/N glanced around, watching as panic set in. People were already whispering, throwing suspicious looks at each other. She exhaled slowly, schooling her expression into something neutral.

She wasn’t afraid of Hearts games. She knew how people worked—what drove them, what broke them. And she could play along until she got what she wanted.

Then, movement caught her eye.

The smug-looking guy was still watching her. But now, he was smirking.

Challenge accepted.

----

Chishiya thrived in games like these.

Hearts games weren’t about brute strength or physical endurance—they were about control. About watching people unravel, forcing them to make choices that revealed their true nature. And The King’s Decree was no different.

The group shifted uneasily as the announcement ended. Some players immediately tried to shrink into the background, while others stood rigid, scanning the faces around them with suspicion. A few muttered under their breath, already forming alliances they’d probably betray within minutes.

Chishiya let his gaze drift back to her.

Unlike the rest, she wasn’t panicking. If anything, she looked... curious. Calculating. Like she was already two steps ahead of everyone else.

Interesting.

Then, the speakers crackled again.

The first decree has been issued:

"All players must link arms with someone within the next 30 seconds. Anyone left alone will be eliminated."

Panic set in.

People turned to each other in frantic desperation, some begging, others grabbing the nearest person without hesitation. Chishiya, however, remained perfectly still, watching as chaos unfolded.

He had no intention of scrambling for a partner. Someone would come to him—they always did. People gravitated toward perceived safety, and his unreadable demeanor had a way of making people believe he knew what he was doing.

But before anyone else could reach him, she did.

Y/N appeared at his side in an instant, her hand gripping his wrist in an unspoken command before looping their arms together. The motion was seamless, as if they’d done it a hundred times before.

Chishiya blinked, then smirked. So, she’s fast.

“Figured I’d take my chances with you,” she murmured, eyes still scanning the room. “You don’t look like the type to panic.”

“And you don’t look like the type to rely on anyone,” he countered smoothly.

Her lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close. “Maybe I just pick my battles wisely.”

Interesting indeed.

The countdown ended. A deafening beep rang through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground.

A man near the entrance had hesitated too long. He stood alone—wide-eyed, trembling—before his collar blinked red. A second later, his body crumpled.

Dead.

The room went eerily silent.

---

Y/N barely flinched as the first casualty hit the ground. She’d seen worse.

What mattered now was that she wasn’t next.

Her grip on Chishiya’s arm remained firm, though she could feel his gaze on her, assessing. He was unreadable—relaxed, unbothered, as if this was just another passing moment rather than a game designed to tear people apart.

Good. That meant he wasn’t reckless.

The monitor flickered again.

The next decree will be issued in 60 seconds.

One minute. Not much time to gather information, but enough to make the right moves.

She turned her attention to the group. Fear was setting in quickly—whispered suspicions, darting glances, alliances forming in desperation. She didn’t trust any of them.

But she could use them.

“What do you think?” Chishiya’s voice was smooth, casual, but there was something unreadable beneath the surface. “Got any guesses on the King?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Why? Hoping I’ll tell you so you can use it to your advantage?”

His smirk widened just a fraction. “I like to be informed.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh. Amusing.

“I don’t know who the King is,” she admitted. “But I do know one thing—”

She nodded toward a man in the corner, a nervous-looking guy clutching his own arm so tightly his knuckles were white. He hadn’t spoken once, hadn’t moved beyond what was necessary.

“He knew the first decree was coming,” she continued, voice low. “Didn’t scramble for a partner. Didn’t hesitate, either. Like he was waiting.”

Chishiya followed her gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. “You think he’s the King?”

“I think he knows something.”

Chishiya hummed, as if filing the information away. Then, his eyes flicked back to her.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “You might actually be useful.”

Y/N arched a brow. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Another crackle of static interrupted them.

The next decree has been issued:

"All players must vote for someone to be eliminated within the next two minutes. The person with the most votes dies."

Silence.

Then, the panic set in again.

Y/N could already see it happening—the fear turning to paranoia, the group unraveling, people scrambling to shift blame before it could land on them.

She tightened her grip on Chishiya’s arm and smirked.

“Let’s see how good you really are.”

#aib chishiya #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya shuntaro x reader #alice in borderland #chishiya smut #chishiya x reader #x reader #alice in borderland imagine #boop #Chishiyasdearjacket

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blackiraven · 10 days ago

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Not so long ago, I reread the "War of Jokes and Riddles" and I wanted to write such scriddler. They're just as good, aren't they? I was generally fascinated by the pumped-up Eddie and I'm waiting for Hash 2🌚

In addition, these beautiful drawings have fueled my inspiration. It's not mine, you'll find the author here👈👀

Let's enjoy this version together! My fanfiction is below👇👀

✨Фик на русском тут✨

Play card in chest pocket

"Scarecrow. In my office in ten minutes." it sounded affirmatively from all the transmitters, echoed through the room and collapsed into a quiet sediment. The general frenzy of activity was interrupted, panicked glances were thrown at each other, and after a belated realization they gathered over me. The placebo-like leadership voice even soothed the long agony of the severely wounded, or the reason was relief that someone else had been called instead of them. Bandages have just been changed, stitches were applied a couple of hours ago, and even earlier, a new encounter with the enemy ended exhausted. Batman's intrusion into a process that had absolutely nothing to do with him only spoiled and prolonged our war. It was because of his intervention that I got shot and had to stay with the rest of the injured in an improvised medical center. All the blood had just dried up before the long pilgrimage to the designated place. It is necessary to get up from the couch and walk the learned path with numb legs, loading mute support or the snide grins of the lucky people onto the twisted back. A piercing pain in side pulled me to the ground, to a primitive helpless state in the fetal position, but the order imprinted in my half-clouded consciousness, like a spell, raised me from the dead. The diabolical draw was only accelerating. Someone returned from Riddler's office more crippled, someone got off with an educational conversation, the most suspicious ones have not been seen or heard for a long time. "How do you leave and stay in the building at the same time? To be carried out dead in several bags and remain alive in the memory of the inhabitants."

The main headquarters was located behind a door that carefully hidden into the dark corridor. Crossing his threshold, the summoned one undertook to take off his masks, shed his superfluous personalities and swallow its own ambitions. The appearance of the four walls has long been forgotten due to the hung maps of the districts of Gotham. The lists of remaining and "dropped out" mercenaries, the plans for the placement of small bases and the division of conquered territories. The various photographs, trophies and notes re-drawn dozens of times. Each guest or intruder was hooked and delayed by this gallery, in the constellations of letters and numbers their fate or the beckoning opportunity to decipher Riddler's notes and mentally surpass him could be hidden. A simple deception and a check on an idiot. The dusty screen was of no importance, the necessary data and calculations were actually stored in a large red head. Nygma himself was sitting calmly on the edge of his office desk, completely engrossed in some papers, some of which were finally torn into small pieces. He escaped with major abrasions and still oozing bruises, refused medical help, made a list of all the injured and the dead, and returned to work.

"Come on in. Have a seat." Nygma didn't pay any attention to me at all, incessantly sorting through and destroying someone's personal files with trembling, bluish hands with torn knuckles. Restraining a slight but assertive indignation at such a greeting, I use my last strength to reach the armchair, which is normally located in the center, but now moved closer to the table. Due to the "accidental coincidence", my journey was extended by several more painful steps. There was no soft, decent landing. An attack of painful spasms overtook at the most inopportune moment, squeezing my insides, cutting off coordination and pounding in my head with alarming pulsations. I shamefully plop into the interrogation and torture unit, disguised as a deceptively and captivatingly comfortable chair. You could say that I fell at the feet of the commander. Sweat poured down my temples and the back of neck, and groans broke through my clenched teeth. My hands reflexively wrapped around my stomach, probing the bandages from all sides, but fortunately, the stitches withstood the unexpected test. Gradually, all that remained of the convulsions was shortness of breath. Between the rustling leaves, brown eyes caught hold of me with concern for a moment. The germinating emotions faded away in a vicious cycle of indifference.

After an incalculable amount of time, my withered body merged with the harmless upholstery this time, and dust climbed up my ankles. Just the paper rustle and the ticking of the clock, dissolving and scattering the numbers every time you look at them. To make a painful journey just… to sit here? Of course, his office is quiet and comfortable, but this is not the result that should be included in our meeting.

"Knock-knock." hoarsely and somehow unplanned frighteningly poured out of the throat. When Riddler and Joker exchange these jokes that don't get through… it annoys me. It's a good time to try it myself, right?.. Nygma is definitely not going to kill him, adhering to a well-developed tactic of mental humiliation, turning the saved life of the enemy into a hell of self-destruction. But I would finish Joker off at the first opportunity, poison him to death with a toxin while he is vulnerable, while he is focused on one opponent. To stop… their interactions! Including the whole war. Excessive impulsiveness deprived me of an invitation to the upcoming talks with Bruce Wayne. The white paper curtain finally showed to the honorary guest the same honorary actor of the solitary theater sitting on a high stage.

"Who's there?" startled, Edward replied with supportive interest, glancing first at me and then at the drooping documents.

"A bullet."

"A bullet doesn't knock on the door."

"Yes. It breaks through." at the mention of the sutured wound, it ached and tightened a little. It's a familiar feeling that we can now discuss in private. Sighing, he finally put down the annoying stack.

"Hmf… I'm sorry about that. I don't like public dissection of flaws. You know." Nygma's confessions were not fully revealed, with great pain and resistance, but they were sincere. The rare remorse that made me feel guilty wasn't the main goal. I can really be offended or angered by being ignored, which he just played with without remorse.

"Not everything can be predetermined and calculated." said backhand meant the end of this topic, but in the impenetrable green abyss of continuous thought, everything changed into a claim, into a challenge.

"You just haven't tried it, Crane." his shoulders straightened proudly, one leg crossed over the other, and his hands clasped together on his knee. A smirk, sharpened by the upturned corners of his lips, darted out for the last time and pinned me to the chair at the very moment when I began to relax.

"I don't need it."

"Huh. Just as I thought."

The inappropriate confrontation that was gaining momentum, after the start was immediately cut short by a sluggish, wordless refusal to attack. Physical battles are enough. Nygma accepted my position, or rather, spared me, magnanimously cleared me from the gaming table and brewed us coffee, already looking for ways to vent his displeasure on the next visitors to the tribunal.

"Thanks" carefully sip the fragrant, strong truce with chocolate chips, so that my guts don't turn out and my throat doesn't burn. At least sometimes you can put crucial events on pause and settle down in a cozy corner. It's as if the earth littered with corpses doesn't shake every day outside the room. The sweetness was interrupted by the bitter taste of the old routine.

The hypnotic properties of the cabinet, which was different from the others, once again spun the webs of their influence – and after a "couple" of promised sips, the bottom of the white cup already appeared. "Why is coffee tastier than usual? Because he's poisoned." And the poison can be anything, not necessarily murderous. In exceptional cases…

"How are you feeling?" wandering around with quiet steps, Nygma successfully drove away a viscous doze, from which a shapeless coffee grounds remained. Won't be able to look into the future with even one eye anymore.

"It's much better now." I had to move my head along the trajectory of his direction so that the grateful attention would not run out.

"Would you like to stay?" with an abrupt stop, he fixed my gaze on himself, caught and captured the answer that hadn't had time to slip through, studied it in detail, sweetening his coffee with it.

"There's no place for me in your schedule at the moment, is there?" it's better to accept the obvious disappointing outcome right away, avoiding a slap in the face more crushing than a bullet. The empty and cooled cup was joined by an identical one. Edward took one out of the middle of the tattered stack of papers with one easy movement and, with a wink, handed it to me. This is a list of necessary reagents and equipment for the laboratory that I have compiled. A regular request, approved by Riddler every time, requiring large financial investments. What does that have to do with it? Oh, shit, was he going to discuss this right now? Or… Rereading the items marked with green ticks, I notice the numbers and symbols underlined with the same pencil. Very small. This definitely wasn't the case before. If put them in order, it get… "2:35 am"? The time? Today? Why exactly thirty-five minutes?.. Under Nygma's mischievous laughter, a fragment of the letter was taken away and returned in the same way.

"You guessed wrong."

Before I could fully comprehend the simple six-piece puzzle, Edward came closer, grabbed the rope around my neck and gently pulled me towards him, as if inviting me to a romantic dance. His characteristic suddenness. My retaliatory movements unsuccessfully stumbled and flopped down, so I only managed to pliantly jump out of the chair.

"You're pretty hard to ignore, John." the end of the rope wound around his wrist, bringing closer to the noose, and his voice became charmingly quiet.

"And I can't bear to leave you every time, Edward." finally, I could grab onto him like a saving edge of a cliff into a damp grave. In response, strong arms wrapped around me, lifted off the floor and gently hugged without causing pain. The heaviness was eliminated from my body, the burning sensation in the side calmed down. As soon as the first drops of blush fell on Edward's cheeks, I kissed his plump lips and watched with half-open eyes the saturated shades. Fingers crept up Edward's broad back to the nape of his neck, timidly stroking and twirling the unsupervised curly red strands. Between multiple intermittent kisses, our in-breaths and out-breaths took off, begging for more and more.

"Be careful next time and… stay close to me." his palm intertwined with mine and squeezed tightly, his red-hot cheek pressed against my temple so that the assignment for the future would definitely be heard and understood. Even in such infrequent moments, he continues to think about further plans and their ramifications.…

"So that Bat can overtake both of us at once?" muttering with displeasure, I rudely violate the boundaries and continue to kiss him. This time, the cool imprints of chapped lips remained on the healing abrasions.

"He's obviously going to do it anyway, but he's going to put more force and hate into hitting me." from such a bringing-back-to-earth conclusion, my heart painfully trembled in my chest and casually wrapped a lump in my throat with prickly threads. Yes, it's too obvious and even necessary. Riddler is one of the instigators, it would be strange if Batman chose another target. But…

"Isn't that stupid?"

"I prefer the "tactically correct distribution of combat units."

I hope he can anticipate that very blow. Otherwise, I will become the ultimate punishment for the assassination attempt on my commander. Maybe that's the whole idea, too?..

"How many wing flaps will it take for a hummingbird to fly from the rainforest to the desert?" once again ignoring my mental anguish. That impenetrable smile again, surrounded by bruises from armored punches. I definitely didn't need an exact calculation for this riddle, so I raised an eyebrow questioningly, waiting for the answer that was invisible on the surface.

"Not a single one. Because hummingbird doesn't need to fly to the desert, it die there." my retreating, frowning face was caught by warming hands. Edward resumed the kiss, pressing me against his chest, which was constantly open and did not need a bulletproof vest. A surging, deep, long kiss, like an eternity of pleasure. Tongues circled each other, lips pitied the aching points, taking over the tingling pain. The man-made scar question mark quivered and wriggled like a non-hostile snake, and my wound seemed to respond similarly. There are too many stares, too many lies and flattery said. There are too many emotions of souls who have chosen their side, which elevate and bring Riddler closer to a well-deserved victory, while I am left in his shadow. Hate it. Only I am honored to enjoy him in every possible way, to want him, to hold him, and to hear something other than strict orders. The war not only mixed green with purple, getting red "miraculously", but also closed its shackles on me. Only behind closed doors, behind thick walls, and behind curtained windows can Nygma, who makes up secret schedules, take them off me. Pretending to be sadistic cruelty, forced protection and concealment of faded value. But such a cruel decision only fuels the strength and zeal to fight a new battle for a worthy reward. The pain of all kinds of injuries has long been familiar, but someone's healing caress is completely new and effective.

"Wouldn't such an order be suspicious?" a slight bite of his soft upper lip reminded of Edward's choice of encrypting all heartfelt messages.

"Hmm, not at all. Everything is simple. The cunning and quirky Scarecrow seeks my loyalty in every possible way. For the sake of profit. Just like everyone else." he squinted at me like a trapped traitor, then restrained my angry kicking, smiled playfully and adjusted the bandage with a question mark on my arm.

"Nygma, are you… serious? Retraining me as sycophants?!"

"Of the ten accused, all but one were executed. How did the latter escape punishment? He pretended to be nine people all the time."

#blacki's fanfiction #writers on tumblr #scriddler #riddlecrow #scarecrow #riddler #jonathan crane #edward nygma #war of jokes and riddles

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captainsimagines · 11 months ago

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the albatross || B.B || One-Shot

Summary: "Locked me up in towers, but I'd visit in your dreams. And they tried to warn you about me..."

Pairing(s): Winter Soldier x Vampire Fem! Reader

Trope(s): Unlikely friendship; Forbidden vibes; Awkward tension

Based on the Song: The Albatross by Taylor Swift

Total Word Count: 17,000+

Warnings: This one-shot contains explicit language, an identity crisis, graphic depictions of violence and blood loss, trust issues, cigarette smoking, and depressive thoughts/ideas. You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is purely fanfiction.

If you would rather read this fanfic on AO3, here is the link.

Author's Note: I really liked this idea and surprisingly, it just spilled out of me. The ending is pretty open-ended because I do imagine a part 2, but I won't write it unless there's demand for it. Either way, I love this one-shot. I hope you guys do, too. ---xxMoni

The Soldier enjoys watching the stars.

The Captain likes to tell him these stories about Bucky Barnes, about how he also liked watching the stars when they made camp in war-torn France. Bucky Barnes would pretend to know the math behind it all, and though the Captain said the math was a load of bullshit, he swore up and down that Barnes did know how to read palms, however.

The Soldier doesn’t know how to read palms, but he does know how to calculate the stars now.

Hearing about his past self always put him on edge. He has another man’s name, another man’s face, another man’s life story. The Soldier was expected to relearn this, to find that lost part of himself that is “deep down, Buck, I know it.” Sometimes he’d remember that he liked strawberry jam, but only if he tried it out of pure coincidence. Sometimes he’d remember the voice of a man called Gabe Jones, or of Dum-Dum—Dugan—and it reminded him that he was two people at once. Those memories were no longer his—they were—but not really.

He was not—is not—Bucky Barnes anymore. In his head, at least.

He knew two things with absolute certainty though, two things the old Bucky Barnes would be happy the Soldier is keeping alive: Steve Rogers is his friend and it is the Soldier’s job to protect him, and that a thousand conversations are said in comfortable silence if you simply listen.

He passes the cigarette to the woman beside him, blowing the smoke out slowly into the frigid air. He hates the cold, but it’s better than a freezer. Freer up here on the roof of Avengers Tower. A chosen solitary. She takes the cigarette carefully, her grip extra tight since they’re hanging over the ledge. Legs swinging, hair rustling in the wind. Dropping the cigarette would cause no harm, only annoyance. They only bring four of them to their nightly meetings.

She inhales deeply, her decaying lungs inflating just the bit, her mouth doing most of the work. She doesn’t need to breathe, he’s found. On the rare occasions he is in her presence during the day, she never does. Not even to comfort those around her who watch her warily. He likes that. Placating others was tiresome, and the Soldier had refused to do it for anyone besides the Captain until he asked. For some reason, the crease between his brow makes his stomach turn and he knows Bucky Barnes would hate him for not smoothing it over.

The Soldier studies the woman at his right. He detects hints of dust—old cardboard, maybe—in the smoke she exhales. Her skin hadn’t paled in the way popular media suspected, nor did her hair turn white. Her skin looks ashy, her cheeks a little gaunt. The only proof she’s undead are the red eyes—he’s never seen her smile to verify the fangs.

They never exchange words out here. No one knows they’re out here at all. He had come out for fresh air after a particularly nasty fight with Stark a year ago and found her leaning upside down on the ledge. If she had jumped, he doesn’t think he would have leapt after her. He didn’t know her and would not miss her. Let her fall and his world was unmoved.

A year of nightly cigarettes and no more than a hundred words between them. They had built a sort of camaraderie—after a long day of pretending to be alive, they would sulk in peace together.

He knows her name, and she his. They have never called each other those names, but he suspects she would call him James before anything else. She doesn’t seem to want to be called anything. She’s content to sit in mutual silence and bask in her invisibility.

But the Soldier has seen her every night for a year, and everytime she is still solid. Everytime she is still dead.

The team has forbidden anyone from being alone with her. The Captain has forbidden him from being alone with her. Stark and Banner have a fear of the unknown, and what is unknown is uncontrollable. The Soldier wonders why she was invited to the team in the first place if she was going to be locked away and hidden from the world. He wonders why the Captain even rescued him if he was going to be a red stain as well. She refuses to answer their questions, refuses to show them how she feeds, and refuses to put a single limb in the sun for experimental purposes. The team is not sadistic enough—Stark isn’t sadistic enough—to force her to burn so he can scribble the results in a notepad. So unless she’s willing to be a science experiment, she cannot be trusted.

Unless the Soldier suddenly remembers the memories of a man lost to time, he cannot be trusted.

So he watches as her painted lips delicately wrap around the cigarette, their last one, and allows the strange delight to roll over him at the sound of her soft sigh.

“Goodnight,” she mumbles, her voice resembling the rustling of leaves in the dead of night. She has the same unsettling demeanor as he, perhaps more loose but still as real. The Soldier is meant to unnerve people. If they are terrified of him, they understand the depth of the mission. They will fall in line. As she rises, she grows in stature and dwarfs him. He finds he likes being the second most frightening creature in the room. He likes having a twin, finally, one that is not screaming inside his own head.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his gaze on the twinkling city lights. Brooklyn winks at him, refusing to fade.

The Soldier hears the roof door slam shut, and he is suddenly alone.

—————

The team is arguing.

Stark and the Captain crowd the large room they use for briefings while everyone else sits patiently at the long table. The Soldier occupies the single seat at the far end, the closest person to him being the Widow. She is watching the scene unfold with a stoicism that could rival his own, but she is more susceptible to that twitch in her upper lip. When Stark takes a dig at the Captain’s two-timing morality, she speaks up.

“You’re both idiots. I don’t see why we have to go empty-handed here, guys.”

Stark does his best to not roll his eyes, opting instead to squint at the Widow. “The mission is childsplay. I just think we’d have a lot more fun and a ton more juicy stories to tell if we bring all of us—”

“The answer is no, Tony. I will not bring—”

“Say it, Cap. I’m sure our cheeky little assassin here would love to hear your reasoning.”

The Captain sighs, his large hands resting atop his slender hips. The Soldier has a vague memory of a group of men around a campfire, all singing a tune in French and sour-tasting liquor spilling from their tongues, and the Captain watching with the same stance but with a grin instead. He realizes fast that this memory is attached to Bucky Barnes, and it is better off dead.

“Buck, you know I don’t like sending you out when there is no need.”

The Soldier hates team missions. He has no issues with killing—he’s rather good at it. The issue at hand is the lack of privacy, the dependence on one another, and the trust oozing from the Captain. The Soldier isn’t the best friend he so desperately wants, and he doesn’t know how to tell him that. Staying at the Tower is the best course of action in any situation. He frightens more people than he helps, and he would only get in the way.

He doesn’t respond to the Captain. He remains quiet, his brow furrowed as he looks between the two angry men.

“It’s a routine inspection, Cap. This would be the perfect opportunity to bring him and the vampire.”

His stomach clenches on itself, though he gives nothing away outwardly. He’s as still as ever, hands softly gripping the handles of the chair. He reminds himself to blink more than five times a minute, and that he needs to move more muscles than just his eyes. He’s too accustomed to being frozen for long periods of time. He is no stranger to perching for hours, to hiding in the shadows. The Captain had told him his lack of movement was uncanny.

But the mere mention of the vampire—

She had not gone on any missions yet. Her recruitment was more of a trial-run, on the basis that her input about vampires proved to be worthwhile. But it had been a year and Stark and Banner were no closer to studying the intricacies of such creatures. All they knew, or all they assumed, was what they saw from her. And since she was not allowed out of the Tower or on missions yet, they had seen little.

“What if she goes insane and feeds on a civilian?” the Colonel chimes in, shaking his head as the Captain scoffs at the accusation, “What? You don’t think she’d run given the first opportunity? I’ve told all of you that what you’re doing here is inhumane. Just because she hasn’t seen the sun in who knows how long doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to see a damn bakery or a night-time play. And keeping her locked up will trigger her to hurt someone sooner rather than later.”

The Soldier had never wondered about that. She and him were so alike that he just assumed she was content with her situation. He’d much rather be here than under the tentacles of Hydra. He believed she would much rather be here than in the sewers.

And it hit him—

How did she feed now?

“JARVIS doesn’t necessarily divulge details, but she’s clean with her victims. Ah, you see that on my scrumptious arms? Goosebumps. I’ve caught her eyeing these veins.”

The Soldier tilts his head, interested. The Widow marks it.

“She’s well-fed, then,” the Captain says, though the Soldier hears that subtle shake in his voice, “How do we know she won’t escape—”

“You’re acting like she’s our hostage,” the Widow snaps. She immediately casts an apology across the table. “If she escapes, she escapes. The sun will slow her down, and she knows it. You’re all debating this as if she’s tried. She hasn’t. She has caused no trouble so far. You’re all just too scared to send her out into the wild because you haven’t gotten to know her.”

The room silences. The man at the other far end of the table, the one he usually sees with metal wings across his broad shoulders, nods in agreement. At every briefing the Soldier has sat through, Wilson was the only one to ever bring her up in conversation. Small mentions that asked where she was at that very moment, if she had shared her family history yet, if she had fed and if not, was there anything he could do. The Soldier suspects Wilson would offer his own neck if the others agreed to it.

He doesn’t like talking about her at these meetings. Everyone acts like they have the perfect read on her. They don’t—even he doesn’t. But he does have first-hand knowledge on what the strain of her lungs sounds like, and the exact timbre of her voice. The Soldier knew more than them, and it spoiled him rotten.

“This is a controlled mission, Cap,” Wilson adds, shrugging. “I think this can be good for her. For Barnes. For you.”

The Soldier loosens a shoulder—the tiresome act of placating—and studies Wilson in the few seconds he’s afforded since the Captain is debating inside his head. Wilson is around his age, give or take a year or two, and he has never spoken ill about him before. He’s heard the Widow and Barton murmuring their distrust about the Soldier in the beginning, but he believes the Captain shut it down. Stark’s jokes were endless, but he finds them humorous sometimes. He is the only person to ever pull a smirk from him. Wilson never spoke bad about anyone. He doesn’t know if he likes that or not. He’s grateful in an odd way, but confused mostly. There are countless things to hate him for. Tender hearts are so easily breakable, and the Soldier finds he does not want to bruise Wilson’s.

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow,” the Captain concedes. “Buck, you up for it?”

A choice. He’s not used to having choices.

“Okay.”

—————

Clouds block the majority of the stars tonight.

On nights like these, he focuses on the multi-colored lives of the occupants in surrounding apartments. There are some setting up Autumn colors, others keeping their sleek, modern aesthetic. The Soldier thinks he enjoys a splash of color. He has a habit of draining it all, but he likes it while it lasts.

The apartments are sporadically lit. Many have retired to bed. There’s a family of four returning and passing around boxes of takeout. A woman sits up in bed and reads a large fantasy novel, her cat resting lazily at the edge of her silk sheets. A teenager adjusts his computer monitor and readies a new level on the game he’s playing, an empty pizza box on his desk. So many lives happening at once—it overwhelms the Soldier. He does nothing all day besides lay in bed and eat and bathe when he has to. He has been wanting to take up knitting—something to do with his hands. Loading and taking apart guns isn’t as enjoyable as it used to be.

“They are going to take you on a mission,” he says, passing the cigarette. Her expression remains impassive. She inhales deeper than usual, his only indication that his statement affected her.

“Oh.”

She’s quick to brush him off. Good. She’s not so easily rattled. “I am going, too,” he adds.

A shrug. She passes the cigarette back. He inhales, an odd flutter in his chest as he wraps his lips around the lipstick-stained stick.

There’s a bruise on her jawline. Tilting his head, he follows the length of it. It takes him a moment, but he finally recognizes the shape. Five purpling indents, one palm-sized.

He didn’t even know she could bruise.

A sudden wave of rage nearly has him marching back into the Tower, ready to interrogate every team member at gunpoint. Their distrust shouldn’t warrant violence. Then the Soldier inhales the toxic smoke again, realizing that his emotions are pointless. The Soldier does not feel, nor does he feel sympathy for others.

The Soldier questions the validity of that statement.

Still, he ponders who could have possibly injured her. The only ones able to inflict such pressure and not kill are him, the Captain, Stark while suited-up, and the God. But they had no evidence of what strength she could or could not handle—it was entirely plausible that a regular man hurt her. And since she does not leave the Tower, the man could have been one of her meals.

Her meal fought back.

“How do you eat?” he asks before he can swallow it. He used to be punished for asking questions.

She turns her head slowly. It’s unsettling to the Soldier, so much so that he averts his eyes. “You know what I eat.”

“I asked how. Not who.” She blinks at him. “You don’t leave the Tower.”

This is the most they’ve spoken in one sitting. He always assumed she’d be the one to speak first. It seems she assumed the same.

“They bring me my meals.” A quick jump of his brow indicates his surprise. “You didn’t know that.”

He shakes his head. Does the Captain know? The Soldier had heard about interrogations happening at the Tower… Were these the same victims?

“The bad ones they keep alive. Captives. I get my pick of the litter,” she explains, though her solemn expression betrays the joy in her tone.

“Does it bother you?” he asks. The Soldier doesn’t care—shouldn’t care—and yet, he asks.

“I don’t care.” It seems she’ll not care for the both of them.

He wonders how often she needs to feed. If blood is the only thing she needs to survive. His knowledge of vampire lore comes from a few, mediocre clicks around the internet. Most articles or opinions claim that blood is their life source, but the exact time-stamp vampires can go without it is still a mystery. If she were to go without, willingly or not, would she wither away? Would she simply cease to exist?—How peaceful that sounds, actually. Would it be painless or would she feel every second? The Soldier did not feel time pass when frozen, nor did he comprehend it when allowed to breathe on his own.

“Are you skilled with weapons?” he asks. Invasions of privacy, like the Captain said, were not always welcome naturally. The truth was so much easier to obtain with a gun in hand, harder to earn with a fake smile. What really mattered was having the mission go smoothly. Maybe then the rest of the team will leave him alone and stop trying to make him assimilate. Maybe if the mission went smoothly for her, she’d steal their attention. He would be free. Free to just be.

“I don’t need them, but I have them.”

Irritation is an emotion that encases him fully nowadays. Irritation, agitation, resignation. Her bluntness rivals his, and it's itching at his skin. He liked it before—what is different today? “I am going on this mission, too. I need to know what you are skilled at to ensure the mission is a success.”

She flicks the dead cigarette bud over the ledge, watching as it gradually shrinks from sight. It was their last one. He will bring an extra one tomorrow.

“There are no stars tonight,” she laments. Her lips twist into a small pout, nearly invisible. She has pretty lips. “Goodnight.”

He waits until she’s gone to frown. The Soldier is confused.

—————

The team likes to get together Friday nights and watch movies in the common room. Usually the film is chosen to satisfy the Captain’s ignorance. His too, he has found. Though no one but Wilson includes him in that conversation.

The Captain, Stark, Banner, Wilson, and the Widow are the only ones present tonight. The younger agents are suspiciously absent, but he somewhat remembers Stark mentioning a Friday night outing. Figures, considering the ones in this room are easily recognizable.

If he were to walk around Times Square, would he cause a panic? The Soldier has been photographed a few times since returning from the shadows and each time the news outlets treat him like an enemy of state. He is, in a sense. There are plenty of things he knows that can crumble governments, but there’s no point in sharing them now. He’s not at war. He’s not under control. But he wonders what it would be like to walk around and enjoy life. To go out with friends, to dance, to go feed some pigeons. He could try—the Captain will definitely go with him—but he doesn’t know how. After so many years of feeling the sour depths of his soul, how is he expected to break through the surface in one day? The urge to be normal gnaws at him, twisting and peeling flesh and muscle, but it is so much easier to just lie in bed. If enough time passes, maybe it will just happen.

Time was going on, speeding past his memories and lungs. Too fast, so fast he couldn’t grab time’s dangling string to slow it down. He wanted to yank it back, scream at it that he’s trying to remember, and that his new memories are preventing him from finding the ones from before. There’s so much new information that he wanted to, needed to, slow time down. How was he ever able to be Bucky Barnes again if time prevented him?

He likes when the younger ones are around. They’re less judgmental. They actually try to speak with him. Granted, it’s stupid things like: “What was the Great Depression like?” or “Straight up, who was the harder kill? Kennedy or Stalin?” The Captain usually shuts them down, but he can’t help but chuckle from the absurdity of it once he’s alone.

“Feels weird watching this outside of a seventh grade classroom, but I promise you Steve, it’s a classic,” Wilson says, clapping the Captain on a shoulder. “The Outsiders is a rite of passage, and you my friend have not truly assimilated until you watch it.”

Sitting on a stool rather than the giant couch, the Soldier takes immediate interest in what Wilson claims. If he wants to be normal again, shouldn’t he try with the basics? Watching a movie didn’t seem all that bad.

He’s distracted by the repetitive popping in the microwave to feel the presence at the doorway. Everyone quiets, and the Soldier straightens. He marks the distance between him and the Widow, and though he’s positive she can protect herself, he debates how he would shield her with his body.

But there is no weapon pointed at them or enemy breaching the premises—it’s her.

She burrows deeper into her oversized sweater, the hood covering most of her forehead. She ducks cautiously, eyes squinted as she peeks at the overhead beams. She looks ashier in the artificial light, but no less beautiful. He’s seen her during the day before, but always when she was protected by shadows.

“Fangs!” Stark cheers, the half-drunk beer bottle in his hand sloshing violently, “We’ve already chosen the movie so don’t bitch about it like Banner always does. Popcorn’s almost finished, and we’ve got wine in the fridge. You like reds or are you like Cap here? Can’t tear a moscato from his cold, dead paws even if you were the strongest person in the world.”

The Soldier gives Stark an incredulous glare, as does the Captain. Offering her food, mentioning cold, dead hands. It gladdens him, however, that though he is the most unpredictable person in the room, he isn’t the stupidest.

“I personally like reds,” Wilson interjects, casually strolling forward to hit the light switch. She visibly relaxes. “Want me to pour you a glass? We can talk shit about Stark together as he learns how to play the movie.”

Stark mumbles something about how the cheapest technology is often the hardest to understand. Wilson leads her into the kitchen, innocently rambling about wine tours and tasting. The Soldier meets her eyes as she passes. There is simple acknowledgement, but no words. It’s as if they don’t know each other at all.

He has no claim to that anyway. He shares as much as she does.

She takes a glass of moscato, curiously. He would have assumed—and that’s just it, isn’t it? He assumed.

The others settle into their spots. She looks around, a peculiar look on her delicate face. Vampires were supposedly ageless, but he sees the age in her eyes, in how she holds up her head. He’s been told that while he wears the mask, his eyes look tortured. Like they’ve seen too much.

Her eyes held an ancient power, tainted with misery, and yet all he finds himself wondering is what color they were before she changed.

She sits on the lone recliner closest to Wilson, tucking her knees in and leaning her upper body on a pillow. She balances her wine as she adjusts, ignoring the interested stares from the others.

“I watched this movie when it first came out,” she shares, her voice an elegant whisper. The Captain watches her warily, as does Banner.

“So did I. You’re not special,” Stark responds, clicking the play button. The Soldier stands, but he doesn’t know what for. To defend her? To add to the harassment? To walk out of the room?

Her small chuckle surprises him. Surprises all of them. He takes one step forward, then another, until he too is a part of the group. He chooses to sit on the cushion just beside her recliner. If he had a cigarette, it wouldn’t be so different from all the other nights.

The Captain attempts to ignore him, but ultimately fails. The Soldier senses his relief, his hope.

They watch the movie in comfortable silence, interrupted only by Stark’s or Wilson’s personal additions. He doesn’t mind, though. He likes the movie enough to quell that poisonous irritation. It’s toward the end when he looks at her, when his curiosity gets the best of him.

There is a sunset on the screen.

Silver glistens across her waterline.

Then it’s gone, because nothing gold can stay.

The Soldier resonates most with a simpler quote. He longs for normalcy, no matter how much he prefers solitude. The voice screaming in his head won’t let him forget it. He repeats the quote several times before the end credits: "I lie to myself all the time. But I never believe me."

He used to tell himself that pain was temporary and that being put under would limit it—he always believed that one.

He’s angry that Johnny dies and that Dally kills himself. He’s angry because the Soldier cares about the Captain more than anything and would do the same. He’s angry that he, with his contaminated past and bloodied hands, can still watch the sunset. He’s angry because since she’s dead, she cannot.

—————

“I’m guessing there’s an angle here, Cap. Why else would she make nice now?”

Sometimes Stark made him question the team’s so-called heart. He assumes the Captain had to plead his case, and has continued to do so when the Soldier showed no signs of improvement. She hadn’t put up a fight when they informed her of the mission, nor did she ask any questions. The barest of nods and she was given her orders. He would have liked to be in the room when they discussed this, but he received the automatic manila folder outside his room door.

Target: Male, 56, Hydra scientist maintaining one of eight remaining Hydra bases in North America. Assumed to be armed and dangerous. No history of super strength, night vision, or combat training.

And in each folder the Soldier is given his team and his task. Sometimes he’d argue with the logistics considering he knew more than he let on, but this seemed simple enough. He sneers at the use of their code names.

Soldier Objective: Joined by “Widow” and “Fangs”, retrieve the data on the main computer. Data pertaining to Hydra, Project Insight, Project Paperclip, and NASA is to be handled with care. The Soldier and Widow are cleared for hand-to-hand combat.

He should have received everyone’s objective. To function as a team, as the Captain so desperately wants, he needs to know each detail. Knowing in advance saves lives, and omitting this now is going to get someone killed.

As long as that someone isn’t the Captain or Wilson, the Soldier did not care as much as he should.

Now, while walking through the dimly lit hallway with two women watching his six, he understands why the team made this her first mission. The base was mostly abandoned, there was a limited paper trail that was easy to follow, and it wasn’t too far from New York. A night-time mission usually meant difficult entryways or an ambush. He finds he enjoys the quiet walk and flickering lights, and the small conversation the Widow and the Vampire make. He’s still vigilant and hyper-focused on finding the computer lab, but he allows his mind to knock over one wall.

The sound of women gossiping and giggling sounded a lot better than the complaints and curses of men.

“Come on, there’s got to be someone on the team you think is hot.”

The Soldier rolls his eyes at the Widow’s comment. He doesn’t bother looking back. It’s the same thing every single time: the Widow asks the question, the Vampire answers. Neither of them include him, but he doesn’t mind. Though he sits with her every night, he doesn’t actually know much about her. And the short replies the Widow also offers make him feel… appreciative. He’s learning, he’s retaining, he’s—

He shakes his head when he compares this lesson to a filing system, as if the women guarding his back are mere test subjects, or targets. As if the information he’s learning could be used against them.

It’s hard to rewire your brain, your thoughts. Once something has burrowed deep into each crevice, it’s hard to pull it out. Change is hard, rare, and celebrated once successful. The Soldier’s wiring needs to change if he is to ever learn anything new for the innocent purpose of being human.

“I think the Captain is good looking,” she answers, huffing a laugh when the Widow hums in agreement.

“He’s a tough one to crack.”

“But you’ve cracked him.”

The Widow waits for the Soldier to secure the corner before walking forward and punching in a code. He sees her narrow her eyes, a small smirk gracing her pale lips.

“I am cracking him.”

The Soldier has seen the Captain blush around the Widow, has seen him shield her before others, and has always walked beside her in support. He didn’t think it meant anything—the Captain was kind to everyone. But there is a… tenderness shared between them. Perhaps cultivated over the long months they were searching for him. She and Wilson were the only ones who believed there was a chance they'd even find him.

“He likes you. His heart pumps quicker when you’re around.”

It should bother him that she’s exposing the Captain’s feelings. But the Captain deserves an intimate form of companionship, something to take his mind off the fact that the Soldier has no problem drowning in solitude.

“You can hear our blood?”

“Only when I concentrate.”

The Soldier lifts a hand to stop them. There’s a soft rustling behind the door they are meant to enter. Drawers being opened. If it is indeed their target, then Wilson and the Captain are running around for nothing. His unit wasn’t supposed to engage in any arrests—he has half a mind to just bring the Widow along.

He splits them up. The Widow remains with him. He’ll confront the target as she works the computers. He turns to give the last order, but is softly interrupted.

“There’s a back door just around the corner. I can pick it and blend into the shadows.”

The Soldier thinks about it, then nods. “Do not engage unless I order it.”

A misty rogue. Stark is insane—she could be useful on more daunting missions.

Armed with two shortswords, one gold and one ruby, she pulls on the hood of her cloak and gives them a small smile. A smile that said she’d follow his directions and remain hidden forever, if needed.

He and the Widow work in tandem, noiselessly picking the lock and creeping into the room. With her red hair pulled up, she shimmies along the wall quickly, heading for the largest of the six monitors. The only light comes from the handheld flashlight their target uses to read loose papers. His frantic eyes search for something along the black, redacted text. The Soldier simply struts forward, his mask doing most of the intimidation, his boots announcing his arrival. Their target clutches a file close to his chest as he retreats. Off to the side, the Soldier vaguely sees the back door open and close.

“I’m unarmed,” their target squeals, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

What ridiculous lies, he thinks. Hydra did not apologize, nor did they beg for ceasefires. They trained him to ignore such pleas, such excuses. And by the way the Soldier grips him by the neck to lift him, he was trained well.

“When I let you go,” the Soldier says, his voice a deadly timbre, “give me the weapon you have at your back.”

The target struggles, his gurgling embarrassingly loud. A monitor brightens, and the Widow waves as she gets to work. The target, once recognizing her, loses most of his hope. He is dropped and the weapon clatters to the floor. The Soldier does not retrieve it—it is yanked into the shadows.

“We thought you were dead,” he says, panicked eyes never leaving the mask. No one ever wanted to look him in the eyes. No one ever wanted to hear him speak.

“I’m going to reach into your coat and grab that file. Make a move and I will break the first bone I come into contact with.”

“Mm,” the Widow hums, her downloads beeping one-by-one as they finish, “Steve frowns on that if they surrender willingly.”

“Complete the download,” he orders. He doesn’t like when the Widow rambles during these missions. The more he grows to enjoy her company, the more distracted he’s destined to get. The more he avoids interaction, the more efficient he’ll be.

And lonely—

“It’s done,” she says, rolling her eyes. She stands at his side, arms crossed. “Just sedate him already so we can get out of this rusty hellhole—”

He turns to look at her. One quick glance at the red menace. That’s all it takes.

The target draws a knife and whips it wildly, slashing the Widow across her neck. It’s unlike her to be so ill-prepared. The Soldier doesn’t know whether to press his palm across her neck or kill the target. This has never happened before. The team is going to question his capabilities, his true alliances, his reflexes, his empathy—

The target yelps in agony. The decision is made for the Soldier.

He has no choice but to bend his neck to the hunter behind him, holding him close and ripping through his carotid. The Widow curses and holds her wound, her steady voice settling the awful worry in the pit of his stomach.

Worry… For his team. He would smile if the situation wasn’t so chaotic.

The spray of blood is mostly contained. Her fangs dig so deep that blood seeping from the puncture is caught by her lips. Her lipstick stains his pale neck, paler now as she consumes him whole. Barely concealed by the shadows, she hungrily drinks without remorse. Payback. Her red eyes glow brighter than he’s ever seen them, black veins crawl and stretch from the corners, and he swears there’s smoke surrounding her strong body. Like a bad omen, a demon emerging from the depths of gloom itself.

He falls limp in her arms, his dead eyes blindly watching the Soldier as she drops him to the floor. His eyes were once blue. They’re white now.

“Are you okay?” she asks the Widow, standing somehow taller, solid.

The Widow looks at her drenched hand and nods slowly. “I’m not opposed to one of you carrying me back.” The wound is superficial, but no less alarming. He picks her up and holds her close, signaling to his newly nourished partner. She gets the hint. Hauling the dead man over a shoulder, she waits for him to lead the way.

Barton takes the Widow from his arms, his laughs overlapping her own. The Captain checks on her before marching over to him and the woman with dried blood on her neck, who then drops the target at the Captain’s feet.

“What the hell happened?” Anger. It’s an emotion so rare for the Captain. At least, it’s rare to the Soldier.

“Concealed knife. I didn’t check him thoroughly,” he answers, his explanation true enough. He should have known even Hydra scientists kept an extra weapon on their person at all times, especially small ones. He just didn’t think the Widow would get nicked so easily—that she didn’t see that coming at all.

“But why is he dead?”

She raises her reddened chin at him to boldly say, “He attacked. The downloads were complete. We weren’t even supposed to run into him. That was your job.”

It’s obvious the Captain wasn’t expecting her response. Immediately his face loosens and his shoulders do that guilty-drop the Soldier sees often. “You’re right. Your team wasn’t supposed to encounter him at all. It’s a mistake on my end.”

“Not that we didn’t have muscle to defend ourselves,” she lightly jokes, then kicks the pale body on the floor.

“We’re going to have to report this.”

“Do what you must.”

“And—” the Captain strains, looking to the Soldier for assistance. But he knows what he’s about to say, and gears up to fight it. “And because this is an on-duty death, you need to go to psych.”

“Don’t send her there,” the Soldier cuts in, his stomach dropping. “Say I killed him. Just don’t send her there.”

“That’s not how this works, Buck.”

“Psych is a glorified therapy session that fails to help even the lowest of street cops. It’s judgment, not help.”

“I can’t override it.”

The Soldier sighs, argument after argument swirling in the mess of his mind. The times he went to psych were all the same. Constructed in a way that made him feel like killing was always the wrong choice. Neglecting that now, he has the choice. Sometimes he’ll claim a stray bullet, but the majority of his kills are necessary. They are strategic. They are his own.

“It’s fine,” she says, tilting her head at her kill. “Not the first time I’ve been evaluated.”

“Psych can be bypassed if the kill was a team-effort. I’ll see if I can get Fury to sign off on it.”

She shakes her head at the Captain. “You wanted to know more about my life, yes? I’m assuming these things aren’t confidential to you or Stark… But when you do go talking about me to the others, make sure to mention that I drained him dry.”

—————

"Do you hate me for it?"

The Soldier offers an unimpressed look. He hands her the cigarette and blows out the smoke burning his throat. “Funny.”

There’s a quirk at her lip. She takes a longer drag than usual, trying to mask it.

“They all hated me for it back then.”

“Who?”

“Family. Friends. Enemies. Lovers.”

“And you cared what they thought?”

She shrugs, stealing a second drag. “At the time.”

Her lipstick is a brownish-maroon today, and he finds himself studying the tint before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. He doesn’t share anything nowadays besides cigarettes and a living room. The Captain offers him food, money, advice—the Soldier takes but never gives.

Her face contorts slightly, her jaw ticking. Such extravagant movements for the simple outcome of showing her four canines. The points extend maybe half a centimeter longer than the rest of her teeth. Because of her minimal overbite, the teeth slide perfectly against one another. She runs her tongue over the top two.

He wonders how his victims would have reacted if they got to see the lower half of his face. There would have been no smile accompanying the kills. He had growled from frustration, to incite fear. Teeth weren’t necessarily frightening. They’re a barrier to words, the shield for tongues, the blades against intruders. Her teeth were her life-force, the blades needed to let those intruders in.

“How was your evaluation?”

A small snort. He looks at her—her ancient grace, the absence of grays at her roots, her glaring red eyes.

“They kept asking if the smell of Natasha’s blood affected me.”

“Judging by your nonchalance, I’d say you went completely feral over it.”

Another quirk at her lip. He likes the movement.

“You believe that I wouldn’t attack any one of you. Thanks.”

He does. She hasn’t attacked him up here, hasn’t attacked anyone on the team, and has never tried to escape to wreak havoc on the city. He doesn’t tell her he does, but she feels it somehow. Her shoulders loosen.

The tension slowly dissipates from his body as well—a revelation both amazing and concerning. The Soldier should never have his guard down. He should always be prepared for a fight.

“The ones they bring me are always so happy to be led to their deaths,” she says, a small frown quickly forming then disappearing. “Sometimes I wait until they’re asleep. Or when they’re facing the other way. Sometimes I drain them when they’re inside of me.”

He blinks. “You have sex with them?”

“I never leave the Tower. I can’t leave. I’ve been living alone for so long that I don’t even think I can go into the real world and bring someone home. Would you know how?”

He doesn’t need to think about such a ridiculous possibility. He can’t even find it within himself to give Wilson a matching pat-on-the-back. “No.”

She gives a small nod. Absent of pity, filled with strange empathy. “I tell them they’re going to die. I ask them how they would like to go. They choose that most of the time.” She chuckles, “I only offer it to the cute ones.”

“They’re bad people, though.”

“They’re dying anyway. Might as well die feeding me.”

He doesn’t remember it, but the Soldier considers sex—or pleasure, really—to be too much of a gift. The people they capture and keep to interrogate are scum of the Earth, his tormentors. She’s rewarding his villains.

Anger floods his chest, violent and nasty. She snatches the cigarette from his rigid fingers.

He could push her off the ledge. No one will miss her. He will. She’ll probably survive the tremendous fall. She’ll continue the cycle. She can’t leave the Tower. He can’t leave the Tower.

“I don’t have to sleep with them,” she says, her voice so quiet he wouldn’t be able to hear without his advancements. “But when I do, they taste a little sweeter. I haven’t had sweets in so long… Not since my birthday. Did you know I died on my birthday? My mom bought me chocolate instead of donating those five cents to the war effort. I wasn’t a child anymore but she never forgot my birthday… So, I can make it through ten minutes of boring sex. And when it’s done, for a blessed moment, I remember the taste of sugar and my mom’s smile when I broke the bar in two so we could share.”

For the first time in a long time, the Soldier is speechless. Because he sympathizes… A once frozen emotion thawed by the mention of chocolate and a mother. He tries and fails to remember his own mother’s face. After so many years of only being able to see his eyes, he prays they matched hers. After so many years of being force-fed genetically-modified trash, he has forgotten the taste of chocolate.

His anger is replaced by a solemn peculiarity that itches along his insides. He is aware of his loss, her loss, the logic in her kills. She feeds blindly in the hopes of feeling whole again. Has he done anything to feel whole again besides bury the screams lower and lower?

“I was feral today because we were never supposed to come into contact with the target and he almost hurt you. He managed to hurt Natasha. I did what I had to do.”

And she was being punished for it.

“He tasted disgusting, by the way.”

The Soldier, honest to God, laughs. Not expecting it, her shoulders tense and she jumps a little. He shoots his flesh hand out to hold her still, gripping her thigh as she pulls her gaze back up. Instinct—he does not want her to fall after all.

“Sorry,” he says, surprising himself. Then, as he allows a tendril of Bucky Barnes to escape through the walls he had forged from steel, he jokes, “I’m still stuck on the fact that when you fuck, you think of your mother’s face.”

His ill-timed vulgarity is rewarded with a sudden cackle of her own, a vicious and underutilized sound that pulls her lips back and showcases all four sharp canines in their primal glory. Crinkles by her eyes, she sits with the aftershocks of it.

He gives her the first drag of their last cigarette.

—————

He had been exiting the Tower with Wilson when it started.

Three large booms above had them ducking for cover. Debris slammed into the concrete and damaged parked cars while burnt furniture landed in odd angles after barely missing pedestrians. Smoke clouded their aerial view—there was no way Wilson was going to be able to fly through the black cloud blind. It was up to Stark and the Colonel to fly directly from the roof.

“Cap, what the hell was that?” Wilson yelled into his phone. He directed the floor staff away from the building and into the cafe next door. The Soldier analyzed each person, their expressions, the things in their hands. The smoke blocked his view of the lower rooftops. No one tried storming the bottom floor. There were no planes or helicopters around, and the glass had shattered outwards.

The threat was internal.

“It seems one of our captives managed to plant explosives before—” The Captain stops, his voice heavy with exertion. “JARVIS doesn’t think we’ve been compromised or that there are any intruders. Just good ol’ fashion bombs.”

“We’ll get everyone down here to safety. You guys handle the top,” Wilson says, wiping a nervous hand over his head.

“Ask him which type of captive it was,” the Soldier tells him, failing to keep his rising panic leveled. Wilson’s bewilderment is marked in his brow, but he asks anyway.

“He doesn’t understand the question—”

“Was it one of the captives we sent back to the police or was it one we sent to be fed on?”

Wilson waits for the Captain to clarify, still not understanding the danger of the situation. “Fed on.”

The Soldier sprints back into the Tower and clicks the elevator button, cursing when the lights flicker out. Stark and the Colonel were busy flying people out, the Widow and the Captain were securing the floor, Banner was putting out the fire with the young ones, and the God was probably doing all three things. Though all honorable, they were also clueless. Because if the explosion had happened on her floor, there was no floor left. No walls. No tinted glass. And though there was black smoke clogging everyone’s nostrils and burning everyone’s vision, the sun was still shining.

“Come outside again and bend your knees,” someone orders from behind him. The Witch tilts her red head at him, a regal seriousness twinkling in her eyes. He does as she says. She contorts her glowing hands, and he is lifted through the thick cloud and past several dozen floors before landing on the seventy-seventh.

Flames nip at his exposed arms, but the burn is nothing compared to the strain on his lungs. He limits his deep gulps and barrels through turned furniture and glass. Screams come from further down the collapsed hall, but he hears Banner amongst them.

“Rogers!” he yells, swiping at exposed wires hanging in his way. Electricity shoots up his metal arm, momentarily paralyzing it. He holds his breath and waits for the upgraded vibranium to reboot.

“Bucky! Over here!”

“Did you find her?” he asks when he reaches the Captain, dodging Tower employees on their way to the Colonel a few feet away. The Colonel flies three down at once, his return time averaging ten seconds. At this rate, ten more trips and the entire floor should be evacuated.

“I can’t see anything past this damn smoke!” the Captain explains, coughing loudly as he brushes stray ash off the Soldier’s singed shoulder. He allows the touch, feeling gratitude rather than his usual discomfort. “She’d be knocked out by now. This smoke is killing me.”

He shakes his head. “She doesn’t have to breathe. The smoke isn’t the issue. If I was her, I would hop from shadow to shadow, but she can’t even see those. One wrong move and she could step directly into the sunlight.”

“She doesn’t have to breathe?” he asks. Fascination paints the Captain’s face before he switches again. “What do you suggest?”

“Don’t ask why I know, but I know you and I can hold our breaths for at least three minutes before we need air.”

Hydra loved their experiments. The Soldier is grateful he doesn’t have to do this underwater.

“Then I’m right behind you, Barnes.”

They stalk through the heavy smoke carefully, using the collars of their t-shirts to wipe the burn at their eyes and to inhale deeply after the first three minutes. There is no sign of their resident vampire, only debris and some of Stark’s failed experiments. The floor above had also fallen, but the steel beams were still intact. No one lived above or below her, but that didn’t mean Stark hadn’t splurged on unnecessary furniture and decorations. Each step they took was a cautious one. Only the Soldier could push and pull burning wood and fabric out of their path without risk of burns, and the shield covered their heads as glass fell through the floor above. It would take Stark approximately a week to repair this, but for now the Soldier thanks whatever entity listening that the damage wasn’t catastrophic.

He had just started to call this place a home. The only place where he was afforded solitude. Choice.

Having it burned to the ground should have sent him on a spiral, a thought that irritated him more than scared him. He doesn’t like starting over from scratch. It was hard enough to do the first time without a base. But all the thoughts occupying his head right now are about her, how this is her home too, and that she needed his help.

“Buck! Over here!”

The Captain tries lifting the large stone of concrete blocking the small sanctuary she’s hidden in, but it’s no use. The surrounding glass and heated metal are pinching and burning his palms. She does not scream for help, nor does she alert them of her location. She’s eerily quiet.

He looks around, then down at his own body. He’s wearing black, and the Captain is wearing white. They have to be quick.

“Move!” he tells him. In sync, the Soldier slides his metal arm beneath the concrete and lifts—the Captain reads his mind verbatim, stripping himself of his shirt and preparing to wrap her upper half. She screams in agony, the sound scraping along the walls of his matted skull. The Captain barrels into the small crevice, shielding her with his body.

“We’ve got you,” the Captain says gently, coughing off to the side. The Soldier can’t see her, but he trusts the Captain’s calm reaction.

“Go!” he yells, the concrete slab pulling at his shoulder. Ten more seconds and he’s going down with it.

The Captain picks her up and runs in the direction they came from, the Soldier following. He can’t see her face, but he can see her arms. What looks like silver rashes blister and boil as they hang in full view of the sunlight.

He catches up to them, adds to their shield, and dares to hold her limp hand in his.

—————

She doesn’t go to the roof the next four nights. He does not smoke without her, but he brings a pack just in case.

The Soldier sits on the ledge, scarily desperate to be spoken to, alone with his own damning thoughts.

—————

He sneaks into the Captain’s snack cupboard in the middle of the night. There are chips of all sorts and flavors, packaged noodles, and packets of sauces from various restaurants. The chocolate is in a box of its own, three or four bars already missing. It’s one of those famous brands, popular during his time and still. With a final glance down the quiet hall, he steals a bar and closes the cupboard.

The silky wrapping is familiar to both his metal and flesh hand. He has eaten this candy before. A lifetime ago. Another person ago.

He peels the wrapping and breaks off a single rectangular piece. Crisp and clean. He slides his flesh fingertips together, smoothing the chocolate into his skin. The smell is overwhelmingly intriguing, so much so that his mouth waters.

He bites the warmed chocolate, swishing it around his tongue. Vanilla, caramelized sugar—the creamy texture suits the sweetness, the aroma of cocoa soothing the tension at the base of his neck. He takes another small bite, and this time he has a vision of a woman’s face, older by maybe a year or two. The same eyes, hair color, and top lip as him.

Bucky Barnes had a sister. He had a sister. She liked chocolate. He bought her a bar with his first paycheck. He remembers something other than bloodshed and angry voices. He remembers his sister’s eyes and the fact he was a working man when it counted the most. He wipes at his wet eyes with the back of his metal hand, wincing from the scratch.

“I had the same reaction when I tried chocolate again after I woke up.”

The Soldier doesn’t move a muscle. He watches the Captain approach the counter with a good-natured smirk. He holds his hand out, waiting. The Soldier hesitates—and it hits him then that he wouldn’t be able to share the chocolate with her anyways—but he breaks a piece for the Captain. Whether it’s because his whole opinion on the Captain has changed after he protected her with his own body, or because the Soldier wants to take one cautious step forward on the path to healing, so be it. He doesn’t make a fuss about the sharing, just brings the chocolate to his mouth and enjoys the piece just as the Soldier did.

“Dernier used to rant about how French chocolate was elite,” the Captain chuckles. He lifts himself onto the counter. His sleep attire consists of gray sweatpants and those tight, white t-shirts the Widow buys him. As he rakes his eyes further, the Soldier nearly cackles from the sight of the Captain’s black and yellow socks depicting small, alien-like cartoons with goggles and overalls.

Steve Rogers used to sleep in socks all the time. The Captain does the same.

“Did we ever eat chocolate during our time on the front line?” he asks. The Soldier uses the roof of his mouth to somehow spread the flavors.

“They sent us some packaged kits but it wasn’t the same. This chocolate is made from cooked milk, not powdered. We didn’t complain, though. It was nice to taste something from home, even if it didn’t exactly match Ma’s baking. But Falsworth found some real chocolate in a bombed bakery right outside of Poznań—”

“It was Morita.”

The Captain blinks. “What?”

“Falsworth pointed out the bakery, but Morita was the only one with big enough balls to actually go in there and bring us back the sweets. He grabbed some flour and sugar bags, too.”

The Captain chews his piece slowly, his gaze never leaving the Soldier’s. Fascination, sorrow, elation—all of it fighting to overtake one face. He doesn’t like that he can’t pinpoint the exact emotion attacking the Captain, or that they don’t match the four primary ones.

“Yeah, Buck. You’re right. It was Morita.”

That screaming voice in his head quiets now, opting for a more subtle cheering. Pride, he realizes.

The Soldier shares the rest of the chocolate bar with the Captain, and then another, all while they reminisce about the Howling Commandos. It’s equal parts warped memories and clear ones. But that doesn’t matter, because what he doesn’t remember the Captain clarifies, and vice versa.

—————

A week after the attack, the Soldier is the first one to arrive on the roof, cigarette box in hand. He has gone every night, and every night he has sat alone. The absence of the undead shadow he’s come to expect is odd, almost as if his presence alone unsettled the unnatural balance of things. Death was natural, but she defied it.

This felt too normal.

The roof door opens. He hasn’t opened the new pack yet. She takes small steps to the ledge, wincing slightly as she swings her right leg over. He watches her and says nothing—the team doesn’t speak about their injuries unless they’re serious, and she doesn’t speak to anyone at all.

He’s never asked her about her relationship with the others. He only knows how she is with him. It feels unbalanced somehow. She knows more about his character now than anyone else, besides the Captain, because he doesn’t speak with anyone else. He doesn’t know what she does with the other twenty-one hours of her day. He feels he’s allowed to ask considering just how vulnerable he’s seen her. A small part of him feels like that’s taking advantage.

“You could have started without me,” she says, the low timbre of her voice still strong enough to raise the hair on his arms. Not even the upcoming seasonal chill has succeeded in that. He doesn’t get cold often. Unless he’s dreaming.

“They don’t taste the same if I do.”

It’s bold, what he says. She’ll think he means a cigarette is best shared with a friend and conversation. He won’t tell her the two reasons he smokes at all: It elicits a soothing, guttural response that sends him back to midnight campfires serenaded by distant stories of home, and because he’s come to enjoy the taste of red, of brown, of pink, inked at the white base.

She hums lightly and finally swings her left leg over. Again the movement seems to hurt her. He notices her skin is ashier, cracking where her laugh lines would be, and her red eyes emit a soft glow. Her lips are nearly white and her hair refuses to hold in any natural moisture. She’s drying up, and yet she takes the cigarette he offers and inhales until decayed lungs inflate.

“You look terrible.” The trapped voice within him curses at him relentlessly, probably begging to be sent to the front lines to take over this battle for him. Flirting was Bucky Barnes’ thing, not the Soldier's. Then again, the Soldier doesn’t think he’s trying to flirt. But he doesn’t want to dismiss her either.

“Yeah, that happens when I go a few days without eating.”

“They’re not bringing you food?”

“They’re repairing my floor. Their minds are elsewhere.”

“But… You look terrible.”

He shuts himself up by taking a long puff, avoiding her amused gaze. He’s not trying to be funny, but it does make him feel a little better to know she isn’t taking his careless words seriously.

“I haven’t left the guest room. The windows on your floor aren’t made for my condition.”

How could the team, how could he, be so clueless? He should have checked on her when she didn’t come the first night. Should have knocked on her door and checked if she had enough damn pillows. Banner should have visited and taken the opportunity to ask those subtle but obvious questions.

“How long can you go without?”

“Forever. I won't die from it.”

“But how long before it hurts?”

The question surprises her. She takes the cigarette from his fingers cautiously, as if the question was tied to a physical one. He’s aware that she’s physically weak, vulnerable, open to prodding—completely exposed.

She thinks for a moment before saying, her shoulders hunched and eyes glowing softly, “It hurts right now.”

He does not think before saying, as he snatches the smoke back and gets a little lost in the brown lip stain he can now taste wholly, “What would happen if you drank from me?”

Her eyes widen ever so slightly. Both curiosity and outright distaste floods her once calm expression. He should be offended by that, but instead he waits. Strangely… excited for her answer.

“I’ve never had a true, willing victim before.”

“Don’t call me a victim.”

“I’ve never had a true, willing supper-plate before.”

“Better.”

She huffs a short laugh. “As hungry as I am, drinking from you would be a poor decision.”

Because of the serum, because of the bite marks, because they barely know one another—the reasons are endless, really. But the Soldier wants to help, and wanting is rare.

“Do you have to kill?”

“No.”

“Will it leave a mark?”

“A little one.”

“How much do you need?”

“As much as the typical person would donate.”

“Have you ever gotten sick from someone’s blood?”

She takes a long drag, contemplative. “Once.”

He realizes that for the first time in a long time he knows more about the science portion of things, rather than the brutal aspects, before Banner and Stark. Not even psych got these specifics. He is truly two steps ahead, and something like… greed, envelops him. A peculiar type of greed—a fanatical smugness at the fact that he of all people has taken the time to learn something the others have given up prying for.

The Soldier, for once, is being considerate. Elation pools in his empty stomach because of her hesitation—because she is considering his well-being.

He nods, his decision final. “Drink from me.”

“Quite possibly the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”

“You’re killing yourself because you won’t ask for help.”

“Asking for help,” she drawls sarcastically, frowning. She flicks the dud into the aerial abyss and reaches for their second cigarette of the night. “Have you asked for it?”

He lights the end for her. “I don’t need help.”

“You’re just as isolated as I am. According to Natasha, we’re unhealthy.”

“My seams aren’t unraveling as we speak.” Even as he says it, he knows she’ll counter it.

“That’s the difference. You can see mine. Your seams are in here,” she explains, pointing at her own temple. “I’ve accepted my death a long time ago.”

His brow draws together. “If that were true, you would stay here until the sun came up.”

Shaking her head, she blows the smoke out in two short spurts. “Mostly everything about being human is dead to me. My heart no longer beats. If I don’t mask it with perfume, you’ll start smelling rotting meat. I sleep, maybe, ten days of the year. Wine is the only human thing I can consume without vomiting. I am a dying paradox, forced to pretend. But my mind is my own, and though my heart is frozen, it’s still there. I may be dead, but I don’t want to die.”

The Soldier wakes each morning, his mind finally his own, his heart somehow intact. He has a team who tries to support him, a friend who would destroy the world for the memory of him, and a vampire companion he has never thanked for simply being there. His heart beats the same as it did in 1945, he sleeps a full night through one-hundred days of the year, and he hasn’t drank wine since moving into the Tower. He is living, and yet he has no life. He is forced to pretend to be Bucky Barnes, forced to automate the husk of a living paradox. They tried to kill the human part of him, and when they partially succeeded, he wanted to die along with it. His memory is dead, slowly reviving, and he doesn’t want to die now.

He makes an apathetic noise, unwilling to reveal just how much her vulnerability burrowed into his own. “The offer is still on the table.”

The cigarette is halved.

“It’ll hurt a little bit.”

“As long as you don’t kill me.”

She considers once more, even studying his neck as she does. The Soldier has been at the will of others before, but this is different. He chose this.

“Then get comfortable. I don’t want you falling over.”

Their feet hit the roof at the same time. It’s the first time he notices how much taller he is. The second cigarette is flicked away, the third—for now—stays in the pack. She dusts the back of her sweatpants off, cleaning her arms next. She’s nervous, he realizes. That funny smugness comes back, stronger than before.

“Take as much as you need,” he offers, his smirk widening when she rolls her eyes. She crosses her arms and inspects him head to toe, a smirk of her own to match his. It’s suddenly intimate. Her eyes glimmer and shine so bright he no longer wants to lift his head to see the natural wonders—the two brilliant rubies taking him apart piece by piece are the most unnatural wonders in the world. What does he look like to her? Is there a scarlet glow outlining his body? Can she see the way his index and thumb tap together, the only physical sign of nerves he’ll show anyone. Can she hear his steady heartbeat, trained to combat adrenaline, and through the ruse can she see how desperately Bucky Barnes is banging on the walls to escape? Not to oppose the incoming bite, but to be the one to feel a woman’s mouth on him again. The Soldier apologizes to him, promises that it isn’t anything sexual, and whispers that he’ll break him out soon. Little by little, he’ll help pull the dead man inside of him to the surface.

“Tilt your head for me,” she gently instructs. She swallows hard. He does as he’s told.

Slowly, she creeps forward. Close enough that he should feel her hot breath, but there’s nothing at all. Her cold palms rest on his cheeks, scratching against his stubble, the pads of her thumbs near the corners of his parted mouth. Boldly, she traces a hand down his angled neck—pauses—then hooks his hair behind his ear. The Soldier involuntarily shivers, but he does not reprimand himself.

“Ready,” she murmurs, excitement glimmering in the swirl of crimson. Are his gray ones just as potent?

“As I’ll ever be.”

Just as they did back at the Hydra base, the skin around her eyes deepens in color, black veins extending far down her cheeks. Her fangs, once hidden by her tempting lips, nudge his neck. Four needle points, though the two on top are the first to puncture him. He hisses softly but quickly relaxes into her strong hold, their chests pressed together. Before he can encourage her, she bites down.

It’s…

Otherworldly. Bizarre. Erotic.

She moans as she drinks, and he—matches it.

One hand delicately holds the other side of his neck, the other trailing to his waist. He can’t trust that she knows exactly what she’s doing, lost in her bloodlust, so he tries to ignore it. Tries to ignore the serum rushing to heal his wound and the once dormant, primal reaction of his blood rushing south. But she drinks plenty, greedily, and he’ll offer her more still.

She detaches herself, licking at the injury. He shuts his eyes and suppresses a groan. She takes this reaction as pain, however.

“Did I hurt you?”

He shakes his head. “Was that enough?”

“Can you handle a little more?” He nods, and she punctures him again.

He gets lightheaded the longer she drinks, but it’s worth it. Her skin is returning to its natural shade, her eyes are dimming, her lips are moistening. Even her grip feels stronger. Unlike the last time, there is no smoke circling them. She is simply feeding, visible to the elements. Visible to him.

And apparently, visible to their first ever trespassers.

“Three seconds, Fangs! One, two—”

The Soldier throws a knife backward just as she removes her bloodied teeth, landing a perfect stab in one of the crevices in Stark’s suit. The Colonel sneaks up behind her and hauls her up into the air. Stark flies behind him, holding his arms to his sides.

“I always knew you were into some kinky shit, Sergeant. But unsupervised? BDSM one-oh-one, make sure your partner can be trusted.”

“Let me go,” he warns. Then, deeper and more brutal, “Let her go.”

Stark scoffs, but lets him go anyway. “She was just eating you. I think your sympathies are leaning toward the Axis—”

“She wasn’t hurting me! I let her feed because you bastards haven’t fed her in days!”

Stark and the Colonel pause, their eyes meeting. The latter seems more surprised. “Shit, Tony. Is that true?”

“Hold on, hold on, back up. Let me think about this.”

The Colonel interjects, his brow rising. “What’s there to think about? Did you feed her or not? Did you let her starve?”

“I’m not in charge of it!” Stark makes a small hand motion to tell the Colonel to let her down. The second her feet hit the roof, she’s wiping his blood from her jaw. He wants to tell her not to. It was her claim, her right. She need not be ashamed for simply surviving. “But I can see where our wires have gotten crossed,” Stark concedes.

The Soldier leaves his neck as is. Blood slowly trickles to his collarbones and into his t-shirt. Stark follows it, the slightest twinge of curiosity flashing across his bearded face.

The Soldier steps closer to him, his gaze enough to unravel even the strongest of men. “How can you forget one of your own?”

Still, Stark persists, his self-assurance unrelenting. “If you haven’t noticed, Barnes—You two are the most reclusive, secretive, stone-faced people on this team. I avert my eyes whenever one of you even enters the room.”

“I didn’t hurt him.”

They all turn to her. He hates how small her voice sounds, how modest she makes herself. To defend herself.

“Yeah, we see that,” Stark says, rubbing his temples. “Don’t know why we bothered. If he wanted you dead, I’d suspect you’d be… deader.”

“Then leave,” the Soldier grinds out.

“Barnes—” the Colonel sighs. He extracts himself from his suit, the silver absorbing the moonlight. “We just caught her feeding from you.”

“With permission.”

Stark mumbles, “Glad to know the Winter Soldier is all about consent—”

“We need to report this. She’s never… She’s never done that before,” the Colonel decides, though his expression tells him he’s in battle with his own words. “And if it’s because we’ve made her recruitment mirror captivity, then we need to re-evaluate the ethics, Tony.”

“For now, no one is allowed on the roof.”

“Are you serious?”

“It’s fine,” she says, straightening her shoulders. “I put you in danger and they saw what they saw. If I want to be a part of the team, they need to know everything, right?”

The Colonel steps back into his suit, the closure of his mask unsettling something within the Soldier. Masks function as detachment, as a lie. He knows the man underneath, but he is forced to make peace with the myth.

“Meet us bright and early in the lab,” Stark orders her, masking himself as well. He motions for her to follow.

Before the door shuts, she looks over her shoulder. No mask in sight.

“Smells like cigarettes up here,” Stark mutters, coughing dramatically.

—————

She is restricted to the lab for the next two days and ordered to complete another round of psych. No matter how often he threatens to put a knife in Stark’s neck, he doesn’t budge. The Captain swears that no invasive procedures are taking place, that he is present for any and all questions Stark and Banner are throwing at her. He says she is cooperating, even telling them how and how often she needs to feed in order to be effective in battle. They find that the serum did not affect her at all.

But when he sees her at the end of her imprisonment, her red irises no longer hold an excited or even tame glow. They are void.

They remind him of his own.

And he is terrified.

—————

He awakens with a jolt, immediately pulling the gun from underneath his pillow and aiming at the intruder with sleepy eyes but steady hands. The shadows do little to conceal her, especially with the slight glow from her eyes and the fact that the moon shines upon her. She’s forgone her usual black clothing tonight, and instead dons pink—a cotton two-piece night set. Slight collar on the shirt, shorts for bottoms. Pockets. If he didn’t recognize her shadow like his very own, he’d wonder who exactly was standing at the edge of his bed, watching him sleep.

“Shoot me. I want to see what happens.”

He lowers the weapon, glaring at her playfully. “Funny.”

“Never been shot before. Curiosity kills me daily.”

“Can you bleed out?”

“I can bleed. But no, I can’t bleed out.”

“Is it your blood?”

“No. It’s the blood I consume. I use it for energy.”

“What are you doing in my room?”

She smirks, shrugging her shoulders as if her unannounced presence is normal. “I knew they were going to bar you from the rooftop and were going to send me my dinner around this time, so I took the opportunity.”

He draws himself further up the bed, his naked chest on display. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he pats the space beside him at the same time. He hears her snicker, the accidental innuendo making him blush. It’s a weird feeling—to be thought of in that way. To think in that way.

She hops in beside him but stays above the blanket. He raises a brow.

“I would only make your bed colder.”

It truly is like lying beside a cadaver. She produces little heat when she feeds, but this… This is her natural state. He feels it all, distinguishable from the natural chill of night and three feet of distance.

“Do you like being cold?”

“It makes summers easier.”

“You’re inside all the time.”

“In general.”

He hums and brings a pillow up to clutch against his stomach.

“What are you really doing here?”

She shrugs. “I’m public enemy number one right now. The Captain and Wanda may still like me, but I don’t talk to them. Not like how I talk to you.”

“I’m not the friend you want to talk to about your feelings, or have braid your hair.”

“Damn, and I was really looking forward to that.”

He rolls his eyes. The moonlight slices through the curtains of his bare bedroom, cutting right through them. They are separated by the light, and in a peculiar turn of events, he envies the moon for it. The one constant that brought them together, now splitting them in half.

“When do you think they’ll calm down?”

“Depends on how willing they are to listen to me.”

“Well, you’re hardly ever wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.”

“Hardly. So, I guess what you say is good news.”

He chuckles, the barest of brushes with their shoulders igniting an ache in his stomach. He wonders if she is similarly affected. If she, too, feels the odd connection between them blossoming into something stranger. He is used to feeling nothing at all—conditioned—and yet, skin-to-skin is like learning a whole new language. Fluent in many, the Soldier believes this language of silence is exclusively their own.

“I’m sorry Stark and Banner kept you in the lab for so long.”

“They let me wander.”

His lip quirks. “Did you give them what they wanted?”

“Do you mean, did I break?”

“Were they trying to break you?”

She opens her mouth to say something, something witty he assumes, but she chooses not to. Instead, she shakes her head and bares honest eyes. “No. But I told them what they needed to know. Over time, they’ll start feeling like teammates. And I, a part of the team. They need to know about my condition, and when I’m ready, they’ll know me.”

He realizes why her impassiveness used to irk him so—she is him, he is her. They are carbon-copies. He is speaking to himself, and he sees and feels what the Captain does. Sadness. Emitting from her, growing within him.

“Do you enjoy being excluded?”

“Do I enjoy being alone?”

“Same thing.”

She rearranges her legs, crossing the right one over the left. “It’s not the same thing. Being alone is for peace of mind. Exclusion is… forced.”

“Isolation, then. Like what Stark said. Basking in our reclusiveness.”

“I’ve been alone a long time. I find comfort in it, but I don’t like being lonely.”

“I’m not following.”

She smiles, turning to look at him. He meets her eyes—there’s a shimmer of gold in them. “I came here tonight because I don’t like being alone at this hour anymore. I like our silence. Our proximity. I’m not lonely when I’m with you, but we can be alone together.”

“Ah,” he sighs. Nervously, he holds her stare and says, “I like our time together, too.”

It’s refreshing, being open. Usually he delivers truths bluntly, honesty with a punch, and information without remorse. With her, it’s easier to be the Soldier. It’s easier to try and reach deep into the pit of what’s left of his soul, and pull out Bucky Barnes.

“Natasha’s nice. We can invite her to smoke with us.”

“No.”

She laughs. “Noted.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He wouldn’t smoke, but he’d be fun in conversation.”

“You speak to him often?”

She hums, considering. “He always speaks to me if I’m in the room. The Captain, too.”

He likes that—people he considers friends treating her kindly.

“What do you talk about?”

“The weather, mostly.”

He snorts, the sound completely unflattering. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Idiots. Do they describe the sun to you, too?”

She laughs again, the original melody caressing his skin. “I don’t blame them. I’m pretty closed off during the day.”

“You should come train with me sometime. The windows can be covered.”

“I forget you’re the expert with knives around here.”

“Knives, yes. Daggers, no.”

She moves to sit criss-crossed, facing him. “It’s not all that different. Plus, what I use are more like shortswords anyway.”

“How old are you again?”

She grins, fangs and all. Beckoning him, his blood. He sits up higher.

“Never ask a lady her age.”

“I see times haven’t changed.”

“What else do you remember from those times?”

A little, he wants to say. Barely anything at all, he wants to scream.

“I remember ladies wore more than this to bed,” he teases, pinching a loose thread at her shorts.

She raises a brow. “What nuns were you dating?”

“Don’t tell me I’ve been lied to my whole life.”

“Sometimes,” she breathes, the air she expels completely artificial, “they wore nothing at all.”

“Liar.”

She bounces as she gets off his bed. Her smile remains, and he finds that he’s been sporting one of his own the entire time.

“Liar. One of my top five pet names.”

He watches her walk away, and before he can stop himself—

“What do you like being called? By your first name? A nickname?”

“I quite like being called Fangs.”

Damn Stark to all the Hells. He gives a playful scoff, “Your first name will do.”

“Call me Fangs.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Get out of my room.”

She rolls her eyes, and checks the hallway before squeezing through the slight gap of the door. “Goodnight, Barnes.”

“Call me James.”

“Your last name will do.”

—————

The Soldier grips the handles of his chair and limits his air consumption to a whopping ten breaths a minute. Any more oxygen and his adrenaline will spike. He does not want to cause a scene, no, not when the Colonel and Banner are doing that for him.

“I think we all need to calm down and look at this situation from all sides,” the Captain reasons, the strong timbre of his voice carrying over Stark’s.

“Cap, your bleeding heart is showing.”

The Colonel sighs, “See reason, Tony. She was starving because of our carelessness. And because we never initiate conversation with her, we didn’t ask!”

“Nuh-uh, don’t group me in that shit. I talk to her whenever I see her. I was with my sister all week so I’m excluded from your witch-hunt,” Wilson declares, leaning back in his chair, his expression one of extreme disappointment.

“Buck, we believe her when she says she wasn’t hurting you. But what in the world made you think that it was safe for her to feed from you—not even considering the serum—at all?”

“There you go, treating him like a kid again,” Stark grumbles with a heavy roll of his eyes. The Soldier turns his head slowly, his glare half-hidden behind his hair but deadly enough to make Stark clear his throat.

“Oh, shut it, Tony. Which is it then? He let her because he’s such a kid, or he shouldn’t have let her because he’s such a kid?” the Colonel argues.

The Widow leans her head back and brings her feet up to rest on the table. “And there you guys go again, acting like he’s not in the room.”

Banner interjects, massaging his hands together as he stutters, “Drinking his blood could have made her even more super than she is. We had no way of knowing for sure because she had rejected every test before this week.”

“And did you find anything different with her blood?” Wilson asks.

“Ah! That’s one thing we discovered. She doesn’t have any,” Stark shares, clapping his hands together.

“Considering the lack thereof, there was no blood to intermingle with his, so to say. She can’t absorb it permanently,” Banner explains further.

“Something we should have known when she first joined the team!”

“Tony, are you afraid that she’s going to be addicted to his blood now? Or any of ours?” the Widow asks, raising a trimmed brow. She looks around the table, her gaze softening slightly as it lands on the Captain. Still, she moans, “God, you guys are stupid.”

Stark makes a rattling scene as he pulls a chair out and sits down. He intertwines his fingers, mimicking a student. “Elaborate, then.”

The Widow stares at him for longer than the Soldier ever has. Her silence is as deadly as his, but more cutthroat. Where Stark would pinch until the Soldier either swung or bolted, he submits for the Widow. Be it that he’s known her longer and has more respect, he doesn’t know.

“Did any of you read my report about the mission a few weeks ago? Or did you just send your own to Fury and call it a day?” No one answers her. “Of course. If you did read mine, you would have read where I elaborated on the capability of her self-control. I bled first. It was my blood out in the air. The target hadn’t seen her. Barnes would have dealt with him first and given me the second look. She had the opportunity to go toward my open neck and have a feast. But instead, she tore into the man who hurt me.”

The Soldier can’t help the smirk that forms when it clicks. “You let him cut you on purpose.”

“Glad to know my work is being appreciated.”

Stark leans forward, actual shock painting his face. “You jump started the experiments? That was your idea?”

“Well, you and Banner were getting nowhere.”

He turns to the rest of the table, his smirk replaced by a frown. “She wasn’t going to hurt me because I trust her. And she trusts me. We’ve met every night for the past few months to share cigarettes and conversation up on that roof. Not once before did she even look at my neck.”

“Makes sense for those two to be close,” Banner mumbles, somewhat apologetic. “Remember when you wouldn’t let me or Tony operate on your arm after T’Challa gifted you it?”

“Look, if she’s angry at us then we will all apologize and try to understand where she’s coming from—”

He abruptly stands, cutting Stark off. He marks the Colonel and the Widow reaching for the guns at their hip. Stark looks offended for a second—

He’s had weeks to learn how to show… empathy. Weeks to learn how to look at someone and have his eyes speak for him. Stark closes his mouth, his brow relaxing, his gaze intense. Decent. Human.

“It’s not some competition between her and I. She’s not trying to be angry, or angrier than me. She’s sad. She didn’t let you into her world because you never asked! Never got to know her. You’re terrified of her not because she looks like she can kill you, but because she looks three seconds away from killing herself. You see nothing in her face—the same nothing like in mine. It’s a hazy type of nothing, and soon you will realize you shouldn’t have been afraid of her, you should have been trying to help her.”

“Buck…” the Captain breathes, restless.

“I’m not about to kill myself, Rogers. Don’t worry. But everything would be a lot easier if you all just… asked what you wanted to ask. The more you tip-toe around what you think is happening, the longer you build up this scenario that ends in flames. I like my silence, and sometimes I like when it’s interrupted. If you listen to my advice, you’ll know when to bother me and when to leave me the fuck alone.”

The Widow snickers, but there’s pride in her look. Praise he never asked for, and never will. Though, he’s glad his argument is supported. He’s glad the red-haired menace of a woman was creative enough to seek answers herself. The only one with a spine, it seems.

“I trust her,” he repeats. He really needs them to know that. “You’ve asked questions about her condition and you got your answers. Now, ask about her next time.”

—————

They get the call late into the night. Rousing them from sleep, the Captain tells the team to suit up and board the quinjet in under fifteen minutes. The flight to Moscow will be a long one, and the chilly descent won’t make anyone happier. They are expected to land when the moon hangs high again.

The Widow cannot return to Russia. The Soldier can’t either, but he’s better at evading. He knows how to navigate the icy forests. Wilson, Stark, and the Colonel are grounded for risk of being shot down. The only ones cleared for this mission are himself, the Captain, Barton, Maximoff, and their vampire companion.

They split into two teams. The Captain and Maximoff head east. Barton accompanies him, and though he does not explicitly say it, he is watching just how close the Soldier walks near the woman who drank his blood three nights ago.

The mission is to infiltrate and leave no hostages. Killing on a team-effort. They succeed. On record, the Avengers weren’t in Russia at all.

The Captain calls an all-clear and the Soldier corroborates. Sunrise is nearing. They need to return to the quinjet immediately.

He doesn’t hear the high-tech drones flying at ground-level. But he does hear the rustling behind the trees, the regular breathing from trained lungs. He orders Barton back but it’s too late. He steps on an explosive and is sent into the air. Stark’s expertise extends to their suits as well so it’s a miracle Barton doesn’t lose a limb, but their position is known. He calls for assistance over the comms. Smoke billows at his side, then disappears altogether. As he deals with the men sprouting from hiding, she deals with the ones still crouching. Blood sprays and his legs tire fast without Barton there to help. He doesn’t even know where he landed.

He tries calling for the Captain again with no luck. It’s an ambush with their best combat agents, and they are sorely outnumbered. If it was just guns and knives, even arrows, he could beat them all. The weapons they have are electricity-based, some fire. He’s battling his own men while also checking at the corner of his eye that sparks and heat aren’t one of her weaknesses. Because if she’s downed, he can’t go for Barton. She is a priority.

If no one helps her, she’ll burn.

“Go find Rogers!” he screams to her as he smashes his metal fist into the stomach of a man much larger than him.

“I’ll go for Clint! He couldn’t have landed far—”

He’s struck by a bullet before she finishes her sentence. Her terrified gasp is perhaps the saddest part about this whole ordeal. She doesn't need to breathe, she doesn't need to gasp. He lands on his back, his stomach branded by lead, directly in this morning’s first ray of light.

“James!”

The Captain confirms Barton’s safety, then his panicked questioning bombards the comms as he is informed of the Soldier’s condition. Her voice sounds different over the earpiece. Somehow lighter. Frightened, but lighter. Shadows attempt to cover him from afar, but they can’t reach. She’s not close enough. She digs into necks and plunges her gold shortsword into the other available meat she can find. The Soldier has been shot at many times, but shot? Once when he was Bucky Barnes, twice during his seventy year prison sentence, and once more since arriving at the Tower. Only the wound during the war had been in the stomach, and he had miraculously healed in three days then. He hadn’t thought twice about why that was.

These are the worst injuries—get shot in the middle and suddenly every part of your body hurts. He can’t think, can barely breathe. If he isn’t helped soon, the serum will battle his natural adrenaline to the point he could die from shock.

There are hands on his shoulders, then under them, lifting poorly. She screams and screams and screams. He smells burning flesh. He is dropped momentarily and sees the flash of a gold dagger, then the crimson of the enemy. Again, he is lifted, dragged. Again, she is screaming.

They take cover in every shadow she can fit in. She waits, whimpering under her breath, then does it all over again. He can’t fully open his eyes.

She does this twelve more times until they are far enough from the enemy. She shoves them into an empty cave and immediately begins removing his leathers.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

—————

The unmistakable scent of cooking rabbit hits him before the stabbing pain in his abdomen.

“You owe me,” he hears a cranky voice mutter, the voice he’s come to expect whenever the sun disappears and the moon kisses the stars. He’s on his back, his metal fist practically fused to his stomach. When he opens his eyes fully there are branches blocking his view of the night sky. There’s a campfire to his left, flames growing higher as it cooks the animal hovering over it. He moans in discomfort when he turns his neck a little more, but it’s worth it.

There she is—skinning a second rabbit and skewering it a second later, frown on her beautiful face, cloak torn from the bullets that grazed her. Without the hood, the injuries from the sun are on full display. Scattered, silver patches mark her natural tint, slowly healing but obviously causing discomfort. She pauses her cooking to scratch at herself relentlessly, cheeks and neck bearing her lashes.

“What do I owe you?” he croaks, coughing automatically. She abandons the dead animal to grab their emergency water containers. She holds the back of his head as she gently pours water on his lips first. Once moistened, he takes the container from her with his flesh hand.

“I don’t like killing animals,” she says, helping him sit up. He winces and lets her move him to the base of a wide tree.

“Sorry,” he replies absentmindedly. “You should eat, too.”

“I already did. You’re getting my leftovers.”

He eyes the fire, then the surrounding forest. “Is it safe to have one burning so high?”

She steadies the second rabbit over the wooden grill and turns the other one. She gives an unimpressed hum and remains facing away. “I dragged you for miles. I doubt they will catch up soon.”

“Miles?”

“The Captain was ambushed, too. Going to him would have put your life at risk.” A pause, then a twinge of distress. “And I wasn’t strong enough to protect you and fight anymore.”

“This had nothing to do with your strength or competence. The sun—”

“The fucking sun,” she grinds out, her usual low tone rising, “Because of the fucking sun, it made me incompetent. I am a hazard in the field when I have to cower in the shadows while my teammates are getting their asses handed to them.”

The Soldier pinches an eye closed, fixing his position slightly. “I can handle my own ass, thank you—”

“I was a nurse in the war.”

He pauses, his heart clenching. “Our war?”

Our war, he says. Like he and the Captain owned all the pain, the consequences, the deaths, the aftermath.

“I didn’t even know I had… died. I woke up in the middle of the night surrounded by the corpses of my men. I walked for miles until I found the gods-awful British army.”

He chuckles at that, even if his stomach begs him not to.

“I guess the enemy had a predator on the field. Makes sense… There were a lot of bodies to feed from. I stayed in the tents and worked well into the morning. And when my refuge was attacked, I left the tent so I could help.”

She doesn’t see the pitiful look he gives her.

“I burned so badly. And while I burned, I couldn’t reach the downed soldiers. When it was all done, instinct won… I fed for the first time that night. They all tasted like bile. When I finally found my own base again, I had a birthday card and chocolate waiting for me. I ate the entire bar even though it made me sick, even though it tasted like dirt. I was questioned about how I survived when so many died, why I kept giving my rations away, why I refused to work during the day. So because of the fucking sun, I let good men die. I could not have that happen today.”

Silence hums between them, the gentle crackle of the fire speaking for them. It occurs to him that she does not need the warmth it provides, but that she built it for him. For the sole purpose of feeding and comforting him. Something liquid figuratively drips into his stomach, swirling chaotically.

She removes the darkened rabbit from the fire and hands it to him. He thanks her with a nod of his head, and bites into its thigh. The meat is dry, but he has half a mind to thank her for removing its head so he doesn’t have to stare into dead eyes.

“Clint’s alive, by the way. Idiot landed in a gods-honest haystack a mile from the rest of the team.”

He laughs as he chews. She nods her head at his stomach.

“I’m fine,” he assures her, lifting his metal hand to showcase the dried blood. The bullet went right through him. “I’m just sore.”

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his meal half-eaten. She’s handed him the second rabbit already.

“Thank you,” he says honestly. “I’m not used to being saved. I find it odd that so many people want to save me. It was a calculated sacrifice, and I owe you my life.”

“Calculated,” she drawls. “I didn’t think much about it. You give me too much credit.”

“Well, if you didn’t think about it, then you’re just as much of an idiot as Rogers.”

The first smile of the night graces her face, now mostly healed from the silver patches.

“It wasn’t your fault. Someone took advantage of—” he pauses, the words too familiar. “Someone took advantage of you when you were helpless. When you were left for dead. And when you tried to help, you got the short end of the stick.”

“Some dull stick.”

He steadies his breathing, then takes another bite. The ache in his stomach feels less burdensome as he eats.

“You’re a veteran.”

“Do nurses count as veterans?”

“Fuck yeah they do.” They share a laugh, a moment. It’s as intimate as can be, the most intimate they’ve ever been. Even more so than when she had her teeth in his neck.

“Thank you,” he repeats, though the sentiment means more now. “For being a friend.”

“Thank you for not dying on me. And for trusting me,” she says, her red eyes glowing faintly. “Do I surpass the Captain?”

He chuckles. “He’s my closest friend. I think you’re my best friend.”

“Whatever that means,” she mutters, her quip a balm over the entire night.

They speak for the next few hours. It’s the most he’s spoken since coming home. Where his tongue would dry out and his head would turn hazy, he finds peace and urgency instead. Peace in her voice, in his mind. Urgency to tell her everything and nothing, all at once.

The Captain finds them before sunrise, and the Soldier—for the first time since reclaiming pieces of Bucky Barnes—hugs his closest friend because he simply wants to.

—————

Three weeks later, they are allowed back onto the roof. She brings the cigarettes this time. A different brand, one he vaguely remembers Dum-Dum complaining about. Said they were lady-smokes. He considers their taste, a memory for Bucky Barnes and a new experience for the Soldier. Those truths can coexist.

He quite likes their flavor.

“If you could take a bite out of anyone on the team, who would it be?”

He chokes on the smoke, fanning it away as he tries to control his laughter. “It’s actually insane of you to ask that question—”

Her mouth splits into a wide smile, her fangs showing. “Aw, c’mon! Indulge me! Who would it be?”

“Who would you want to taste?”

“Well, I’ve already tasted you.”

His chest tightens, suggestive of a lot more than he is ready to admit. She’s transitioned to blood bags instead of the vein, and some archaic part of himself is glad for it. He doesn’t necessarily want her mouth on anyone’s neck, besides his own, ever again.

“Yeah, you have,” he says quietly, cheeks reddening. “I don’t want to say who I’m thinking.”

She takes a short drag, smiling around the cigarette. “You’ve thought about it?”

“You want to hear it or not?”

She passes him the stick, her eyes glowing momentarily. “Yes, yes. Sorry, sorry.”

He waits a moment, savoring the taste of her on their smoke. He wonders if one day they’ll upgrade to joints—if it would affect either of them at all. He clears his throat before admitting, “Thor.”

Silence. He takes another drag.

“I’ve thought about him, too.”

He doesn’t choke on his laugh this time. It’s loud, flowing down into the crowded streets and mixing with reality. For so long his silence has placated his mind and unnerved others—he’s becoming human again, resurrecting.

She matches his volume, taking the cigarette from his steady fingers. “Seriously! If I were to bring up the question of whether I need human blood or humanoid blood to sustain me to Tony and Bruce, oh! They would call him down to earth to find out immediately.”

Is it possible to bring someone who’s undead back to life, too? Were they living all along? Were they just suspended in an unmoving abyss and once something sparked, they chose to climb again? Is it ever that simple? It took him years, then months, weeks, and suddenly, days. He hasn’t broken through the skyline just yet, and neither has she, but that sliver of solace, that sliver of knowledge that it’s possible… That’s what makes him want to continue on. To hold hands with time itself.

“I have no doubt they would,” he adds, running a hand through his hair. He breathes in the crisp night air, and feels absolutely no remorse as he asks, “What did mine taste like?”

She considers, eyes crinkling. “Sweet. Like toffee, or more what I remember toffee tastes like. When people are happy, they taste like sugar to me, remember?”

“I was happy?” he says doubtingly, but his mind doesn’t believe his own uncertainty. It’s been a long time since he’s been happy, since he was his old self. Maybe the moment her teeth met his skin, he was Bucky Barnes. Maybe he was a new rendition of his old form—with one new emotion. Learning, retaining, earning this new life. “I’m happy,” he repeats because it’s true.

“I think I’m happy, too.”

God, she’s magnificent.

“You know what makes me even happier, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Thai food,” he says honestly, ignoring her playful scoff. “I’m serious. Let me take you out tomorrow night. And… when we return… you can taste it for yourself.”

She tries not to smile, but it splits gracefully. “That sounds so weird—”

“Hey, I’m trying here!”

She passes him the cigarette, only their second of the night, and scoots closer on the ledge. “Fine. You can take me out. But there better be wine or else I’ll complain the whole time—”

He grabs her hand, flesh on flesh, warm and cold. Intertwining their fingers, they both study the connection. Again, silence breezes through them. There is no longer a gap, no longer just smoke being shared.

She does not pull away, but instead leans her head down and rests it on his shoulder. He savors the weight, high on the prospect of time itself, and rests his own head over hers.

A/N: Let me know if you guys want a part 2, if not then this is a perfect one-shot for me! --Moni

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #marvel fanfiction #by moni #captainsimagines #bucky barnes fanfic #reader x bucky barnes #fanfiction #vampire reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine

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noobiestnoober · 3 months ago

Text

Coincidence, My Ass (Jake X Reader)

You thought being saved during a bioterror outbreak was wild enough… until Jake Muller kept reappearing in your life like a six-foot-tall walking coincidence. From your hospital bed to your coffee shop shift, to literally moving in next door—he’s always just there. With a smirk. And suspicious timing.

It’s giving: 👀 He’s definitely not stalking you 😤 You definitely don’t like him (okay, maybe a little) 🐱 He saved your cat once—zero chill about it 💥 There may or may not be a conspiracy unfolding around you

💬 Expect sharp-tongued banter, accidental soft moments, and that slow-burn tension that makes you yell at your screen.

You were just another civilian when the bioterror outbreak hit. Chaos erupted like wildfire—people screaming, infected tearing through the streets, and the world collapsing into a living nightmare. You were cornered in a half-destroyed alleyway, bruised and breathless, a mutated J'avo snarling just inches from your face, when he appeared out of nowhere. Rugged, cocky, and infuriatingly smug, Jake Muller dropped in like some bootleg action hero, shot the thing mid-leap, and turned to you with a smirk that could cut glass.

"You owe me dinner, sweetheart," he said.

You thought that was the last you'd see of him. Just another weirdly attractive mercenary passing through your nightmare. But fate—or something more persistent—had other plans. First, he popped up at the hospital where you were being treated, casually leaning against the doorway with a smirk and an energy drink. Then he showed up again, weeks later, as a customer at the local coffee shop you’d started working at to regain some normalcy. And again, standing suspiciously close to your apartment building, claiming he was visiting a friend. You didn’t believe him, but he just winked and strolled off. And now? He’s your next-door neighbor. Because of course he is.

Every single time, it’s written off as a “coincidence.” Jake never outright admits to following you. But he doesn’t deny it either. Somehow, whenever things start going sideways—like when your apartment gets broken into but nothing’s stolen, or when you find your tires mysteriously slashed—Jake is just... there. Leaning against the wall with that damned smirk, offering casual advice or making sarcastic comments while clearly scanning the perimeter.

You try to confront him. He brushes you off. You accuse him of stalking, and he deflects with something like, “If I were stalking you, you wouldn’t notice.” It’s maddening. But also… kind of comforting. Against your better judgment, you begin to rely on his presence. And maybe—even worse—you begin to look forward to it.

The longer this continues, the more complicated it gets. There’s tension—snarky, loaded, and lingering. You challenge him at every turn, and he matches you blow for blow, his sarcasm keeping pace with your sass. He breaks into your apartment once, “just to check the locks.” You nearly pepper spray him—he laughs and calls you adorable. He teaches you how to disarm someone using a hairdryer with mock-serious enthusiasm. You teach him how to make a latte and scold him for using too much milk. He rescues your cat from a literal fire and calls it “an annoying fluffball,” but you catch the way he scratches behind her ears when he thinks you’re not looking.

Through it all, a maddening, slow-growing affection simmers. A relationship built on banter, sharp glances, and long silences where unspoken feelings crackle in the air like static.

As the nights grow stranger and danger creeps closer, the pattern becomes harder to ignore. What felt like quirky coincidences now look like calculated patterns. Jake isn't just sticking around for fun.

Eventually, you come to two inevitable conclusions:

You might—just might—actually like the infuriating bastard.

The things happening around you aren’t random, and Jake Muller isn’t here out of boredom. Something bigger is at play—and somehow, you’re at the center of it. Jake? He’s your reluctant protector… and maybe something more.

The End...?

Nah... if you want an ending of your own choice, all you got to do is comment down below and make a request on what type of ending you want. I'll make multiple endings based on your requests. ❤️😉

Ending 1 of 1

✨ Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, reblog, like, or leave a comment—your support means everything!

— Do not repost. Reblogs appreciated! Requests & feedback welcome!

“For all fandoms, check my [Masterlists Here]!” and “More Resident Evil fics? [Resident Evil Masterlist]”

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mingi-s-dimples · 11 months ago

Note

Hi!! I'm a new follower and I have binged read all of your fics and I absolutely loved them❤️ I saw that you are currently accepting request so I would like to make one. I need a smut fic with Hongjoong and Yunho. I'm thinking about MafiaBoss! Hongjoong and Yunho x Assassin!Reader. where the reader is a badass assassin in which her whole aura screams that she is a dom, only for her to be manhandled and treated as a fucktoy by the two. Thank you in advance!

Beneath the Bullet - hohong/yunjoong

REQUEST BY: @arki-sha

pairing: mafia bosses!hohong/yunjoong x assasin fem!reader

rating: 18+

genre: mafia au, romance, smut, filth (mdni ty)

summary: You finally meet the two hottest men in the city.. who happen to be mafia leaders... and also happen to be your enemies.. but hell lets loose in their car, atmosphere filled with lust and desire.

WC: 3k

warnings: mafia au, rough dom!yunho, softer dom!hongjoong, assassin fem!reader, mafia leaders!yunjoong, car sex, overstimulation, double penetration, pet names (sweetie, princess, love), slight degradation (once or twice, slut/fucktoy/cumslut), mentions of murder, mentions of blood, mentions of guns, knife play, pain kink ig?, oral (m), implied foreplay, big dick!yunjoong, two kinky mfs (reader and yunho), completely consesual, slight humor when Yunho gets a fucking erection from being cut by reader's knife I laughed so bad while writing that part, unprotected (use protection irl !!!), for sure forgot something, completely undedited.

Author's Note: HELLO I WENT INSANE WHILE WRITING IT? Had to include my lil kink with the knife play, hihi. I hope I wrote it exactly how you imagined it, love. Tell me your opinion down below <3 <3 KEEP THE REQUESTS COMING I LOVE WRITING !

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction & does not represent in any way the reality of the member.

The casino was a gleaming beacon of decadence in the heart of the city, its neon lights flickering like the promises of fortune that lured the desperate and the greedy through its gilded doors. Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the soft, constant hum of conversation punctuated by the sharp clatter of chips on green felt tables. Crystal chandeliers cast a dim, golden glow over the sea of patrons, each lost in their own games of chance and deception.

As you stepped inside, the weight of the city’s secrets seemed to hang in the air, wrapping around you like a second skin. You moved with quiet precision, your senses heightened, aware of every sound, every movement. The role of the assassin fit you like a glove—silent, unseen, and deadly.

Your eyes scanned the room, picking up on the subtle signs of tension beneath the surface calm. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted them—two silhouettes at the far end of the bar. Even in the dim lighting, their profiles were unmistakable. The taller one, with his sharp suit and colder-than-ice demeanor, was Jeong Yunho. The other, slightly shorter with a more calculating gaze, was Kim Hongjoong. Two of the city's most powerful mafia bosses, men whose shadows loomed large over the criminal underworld.

Their presence was no coincidence. You knew them well—too well. But whether they recognized you, whether they knew why you were here, was a question that hung in the air like a loaded gun waiting to go off. In this casino, luck was a fleeting thing, and tonight, it was clear that the stakes were about to get deadly.

With your sharp senses you felt someone approaching you. It was a mere waiter.

"Hello, miss. Would you like something to drink, perhaps?" he said, smiling.

You thought, "what if he was paid by someone to bring me a spiked drink?" and refused him promptly.

"Ah, no, thank you." you said, skeptical of his intention.

"Okay then, I will be at the bar if you want to order something later" he said and left.

As you were scanning the huge room, filled with smoke and despair, as one or two people were always losing their bids, you lost sight of the two men. "Fuck it, he really was a decoy!" you said and touched your thigh, feeling up the gun and knife you had under your dress.

You left the place, through the emergency exit and stopped for a moment to catch your breath. You then felt someone near you, making you get out the gun from your thigh pocket. You moved slowly, steadily and tried to get to your car but to no avail. Someone came from behind you and put a hand on your mouth, turning you around.

"We meet at last, y/n." Yunho said, smiling at you.

"Hah, look at her face. She didn't expect it." Hongjoong said, approaching you slowly.

"Back the fuck off!" you said and Yunho loosened his grip, leaving you stay still in front of them.

"Ouu, feisty. We heard about you before, princess. We've heard allll the stories, about how you're the best assasin the city.. what happened now, hm?" Hongjoong said, carresing your cheek.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" you flinched at his touch.

"Don't worry, you're as filthy as us... if not even filthier. How many people did you murder until now? Hm.. I read about 130... We aren't even close to that, darling. Not even sumed up." the tall man said confidently, waving his gun at you.

"If you don't leave me the fuck alone I'll make you fucking dissapear!" you whispered, taunting the two men, and as soon as you finished talking you got your gun from your garment.

"Ohhh, you have your little gun with you? What, do you think you can kill us with that small gun? Baby, we've been shot multiple times by way more bigger and heavier guns. That one will one.. maybe scratch us?" Yunho said, laughing at you.

You were breathing heavily, trying to find a way to escape. But to no avail, as the two men were basically towering over you, cornering you. You had no way to escape. Though, your job was not necessarily to kill them... you were searching someone else, but they also had a bounty on their heads. A big, fat one, too. But, again, you weren't there to kill them so... why did they corner you?

You saw a moment of freedom and took your knife out, Yunho seeing you and chasing over to you. He turned you around, getting himself cut pretty badly on his chest. To your surprise, he let out a loud moan, making you and Hongjoong burst out laughing.

"HAHAHA what the fuck man! Did you just moan? Damn you kinky fucker, never thought you'd be into this typa shit" Hongjoong said, laughing along with you.

"SHUT UP!" He said embarrased, keeping a secret to himself.

"Oh, my god. This was HILLARIOUS! Never thought I'd hear Yunho, fucking moan." you giggled.

"Y/n, do you want me to give you a reason to moan, too?" Yunho said and pushed you against the wall, at the back of the casino. "You dared cut me, princess. What made you think I wouldn't fight back, hm?" he whispered, brushing the sharp edge of your knife on your neck, but not hurting you.

"You're lucky we don't hurt girls, princess. What, by the look in your eyes, did you expect me to kill you?" the taller one said and yes, you were looking him in the eyes, with a blank stare. Yes, you were terrified but no, you weren't trying to show him. Even so, he was the type to feed on people's fears.

"Not gonna lie, Yunho, this would turn me on in other circumstances" you giggled, trying to diffuse the mood.

"Damn, another kinky one.. Yunho, what did you do?" Hongjoong smirked, seeing your gaze darkening upon seeing the taller's one pants forming a tent.

"OH, my god." you exhaled, squirming under Yunho's grip.

"Get the fuck away from me" Yunho said, pushing you away.

"Relax man, the fuck are you getting so worked up for" Hongjoong shouted, giving you an understanding of what was happening. What if, the two men.. in front of you... came at the casino, for you? To find you, to get... and claim you. The thought that just ran through your mind made you cross your legs for a short second, while staring at Yunho, at how flushed he was. Truth is, these two fuckers in front of you were the hottest in the underground businesses... the only shitty thing being the fact that you were a fucking assassin and them... mafia leaders, which wasn't quite to your liking, but...

"The fuck are you pushing me away for!?" you said, giving him the death stare.

"I thought you needed some help...well then, I'll leave if you're done with me? I've got someone to kill, babes" you said, walking towards the door.

"Wait a moment, princess. The fuck did you just say now?" the shorter one rumbled.

Your heart racing, trying to find your words after what you just said.

"You heard what I said, I won't repeat myself".

"Come here you little fucker, dare to give me a damn erection and leaving without doing shit about it? You better prepare yourself." Yunho said, raising his eyebrows at you, showing you the way to their car.

"Make me. I know I said what I said but... did you think I'd submit so easily? Make me, love." you said and in an instant Yunho approached you and took you in his grip, lifting you off the floor.

"Don't make a fucking sound, y/n. We might actually hurt you." the shorter one murmured, sitting with you in the back of the car.

"Joong, keep her silent. I can't guarantee her safety if someones hears or sees her."

"On it"

Hongjoong started feeling you up, his hands traveling your body, up and down. From your bare thighs, to you waist, then to your collarbones. He closed the gap between the two of you and leaned in for a kiss, a deep and sloppy one. You tried to resist it, showing them that you're not that easily submitting but oh god.. the way he was kissing you sent you over the edge. Yunho was still driving, his cock achingly straining against the zipper of his pants, screaming to be let out.

"God damn" Yunho mumbled, trying to keep his attention on the road, but it was quite... hard for him. His dick leaking with pre cum and staining his pants, you heavy breathing in the back as you were making out with Hongjoong. He didn't quite resist anymore and sped up, trying to get to the destination as fast as possible. It was a remotely far hill, where one of their bases was.

"I don't have enough will and patience left in me to get you to the room. You'll take us right here in the car" Yunho said, pushing the front seats and coming in the back.

Hongjoong was already working on your fit, fondling with your bra from under the dress, not daring getting it off yet. He was enjoying every moment.

"Wait Joong, stop for a moment. Yunho, come here, lay down. Let me do something about your.. erection" you said, brushing your nails on his tip through the cloth, receiving a soft whine from him. He accepted the fact that you turned him on so bad that his dick was almost springing out of his tied up pants, but he had other plans.

"Okay babe, let's see what you've got in you." he said laying back, smirking.

And as he said that, you kneeled on him, the car big enough for you to have space to sit comfortably. Your wet cunt was touching his clothed thighs, turning you on even more. As your hands found their way to his pants, you started to slowly unbuckle them, then as you unzipped them his cock sprung out of his briefs, sitting angrily on his pelvis. It was true that the only thing keeping it in was his pants, after all. You then undresses him halfway, his pants and briefs to his knees so you could grind and hump on his bare thigh. The sensation send a shiver down both of your spines.

You started slowly stroking his pulsing length, from his shaft down to the base, your hands lubed enough from his leaking pre cum. As you were doing this, you started playing with him while Hongjoong was all touchy from behind, asking you to give in.

"What should I do with you, hm? Should I let you cum or edge you until you cum out of desperation?" you said smiling, looking at him in the eyes while fastening your strokes. From his tip to the base of his cock, your fingers worked their way to get him on the edge. But it didn't last long. Your little and steady strokes became sloppier and heavier, as you felt a hand slip behind you, to your folds.

"Oh damn, you're already so wet, princess. Want me to do something about it, hm?" Hongjoong said, rubbing your wet cunt.

"Uh, Joong-" you mumbled as he slipped two fingers in, no warning. Your back arched a bit and you decided to go down on Yunho, kissing his tip and licking circles on it's slit. He squirmed under you.

You sucked him off for a long minute until you felt one hand go on your head, tangling in your hair.

"I didn't imagine you'd be this cocky while sucking me, sweetie. Dare to order me around? Why don't you suck.." he said as he pushed your head down on his dick, hitting your throat, "more rapidly and deeply, hm? Let me fuck the cockiness out of you" he said as he raised his hips into your mouth, basically fucking your throat with so much power, tears forming in your eyes. Some fell on his abs, but it didn't make him stop. It actually made him want more, bottoming down in your throat, staying like that for a long moment to watch you choke on it.

"Oh, what a good girl. Look at me" he whispered.

He took his knife out.

"See this nice knife..? Look at it's blade, all right?" He put it to your throat once again, poking you subtly with the tip of it, not sharp enough to do any harm. But oh my god.. the thrill it sent through you... you could let him do that all day. But after all, you were a cocky one, as he said so.

"Do you think I'm as derranged as you to be into knife play, hm?" you said, smiling through the pleasurable tears forming from Hongjoong been all up in you. "It doesn't phase me, darling." he put the sharp part to your neck.

"Does this.. phase you?" he said as he poked you once again, but slightly scratching you, leaving a little mark on your neck.

"Not at all, do better." you said and he stopped Hongjoong from what he was doing, pushing you on his chest.

"What the fuck are you doing, man ! I was just in her moments ago!" Hongjoong said, angrily.

"Just do what the fuck I want you to do and shut up. Undress her and hold onto her, you can fuck her, I don't give a fuck. I want to have my fun with her" Yunho said and as Hongjoong did as told, he touched your pussy, first with his fingers then... with the blade. The dull point of the knife he had in his hand. He first slowly touched your clit, receiving a moan from you. Then with the blade he spread out your folds, watching how you were clenching onto air, basically nothing. You could see how his dick was throbbing at the view, still leaking. He then poked your thigh with the blade, leaving a small bleeding dot.

"Are you still not phased, princess? Should I fuck you dumb?" Yunho said as he put the knife away and closed the gap between the two of you, feeling how his cock was touching your folds. You whined at his touch, realising he's... way bigger than what you'd usually be able to take... either your fingers or your vibrator.

"Look at her man, she's out of it. What do you think, darling. Should we make you our fuck toy? Our little cumslut?" Hongjoong said as he spread out your cheeks and pressed the tip of his dick to your ass. You knew what he was trying to do and... you fully gave in.

"Oh my god, look at her, all spread out for us, see? She's so pretty like this... right, you little slut?" Yunho said as he pushed himself inside your cunt, one of his hands holding your thigh and the other one on your clit, rubbing it slowly but steady.

"Will you.. be able to take it, sweetie?" Yunho said and when you mumbled a soft, weak "yes" he started fucking you rapidly.

You were being fucked dumb by the two men, leaving you no room to act. You were catching your high, being closer than ever that night. Your hands were resting on Yunho's shoulders, your legs closing on his hips, asking him to ram into you. He wasted no time and as he pounded into you a few more times, along with Hongjoong's pumps in your ass, you came, your legs trembling and your eyes full of tears. It felt incredible.. how you were just fucked by them. But they weren't stopping... in fact... they steadied their thrusts.

"Don't even think of us stopping until we fill you up both" Yunho said and one of his hands went to your neck, carresing the small cut he did earlier with his knife. And as he said that, he bottomed out in you a few more times and finished in your cunt, his load dripping from his dick as he was still fucking you and himself through his high.

"Princess, bare with me but I'm not done yet" Hongjoong said and his hand went to your aching folds, Yunho's dick still inside you. He started rubbing your clit in circles, rapidly and forcefully, receiving loud whimpers and moans from you. You felt overstimulated, his hand rubbing the puffed oversensitive nub.

Yunho pulled out and his load was dripping down from your cunt, right down on Hongjoong's length, turning him on. You felt that he was close, as his thrusts became sloppy and had no rythm to them, and within a few more thrusts he also came in you, still fucking you through his orgasm. He emptied fully in you, leaving out a small string of curses as he slowed down.

"What a good fucktoy, hmm?" Yunho said helping you get up and sit on the backseat, wobbly on your legs and your head dizzy.

"Oh, my fucking, god." you exhaled, watching the two men dress you up.

"See? What being bratty with us does to you?" Hongjoong said, carresing your cheek.

Yunho helped you out of the car.

"Come here, let's go get you washed up and then I'll drop you off at your house."

"Thanks, I guess" you said, the cockiness in you visible again.

"Oh, cocky again? Prepare yourself for the next time we meet, it won't end good for you, princess", Hongjoong said, smirking.

While you were showering, you heard the two boys talking.

"The fuck were you doing with the knife, man?! Are you fucking derranged? What if you hurt her, hm? I thought we agreed on sharing her, for fucks sake! Not killing her." Hongjoong raised his voice and Yunho, making you giggle at his remark.

"Didn't you fucking see she was into it too? Give me a fucking break, I enjoyed it, she enjoyed it, the three of us are safe, leave me alone" Yunho said as he went back to the car to wait for you.

*several minutes later, all dressed up, in Yunho's car"

"See you other time, y/n. Enjoyed my time with you" he said.

And you continued.

"Next week at the casino? What do you think... bring Joong along with you"

"Deal"

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alora-rose · 7 months ago

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hiiii hello so we met our beautiful miller girl in the previous part

what's she going to do with all that rage? and now she's stuck in a very non-ideal situation.

we're meeting the rat bastard let's go we love him ☹️🫶🏻

warnings :- none

pairing :- rumplestiltskin x reader

"the dark one."

(first name) looked out of the high tower, considering jumping, but shuddered as she saw the drop. A manic sounding giggle startled her as she whipped around.

"That's never gonna work. I mean you'll escape, but you'll be dead. Kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"

"Who are you?" (first name) asked, slightly unnerved at the scaly, rough looking man? or was he monster? whatever he was, he definitely wasn't in here before.

"Who are you?"

He countered, a calculating look in his eyes; but the grin remained.

"(first name)."

She said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Not a very pretty name, is it? Sounds like something breaking."

"How-how did you get in here? If you got in, I can get out."

(first name) asked, taking a couple steps forward but still remaining cautious.

"If I understand your situation, this-" he pointed to the spinning wheel in the middle of the room. "-is your way out."

"And what a marvelous coincidence, that spinning straw into gold just so happens to be something that I like to do."

The scaly imp like thing said, as he loaded the spinning wheel with the first few strands of straw, not looking at the surprised but confused woman.

"I-its its so much like-like fate." He said, a sly smile on his face.

"No one can spin straw into anything and no one can make-"

"Oh we-well, would you look at that!" The imp had spun the straw into a thing strand of pure gold as he turned to look at the woman, a mischievous grin on his face.

(first name) was stunned as she lightly touched the thin string of gold before asking;

"You want to help me?"

He giggled that manic giggle again.

"No, I want you to help me. And you will. Because the future is my gift. Well, in a manner of speaking." He said, that same mischievous look on his face.

"What could you possibly get from me?"

She began but her interrupted her with that manic enthusiasm.

"Funny you should ask-" he summoned up a long scroll. "-can you read?"

Their fingers briefly touched as (first name) took the scroll from him as he drew his hand back as if he had been struck; but maintained that mischievous grin on his face.

(first name) side eyed him suspiciously as she read the scroll.

"My first born child." She said, in disbelief.

"Uh, yes. She is quite important." The imp grinned, walking closer to her.

"She?"

"Yes I see the future. Why aren't you listening."

He grinned, his expression unchanging.

"Anyway. I only get my payment if you live past tomorrow."

"You can turn all the straw into gold by morning?" She asked, still in processing mode.

"And you can parade in front of the royals, and demand the hand of the dimly lit Prince and have him kneel before you.

He emphasized his words with a flourish of his hands.

That's what you wanted. You want them to kneel-"

"No."

"I-What?" His expression changed into a confused one for a moment, surprise flickering in his eyes.

"Teach me."

"Don't just do it. Teach me. Make it part of our deal."

She said, a slight challenging smile on her painted lips as the imp's expression flickered to something unreadable.

He bowed, with another flourish.

He giggled again. "You are a spicy one aren't you?" He grinned. "Oh well."

"Rumplestiltskin." He rolled the first 'r' in his name; for dramatic affect, she supposed.

"What?" She asked, curious.

"My name. Do believe you just earned it."

He said as he enchanted the scroll, and handed (first name) a quill that was strangely the perfect colour match to her dress.

"Now, let's begin shall we?"

He grinned again as she took the quill from him.

-fin

AN :- eeee im so excited the TENSION is building upppp

DISCLAIMER :- script/dialogue credits to abc productions and ouat 🫶🏻

°alo°

masterlist - next

#ouat #ouat fanfiction #ouat fic #rumplestiltskin #rumplestiltskin x reader #magic

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talonabraxas · 1 year ago

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Full Moon in Capricorn – July 21, 2024

29 Cancer 09 / 29 Capricorn 09

Issues that complicate feeling safe and secure are up for another round of purging under July’s Capricorn Full Moon, the year’s second in the sign. The first one, in June, at the beginning of Capricorn, stirred and released some of those issues. Now more hardened, persistent ones are shattering and transforming, opening us to understanding, forgiveness and maybe some peace.

This flavor of full moon is stern and calculated, lighting up the bottom line from the perspective of the Daddy/provider end of the Cancer/Capricorn dichotomy. What’s surfacing now looms as monumental, and in fact it all is.

This moon comes with a profound sense of wrapping up and finality. That’s due to the double whammy from Pluto, the agent of unavoidable change. It’s operating here as a doorway to the past, as well as to the future and demanding: How can you lighten your load before moving on?

First, the past: This Moon is beginning the wrap-up of Pluto’s 16 years in Capricorn, which it entered at the end of January 2008. The Full Moon is clearing our emotional decks for the formal exit, because it’s taking place at the degree where Pluto will return, for the last time in our lives, from September 1 – November 18.

The coinciding suits this Moon to reviewing the seismic shifts the foundations of your life have undergone since 2008, and clearing out some of the remaining rubble. (Hold that thought.)

Next, the future: This Moon is in an out of sign conjunction with Pluto, just over the border in Aquarius, where he will spend the next 20 years (after that brief foray back into Capricorn).

His presence is pulling fears and survival instincts from the depths. Raw terror may surface, raw, utterly non-rational terror. But don’t panic: Raw boldness and determination may surface as well. What’s next for your foundations? They’re going to be different, but how? Will they support you? Will you streamline them?

Meanwhile, the wrap-up and purging mandate is getting outside help. The Moon and Pluto’s trine to Uranus is striking hardened situations (and hearts), shattering the ground, delivering shocks (costs may factor in), and zapping us with information that breaks us from the past. (An inconjunct to Mercury also portends adjustments in thinking and attitudes.)

The combo makes dramas and emotions intense and unrelenting – but not necessarily unforgiving. A sextile to Neptune has the potential to soften occified situations and to soften our hearts. We might view current dramas with compassion and forgiveness. We might view our collapsing foundations with greater understanding. That remaining rubble may be easier to move out as a result.

And we’re motivated to say goodbye, to purge, to clean up and move on. The Moon and Pluto are trine Mars, the guy who gets things done. He’s just entered Gemini, freeing up our thinking and enabling us to talk freely about everything the Moon is stirring up and ending.

A great way to work with this Moon – and Capricorn does love it some work – is physically bagging up obsolete and broken objects and taking them to the dumpster. Shred paper, while you’re at it. Write letters, too – to people who’ve let you down, to your ancestors, to your younger self, to whatever strikes your fancy. Throw in your own declaration of independence, while you’re at all. Then destroy the letters. (The declaration…you may want to keep.)

Clean up your own corner of the universe now, so you can watch the collective show come September.

The Inked Grimoire Full Moon in Capricorn – July 21, 2024 Full Moon in Capricorn by Talon Abraxas

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pterobat · 24 days ago

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Do you like The Gaslight District? I do. I am a sucker for a main character prophesied to destroy their home, not to mention when freakish monstrosities are the leads. And there’s monstrous birds. And I really want to know what Ken’s motive is.

But, maybe, I’m finally getting tired of works drawing from the Tim Burton/Jhonen Vasquez/Harvey Selick pool--and I love that stuff to begin with.

(Although when watching TGD, I kept thinking of Jesse Rosensweet and Alistair Dickson’s “The Stone of Folly”, a Canadian stop-motion animated short. Probably a coincidence, but the memories are nice.)

And critique is easier than praise and l er…it’s pretty rich that TGD is being called the Hellaverse killer when it already has a lot of the same problems, and I mean real problems, not, “They made Lucifer quirky and cutesy”.

Namely it front-loads a bunch of information that's both A Lot and not enough. Some basic things—not necessary to the meat of the story maybe, but the lack of which make it harder to follow—are absent unless you start translating the cipher text in the background/freeze frames, and even then I’m missing bits. And the pilot, despite having a basic focus, also feels like several episodes stuffed into one.

Does this style of writing arise organically from a crew that is so in love with their work that they want to put everything in it, any way they can, or is it calculated to produce fan theories/discussions/videos?

And, despite a good hook and a few moments of nastiness, Mel is mostly a stock Quirky Girl character, though don’t think I don’t appreciate her being named after “Melancholy Hill”—yet I hope there’s an in-story meaning behind that.

(So is Mud named for Murdoc’s nickname? He’s certainly channelling the spirit of Phil Cornwell)

Once again, however, I’m a mark for this kind of thing.

#the gaslight district #blog

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irohsteaa · 8 months ago

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What do do you think Kenzo Tenma has in parallel with Humbert Humbert from Lolita?

Okay, this isn't an ask I was expecting, LMAO, but let's give it a try, readers, please don't kill me for comparing Tenma to HH.

They both come to a foreign continent, and they're very much shaped by their exile, it's a crucial part of the story.

They are brilliant in their chosen fields.

HH marries Charlotte to be closer to Lo, Tenma plans to marry the director's daughter... While in HH's case it's without any doubt cold calculation, I don't think that Tenma was cynical, but I still don't think it's entirely a coincidence that he decided to propose to the daughter of the man he studied under. I think in Tenma's case it was more a matter of "well, that's the way things are".

They're both terrible at pretending they're attracted to women (I'm so sorry).

They bombard people close to them with gifts.

Their exes are women who have a drinking problem, were divorced three times, and who have serious mental health issues (not taken seriously enough).

They don't have a fixed place to live, they go from place to place, from hotel to hotel, from motel to motel, searching for the the beast’s lair with a loaded Ur-father’s central forelimb (ready for instant service on the person or persons) in their pockets.

They travel around with a kidnapped kid. Dieter is lucky that Tenma doesn't share HH's fucked-up tendencies, because no one would notice anyway.

They get really, really, really nervous around cops. The cops are useless and incompetent.

Their stories are shaped by characters who have some weird power over the narration; one is a Freudian psychologist who assures us that this remarkable memoir [Lolita] is presented intact, the other is a psychologist and psychiatrist (Nabokov's faves <3) who turned into a Freud-lookalike (Nabokov's absolute favorite guy <3) in his old days.

Lmao. Ten points. Thanks, anon, I enjoyed this a lot.

#monita posting

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bentaygas · 4 months ago

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Marked by Fire (Chapter 8)

Chapter 8 - A Debt to Be Paid

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Alina Vaughn (OC)

Summary: Dean Winchester has seen his fair share of trouble. He’s hunted monsters, tangled with demons, and stared down the end of the world more times than he cares to count. But when a job leads him to a black-market dealer with a reputation for selling supernatural artifacts to the highest bidder, he finds himself caught in something far more dangerous than he expected. Alina Vaughn doesn’t do favors. She doesn’t trust easily, doesn’t take unnecessary risks. But when the Winchesters come knocking, looking for an Enochian sigil amulet that shouldn’t even exist, she gets pulled into a game of power, secrets, and dangerous men who don’t take no for an answer. What starts as a business transaction quickly spirals into something bigger—something neither of them can walk away from. Because in this world, knowledge is power, and power is always dangerous. And for Dean Winchester and Alina Vaughn, the real question isn’t just whether they can survive what’s coming. It’s whether they can survive each other.

Tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, age gap, UST (unresolved sexual tension), unresolved romantic tension, Dean Winchester has feelings (and hates it), angst (sort of)

A/N: Honestly, I don't know what this is. I just know that I needed to get this story out of my head and that it's been literally driving me insane for months. All the names and incidents are fictitious. All the coincidences are accidental.

This will probably take a lot more chapters than I initially planned it to be.

You can find this work on AO3: Marked by Fire

Do NOT copy, steal, or republish my work anywhere. Thank you.

࣭ ⭑⚝ YOU CAN FIND THE CHAPTER LIST HERE ࣭ ⭑⚝

Dean slammed the trunk of the Impala shut with a solid thunk , the sound echoing through the dimly lit bunker garage. He ran a quick mental checklist as he unzipped the weapons bag one last time, fingers brushing over cold steel and worn leather.

Shotgun? Check. Loaded and ready. Silver knife? Check. Because with their luck, something supernatural was bound to be involved. A couple of extra clips, because trouble seemed to follow Alina Vaughn like a damn shadow? Double-check.

He exhaled through his nose, zipping the bag shut with a sharp motion before slinging it over his shoulder. The weight was familiar, grounding, a ritual as much as a precaution.

A few feet away, Sam stood with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised in that mix of skepticism and exasperation that Dean knew all too well. The kind of look that said, I already know this is a bad idea, but I also know I can't stop you.

"You're really going, then."

Dean smirked, yanking open the driver’s side door with a casual ease that didn’t quite match the tension in his shoulders. "Don’t look so shocked, Sammy. I owe the lady a favor."

The younger brother exhaled heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he could physically massage the frustration out of his skull. "You don’t owe her anything, Dean. She didn’t do this for free. You know that, right?"

Dean’s grin stayed in place, but his grip on the Impala’s door tightened ever so slightly, knuckles pressing against the worn black paint. "Yeah. I know."

And that was what made this whole damn thing worse.

Alina wasn’t the kind of person to hand over something as dangerous as that amulet without an angle. Everything about her was calculated—every move, every favor, every well-timed smirk.

Which meant whatever she was asking for now? It was only the beginning.

Sam sighed, his gaze flicking toward the weapons bag, concern creasing his forehead. "At least tell me what the hell you’re walking into."

The older Winchester shrugged, sliding into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under his weight. "Beats me. Just that our girl’s got some pissed-off friends from Prague, and she needs backup."

Sam narrowed his eyes, expression shifting from concern to outright suspicion. "And that doesn’t scream setup to you?"

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he twisted the key in the ignition. The Impala rumbled to life beneath him, the familiar vibration settling into his bones like a second heartbeat. "Oh, it absolutely does. But lucky for me, I don’t do smart choices."

Sam gave him the look—the one that had followed Dean since they were kids, the one that screamed I can’t believe I’m letting you do this —but they both knew there was no stopping him. Not now.

Dean threw the car into reverse, tapping his fingers against the wheel before glancing over at his brother one last time. "Don’t wait up, Sammy."

And with that, he floored the gas.

The Impala roared, tires kicking up dust as she tore out of the bunker and into the night, heading straight toward whatever fresh hell Alina Vaughn had dragged him into this time.

Alina leaned against her SUV, arms folded, the weight of her coat pressing against her shoulders as she scanned the darkened lot. The air was crisp, tinged with the faint scent of motor oil and damp concrete. Overhead, a flickering streetlight buzzed intermittently, casting erratic shadows across the cracked asphalt. It was the kind of place no one had any business being in at this hour—secluded, forgotten, the ghosts of industry lingering in rusted warehouse doors and broken-out windows.

Neutral ground. No security cameras. No witnesses. No backup if things went sideways.

She checked her phone.

8:57 PM.

Right on time.

The distant growl of an engine pulled her attention upward. The low, familiar rumble cut through the quiet like a blade, sending a subtle vibration through the pavement beneath her boots. A second later, the unmistakable silhouette of a black ‘67 Chevy Impala slid into view, headlights burning through the gloom as it rolled to a slow, deliberate stop a few feet away.

Alina smirked.

Always dramatic.

The driver’s side door creaked open, and Dean Winchester stepped out, his leather jacket catching the dim light. He had that same effortless stance—casual but coiled, like he could go from laid-back to lethal in a heartbeat. His green eyes flicked to her, sharp, assessing, carrying that usual mix of recklessness and readiness she had come to recognize in him.

“You rang?” he drawled.

Alina tilted her head, amusement flickering across her expression. “Fast response time. You must really hate being in debt.”

“Depends. Should I be worried you dragged me out here just to put a bullet in me?” Dean smirked, resting an arm on the roof of the Impala.

She chuckled, the sound low and knowing. “If I wanted you dead, Winchester, you wouldn’t have made it out of that lounge.”

Dean’s grin widened, but there was an edge to it. “See, that? That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Relax. You’re here to make sure I don’t get killed. Or, at the very least, help me shoot my way out if things go south.” She shook her head, pushing off the G-Class with an easy, fluid motion.

He arched a brow, straightening slightly. “And who exactly are we expecting?”

Alina’s smirk faded, her tone shifting into something sharper, more serious. “Makarov’s people.”

Dean’s posture shifted, his casual demeanor thinning just slightly. “The same Makarov I’m guessing you stole that amulet from?”

Alina exhaled, rolling her shoulders in a slow, deliberate motion. “I didn’t steal it. I outplayed him.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Yeah, see, rich guys with an army of mercenaries don’t usually appreciate getting ‘outplayed.’”

Alina’s gaze flickered past him, something in her stance tightening. A slight shift of her weight, the careful way her hand hovered near her coat pocket—subtle, but enough to set off Dean’s instincts.

He turned his head just enough to follow her line of sight.

A black SUV crept toward them from the far end of the lot, its headlights dimmed, moving slow and deliberate.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Here we go.

The SUV came to a slow, deliberate halt, its blacked-out windows absorbing the dim glow of the flickering streetlights. It was a vehicle meant for intimidation—polished, sleek, carrying the kind of presence that said its occupants weren’t here for small talk.

Dean kept his stance loose, easy, like he was just another guy hanging out in an empty lot. But beneath the casual posture, his fingers hovered near his waistband—right where his gun rested. His instincts weren’t screaming danger just yet, but they were murmuring a low, steady stay ready.

Alina?

She didn’t move.

Didn’t tense. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t betray even a flicker of unease.

She just waited.

The driver’s door cracked open first, slow and measured. A man stepped out—early forties, dark hair, tailored suit that was just a little too crisp for someone in this particular line of work.

Dean didn’t need long to figure him out.

Not muscle.

A talker.

Which meant the real decision-maker was still in the car.

A second later, the back door opened, and a second figure emerged.

Dean didn’t miss the way Alina’s posture changed—just a fraction, just enough for someone watching closely to catch it. A stiffening of the shoulders, a subtle shift of her weight onto the balls of her feet.

She knew this guy.

And from the look of him? He wasn’t just another errand boy.

Older. Sharp eyes. An expensive watch that gleamed under the streetlights. Someone used to calling the shots. Someone who expected to be listened to.

Makarov’s people.

The negotiator was the first to speak. “Miss Vaughn.”

His tone was cool, professional, like he was greeting an old colleague instead of showing up to issue a threat.

Alina, unimpressed, barely dipped her chin in acknowledgment. “You’re late.”

The man smiled, thin and amused. “And yet, you’re still here.”

Dean exhaled through his nose. He already didn’t like this guy.

The negotiator turned his gaze toward him next, taking in the worn leather jacket, the squared shoulders, the way Dean was positioned just slightly in front of Alina—like a barrier, subtle but deliberate.

“And you must be the bodyguard.”

Dean smirked, tilting his head just slightly. “Something like that.”

The man’s expression didn’t change, but Dean could see the quick flick of his eyes, assessing, weighing whether or not he was a real threat.

He’d figure it out soon enough.

But for now, the negotiator turned his attention back to Alina. “You know why we’re here.”

Alina crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “I do. And I know Makarov isn’t the type to send a messenger unless he wants something.”

The man’s smile was polite, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “That amulet belongs to him.”

Dean felt a shift in the air.

There it was.

Alina, to her credit, didn’t blink. “Makarov trades in power, not sentiment. If he wants it back, he must have found a buyer.”

The negotiator didn’t so much as flinch. “That’s not your concern.”

Dean glanced at her, waiting to see how she played this.

Alina hummed softly, as if considering, then tilted her head. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s very much my concern.”

The tension thickened, heavy and electric, stretching out between them like a drawn wire.

Dean didn’t miss the small, barely-there tells—the way Alina shifted her weight, the slight flex of the man’s fingers at his sides. They were inches away from things going sideways.

The negotiator exhaled slowly, as if he was deciding whether this was worth the hassle. “This is your only warning, Vaughn. Makarov doesn’t appreciate being double-crossed.”

“Then maybe he should have played better.” Alina’s smirk sharpened, her voice smooth as silk.

Dean bit back a smirk. He could appreciate the confidence, but he also knew guys like this didn’t walk away from an insult without remembering it.

The negotiator’s jaw tensed, his gaze cool. Then, with a slow, forced smile—“I’ll pass along your message.”

A subtle gesture to his men, and just like that, they climbed back into the SUV.

The engine rumbled, headlights cutting through the night as the vehicle pulled away, disappearing around the corner.

Dean exhaled, waiting a beat before speaking. “Well. That was fun.”

Alina let out a slow breath, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off the weight of the interaction. “They won’t stop.”

He studied her, reading between the lines. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”

She turned to him fully now, crossing her arms, watching him in that calculating way of hers. “So, Winchester. You still think you don’t owe me anything?”

Dean smirked, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Sweetheart, I think we’re both in over our heads.”

Alina chuckled, shaking her head.

He wasn’t wrong.

And neither of them had any intention of walking away now.

The sound of two idling engines echoed through the empty parking lot, filling the silence that stretched between them. The scent of asphalt, faint motor oil, and the distant hum of city traffic lingered in the crisp night air, but neither of them moved.

Alina leaned casually against the G-Class, arms crossed over her chest, her gaze sharp as she scanned the lot. Her posture was deceptively relaxed, but Dean could see it—the coiled tension beneath, the sharp awareness in her eyes. She wasn’t the type to let her guard down, especially not after what had just gone down.

A few feet away, Dean stood beside the Impala, one hand resting against the roof, the other loose at his side—close enough to his waistband, where his gun was holstered, just in case. His gaze flicked toward the spot where Makarov’s SUV had disappeared into the night, and he let out a slow, steady breath.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Dean finally exhaled, shaking his head. “You know, if you’re expecting these guys to just back off, you’re more optimistic than I thought.”

Alina smirked, shifting her weight slightly. “Optimistic? No. Realistic? Always.”

He let out a dry chuckle, scraping a hand down his jaw. “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Alina studied him for a moment, eyes assessing, before she pushed off the G-Class with effortless ease. She didn’t waste words when she finally spoke. “Come with me.”

Dean arched a brow, lips twitching. “Sweetheart, you gonna buy me dinner first, or…?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother hiding her smirk. “I told you I’d give you the amulet, didn’t I?”

Dean’s smirk lingered, but there was something else there now. Curiosity. Suspicion.

“And this couldn’t just be a quick handoff in the parking lot because…?” He tilted his head slightly.

Alina’s expression remained unreadable, her voice smooth, controlled. “Because I don’t do business in parking lots.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, glancing around at their surroundings with exaggerated scrutiny. “Well, that’s a shame. The ambiance here is fantastic. Real high-end operation you’re running.”

Alina ignored him. She had already turned toward the driver’s side of her car, her sneakers making a soft sound against the pavement. “Follow me or don’t, Winchester. Your choice.”

With that, she slipped into the G-Class, the door shutting with a satisfying thunk . The engine rumbled to life, a smooth, powerful purr that matched the confidence with which she handled everything else. Without hesitation, she pulled onto the road, taillights glowing red against the darkness.

Dean stood there for a second, watching her go, running a hand along his jaw as he considered his options.

He didn’t trust her—not fully. Hell, it would be stupid to. But trust wasn’t the point, was it?

With a click of his tongue, he muttered under his breath, “Son of a bitch,” before climbing into the Impala.

The engine roared to life, rumbling low and steady beneath him. With one last glance at the empty lot, he put the car in gear and followed.

The city skyline stretched beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights and the rhythmic motion of passing traffic. The distant hum of the city was muffled by the thick glass, turning the suite into a quiet, insulated world of its own—one that felt too refined, too polished, like everything inside it had been deliberately placed and curated.

Dean stepped inside, taking in the space with a slow, considering glance. The furniture was sleek, the decor minimalist but undeniably expensive. A mixture of luxury and practicality, clean lines softened by small signs of habitation—a silk throw draped over the arm of a leather couch, a stack of books left slightly askew on the coffee table, a half-burned candle that smelled faintly of something woody and spiced.

It was neat. Almost impersonal.

And yet, there was something about it that still felt… lived in.

Alina, already making her way toward the kitchen, gestured toward the couch without looking back. “Make yourself at home.”

He smirked, stepping further inside, his boots heavy against the polished hardwood. “You sure? Feels like I might ruin the aesthetic.”

Alina chuckled, the sound low and knowing. She pulled open a sleek glass liquor cabinet, her fingers trailing over the selection with absent precision, as if already knowing exactly what she wanted. She reached for a bottle of deep, ruby-red wine, pouring herself a measured glass. The liquid shimmered under the soft glow of the pendant lights, a stark contrast to the cool, calculating blue of her eyes—sharp, watchful, always assessing.

Then, after a brief pause, she grabbed another bottle—heavier, darker. She turned it over once in her hands, as if considering, before pulling out a crystal tumbler and pouring a measured amount.

Dean arched a brow as she slid the glass across the counter toward him.

“Cognac? Seriously?”

Alina smirked, swirling her wine before taking a slow sip. “You don’t like it?”

Dean picked up the glass, inspecting the deep amber liquid inside before taking a cautious sip. The warmth spread over his tongue, rich and smoky, layered with notes he couldn’t quite place but sure as hell weren’t cheap. He let the taste settle, exhaling through his nose.

“Nah, it’s fine,” he admitted, rolling his shoulders. “Just expected something a little less… fancy.”

After a short moment, Dean smirked. “You’re awfully picky about your booze for a black market dealer.”

Alina’s lips curled over the rim of her glass. “And you’re awfully judgmental for a man drinking thousand-dollar cognac while wearing a flannel.”

That pulled a chuckle out of him. “Fair point.”

Still grinning, he set his drink down and exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “Yeah. Now, about that amulet…”

She took another sip of wine before gesturing toward the coffee table. “It’s all yours.”

Dean’s smirk lingered for a beat, but there was a flicker of something sharper behind his eyes as he stepped forward. His gaze dropped to the sleek black case sitting on the glass tabletop.

He flipped the lid open.

Inside, nestled against a bed of dark velvet, lay the Enochian sigil amulet.

It was old—far older than anything that should have been sitting in some luxury high-rise, and yet it was here, right in front of him. The metal was aged but unyielding, the markings worn yet still carved deep, pulsing with something that wasn’t quite energy but wasn’t nothing either.

Dean’s smirk faded.

Yeah.

This thing was the real deal.

His fingers hovered over it for a second, hesitating—not because he was afraid of it, but because he could feel it.

He had handled cursed objects before, held things that hummed with something dark, something unnatural. This wasn’t quite that. It wasn’t evil.

But it sure as hell wasn’t safe.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose and lifted it, feeling the cool weight settle in his palm.

“Well, damn,” he muttered under his breath.

Alina, watching him from across the room, arched a brow. “Not so bad for a black market dealer, huh?”

Dean glanced up, smirking. “Oh, sweetheart, I never said you weren’t good.”

She chuckled, leaning a hip against the counter. “And yet, I don’t hear a thank you.”

Dean tilted his head, still turning the amulet over in his fingers. “That’s ‘cause I’m still waitin’ for the catch.”

Alina hummed, setting her wine down. “No catch, Winchester.”

He arched a brow. “Yeah? You’re just givin’ it away?”

Alina leaned forward slightly, her smirk turning almost playful. “I never said that.”

Dean sighed, dragging a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Knew that was too easy.”

Still, he didn’t put the amulet back.

Instead, he held it up to the light one last time before slipping it into the inner pocket of his jacket, pressing the fabric closed over it like that might somehow contain whatever thing was humming inside of it.

Whatever came next, this little artifact was about to make all their lives a whole lot more complicated.

Dean finally grabbed his cognac, knocking back the rest in one go.

Might as well enjoy the expensive stuff while he could.

Alina smirked, watching him. “So? Do I get my ‘thank you’ now?”

He set the empty glass down with a quiet clink and smirked. “I’ll consider it… once I figure out how screwed I am.”

She chuckled, lifting her glass in a mock toast. “To future disasters, then.”

Dean tapped his fingers against the counter before shaking his head, a small grin playing at his lips.

“Yeah. To that.”

next chapter is crazy if u ask me

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