#continuous power backup

[prostarchina]

Affordable Continuous Power Backup UPS Solutions

In our increasingly digital and connected world, the need for affordable continuous power backup solutions has become paramount. Uninterrupted power supply (UPS) systems play a critical role in ensuring that operations remain smooth and data remains safe. This holds true whether it’s for homes, small businesses, or large corporations, even during unexpected power outages or fluctuations. One of…

[appliedgraymatter]

Uninterrupted Continuous Industrial Backup Power Manufactured By Applied Gray Matter

The industrial battery backup and energy storage system for generator replacement can typically power your critical operations during blackouts.

Applied Gray Matter proudly presents the Battery Emergency Backup System (BEBS), a versatile and efficient power backup solution tailored for both industrial and commercial use. Designed to seamlessly integrate into various applications, including industrial equipment, office spaces, and automated systems, our BEBS stands out with its low emissions and minimal noise, offering a sustainable alternative to traditional diesel generators.

https://lnkd.in/dP2_ACH7

#backupbattery #uninterruptedPower #bebs #continuouspower #criticaloperations #undustrialbattery

[jcmarchi]

Videoguy's Top 10 Tips for Live Streaming Outdoors! - Videoguys

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/videoguys-top-10-tips-for-live-streaming-outdoors-videoguys/

Videoguy's Top 10 Tips for Live Streaming Outdoors! - Videoguys

On today’s Videoguys Live, James reveals our top tips for a perfect outdoor streaming production! Whether you’re a vlogger, gamer, or live event enthusiast, our expert tips will elevate your outdoor live streams to professional levels. Don’t miss out on learning about the best gear, settings, and strategies for a flawless broadcast.

Watch the full video below:

Top Tips for Live Streaming Outdoors:

1. Pre-Event Setup and Testing

To ensure all equipment functions correctly and to familiarize yourself wit the streaming environment

Venue Visit: survey the location to identify potential issues with connectivity, lighting, and sound

Equipment Checklist: verify that all gear is present, functional, and compatible 

Connectivity Test: stream a test video to check for stable internet or cellular connections

2. Backup Gear is your Livestream Lifeline

To prevent disruptions due to equipment failure

Spare Batteries and Chargers: for all battery-powered devices

Extra Memory Cards: to ensure ample storage for recordings

Secondary Audio Equipment: including microphones and cables

3. Redundancy is the Key to Uninterrupted Streaming

Cellular Bonding Devices: combine multiple cellular signals for a stronger connection

Dual Streaming: use two different streaming services as a fail-safe

4. Combating Glare

To protect equipment from the sun and improve visibility

Monitor Hoods: block out sunlight for clear screen visibility

Protect Umbrellas: shield cameras and operators from direct sunlight

5.  Optimizing Outdoor Lighting

To achieve balanced lighting for high-quality visuals

Artificial Lighting: employ LED panels and soft-boxes for consistent lighting

Ask the venue what the lighting will be like before the show as to not be surprised during

6. Securing Your Equipment

To protect gear from weather-related damage

Weather-poof Containers: store sensitive equipment when not in use

Elevated Platforms: keep gear off the ground to avoid weather damage

Consider Outdoor Cameras: designs to heat/cool the camera, and usually water resistant

7. Camera Placement

To capture the event effectively without interfering with the live audience or risking damage to the equipment

Discreet Placement: tuck cameras close to the sidelines or back of the venue to minimize visual obstruction

Safety Netting: install protective netting around cameras to shield them from any stray or flying objects

Buffer Zones: create safe zones around cameras, especially in sports events, to prevent collision with balls or players

Remote Operation: utilize remote-controlled cameras to reduce the need for operator presence in high-risk areas

8. Ensuring Continuous Power

To prevent power less during the live stream

Portable Generators: provide a reliable power source for extended periods

Battery Banks: offer a quick power boost for mobile devices

9. Portable Solutions

To streamline the equipment for ease of transport and setup

Multi-Use Equipment: choose gear that serves multiple purposes

Compact Design: opt for foldable or collapsible gear

10. Some Great Gear for your next outdoor..

Sports

Event Productions

News Broadcast

[ellipsus-writes]

(Read on our blog)

Beginning in 1933, the Nazis burned books to erase the ideas they feared—works of literature, politics, philosophy, criticism; works by Jewish and leftist authors, and research from the Institute for Sexual Science, which documented and affirmed queer and trans identities.

(Nazis collect "anti-German" books to be destroyed at a Berlin book-burning on May 10, 1933 (Source)

Stories tell truths.

These weren’t just books; they were lifelines.

Writing by, for, and about marginalized people isn’t just about representation, but survival. Writing has always been an incredibly powerful tool—perhaps the most resilient form of resistance, as fascism seeks to disconnect people from knowledge, empathy, history, and finally each other. Empathy is one of the most valuable resources we have, and in the darkest times writers armed with nothing but words have exposed injustice, changed culture, and kept their communities connected.

(A Nazi student and a member of the SA raid the Institute for Sexual Science's library in Berlin, May 6, 1933. Source)

Less than two weeks after the US presidential inauguration, the nightmare of Project 2025 is starting to unfold. What these proposals will mean for creative freedom and freedom of expression is uncertain, but the intent is clear. A chilling effect on subjects that writers engage with every day—queer narratives, racial justice, and critiques of power—is already manifest. The places where these works are published and shared may soon face increased pressure, censorship, and legal jeopardy.

And with speed-run fascism comes a rising tide of misinformation and hostility. The tech giants that facilitate writing, sharing, publishing, and communication—Google, Microsoft, Amazon, the-hellscape-formerly-known-as-Twitter, Facebook, TikTok—have folded like paper in a light breeze. OpenAI, embroiled in lawsuits for training its models on stolen works, is now positioned as the AI of choice for the administration, bolstered by a $500 billion investment. And privacy-focused companies are showing a newfound willingness to align with a polarizing administration, chilling news for writers who rely on digital privacy to protect their work and sources; even their personal safety.

Where does that leave writers?

Writing communities have always been a creative refuge, but they’re more than that now—they are a means of continuity. The information landscape is shifting rapidly, so staying informed on legal and political developments will be essential for protecting creative freedom and pushing back against censorship wherever possible. Direct your energy to the communities that need it, stay connected, check in on each other—and keep backup spaces in case platforms become unsafe.

We can’t stress this enough—support tools and platforms that prioritize creative freedom. The systems we rely on are being rewritten in real time, and the future of writing spaces depends on what we build now. We at Ellipsus will continue working to provide space for our community—one that protects and facilitates creative expression, not undermines it.

Above all—keep writing.

Keep imagining, keep documenting, keep sharing—keep connecting. Suppression thrives on silence, but words have survived every attempt at erasure.

- The Ellipsus team

[rosemaryhoney27]

Ghosts, Heroes, and Too Little, Too Late

It had taken every ounce of courage Danny had, standing in the town square, ectoplasmic energy flickering around his hands and the wind tugging at his white hair. His human-blue eyes stared out at the crowd of Amity Park citizens, waiting for the fear, the rejection, the anger.

But none came.

Instead, Mr. Lancer had stepped forward, teary-eyed, and clapped a hand on Danny’s shoulder. Mrs. Tetslaff brought out a homemade casserole "for the hero." Even Dash had muttered something like "Guess you're not that much of a loser."

They embraced him. Their Phantom. Their kid. Their protector.

The news had gone national in under twenty-four hours.

Fourteen years old. Half-ghost. Protector of Amity Park. Had kept the town safe for two years from ghost invasions with no backup, no mentor, no safety net. Just his friends, his sister, and the town that eventually came to understand.

And with that understanding came anger.

Because for two years, Amity Park had reached out. Calls, letters, reports. Pleas to the Justice League. Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman—someone. But nothing. The reports were dismissed as hoaxes. Phantom was "probably another shapeshifting villain." Amity Park was written off as exaggerating, maybe even hallucinating. The town was left alone with a half-dead teenager standing between them and whatever the Infinite Realms threw their way.

And now, two years after Danny had made peace with the Ghost Zone and secured a treaty with the Realms, they came.

A gleaming ship descended outside city limits, adorned with the Justice League insignia. Superman, Wonder Woman, Martian Manhunter, Green Lantern, and Flash stood at the front. Behind them were sleek representatives, press, and cameras.

Danny stood there, sixteen now, hovering a few inches above the cracked pavement of the park's old basketball court—his favorite haunt for aerial maneuver practice. He looked older, stronger, but his expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not happy.

Just… tired.

The League stepped forward, Superman’s cape billowing.

“Danny Fenton,” he began, his voice the same calm, commanding tone that had graced a thousand crises. “We’d like to formally invite you to join the Justice League. Your skills are remarkable, and we believe you'd make an excellent addition—”

The crowd behind Danny didn’t cheer.

They booed.

Old Mr. Schuster, who ran the bakery, shouted, “Oh now you care?!”

Mrs. Dugan from the library yelled, “Where were you when the Plasmius guy turned Main Street into a battlefield?!”

Someone threw a moldy muffin. Superman dodged it.

Flash winced. “Wow. Not the welcome we were expecting.”

Jazz stepped forward, arms crossed, expression fierce. “He was fourteen. He nearly died multiple times protecting this town. He bled for it. You called him a hoax.”

“We didn’t have confirmed data,” Batman said flatly. “There were too many false alarms in that region, and we—”

“You ignored us,” Danny said, finally speaking. His voice was quiet but carried across the park. “You ignored me. I begged for help once. Right after I got my powers. I didn’t know what I was. I was scared. Your hotline sent me to voicemail.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. Wonder Woman looked… ashamed.

“You didn’t want me when I was just a kid begging for answers,” Danny continued. “You want me now that I’ve already done the work? After I nearly died saving this dimension? After I signed a ghost peace treaty that your people tried to torpedo without understanding what the Realms even are?”

There was a low hum of agreement from the crowd. A few shouted, “Tell 'em, Danny!”

Danny stared at them. “I didn’t do this for a badge. I didn’t do it to be recruited. I did it because no one else would.”

There was a beat of silence. Superman stepped forward again, trying to soften the moment. “You’re right. We were wrong to ignore you, and we’re sorry. But if you join us, you can get real training. Resources. Help.”

Danny looked up, locking eyes with Superman. “I don’t need a League that shows up after the fight.”

And then he turned his back on them, his town behind him, arms crossed or lifted in support. The League stood there, unsure of what to say.

Danny floated up, cape rippling, energy crackling faintly at his fingers.

“I’m Phantom. Guardian of Amity Park. Protector of the Realms. You want me on the team? Then you start by fixing what you broke. With us. Not over us.”

The League left not long after.

The invitation was not declined—but it certainly wasn’t accepted either.

And Amity Park?

They slept easier that night, knowing they didn’t need the Justice League.

They had something better.

They had Danny.

[reasonsforhope]

"The man who has called climate change a “hoax” also can be expected to wreak havoc on federal agencies central to understanding, and combating, climate change. But plenty of climate action would be very difficult for a second Trump administration to unravel, and the 47th president won’t be able to stop the inevitable economy-wide shift from fossil fuels to renewables. 

“This is bad for the climate, full stop,” said Gernot Wagner, a climate economist at the Columbia Business School. “That said, this will be yet another wall that never gets built. Fundamental market forces are at play.”

A core irony of climate change is that markets incentivized the wide-scale burning of fossil fuels beginning in the Industrial Revolution, creating the mess humanity is mired in, and now those markets are driving a renewables revolution that will help fix it. Coal, oil, and gas are commodities whose prices fluctuate. As natural resources that humans pull from the ground, there’s really no improving on them — engineers can’t engineer new versions of coal. 

By contrast, solar panels, wind turbines, and appliances like induction stoves only get better — more efficient and cheaper — with time. Energy experts believe solar power, the price of which fell 90 percent between 2010 and 2020, will continue to proliferate across the landscape. (Last year, the United States added three times as much solar capacity as natural gas.) Heat pumps now outsell gas furnaces in the U.S., due in part to government incentives. Last year, Maine announced it had reached its goal of installing 100,000 heat pumps two years ahead of schedule, in part thanks to state rebates. So if the Trump administration cut off the funding for heat pumps that the IRA provides, states could pick up the slack. 

Local utilities are also finding novel ways to use heat pumps. Over in Massachusetts, for example, the utility Eversource Energy is experimenting with “networked geothermal,” in which the homes within a given neighborhood tap into water pumped from underground. Heat pumps use that water to heat or cool a space, which is vastly more efficient than burning natural gas. Eversource and two dozen other utilities, representing about half of the country’s natural gas customers, have formed a coalition to deploy more networked geothermal systems.

Beyond being more efficient, green tech is simply cheaper to adopt. Consider Texas, which long ago divorced its electrical grid from the national grid so it could skirt federal regulation. The Lone Star State is the nation’s biggest oil and gas producer, but it gets 40 percent of its total energy from carbon-free sources. “Texas has the most solar and wind of any state, not because Republicans in Texas love renewables, but because it’s the cheapest form of electricity there,” said Zeke Hausfather, a research scientist at Berkeley Earth, a climate research nonprofit. The next top three states for producing wind power — Iowa, Oklahoma, and Kansas — are red, too.

State regulators are also pressuring utilities to slash emissions, further driving the adoption of wind and solar power. As part of California’s goal of decarbonizing its power by 2045, the state increased battery storage by 757 percent between 2019 and 2023. Even electric cars and electric school buses can provide backup power for the grid. That allows utilities to load up on bountiful solar energy during the day, then drain those batteries at night — essential for weaning off fossil fuel power plants. Trump could slap tariffs on imported solar panels and thereby increase their price, but that would likely boost domestic manufacturing of those panels, helping the fledgling photovoltaic manufacturing industry in red states like Georgia and Texas.

The irony of Biden’s signature climate bill is states that overwhelmingly support Trump are some of the largest recipients of its funding. That means tampering with the IRA could land a Trump administration in political peril even with Republican control of the Senate, if not Congress. In addition to providing incentives to households (last year alone, 3.4 million American families claimed more than $8 billion in tax credits for home energy improvements), the legislation has so far resulted in $150 billion of new investment in the green economy since it was passed in 2022, boosting the manufacturing of technologies like batteries and solar panels. According to Atlas Public Policy, a research group, that could eventually create 160,000 jobs. “Something like 66 percent of all of the spending in the IRA has gone to red states,” Hausfather said. “There certainly is a contingency in the Republican party now that’s going to support keeping some of those subsidies around.”

Before Biden’s climate legislation passed, much more progress was happening at a state and local level. New York, for instance, set a goal to reduce its greenhouse gas emissions from 1990 levels by 40 percent by 2030, and 85 percent by 2050. Colorado, too, is aiming to slash emissions by at least 90 percent by 2050. The automaker Stellantis has signed an agreement with the state of California promising to meet the state’s zero-emissions vehicle mandate even if a judicial or federal action overturns it. It then sells those same cars in other states. 

“State governments are going to be the clearest counterbalance to the direction that Donald Trump will take the country on environmental policy,” said Thad Kousser, co-director of the Yankelovich Center for Social Science Research at the University of California, San Diego. “California and the states that ally with it are going to try to adhere to tighter standards if the Trump administration lowers national standards.”

[Note: One of the obscure but great things about how emissions regulations/markets work in the US is that automakers generally all follow California's emissions standards, and those standards are substantially higher than federal standards. Source]

Last week, 62 percent of Washington state voters soundly rejected a ballot initiative seeking to repeal a landmark law that raised funds to fight climate change. “Donald Trump’s going to learn something that our opponents in our initiative battle learned: Once people have a benefit, you can’t take it away,” Washington Governor Jay Inslee said in a press call Friday. “He is going to lose in his efforts to repeal the Inflation Reduction Act, because governors, mayors of both parties, are going to say, ‘This belongs to me, and you’re not going to get your grubby hands on it.’”

Even without federal funding, states regularly embark on their own large-scale projects to adapt to climate change. California voters, for instance, just overwhelmingly approved a $10 billion bond to fund water, climate, and wildfire prevention projects. “That will be an example,” said Saharnaz Mirzazad, executive director of the U.S. branch of ICLEI-Local Governments for Sustainability. “You can use that on a state level or local level to have [more of] these types of bonds. You can help build some infrastructure that is more resilient.”

Urban areas, too, have been major drivers of climate action: In 2021, 130 U.S. cities signed a U.N.-backed pledge to accelerate their decarbonization. “Having an unsupportive federal government, to say the least, will be not helpful,” said David Miller, managing director at the Centre for Urban Climate Policy and Economy at C40, a global network of mayors fighting climate change. “It doesn’t mean at all that climate action will stop. It won’t, and we’ve already seen that twice in recent U.S. history, when Republican administrations pulled out of international agreements. Cities step to the fore.”

And not in isolation, because mayors talk: Cities share information about how to write legislation, such as laws that reduce carbon emissions in buildings and ensure that new developments are connected to public transportation. They transform their food systems to grow more crops locally, providing jobs and reducing emissions associated with shipping produce from afar. “If anything,” Miller said, “having to push against an administration, like that we imagine is coming, will redouble the efforts to push at the local level.” 

Federal funding — like how the U.S. Forest Service has been handing out $1.5 billion for planting trees in urban areas, made possible by the IRA — might dry up for many local projects, but city governments, community groups, and philanthropies will still be there. “You picture a web, and we’re taking scissors or a machete or something, and chopping one part of that web out,” said Elizabeth Sawin, the director of the Multisolving Institute, a Washington, D.C.-based nonprofit that promotes climate solutions. “There’s this resilience of having all these layers of partners.”

All told, climate progress has been unfolding on so many fronts for so many years — often without enough support from the federal government — that it will persist regardless of who occupies the White House. “This too shall pass, and hopefully we will be in a more favorable policy environment in four years,” Hausfather said. “In the meantime, we’ll have to keep trying to make clean energy cheap and hope that it wins on its merits.”"

-via Grist, November 11, 2024. A timely reminder.

[savanir]

A sister's love

The justice league hurriedly responds to a call for backup at a little in the middle of nowhere place by the name of Amity Park. 

The situation had seemed so simple. 

A Star Sapphire had suddenly shown up on Earth which isn’t immediately cause for concern but she was unidentified, so a lantern was definitely going to have to look into it if only just to make sure that nothing bad was going on. There are two planet side green lanterns, Simon and Jessica. So they responded to handle the potential situation. 

Things rapidly spun out of control when they realized it wasn't just a Star Sapphire. 

"I hate to say this but we're gonna need backup" Simon tells Cyborg, "the Star Sapphire has brought something with her. My first guess was a white martian but..." The other one can do some manner of density shifting, and he can go invisible, but they know ways around that. Whatever this one is doing isn’t that though.

"Why isn't this working!?!" Comes Jessica's slightly panicked voice in the distance, "he keeps just going through my creations! dammit, think think Jess" She tried to contain him with a flamethrower construct but he just ignored it, like he’s seemingly ignoring everything else she’s throwing at him.

"Our constructs have zero effect on the other one, the alien, meta? man I don’t know he’s human shaped" 

"What is the situation other than the two hostiles?"

"Uh we got some government agents who are retreating because of the Star Sapphire wrecking their stuff. And the civilian people here seem to be falling under her influence, so she must be human. She's from here, she needs emotional connection to pull that stuff off."

The people are furious, the violet glow around them clearly indicates that the girl is using her ring to amp them up but if Simon didn’t know any better he’d say this was red lantern stuff.

Well there are more ways to whip people up into a frenzy, by hurting their loved ones for example.

There is a brief moment where it can be heard that Simon and Jessica try to get into a more advantageous position. 

Simon grunts, "dammit, those agents seemed to have weapons that actually worked on the other guy but the Star Sapphire used her violet constructs to shield him and destroy their guns and we've been struggling since" this whole situation stinks, he has a weird feeling about all of it.

"Simon this is really really bad, i can't keep restraining all these civilians, we're running out of energy fast!"

Cyborg tries to get a visual on the situation from his position in the Watchtower while he’s notifying any league affiliated heroes who are nearby and available. 

But all of a sudden he realizes there is just nothing, just a big lap of void where the two lanterns are supposed to be, there is no cctv footage, no cell towers, no internet connection. Just what the hell is going on here.

Then the audio transmission starts to violently crackle.

A new voice laced with static can suddenly be heard, "There you two are"

"Shit"

"Is the justice league coming yet? Are they finally going to do something?" the staticy voice continues.

"Stay back you-"

"Or maybe they still need more of a reason to act" 

The audio cuts out. 

"Jessica! Simon! Come in!" ... "Shit!" 

Cyborg finally gets a clear picture with the satellite cameras and now sees the entirety of Amity Park has been covered with a crystalized violet dome. It’s then that he remembers the story Hal told quite some time ago now about a Star Sapphire who managed to put a whole planet into love stasis.

They are gonna need more help with this one he thinks.

Meanwhile Jazz is still shakily trying to figure out how her new pink powers work, now that all the fighting is over (for now), the GIW forcefully expelled from Amity, and the two Justice league people captured and restrained.

Everything happened so fast, one moment the GIW had knocked out her brother and were forcefully taking him away and while she saw them drive off (she was pretty sure she was screaming) a pink thing just froze her in place, She was pretty sure someone said something about “great love in her heart” and then she was… well she was flying and- and there wasn’t really any time to question things then so she may have kinda gone and ripped into the van that had Danny.

She’s pretty sure she healed him, and then things just completely spiraled out of control from that point on. and now she’s here.

She’s pretty sure this is crazy villain behavior, she’s going to get put on some sort of watchlist and then she’ll never get to be a psychologist but it’s fine.

Her little brother is safe, that’s all that matters. And she will keep it that way.

[gloomwitchwrites]

you've done 'in the rain'...what about "snowed in"?

I know snowed in during a mission is a pretty popular trope...but what about also a 'snowed in' while on base and everyone else is out or while on leave together.....or like neighbors who decide to keep each other company while they wait it out

Could be platonic, romantic or even a teammates who didn't get along till they actually talked kinda thing?

Jokes on you! I made the whole thing naughty! Sometimes, I really cannot help myself, and the idea of being "snowed in" with the 141 made the smutty gears turn. Some of it is cute and romantic, some of it borders on dubcon. Either way, this was completely self-indulgent.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: 141!reader, apocalypse au (Ghost’s), making out, dry humping, unprotected piv, intimacy, hurt/comfort, friends with benefits, neighbor!Price, oral sex, dubcon (Ghost), creampie, shower sex, mechanic!Gaz

Word Count: 3.1k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“Stop your banging!” you shout as you wrap a blanket tightly around you. “I’m coming!”

Someone is at your front door, their knocking insistent and loud, stirring you from your mini-coma on the sofa. It’s late in the evening, bordering on bedtime, and there’s a goddamn blizzard outside. A brutal one that’s knocked out the power.

Flipping the deadbolt, you yank the front door open, ready to berate the person on the other side. As your eyes adjust to who stands in front of you, every snarky remark evaporates into the air like steam.

“John,” you breathe, startled that it’s him.

John Price.

The man who lives next door.

The man you’ve been hooking up with but aren’t actually dating.

Without asking—or even speaking—John steps forward, forcing you to move back as he enters. Grasping the edge of the door, John shuts it behind him. Closing out the cold does little to warm you. The power has been out for hours and all the head in the house has evaporated.

“What are you doing here?” you stammer.

John tugs on his scarf, revealing his mouth. “Came to check on you.”

“That’s sweet of you,” you murmur, stomach flipping over in excitement. “Thank you.”

He glances around, frowning. “It’s bloody freezing in here,” he mutters.

“Powers out,” you reply.

“It’s out for the whole damn neighborhood.” John returns his attention to you, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “You should come to my place.”

“I’m doing good on my own.”

John continues like he didn’t hear your passive rejection. “That’s where we’re gathering.”

“We?”

John turns away from you, heading for your entryway closet. “Where’s your coat?” he asks, reaching for the handle.

“We, John?” you prompt.

“The street,” he replies, peering into the closet. “Johnny and Simon have been going door to door. Taking people to my home.”

It makes sense. John’s home has several fireplaces and a large backup generator. No one needs to try traveling in this weather to a warming center.

“Hopefully the power won’t be off for long,” you muse.

John holds out a large coat. “This the one?”

“It is,” you answer.

He offers it to you with silence. This isn’t an optional request. He expects you to go with him.

The coat is taken, the two of you braving the blizzard together. John might be next door but the wind is brutal, creeping in to freeze your bones. By the time the two of you make it inside, you’re shivering. Inside, dozens of people loiter in the front room and kitchen, bundled up in blankets. Snow-damp coats, jackets, gloves, and scarves hang near the roaring fire to dry. On the coffee table is an arrangement of food that people pick at.

“You weren’t joking about the whole street,” you observe, fingers reaching to undo the front of your coat.

John beats you to it. “You’re shivering,” he murmurs, opening your coat and helping you out of it. “You should shower.”

You smile at him. “The power is out. Your water heater won’t work.”

He leans with a sly smile. “Hot water is a luxury I can’t live without.”

“It’s hooked up to the generator, isn’t it?”

His smile widens, and you nearly jump with joy.

It’s a sprint upstairs with John following. You don’t even care that you’re not dating him, or that there are people downstairs. The clothes come off quickly, and when you’re bare, you reach for him, urging him to join you with gentle tugs.

The hot water is delicious, but it’s John’s kisses that truly keep you warm. Pressing you against the shower wall, John holds you by your throat, seeking demanding kiss after demanding kiss. Your pussy aches with the desire of wanting him inside you. Grasping his cock, you stroke until he’s hard in your hand. John groans, nipping at your neck.

With a little shift of your hips and a lift of a leg, you guide him to your entrance. John grasps your waist, and pushes forward, sinking in until your bodies are flush. Pinned to the wall, you’re at his mercy, taking his cock as he rocks his hips forward and back. At this angle, his pelvis rubs against your clit. You keep kissing him, seeking tongue and lips, whimpering his name as John’s thrusting increases.

“Can I come inside you?” he growls against your mouth. He sounds desperate. Needy.

“Yes,” you breathe, surrendering to him.

A few more thrusts, and then John grinds forward, sealing your bodies together as he empties inside your pussy.

He goes in for a kiss. Another. Eases his cock from your body.

As the water starts to cool, John shuts off the tap, but you’re no longer shivering from the chill.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Can—can you help me?”

Your voice stutters in time with a shiver. A burst of cold air hits Kyle in the face as he opens the door wider, allowing you entrance into the shop’s small lobby.

Minutes ago, Kyle flipped the deadbolt, intent on closing up. A snowstorm rages outside, and all of his mechanics are stuck at home. He sees no reason to keep the place open in these conditions. But here you are, shivering and stranded, your broken-down car smoking slightly in the parking lot.

“Thank you,” you stammer, rubbing your arms. You’re not even wearing a coat, just a threadbare hoodie. “My phone is dead. I can’t call anyone.” You shake your head, clearly frazzled. “I pulled in here hoping someone would answer.”

“You’re lucky,” replies Kyle. “Planned on leaving.” Not that he has to go far. His house is attached to the car shop. “I have a phone you can use.

“And my car,” you gasp, pressing your hand to your forehead.

You’re a pretty thing, especially with the half-melted snowflakes covering your lashes.

Kyle offers a gentle smile. “Give me your keys. I’ll bring it into the bay.”

At the moment he might be a one-man show, but Kyle manages all the same, rolling the vehicle into the bay. It’s no longer smoking, but perhaps it wasn’t to begin with. There isn’t a burning smell that Kyle can detect. With how bad the wind is, it’s possible that the smoke Kyle glimpsed was just a trick of the eye.

While you stay wrapped up in blankets and warming your toes in front of the space heater in the lobby, Kyle checks the car over. Everything appears fine until he checks the oil level.

“When did you last get an oil change?” he asks as he takes a towel to his fingers, rubbing at a bit of grease.

“A what?”

Bloody hell.

Kyle tucks the towel in his back pocket. “Won’t take me but half an hour to do one. Should be fine after that.”

Your face falls. “I—I have no way to pay you.”

Kyle might think you a sweet thing but he’s not going to take advantage. You’re stranded and cold and he has nowhere to be.

“I’ll take care of it,” he replies gently.

“Are you sure?” you ask, standing, moving toward him.

“Positive.”

“I can’t…make it up to you?” You lean into him, batting your eyelashes.

Oh. Kyle’s in goddamn trouble.

“You don’t—”

“But I do,” you croon, gaze roaming up and then down his body.

Blood rushes straight to his dick. How long has it been since he’s fucked something other than his hand? And you’re willing?

“Sit down,” you murmur, and Kyle doesn’t need to be told twice.

As he settles into the chair your just occupied, you allow the large blanket to slide off your shoulders, revealing nothing understand.

“Fuck,” he whispers as you kneel on the crumpled blanket before him. His legs spread and you settle between, hands sliding up his thighs to toy with the front of his jeans.

A quick tug. A pop. And then you’re reaching inside, fingers wrapping around his hard dick. Kyle groans. Your fingers are no longer cold from the storm. You’re warm, and it feels fucking good.

Kyle’s eyelids flutter, head tilting back as you stroke him. But it’s your mouth suctioning around the head, tongue lapping over his slit that forces his attention back on you. The snowflakes on your eyelashes have melted, leaving behind wet lines that make it appear like you’ve been crying.

You swallow him down, and Kyle’s ball tighten.

Grasping the back of your head to ground himself, Kyle watches your lips, how they move up and down his length, how to the vein disappears and reappears with each bob. It doesn’t help that you’re completely fucking naked, or that your hand is between your legs playing with your pussy.

You slowly ease your lips upward. Kyle’s dick pops from your mouth.

“You want to come inside me?” you ask, but Kyle can tell that you’re begging—that you want this too.

“Fucking know I do,” he growls.

With a lusty smile, you place your hands on his knees using them as leverage to stand up. Kyle takes in your naked body, and then your gorgeous backside as your turn around. Leaning forward, and spreading your legs just a tad, Kyle receives a clear view of your pussy. It’s glossy with arousal.

He grasps your hips, shifting you back, lining himself up, and then you’re sinking on him. Kyle watches as his cock perfectly pushes in, disappearing into warmth and snugness.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps as you take every fucking inch of him.

You rock back, and Kyle thrusts up, both of you groaning loudly. He doesn’t give a fuck that you’re a stranger—that he doesn’t know your name. Your pussy is perfect, and the snow is thick and raging.

Kyle’s release rises. His fingers tighten their hold, digging into your skin. You try to move, but he holds you fast, sealing your bodies together, filling you with his cum. As you keep still, fingers teasing your orgasm from you, Kyle knows that you could easily stay for the evening.

No one should be driving in this weather.

And he can do the oil change tomorrow.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost finds you in a net, snow-covered and half dead.

When he cuts you down, you hardly move. It’s a shift of the eyelids and a little puff of breath that tells Ghost anything. He puts you on his sled beside the stag he’s downed, traversing the cold and knee-deep snow back to his cabin. The years have melded together, becoming one continuous understand. Ghost hasn’t come across another human in ages. He hasn’t used his voice at all. He’s not even sure if he still knows how to talk.

Not that there are many humans left in the world.

Ghost hangs the stag in the shed behind the cabin, securing the door to keep out any hungry scavengers. You he brings inside, stripping you down until you’re naked, placing you in front of the fire on a nest of worn blankets. He wraps you up, taking extra care to look after your toes and fingers. Though your limbs are cold, you appear to have staved off frostbite.

It’s a lingering quiet where Ghost holds vigil as you warm.

And when you open your eyes, you peek out from your sanctuary of blankets.

You do not scream. You do not scuttle back and away like a beetle. There is…curiosity. Ghost’s cock twitches, wanting attention, liking the way you peer at him. It’s a staring contest, the two of you watching the other without speaking.

Another human. Life. Warmth.

The tips of Ghost’s finger twitch. He reaches out, but you do not flinch. His hand slips beneath the blanket, cupping your bare breast, fingers teasing the nipple. You remain calm, gaze fixated on Ghost. The nipple between his fingers hardens. Ghost moves to the other.

But you surprise him, finally moving, grasping his wrist.

Ghost stills, but you do not draw his hand away. Instead, you bring it down, down between your thighs. You guide his fingers to your pussy, thighs opening slightly to accommodate him.

Ghost strokes, teasing your clit. Dipping into your pussy, he spreads the growing slickness around, returning to your clit. Your eyelids flutter, mouth parting slightly. A shiver runs through you, and your thighs quiver against his hand. He’s already shoving his pants down, opening the blanket to come above you.

You blink slowly, shifting onto your stomach, resting your cheek against the blankets. Ghost settles, rubbing the head of his cock against your pussy. Without ceremony or warning, Ghost thrusts deep. The only sound you make is a small gasp.

Ghost grunts above you, hips snapping, your ass bouncing with each thrust. He loses himself in the warmth and tightness of you. With his face pressed to the back of your head, Ghost pins your wrists above you.

His pace increases, the need to finish a rushing, pulsing shiver beneath his skin. You spread your legs a bit wide, giving him better access.

He doesn’t ask—only grinds his hips against your ass, his cum oozing out around his dick.

The wind kicks up, rattling the covered windows.

A storm is brewing.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“He’s not coming.”

“Willing to put money on it?” asks Johnny, his mouth quirked into a sly smirk.

Matching his energy, you present a few pound notes. There’s a handshake. A verbal agreement. If Captain Price isn’t here by midday, he’d not coming in. And why would he? It’s a bloody blizzard out there. No one is driving in this.

“Without Price around to give orders,” muses Johnny, slowly counting the cash you handed him. “How should we…occupy our time?”

Johnny says occupy slowly—almost deliberately as if he already has something in mind.

You tilt your head to the side as if in deep thought. The two of you will have the run of base for the rest of the day, possibly even the next if the predicted snowfall is correct. You and Johnny can do whatever you want while everyone else is stuck elsewhere.

The soft smile on your lips widens. “I have a few ideas.”

Ideas can be foolish. Spontaneous. Silly.

Neither of you grab your coats. It’s a simple burst of speed and sheer joy as the two of you go rushing out into the blizzard with only your fatigues on. Snow crunches under your boots, and the wind kicks up white waves that stick to your clothes and soak in until the cotton adheres to your skin.

With a screech of glee, you dive into the snow, scooping up a massive clump. Hurriedly, you shape it into a ball. Turn. Hurl it at Johnny. It strikes the back of his head, and he stumbles forward.

“Fucking shit!” he laughs, launching a snowball right back at you.

This one you dodge, giggling hysterically as the two of you dart and dance in the falling snow, slinging heaps of it at each other.

When your fingers grow cold and your cheeks burn, you somehow manage to drag Johnny inside with you. Snow-covered and shivering, it’s all warm smiles, a hot shower, cards in the rec room with the kettle on. It’s shitty jokes and board games with missing pieces. It’s an old television with poor satellite reception and a communal oven that doesn’t want to hold temperature.

“It’s a ghost town out there,” observes Johnny, glancing out the window.

There are no moving cars. No planes or helicopters taking off. All is silent and still. It’s odd really, like the two of you are locked in a snow globe.

“Yes,” you agree, shuffling the deck of cards.

With a heavy sigh, Johnny walks over to his bed, flopping down onto his side. The neat stack of cards explodes, scattering everywhere.

“Really, Soap?”

“I’m bored,” he replies, falling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Your only response is a muted grunt. Johnny turns his head to look at you directly. “Want to make out?”

You freeze; fingers just shy of lifting some of the scattered cards. “Do I what?”

With a mischievous grin, Johnny turns on his side, leaning on his elbow, resting his chin in his hand. “Just a snog. Won’t mean anything.”

You flick a card at his face. Johnny retains that flirty smile.

“Come on,” he croons. “Just one.” You roll your eyes, then give him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Not what I meant, lass.”

As you draw back, Johnny grasps the back of your neck, tugging you to him. At first, you resist, but then Johnny’s lips meet yours, and you realize it’s not so bad after all. It’s slow and sweet. No tongue. No shoving. It’s passionate but with a hint of restraint.

“Like that,” he murmurs against your lips.

Oh. Oh fuck.

You don’t resist when Johnny goes in for another, or when he pushes you onto your back. The fatigues are gone, replaced with sleepwear. Johnny’s fingers slide beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. He pebbles one nipple and then the other, eliciting a little moan from you as he seizes yet another kiss.

There is nothing gentle about these. Johnny demands, and you surrender, allowing him everything. Boredom is melting, turning into lust, turning into panting heat. Shirts are gone, and then pants. His lips move down to taste and tease. Your thighs fall wide, and Johnny kisses your pussy before tonging it. Your fingers thread through his mohawk, and Johnny groans as your nails scrape across his scalp.

The snow falls in thick sheets outside, crusting everything in a damp cold.

But your blood is heated, and Johnny is warm.

[prostarchina]

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[leafyeyes417]

Double Tim

(Okay I swear I saw a similar concept somewhere a long time ago. No idea if it was a one shot on Ao3 or just a tumblr prompt. Pls link if you find it)

—————————————————————————

Danny had been badly injured in his human form. He could feel himself destabilizing. Normally he would be able to heal but the hunters were relentless and had new gadgets that made that even harder. His only luck was that it wasn’t Blood Blossoms.

Escaping through a random portal in his rush he ended up in an unknown lab. He noticed an empty body with no soul and quickly overshadowed it. It wasn’t long before he felt himself falling into a daze as he began stabilizing and connecting to the body. The new body would become his human half and his ghost side would take a bit longer before he could continue on as a halfa.

What he wasn’t expecting though was while he was integrating to the body a process would kick in. The body? A clone of Tim Drake, made by himself as a backup if he ever died. Unfortunately said Tim Drake didn’t account for a malfunction to happen when his heart stopped for only mere moments.

Danny in his stabilizing haze felt memories that weren’t his, and he wasn’t in the state of mind to reject them, adding them to the process as well. When he fully woke he realized what had happened. His brain honestly felt like it worked differently now. He wouldn’t say he wasn’t Danny anymore, but now he knew with his templates memories that the hunters wouldn’t be able to catch him again.

Getting out of the pod, the memories quickly kicked in. Grabbing gear, he decided it would be good to track down Tim and see what he was doing that would have activated the clone.

—————

Danny had to say… his template needed help. He was drowning himself figuratively as he tried to find Bruce, lost in the timeline. If it wasn’t for Clockwork’s note to stick to the shadows until the quest was complete he would have joined openly to help by now. Sighing, he decided to help in the background. He could at least make sure only one of them were dead.

He still needed to get used to the new memories and body. He also wouldn’t get his ghost half’s powers for a bit. His new body didn’t have the advantage of being rewritten in a portal so it would be the slow method as his body adapted. At least CW’s note told him it would be done by the time Tim’s quest was over.

[appliedgraymatter]

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[mywritersmind]

WALK ME LIKE A RUNWAY - LN4

summary : Lando doesn’t know anything about runways, especially a certain Victorias Secret runway that’s breaking the internet. When he gets the invite, it’s certainly a surprise, but with one old and one new friend by his side, he starts to see the appeal of this whole model thing. He likes it for one reason, and that reason is opening the whole show.

listen up : lando x vsangel!reader 💞✨ a bit long!! will prob be multiple parts if you guys like it!!

word count : 2192

⋆｡‧˚⋆

I don’t know how I got here or why I was invited. But as I sit in my assigned seat as the girl next to me stares at me, I can’t help but think that my invitation was for a reason.

I have a good feeling about tonight, maybe it’s because i’m about to watch pretty girls walk in underwear and wings, or maybe it’s because that girl I mentioned looks like she’s itching to tell me something.

As soon as I look at her, she starts, “You’re Lando Norris.” She's pretty, has a short bob, pale skin, and is examining me closely.

“Yeah…” I nod slowly.

“Sorry. Big fan!” She laughs, “What are you doing here?”

“Good question… I was invited. Actually, my mate Carlos is supposed to-” As if I spoke him into existence, the driver plops down next to me, “Hey!”

He grins and nods at the girl, “I’m Kay! My best friend is in the show!” I like Kay. She’s eyeing Carlos like he’s a piece of meat and it’s hilarious.

“So I don’t really understand… Why this runway is big a deal.” Kay practically scoffs in my face and immediately dives in, giving Carlos and I all the lore. After ten minutes of throwing random facts and stringing the whole story line together, I stop nodding and the lights go out.

“This is exciting.” Carlos nudges me, like he’s some big fan or something. Then again it’s a lingerie company so he’s probably a big supporter. “So your friend, how long has she been a model?”

“Forever!” Kay nods, lowering her voice and talking to Carlos across me, “But this is huge because it’s her first show with Victoria Secret and she’s opening it!”

The music starts and a motorcycle with a girl on it comes up from the stage, she starts singing and everyone is going absolutely crazy for her.

Carlos is basically dancing in his seat next to me and Kay is singing along, clapping her hands together.

I try not to think about awkward interview Carlos and I did on the pink carpet, the woman looked stunned that we were even there.

I focus on the girl singing again, it’s quite fun, I feel like i’m at a concert. The lights go out and the singer and her backups are gone.

Kay hits my arm excitedly, pointing to the stage. That’s when I realize the stage is lifting someone up.

The first thing I see are the wings, pink, sparkly and huge. But then I see her.

Fuck being model pretty, this girl looks like a legitimate angel. She’s got long legs, an insane body that’s being accentuated by the white lace that’s practically dripping off her. She's got long wavy hair that is streaked with highlights, and as soon as she starts walking I understand it.

She’s got confidence, fucking power. The room breaks into screams and applause as she grins, god her smile.

She’s elegant, beautiful, and breaks her model smize as she turns in my direction. She blows a kiss to Kay and the smile she pulls has me catching my breath.

The wings she’s wearing starts to move, almost growing above her. She stops at the end of the runway, poses, then walks back. People are screaming her name and she winks at them, turning back to face the end of the runway, she gives a tiny wave before women on both sides of her amerge.

Carlos hits me in the chest, “Dude!” He laughs, “You star struck or something?” Kay giggles.

“I- Why does everyone know her if this is her debut?”

“It’s her debut as an angel! Not a model! She’s a complete fan favorite!” Kay claps as the girls continue to walk, they’ve all got lingerie on and look amazing.

I can’t quite seem to shake her face out of my mind. The show goes on, the performances are fun and I can tell who’s the most awaited models because the crowd is quite opinionated.

My favorite is definitely the woman with a sick guitar. Who wouldn’t want to see pretty girls walk while rock music plays?

I may or may not fan-boy over Cher. My mum is a super fan so I make sure to take videos. And as that icon is performing, My eyes catch again.

She’s in full red and I wonder why I've never been to a fashion show before.

Kay catches me staring again, “Yeah- you’re definitely meeting her after this.” I laugh uncomfortably, smiling at the shit eating grin on her face.

“Tyra!” Kay screams next to me, I watch a tall woman with very big hair appear from the floor, the panels behind her open and all the models flood in.

I clap along with everyone else, watching the girls celebrate and smile at one another. Confetti falls on us as Kay spins around.

We stand and clap for them, before they leave and a voice thanks us for watching. I’m in a haze by the time the lights come up, “That was cool!” Carlos grins.

“Hey so because Lando was making goo goo eyes at my best friend-” I side eye her, “You two should come to the after party! Y/n and I are hosting some friends!”

I’d be an idiot to say no.

⋆｡‧˚

They share a studio apartment overlooking the city. Carlos grabs a beer before we start looking around and meeting people.

Carlos is off talking to Kay when I walk into the kitchen, looking for some water. There’s a girl standing on her toes, trying to grab a box of what looks like cereal from a top shelf.

I freeze when I realize it’s her. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t even talk to a girl? Come on.

I clear my throat and go to tap her shoulder but she starts talking before I can, “No you can’t have sex in my bed, if you’re gonna throw up, do it somewhere that’s not my apartment, and no smoking inside! My landlord will-” she spins around in a little pink dress, looking pissed off.

She clocks the confused look on my face and stops talking, “I’m not looking to have sex in your apartment…” not yet at least. Shit, Lando shut up! “Or throw up. And I don’t smoke.”

She smacks her lips shut before laughing, “Sorry! Like three people have asked me that tonight!” She bites her bottom lip and I realize how close she is.

Now that I'm not twenty feet away from her, I look her up and down quickly. She’s got freckles, is blonder up close, and her half gone makeup fits her perfectly.

She blinks and I realize that I'm just staring at her.

⋆｡‧˚⋆

Y/N’S POV

Why is this British man staring at me?

He coughs as I smile slightly, intrigued by this random man in my home, “Well if you’re not gonna ask me about any of those three horrid topics, what do you want?” I put my hand on my hip, watching his very pretty green eyes glance to the cereal I was trying (and failing) to grab.

He reaches up and grabs it with ease. He's not that much taller than me, I'm still short for a model and without my usual heels, he has a few inches up.

I take the box, “Thanks.” I open it immediately, sticking my hand inside the chocolate breakfast.

“I was just looking for water.” He shrugs, not meeting my eyes.

“I got you!” I perk up and rummage around in our fridge, handing him a bottle. I usually don’t give out our personal chilled stash, but I like this guy.

“Thank you.” He takes it, brushing my hand slightly.

“No problem!” I glance over to see Alex Consani practically in a plant, “Alex! Please don’t hurt Kay’s children!” I stomp away and get stampeded with conversations and questions.

I laugh, “You’ve told me like a million times! But thank you!” Kay knows it’s been my dream to walk for Victoria's Secret since I was little and didn’t even wear a bra.

She squeals, “Oh I gotta have you meet my new friends!” She drags me to the corner where some people are standing, “Carlos! This is my best friend ever, Y/n! Y/n this is Carlos! He’s super cool!” She leans in to whisper, “and super hot.”

I choke on a laugh, shaking the guys hand, “Nice to meet you!”

“Pleasure! Kay’s been talking you up since the show.” He is hot. He’s got a spanish accent and dark hair, exactly Kay’s type.

“Oh you were at the show?” I say, not realizing he was there with Kay.

“Yeah! Me and-” he looks around, “Norris?” He turns and grabs a guy by his collared leather jacket, “Lando!” He spins him around and I realize it’s the guy who I gave water to.

Kay nods excitedly, “Lando and Carlos were totally cheering you on! Especially Lando.” She tries to whisper the last part but fails.

I don’t miss the look that settles over Lando’s face. Lando, hmm. Interesting name. “Hey.” He nods, sipping his water as I smile.

“Hi! I’m Y/n.” I eye his curls, I like his hair a lot already.

“Anyway- They've only been to New York like two times! We’re showing them around this week!” I try to seem interested but I can’t really focus on Kay when Lando is giving me all his attention. “Carlos, I love this song!” She grabs him by the hand and they’re gone in a second.

Lando and I glance at them, then each other, then laugh, “She’s got a lot of energy.”

“It’s the ADHD.” I sigh, standing next to him and looking around my apartment, “So… you liked the show? You don’t seem like the type.”

“I don’t seem like the type to enjoy pretty girls walking in lingerie while a concert is going on?” He raises a brow and I roll my eyes.

“Typical!”

He reaches a hand out, “Hey hey- I’m kidding! I did enjoy you walking, though.” It’s my turn to raise a brow now. “Kay said it was a big thing- opening the show.”

I nod happily, “Huge! Like made my career completely worth everything I've been through and sealed it for me that i’ve made it…” I trail off, realizing I'm telling this to a complete stranger, “Sorry you probably don’t care.”

He frowns, “Of course I do. I get it.” He shrugs and for some reason, I completely believe him.

I tilt my head, “Do you wanna go outside?”

My words land us outside on my balcony, I'm wrapped in a blanket with a beer in my hand. Lando clinks our glasses and looks out at the view, “So what do you do?” I sip my beer.

He sighs, leans his head back on the glass, “I’m a racing driver.”

This takes me aback severely, “What.” I say it so bluntly that he laughs.

“I drive in Formula 1.” My jaw literally drops.

“That’s sick! You win yet?” He looks young, probably a year or two older than me.

The grin he gives me makes me feel nauseous in a weirdly good way, “Yeah. Kinda my ‘I made it’ Moment, too.”

It’s easy to talk to Lando. There’s something about him that makes me comfortable even though we’ve just met. That’s dangerous, especially for me.

He tells me that he lives in Monaco (of course he has to live far), and that he travels most of the time. This is good, I tell myself. I feel like this is going somewhere and it’s perfect if he just leaves after tonight!

I feel this way because Lando’s eyes keep flicking down to my lips.

I explain how I moved from California to New York after modeling for a bit in LA, “I’m Twenty Two.” I shrug, singing the song a big.

“Shit.” He brings the bottle to his lips again as I scoff.

“Right…What are you? Twenty six?”

He almost chokes on the drink, “Twenty six!? Tell me you’re lying!”

I laugh at his reaction, “No! Tell me how old you are!”

He shakes his head, a curl falling onto his forehead, “I’m Twenty four, you muppet.” I slap my hand over my mouth to quiet my laughter.

“Muppet!?” I laugh, my head falling back.

“Yeah, you’ve made me feel all old.” He shakes his head.

“I like your accent.” I just say it. I don’t know why I do, well, when I glance at the bottle in my hand I have a guess.

He smiles, his eyes reflecting the city lights, “Thanks, love.”

“Love?” I eye him, “You’ve got that winner attitude, pretty cocky.”

He runs his tongue over his teeth, “Not cocky, just hopeful.” I shake my head, looking away from him and focusing on the night sky. I am so fucked.

[solxamber]

Caught in the Crossfire || Vil Schoenheit

You and Vil, partners in crime, find that the line between business and pleasure is thinner than you'd like to admit when you can’t outrun the feelings that come with sharing a life together

Or: Mafia Boss! Vil x Mafia Boss! Reader

The eggs are perfect. Light, fluffy, with just the right amount of seasoning—not too overpowering, but enough to whisper of extravagance. The coffee is dark and rich, paired with a delicate pastry that crumbles just right under the pressure of a silver fork.

It’s the kind of meal that makes a person momentarily forget the bloodstains on their cufflinks or the fact that their bank account balance looks more like the GDP of a small country than a personal savings figure.

Across from you, Vil sits with his usual effortless elegance, wearing a suit so sharp it could cut glass. His long fingers tap against the rim of his teacup as he listens to you talk about the new shipment coming in tonight—an assortment of weapons, high-grade, the kind that people don’t just buy, they invest in.

He nods along, occasionally stirring his tea with slow, deliberate movements, because of course Vil would find a way to make stirring tea look like a power move.

“Do you need backup?” he asks.

You consider it. Technically, your men have it handled, but technically, your men also said they had it handled last time, and then one of them accidentally blew up an entire warehouse because he thought a grenade pin was “more of a suggestion than a rule.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” you say, sipping your coffee.

Vil hums approvingly. “I’ll send a few of mine. Not the new ones, obviously. I refuse to be represented by incompetence.”

And honestly? You respect that.

The city outside is a hellscape of crime and corruption, an urban jungle where power is measured in blood, influence, and how well one can survive a fight.

Unfortunately, not everyone in this godforsaken city understands the rules.

The café doors slam open with a force that makes the entire room go silent. A group of unfamiliar thugs strides in, their boots scuffing against the pristine marble floor, and you can feel the collective eye twitch of the waitstaff.

These guys are new—young, eager, dressed like they learned everything they know about organized crime from bad action movies. One of them, some overconfident idiot with a stupid amount of gel in his hair, swings a gun around like a prop in a school play.

You sigh.

Vil sighs.

The staff also sighs because they’ve clearly worked here long enough to know how this is going to end.

“Alright, listen up!” the leader barks, and wow, his voice is nasally. “We’re taking over this joint, you hear me? Hand over your wallets and—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Because by the time he utters the words hand over, you and Vil are already moving. It’s practically second nature at this point—the quiet efficiency of two seasoned professionals dealing with yet another group of morons who have no sense of self-preservation.

Vil moves with the precision of a man who has choreographed his entire life. One swift motion and his cup of scalding hot tea is in the face of the closest thug, who shrieks as if he’s been dunked into the pits of hell itself.

You, meanwhile, grab your fork—your lovely, silver, overpriced café fork—and embed it in another guy’s hand before flipping the table for cover.

The entire thing is over in five minutes.

By the end of it, the floor is littered with groaning bodies, a few broken noses, and one unfortunate soul who got knocked unconscious with a plate of eggs benedict (rest in peace, you perfect, fluffy breakfast delight).

The remaining patrons barely react. The waitstaff steps over the bodies to continue serving, because they, too, have adapted to the reality of running an establishment in a city where mafia heads hold weekly brunch meetings.

Vil fixes his sleeves with a look of mild irritation, as if the real crime here was the inconvenience. “Honestly,” he mutters. “Didn’t their mothers ever teach them basic manners?”

You shake your head, dragging your chair back into place. “I swear, the new generation has no sense of etiquette.”

And just like that, the two of you sit back down and resume your meal.

Vil’s office is immaculate, as always. A glass desk, perfectly arranged décor, the scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air like it pays rent. If someone walked in without context, they’d assume they were entering the workspace of a world-renowned fashion mogul.

Which, technically, isn’t wrong.

Except instead of discussing upcoming collections or brand endorsements, the two of you are currently overseeing a money laundering operation disguised as a high-fashion venture.

And Vil is not impressed.

“This,” he says, voice dripping with disdain, as he gestures at the collection laid out before him, “is an atrocity.”

You glance at the designs, then back at him. “Vil, it’s crime. Who actually cares what it looks like?”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The glare Vil levels at you could freeze over the entire eastern seaboard. You’re not a weak person—you’ve stared down rival bosses, assassins, and law enforcement without so much as flinching—but something about the sheer disgust in Vil’s expression makes you reflexively sit up straighter.

Across the room, Epel, who had made the grave mistake of being in the vicinity, excuses himself immediately, because the last time he witnessed this level of ice-cold judgment, he had nightmares for a week.

“This—this mockery—is a crime against fashion,” Vil continues, gesturing sharply at a particularly offensive garment. “Look at this cut! Look at these fabrics! The stitching alone looks like it was done by someone having a seizure!”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Vil. We are actual criminals.”

“Yes, and even criminals should have standards,” he snaps, crossing his arms. “Honestly, what’s the point of laundering money through fashion if it’s going to be this hideous? I refuse to be associated with whatever this is.”

You don’t have the energy for this argument. Not today.

“Fine,” you say, standing up. “If it bothers you that much, let’s go shopping.”

Vil’s expression flickers, then settles into something vaguely victorious. He snaps his fingers, and in seconds, his coat is draped over his shoulders like a royal mantle. “Finally, some sense,” he mutters.

You blink. “Wait, now? I meant, like, later—”

But Vil is already walking out the door, and you have no choice but to follow.

You are a mafia boss. A feared, respected individual whose name carries weight in every criminal circle. You have made decisions that have shaped the underworld itself.

And yet, here you are.

Standing in an absurdly expensive boutique, dressed in an outfit that costs more than the GDP of a small country, while Vil meticulously adjusts the buttons on your cuffs.

“How,” you say, staring at your reflection in mild disbelief, “did I get here?”

Vil doesn’t even look up as he smooths the fabric on your shoulders. “Because you had the audacity to suggest that fashion doesn’t matter while standing in my office.”

You exhale slowly. “I meant for money laundering purposes.”

“And I meant for every purpose.” Vil steps back, tilts his head slightly, then nods in approval before turning his attention back to the racks of clothing. “Now, try this one.”

You look at the garment he’s holding up. “That’s the exact same color and design as the last one.”

Vil shoots you a withering look. “It is not. The cut is completely different. Honestly, I pity you sometimes.”

This has been going on for an hour.

An hour of Vil forcing you into one designer piece after another, adjusting your collar, critiquing your posture, and making you question every life decision that led to this moment.

“I run an entire criminal empire,” you mutter under your breath as Vil hands you yet another outfit.

“Yes, and you dress like you just rolled out of a getaway car.”

That’s not even an insult. That’s just factual.

You glance at the boutique’s security cameras and briefly contemplate faking an emergency to get out of this. Maybe start a small fire. Stage a kidnapping. Something.

But then Vil fixes the lapel on your coat, his fingers brushing against your collarbone, and for a brief, dangerous second, you forget that you’re supposed to be annoyed.

“…Fine,” you grumble. “One more outfit.”

Vil smirks. “I knew you had some sense.”

There are a few unwritten rules when it comes to surviving in your organization. They’re not complicated. In fact, they can be summed up rather succinctly:

Don’t talk back to the bosses unless you’ve got a death wish.

Don’t disrespect Vil's design choices unless you really have a death wish.

Don’t, under any circumstances, assume Epel Felmier is weak.

The third rule, in particular, is the one that most fresh recruits fail to grasp. Which is why you and Vil are currently seated comfortably, sipping on expensive coffee, watching the inevitable unfold like a slow-motion car crash.

Epel is standing in the middle of the training yard, casual as ever, looking every bit like the deceptively polite farm boy he used to be. Across from him, a new recruit—one of the unfortunate ones with more bravado than brain cells—grins like he’s just won the lottery.

“Didn’t think this family let kids in,” the idiot sneers, cracking his knuckles.

Oh, you wish you could say you were surprised.

You glance at Vil. He exhales, already unimpressed, and gives a small, imperceptible nod.

And just like that, Epel moves.

It’s not an elaborate attack, nor is it the kind of long, drawn-out fight scene you’d see in a movie. No, it’s fast.

One second the recruit is standing there, cocky and smirking, and the next—CRACK.

His jaw—his entire jaw—is just gone.

You don’t even think Epel used that much force. He just twisted his wrist, landed a clean hit, and now some poor fool is lying on the ground, making the kind of wheezing sounds that definitely mean you’ll have to call a doctor (or a mortician, depending on how bad the damage is).

The yard is silent.

Some of the other new recruits shift nervously. The smarter ones make a mental note to never, ever say anything remotely condescending to Epel.

You, meanwhile, casually check your watch.

“Four minutes,” you announce.

Vil sighs, already reaching into his coat.

“You thought he’d last fifteen minutes?” you ask, grinning as he hands you his card.

“I had hope,” Vil says flatly. “Clearly, that was a mistake.”

Epel dusts off his sleeves, looking more annoyed that his knuckles got dirty than the fact that he just sent a guy to the hospital.

“Any of y’all got somethin’ else to say?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Silence.

Smart.

You pocket Vil’s card, smirking. “Well, that was entertaining. Dinner?”

Vil nods. “Dinner.”

And with that, you leave, stepping over the still-twitching body of the idiot who learned the hard way that Epel Felmier does not take disrespect lightly.

In the world of organized crime, certain unspoken rules govern the way things operate. Territory lines must be respected. Alliances must be upheld—until they aren’t. And when the time comes to commit heinous acts of violence, one must do so with a sense of style.

But above all else, there is one sacred, immutable law:

Do not disturb dinner.

Every week, without fail, you and Vil sit down for an elegant, civilized meal. A small, fleeting moment of luxury amidst a life otherwise filled with extortion, backroom deals, and the occasional high-speed chase through the city.

It is a time to unwind, to drink expensive wine, to complain about incompetent subordinates and how—for the love of all things holy—does one completely botch a simple shipment of illegal arms?

Which is why when your phone rings—you’re already irritated.

Vil barely spares you a glance, swirling his wine in one hand, as if waiting to see whether he should be entertained or bored by what happens next.

With a long-suffering sigh, you pick up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a brief pause, the sound of someone clearing their throat, and then a voice that is clearly trying (and failing) to sound intimidating says:

“We have your man.”

You blink. “My what?”

“Your man,” the voice repeats, a little less sure of himself now.

Vil raises a perfectly sculpted brow, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

“…I don’t have a man.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I really don’t.”

“Yes, you really do.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Oh my god. Who?”

The voice hesitates. Then, like he’s dropping the ace up his sleeve, he announces:

“We have Rook Hunt.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Vil exhales slowly, lips twitching into something resembling amusement. He looks as though he wants to offer the poor idiot on the other end a moment of prayer.

You, on the other hand, have to suppress the sheer urge to cackle. Instead, you take a deep, deep breath and say, in the flattest tone imaginable:

“Oh noooooo. Not Rook.”

The guy picks up on the sarcasm, but it’s too late to back out now. “Yeah, uh—he’s terrified.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Begging for his life. Real mess.”

“Sure.”

“Crying, actually.”

You glance at Vil, who lifts his glass again, the universal sign for let’s see how long this idiot keeps digging this grave.

“Okay, listen,” you say, leaning back in your chair. “Do me a favor real quick.”

“…Yeah?”

“Check who the actual hostage is.”

There’s a moment of absolute, ringing silence.

Then, far too faint to be directly into the phone, you hear:

“Wait, why does he still have a knife? Why does he still ha—OH GOD—”

And then, screaming.

Absolute, visceral, panicked screaming.

The kind of screaming that can only come from realizing, far too late, that you were not, in fact, the hunter but the very stupid, stupid prey.

The line goes dead.

You lower the phone, considering your options. Then, still grinning, you turn to Vil.

“Should I have warned them he carries extra knives?”

Vil takes a slow sip of wine and, without missing a beat, says, “They’ll figure it out soon enough.”

And oh, they do.

Because exactly thirty minutes later, Rook strolls in, positively beaming, covered in blood (that is definitely not his), and carrying a suspiciously thick folder of intelligence on who, precisely, had the brilliant idea of kidnapping him.

Vil doesn’t even look surprised. If anything, he looks slightly disappointed that Rook let them die too fast to give a proper monologue.

You, meanwhile, are just sitting there, staring at the bloodied mess of a man you call an associate, and thinking:

Yeah. They figured it out.

It was supposed to be simple.

A mission so straightforward that you almost felt insulted having to do it yourself. But no, apparently this was too delicate to leave to your subordinates, so here you were—sitting in a dimly lit bar, nursing a glass of expensive whiskey, and attempting to charm some information out of the city's most indiscreet criminals.

And in theory, this should have been easy.

You and Vil weren’t just mafia bosses; you were masters of persuasion. Your entire existence revolved around the ability to manipulate, deceive, and seduce when necessary. You could talk a man into selling his own kneecaps if you wanted to.

But there was one glaring problem this time.

Vil.

Because for some godforsaken reason, he seemed dead set on sabotaging this mission at every turn.

The moment you leaned in to flirt with a target, flashing your best smirk, Vil’s hand clamped onto your wrist, yanking you back as if you were about to throw yourself into traffic.

When some well-dressed (if mildly repulsive) businessman slid up beside you, whispering something undoubtedly sleazy in your ear, Vil scoffed so loudly that the man flinched.

You kicked him under the table. He kicked you back—harder.

And when you tried giggling—the universal signal for “yes, I’m interested, please tell me all your criminal secrets” —Vil exhaled like you had personally betrayed him.

It reached a boiling point when you were about to land the final hook—batting your lashes, trailing a hand over your target’s sleeve, just a few seconds away from getting him to spill everything—when Vil, in an act of sheer malice, suddenly pulled you into his side and drawled,

“Apologies, darling. They have an unfortunate habit of attracting the wrong sort of people.”

Your target, now looking incredibly alarmed, muttered something about needing the restroom and fled.

You closed your eyes. Counted to ten. Considered murder.

Then, with a saccharine smile that probably terrified half the bar, you grabbed Vil by the arm and dragged him into a private back room before slamming the door shut behind you.

“The hell is your problem?!” you hissed.

Vil looked utterly unbothered. “I’m looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me?” you repeated, incredulous. “You’re blowing the mission!”

His arms folded gracefully across his chest. “You deserve a higher class of admirer. Not some low-life with a cheap watch and a bad dye job.”

You stared. Your hands twitched with the overwhelming urge to shake him senseless.

“Vil,” you said, very slowly, “I am not into that guy. This is a mission. You know, the thing we do instead of dying?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s still demeaning to—”

You shook him.

Physically grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

Vil let out a strangled sound of protest, looking utterly offended, but you didn’t care.

“I AM HERE TO MANIPULATE A MAN INTO TELLING ME WHERE THEY’RE STORING THEIR SMUGGLED GUNS,” you all but shouted. “I AM NOT HERE TO DATE HIM.”

You shoved him away, storming back out of the room with all the fury of someone whose mission had just been single-handedly ruined by the world’s worst wingman.

Vil stood there, unmoving, watching you leave.

Something bitter welled up in his chest. Something unpleasant and sharp, something he didn’t want to name.

But instead of examining it too closely, he merely smoothed down his suit, exhaled, and begrudgingly followed you back out.

You had learned, over the years, how to let things go.

You had learned that sometimes, no matter how much something tugged at your mind, demanded an answer, it was better to step back, breathe, and let time sort things out.

Which is why you didn’t press Vil about whatever the hell was going on with him.

It was easier to not acknowledge the way he kept interfering with your missions.

Easier to not question the sharp looks, the lingering stares, the way his voice would curl around your name like it was something precious when he thought no one could hear.

It was easier to not ask why his irritation felt personal.

Because you knew, if you asked, you might not like the answer.

So instead of adding to whatever storm was brewing inside Vil, you sent Rook and Epel to finish the job.

And yet—despite your best efforts—you still found yourself in front of Vil’s office door, knocking lightly before stepping inside.

It was just tea. Like always. A ritual built over time.

Except—this time, you were bruised.

Your knuckles were raw, shoulders aching from the kind of fight that couldn’t be avoided, no matter how skilled you were at maneuvering through this world. You had faced worse, of course. It was nothing.

But Vil took one look at you and his expression—once neutral, if a little distant—collapsed.

His cup slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor. Neither of you acknowledged it.

The next thing you knew, his hand was on your wrist, grip firm but careful, urgent.

You didn’t fight it when he dragged you to the bathroom, not saying a word, the tension in his body wound so tightly you thought he might snap in half.

He forced you to sit on the counter, hands moving automatically to pull out a first-aid kit.

“Vil,” you started.

“Be quiet.”

There was no bite to his voice, but the quiet urgency in it stopped you all the same.

You huffed. “I can just call my medic—”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, and whatever he was feeling—whatever he was holding back—made your words catch in your throat.

You let him work in silence.

The press of antiseptic against raw skin, the brush of his fingers as he wrapped your wounds, the careful tilt of his head as he studied his handiwork—all of it felt unbearably tender.

Too gentle for the world you lived in.

When he finished, he exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself. Then, to your shock, he leaned into you.

His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath warm against your collarbone. His hands—once poised, always careful—clutched at the fabric of your shirt like he was holding himself together.

“Never do this again.” His voice was quiet. Almost pleading.

Your stomach twisted. “Vil, I’m a mafia boss too. What do you expect me to do? Knit sweaters and run charities?”

He lifted his head then, and when his eyes met yours, you understood.

This wasn’t just frustration. Wasn’t just exasperation over your recklessness.

It was fear.

It was something far deeper, something he had never said out loud, something you had ignored every time he pulled you back at the bar, every time he scoffed at your flirting, every time he lingered just a little too long when adjusting your tie.

The realization hit you like a bullet to the ribs.

You swallowed hard. “...I’ll be a little more careful. If I can.”

His shoulders sagged, and he nodded. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he let himself lean into you again.

You didn’t stop him. You just held him, his arms around your waist, your hand cradling the back of his head, feeling the way his breath finally evened out.

And in that moment, you understood—Vil hadn’t just been acting like a jilted lover.

He felt like he was one.

The plan had been brilliant. Carefully orchestrated, every detail accounted for, every possible hitch considered.

Yet somehow, somehow, you had managed to go from one of the most feared mafia leaders in the city to someone currently hiding in a safe house with Vil fucking Schoenheit, hiding from both law enforcement and some very, very powerful enemies.

You weren’t sure which was worse.

"Explain it to me again," you sighed, pressing your head against the wall. "How exactly did everything go to hell in under three minutes?"

Across the room, Vil sat on a chair, legs crossed, looking far too composed for someone who had nearly been arrested, shot at, and insulted all in the span of an hour.

“Simple,” he said, inspecting his nails like you weren’t on the verge of losing your mind. “The deal was never going to go through. It was a setup. A trap. Which, if you’d just listened to me in the first place—”

You groaned. “Oh, please. If you knew it was a trap, why did you even agree to go with me?”

He flicked his gaze up then, sharp and assessing. “Because you have an appalling habit of running headfirst into danger, and someone needs to be there to drag you back out of it.”

You opened your mouth to argue—then promptly closed it, because, okay, fair point.

Still. It was one thing to walk into a trap, knowing it was a trap. It was another thing entirely to somehow piss off some of the most powerful figures in the city and get half the police force on your tail.

How had it all gone so wrong?

Rook and Epel had managed to escape somehow—how, you still didn’t know, but you were too exhausted to question it. The last thing they had said before vanishing was a quick assurance that they’d “fix it soon.”

Which, coming from them, could mean anything.

Great. Fantastic.

And that left you and Vil, holed up in a safe house in the middle of nowhere, waiting for things to blow over.

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “This is not how I thought today would go.”

Vil hummed, stretching elegantly. “Yes, well. Adaptability is an important skill in our line of work, isn’t it?”

You shot him a flat look. “We are literally in hiding. This is not a power move.”

Vil tilted his head, giving you a slow, deliberate once-over. “It’s only hiding if you look desperate.”

You did look desperate.

There was a smear of dirt on your cheek, your shirt was torn, and you were pretty sure you had a bruise forming on your ribs from when you’d had to dive behind a car earlier.

Vil, meanwhile, looked like he had just stepped out of a high-profile photoshoot. Despite the chase, the chaos, and the very real possibility of getting arrested, he somehow managed to remain immaculate.

You hated him a little bit for it.

You groaned, slumping down onto the couch. “At this point, I’d rather get shot than deal with your attitude.”

Vil let out an amused hum. “Dramatic as ever.”

There was a beat of silence. You let your eyes close, just for a moment, trying to gather your thoughts.

Then—softly, almost too quiet to hear—Vil said, “Are you hurt?”

The question made your eyes flick open. You turned your head just enough to see him watching you, expression unreadable.

“…I’ll live,” you muttered.

He exhaled sharply, then stood and walked toward you with measured steps. Before you could protest, he reached out, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face slightly to the side.

“You’re bleeding,” he murmured.

You hadn’t even noticed.

His fingers were gentle, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Then—he leaned in slightly, gaze flicking down to your lips for the briefest second before his expression hardened.

“Be more careful,” he said, voice softer than usual.

You swallowed. “Vil, I can take care of myself.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, his hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer before he pulled away, stepping back.

“Of course you can,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

The safe house was nice. Too nice.

It was one of your better ones—a sleek, modern apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows, a fully stocked bar, and furniture that looked like it belonged in some high-end magazine. The kind of place designed for luxury, not hiding.

And now you were stuck in it. With Vil. For two whole weeks.

You stared at Rook’s message again, rereading the words like they would magically change into something better.

It’ll take about two weeks to fix everything. Hold tight, mes amis. I’ll pick you both up soon.

Two weeks.

Fourteen days of living with Vil.

Fourteen days of pretending like you didn’t know exactly how he felt about you.

Fourteen days of not thinking about how you felt about him.

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaling slowly.

This is fine.

You were a professional. A leader. You had spent years navigating crime syndicates, surviving betrayals, outplaying enemies who wanted you dead.

You could handle this.

Vil sighed dramatically from across the room, pulling your attention back to him. “If we’re going to be trapped here for two weeks, we’re going to need ground rules.”

You raised a brow. “Ground rules?”

He folded his arms. “Yes. Firstly, you will not track dirt into the house. Secondly, if you insist on ruining your diet with instant ramen at ungodly hours, do not expect me to partake. Thirdly—”

You tuned him out.

Two weeks.

You were so screwed.

You should have expected this.

The moment you stepped into the bedroom, you knew. There was only one bed.

You stood there, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. Vil, standing beside you, let out the longest sigh of his life.

“Of course.”

“Why is there only one bed?” you asked, because surely if you kept asking, reality itself would shift and reveal a second one hidden somewhere.

Vil pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. Perhaps because this is a safe house, not a five-star resort?”

You scowled. “Still. You’d think there’d be at least a couch—”

“I am not sleeping on the floor.”

You crossed your arms. “Well, I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

A tense silence.

A battle of wills.

Finally, a compromise.

The bed was big enough. You could share. You would be adults about this. You would put a pillow barrier between you, and that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t the end of it.

The first time you woke up was because you felt something warm in the crook of your neck. You blinked blearily, still half-asleep—only to realize Vil had somehow migrated across the bed, an arm draped around your waist, his face tucked against your throat.

He was softer like this, relaxed in a way you’d never seen before.

You could feel his steady breaths against your skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest. He looked peaceful, like for once in his life, he had let go of everything. The weight of expectations, of appearances, of the cold ruthlessness that came with being a mafia leader—it was all gone.

You could wake him up.

You should wake him up.

But you didn’t have the heart to move.

You just lay there, staring at the ceiling till you fell asleep again.

The second time you woke up, it was different.

It was the feeling of wetness against your collarbone.

Vil was crying.

Silent, broken tears, his body trembling against yours. His fingers curled slightly into your shirt, barely holding on, like he wasn’t fully aware of it himself.

Your chest ached.

You had never seen Vil cry. Not once.

Should you wake him? Should you just hold him and hope it chased the nightmare away?

But then, before you could decide, he suddenly jerked awake with a sharp breath. His hands shot up, covering his face as he turned away from you, shoulders rigid.

You hesitated only for a moment before you moved, shifting across the bed to sit closer to him.

“Vil.”

“Go back to sleep.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

You ignored him, reaching out to rub slow, soothing circles on his thigh. You could feel the tension in him, the way his muscles were taut like he was barely holding himself together.

Finally, after a long moment, he let out a shaky breath and met your eyes.

“…Promise me something,” he murmured.

You frowned. “What?”

“Hire a bodyguard.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “Stop throwing yourself into fights. Just… just run your turf without brawling, please.”

Your instinct was to protest. To remind him that this was just how things worked. You were a mafia boss, you couldn’t just sit on the sidelines—

But then you saw the way he looked at you.

Wrecked.

Like he had already lost you a thousand times in his nightmares.

The words died in your throat.

“…Okay,” you said instead. “I’ll try.”

He exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath, and slowly leaned into you. You shifted slightly, letting him rest against you, arms wrapping around him without a second thought.

He fell back asleep like that, curled up in your hold, like you were the only safe thing in his world.

And you—

You lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long you were both going to pretend you felt nothing.

Morning came, sluggish and unkind, dragging in the weight of everything unspoken.

Vil was seated at the dining table with his usual elegance, flipping through the morning paper as though nothing had changed. His hair was sleek, not a single strand out of place, his makeup flawless even in the early hours. If not for the faint redness around his eyes, you might have thought you had hallucinated last night entirely.

But you hadn’t.

You could still feel it—the ghost of his weight slumped against you, the quiet tremor in his fingers, the way his voice had cracked when he begged you to stop getting into fights.

Meanwhile, you looked like you had crawled out of a shallow grave.

The bags under your eyes were so deep they should’ve been classified as emotional baggage, and you felt like you had spent the entire night being run over by the concept of feelings.

Vil was ignoring it.

You could see it in the way he didn’t so much as glance at you, the way he casually sipped his tea as if the two of you hadn’t shared something unbearably raw just hours ago.

Fine. If this was how he wanted to play it, you’d let him.

But you were going to make him break first.

The first move was subtle. Elegant. A test of control.

Vil had just finished cutting his breakfast into perfect, bite-sized pieces, his every movement effortlessly precise. You watched as he lifted a forkful of omelet to his lips, gaze still fixated on his newspaper, when you struck.

“Can I have a bite?” you asked.

He barely looked at you. “Then take one.”

And so you did.

Only instead of reaching for your own fork like a normal human being, you leaned over and took a bite straight from his.

Vil froze.

You chewed slowly, deliberately, your eyes locking with his over the rim of his teacup.

“Not bad,” you mused, as if you hadn’t just committed the equivalent of social treason.

There was a long, painful silence.

Then, very, very carefully, Vil set down his teacup.

“Do not step into my personal space.” His voice was calm, measured, betraying only the faintest trace of strain.

You hummed, tapping your fork against the table. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

His fingers tightened around his utensils.

You smiled.

Point, you.

The second move was bolder. Personal.

Vil was seated on the couch, a book resting delicately in his hands. The warm afternoon light spilled through the windows, painting golden edges along his profile, catching on the fine lines of his perfectly manicured fingers.

Without hesitation, you walked over and collapsed onto the couch, resting your head directly in his lap.

Vil stiffened.

You tilted your head up, looking at him with a lazy grin. “Comfy.”

He stared at you, utterly still, like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, contemplating whether to jump or push you off first.

The moment stretched, long and uncertain, and for a second you thought maybe he’d shove you away.

Then—slowly, painstakingly—he inhaled.

And turned a page.

Didn’t acknowledge you. Didn’t say a word.

But he didn’t move you.

You grinned.

Point, you.

The third move was cheating, really.

Vil was cooking dinner, standing at the stove with an almost infuriating level of grace. Even in exile, even in a safe house, he carried himself like a king in his palace—untouchable, unreachable.

So naturally, you did what any sane person would do.

You walked right up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist, and leaned into him completely.

Vil jerked.

You felt the sharp inhale he took, the way his shoulders went taut as you pressed against him.

Then, with the ease of someone who had made a career out of pushing buttons, you tilted your head so your chin rested on his shoulder.

“Smells good,” you murmured, voice warm with amusement.

Vil did not breathe.

Then, with painstaking care, he raised his spatula and flicked it back toward your face.

You dodged it, laughing. “What, no taste test?”

“What is wrong with you today?” His voice was sharp, an edge of something dangerously close to exasperation.

You blinked up at him innocently. “What do you mean?”

Vil turned, and finally—you saw it.

The tightness in his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his eyes, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly where they gripped the spatula.

For one, breathless second, you thought—

But then he let out a slow breath, stepping away from your hold.

His voice was cool, measured. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

Your fingers twitched.

So close. So close.

You stepped back, watching as he turned back to the stove, his grip on the spatula tighter than necessary.

Fine. You could wait.

But Vil was going to break.

And when he did—

You weren’t going to let him run.

Somehow this was his breaking point.

Not the stolen bites of food, not the way you laid your head in his lap, not the way you pressed against him while he cooked. No, it wasn’t any of those things that made Vil finally shatter.

It was this.

The moment was so casual, so simple, that for a split second you thought you had gotten away with it.

You had leaned over, plucked his juice from his hands, and taken a slow, deliberate sip from his straw—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for the first time in days, Vil did not react with cold, cutting silence.

No, he reacted violently.

Before you could even lower the glass, he was on you.

A sharp inhale. The scrape of a chair against the floor. Then suddenly, you were caged against the wall, his arms bracketing you in, his breath warm against your cheek as he loomed over you.

His usual icy composure was gone.

And in its place—

Raw, unfiltered emotion.

“Are you having fun?” His voice was low, rough, his usual clipped elegance ruined by the way his words trembled with frustration.

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, lips still parted from your sip. “Vil—”

“No.” His hands slammed against the wall beside you, cutting off your escape. His whole body was tense, vibrating with barely restrained emotion. “Answer me.” His voice cracked, his breath uneven. “Are you enjoying this? Playing with my feelings? Toying with me like I—”

You stilled.

He wasn’t just mad.

He was hurting.

You opened your mouth, a thousand things on the tip of your tongue, but before you could speak, his expression twisted into something desperate, something almost—broken.

“Do you think this is a game?” His voice was sharper now, his hands clenching into fists against the wall. “Do you enjoy making me hope? Every time you throw yourself into danger—every time you let me hold you, let me want you—you make me believe that maybe—”

His breath hitched.

Then he tore his gaze away, his jaw tightening like he was swallowing something down.

“Why do you do this?” he whispered, raw and vulnerable. “Why do you make me hope when I know you’re going to leave? This is unbearably cruel, even for you.”

The words slammed into you like a gut punch.

“Vil—”

“I know how you are.” His voice was unsteady, his fists trembling. “You live for chaos. For danger. You chase after thrills like you can’t survive without them, and I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can’t—I won’t be left behind.” His voice cracked. “Not by you.”

Something inside you wrenched at the sheer grief in his voice.

He had been holding this in for so, so long.

And you had pushed him too far.

Slowly, carefully, you reached out.

Your hands found his face, fingers brushing over his cheekbones, tracing the fine tremble in his jaw. He flinched—once, like he was afraid to believe in your touch—but then he melted into it, the fight in his shoulders loosening just slightly.

“Vil,” you whispered, letting your thumb stroke against his cheek. “I’m not playing with you.”

His eyes flickered up to yours, uncertain, vulnerable.

“You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.” Your voice was steady, sure. “Who else could match me like you do?”

Vil swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no words came out.

You leaned in, so close that your breaths mingled.

“I don’t intend to run,” you murmured. “You’re stuck with me for life, you know.”

He broke.

A shattered breath—then his lips crashed against yours.

The kiss was messy, desperate, perfect.

His hands dug into your back, pulling you impossibly close, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. Your fingers tangled into his hair, anchoring him, grounding him, whispering without words: I’m here. I’m not leaving.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his breath ragged. His eyes searched yours, like he needed to confirm it, to believe it.

And then, with a rough, shuddering exhale, he grabbed your wrist—

And pulled you toward the bedroom.

You didn’t resist.

Because some things weren’t meant to be said.

Some things were meant to be shown.

The moment Rook and Epel stepped into the safe house, Epel froze.

It was comical, really—the way his eyes widened, the way his mouth fell open, the way he looked at you like he had just witnessed a crime far worse than anything you’d ever committed.

Because, well.

No coat could hide the marks Vil had left on your neck.

They weren’t subtle.

Not in the slightest.

Epel’s expression was caught between horrified and deeply impressed. His lips moved, but no words came out, and you could see the moment his brain short-circuited.

So naturally, you grinned at him and winked.

Epel made a noise that could only be described as distress.

Meanwhile, Rook—oh, Rook—

He was delighted.

His eyes sparkled, his entire face alight with unrestrained joy, as if the mere confirmation of your relationship was the greatest artistic masterpiece he had ever laid eyes upon.

“Ah, l’amour! The greatest conquest of all!” Rook clasped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. “Such passion, such fervor! I knew this would come to pass—what is fate, if not an arrow that flies true to its mark?”

Vil, to his credit, only sighed, adjusting his sunglasses as if they could somehow shield him from Rook’s theatrics.

You, on the other hand, laughed.

And maybe it was because you were happy.

Because for once in your life, you weren’t running.

The drive back to Vil’s base was filled with Rook waxing poetic about the beauty of love, Epel staring out the window as if trying to erase the past ten minutes from his memory, and you, leaning against Vil with a smile that you couldn’t quite hide.

When you arrived, when the car door closed behind you, when the others left to give you both a moment—Vil turned to you.

His gaze was steady, unreadable.

And then—softly, carefully—

“Would you consider moving in with me?”

Your breath caught.

Because it wasn’t just an invitation.

A silent plea that meant stay.

Stay with me.

Stay, even though you have every reason to run.

Stay, even though we’re both tangled in this life of chaos, of crime, of things we can’t undo.

Stay, because I love you.

And you—

You laughed.

Because it was so Vil to ask something like that with all the grace and poise of someone discussing a business deal, despite the warmth in his voice, despite the way his fingers lingered against yours.

You laced your hand with his, squeezing gently.

“Of course,” you murmured. “You’re stuck with me forever now. Crimes and all.”

Vil exhaled—relief, affection, something deeper.

And then, just before pulling you in—before pressing his lips to yours, before kissing you like he meant it, like he had no intention of letting you go—

He smiled.

Masterlist

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

Pairing: Assassin! Choi Seungcheol x Assassin! F. Reader

Themes: Smut | Angst | (Fake) Marriage | Based on the movie 'Mr. & Mrs. Smith' | Undercover Assassins | Hidden Identities | T.W.: mentions of blood, violence, guns

Wordcount: 13.8K

Playlist: 'Control' - CHVRN | 'Keep on Breathing' - The Glitch Mob, Tula | 'Fantasies' - Llynks | 'Madness' - Ruelle | 'Gomd' - Sickick

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral (M. Receiving) - Slight Edging (M. Receiving) - Dominant! Reader - Dominant! Seungcheol - Rough play: titty slapping, spanking, hair pulling, biting, etc. - PIV - Unprotected intercourse

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Previous Chapter: Till Death Do Us Part

Mingyu’s safe house—once just a sprawl of mismatched furniture and half-used equipment—is now a makeshift war room. Tables have been dragged together, boxes repurposed into makeshift desks, wires and monitors hooked into power grids and backup batteries. Satellite phones and burner lines hum quietly from one corner. The walls are lined with maps, a printed blueprint of Argos HQ taped alongside Lim’s Seoul office, red strings and pins ready to mark last known locations.

And at the heart of it all: an arsenal.

You and Seungcheol move slowly around the centrepiece—an open metal table now covered in weapons. Rifles. Semi-autos. Silencers. Flashbangs. Knives of every shape and finish. Armoured vests, gloves, scopes, smoke bombs. Clips and magazines neatly sorted by size. The smell of metal and oil clings to everything.

He holds up a new M1911 with a low whistle.

“Wonwoo really stocked you up,” you murmur, brushing your fingers across the matte finish of a karambit.

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, inspecting the sightline. “He’s had a shopping problem ever since Rio. Said it’s cheaper than therapy.”

You smirk faintly and continue checking the gear. Methodical. Quiet. Efficient. Neither of you speaks much, but you don’t need to. There’s a rhythm to it—familiar. Rehearsed. Like slipping back into who you were long before this whole mess started.

Meanwhile, across the room, Reina is hunched over her own setup. She arrived just before sunrise, lugging in two black military-grade cases full of tech. Laptops, signal jammers, USB injectors, three satellite uplinks, and something you’re pretty sure was once a military drone antenna.

She hadn’t knocked—just used the side code to get in. You didn't bother asking her how she knew it.

Mingyu’s been following her around ever since.

“You know,” he says, peering over her shoulder as she boots up her third laptop. “I already had a full system here. Secure grid, scrambled line, full backup redundancy. You didn’t need to drag your entire tech department here.”

Reina doesn’t even look at him. “Yours were outdated.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “Outdated?!” he scoffs. “Excuse you, this setup got us through the Jakarta op.”

“Exactly.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes, but a grin pulls at the edge of his mouth. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” she replies sweetly, “you still dream of me.”

He clears his throat at Reina’s comment and turns back to his cables, ears slightly turning pink.

You and Seungcheol exchange a glance. You don’t comment.

Instead, you turn toward the weaponry again.

“This is yours,” Seungcheol mutters, holding out a matte black Glock with a suppressor. “The grip should fit your hand.”

You take it and weigh it in your palm. “Perfect.”

He checks the mag, then hands you two more. “Loaded with subsonics. Just in case.”

You nod and pocket them. “You keeping the SIG?”

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Everything else—body armour, tactical pouches, spare knives—you both split evenly. There’s no talk of splitting up now. Only of surviving. Only of fighting.

A beep cuts through the room. Then another.

Reina taps a few keys on her main laptop. “We’re live.”

The screens fill—one by one—with pixelated faces.

The girls appear on the left monitor: Samira, Bora, Jiwoo. All in different rooms, different countries, some underground. Some clearly on the move. But they’re alive.

The boys fill the right screen: Woozi, Joshua, and Wonwoo.

Hyerim is the last to appear. She’s pale and looks like she hasn’t slept in two days. Woozi, on the screen beside her, still seems reluctant—but he’s here.

Everyone watches you.

You and Seungcheol stand in front of the cameras, side by side. Calm. Focused. The tension in the room is nearly unbearable.

Then Samira lets out a breath. “Holy shit. You’re alive.”

“I didn’t think I’d actually see your face again,” Jiwoo says, trying to smile, though her voice shakes.

“Same here,” Joshua says from the other side. “We’ve been locked down. No signals. No reassurances. Just... radio silence.”

You nod once. “We didn’t know who made it either. Not until now.”

Seungcheol steps forward. “We’re glad you’re here. All of you.”

He pauses, then continues. “Here’s what we know. Argos and Lim & Associates—”

“—have been playing us all along,” you finish. “Feeding each other contracts, setting us up to compete for bigger bounties. Splitting profits while turning us into pawns.”

A wave of muttering breaks out across the feeds.

“They tried to kill us to tie up loose ends,” Seungcheol says. “They failed.”

“But not for lack of trying,” you add grimly. “They’ll keep coming. And you know what that means.”

“It means we’re next,” Bora says softly.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Then Samira speaks. “So what do we do? We scatter? Lay low? Build new identities?”

“Start hitting back?” Woozi suggests. “They want a war; we give them one.”

“We go public,” Jiwoo says. “Leak what we know to the international market. Force their hand. They won’t survive the exposure.”

Everyone talks over each other—ideas flying in every direction, voices rising with panic or adrenaline. Reina tries to corral them. Mingyu scowls and leans toward his mic.

You hold up your hand. “Enough.” Everyone quiets.

You take a step closer to the screen, eyes scanning each and every face—some scared, some angry, some simply tired.

“I know everyone has ideas,” you say. “But we need a plan. We can’t move blindly. Because each and every one of you is now at risk. And I’m telling you right now—I’m not sacrificing a single one of you to end this. Not now. Not ever.”

Silence.

Then Bora speaks, hesitant. “Then... maybe we break up. Cut contact completely. And you two? Go separate. Give yourselves better odds.”

Seungcheol answers before you can. “Mingyu already said the same thing.” He glances at you, then looks directly at the screen. “But it’s not happening.”

You step in, firm. “We’re not running.”

A long silence.

Then Hyerim’s voice cuts through it like a match-striking flame.

“Then let’s figure out a way to end this.”

The war room comes alive.

Monitors hum. Fingers fly across keyboards. Maps are spread across the walls with satellite feeds casting flickering lights over weapons and half-drunk coffee mugs. Mingyu and Reina hover on opposite ends of the room, syncing laptops, pinning strings between photos, placing red dots on global maps, and drawing lines connecting targets, histories, and lies.

It’s like HQ—only grittier.

Samira calls out coordinates from her safehouse in Morocco, eyes glued to her private satellite feed. “Director Oh just pinged in Bucharest. He’s changed IDs three times since the system crash but the credit trail doesn’t lie.”

Joshua’s already working on the second. “Mr. Kwon used one of his shell companies to rent a private jet from Rome three hours ago. Flight plan had a false lead to London but I think he diverted.” His screen blinks. “He’s in Dubai.”

“That’s two,” Seungcheol mutters beside you. He’s standing with his arms folded over his chest, tension in every line of his body. “What about Lim? Or my boss?”

You shake your head, eyes moving across the chaotic network of images and data Reina has laid out. “Too clean. Nothing in her old aliases. Nothing recent.”

“Same for Director Kang,” Woozi chimes in reluctantly. “If he’s off-grid, he’s really off-grid. No comms. No cards. He vanished.”

“They’re ghosts,” Hyerim says, frowning into her screen. “Exactly like they trained us to be.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose. “Then we think like ghosts.”

You push away from the table and begin pacing.

“Madame Lim always had a thing for private residencies in Luxembourg. Kwon once mentioned her ties to an old estate there. Untraceable ownership but still under her maiden alias. She called it her ‘shadow base’.”

“Wait—” Jiwoo perks up from behind her camera. “You mean the one with the mirrored façade?”

You nod slowly. “That’s the one.”

“Kang has that obsession with old nuclear command bunkers,” Seungcheol murmurs beside you. “Always said he’d retire into one. He’s got property in the rural mountains between China and Laos.”

Wonwoo immediately types. “I’ve got a heat signal matching that description. Subterranean. Shielded comms. I’d bet on it.”

“Add it to the board,” you say.

One by one, the map fills in.

Red string now links Director Oh to Bucharest. Kwon to a luxury Dubai apartment. Madame Lim to Luxembourg. Director Kang to a mountain facility on the China-Laos border. Four red Xs appear in real time.

It’s already dark outside. You can see your reflection in the glass. Exhaustion pulls at your features, but no one slows down.

Then Woozi finally says what everyone’s thinking.

“So now what? We found them. What do we do next?”

Seungcheol’s voice is calm. Final.

“We kill them. All of them.”

You look at him, but don’t stop him. You feel the same.

But Hyerim shakes her head. “Killing them is one thing,” she says. “But it doesn’t erase the bounties. What are you gonna do, kill every mercenary that comes after you, too?”

A tense silence. You feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Then Joshua jumps in. “Can’t we just remove the bounties once they’re dead? Wipe the system?”

Reina cuts him off. “Not that simple. They were posted through a specialised encrypted program. Those bounties require live biometric confirmation from the original posters to cancel.”

“So you’re saying we need to access that program,” Wonwoo says, leaning forward.

Reina nods once. “Not just access. We need them alive, long enough to scan in and delete the data.”

Mingyu groans, tossing a stress ball up and catching it again. “Damn. Who the hell built something like that?”

Silence.

Then Reina mutters quietly, “I did.” All heads turn.

You sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Of course you did.”

Seungcheol laughs under his breath. Just once.

You straighten, moving closer to the table. “Reina—can you track the origin posts? Figure out who initiated the bounties?”

She nods, fingers flying across her keyboard. “Give me a second...”

Everyone waits, watching the screen update line by line.

“Got it.” Her voice sharpens. “Your bounty, Gwisin—was posted by Madame Lim. S.Coups’? Director Kang.”

Seungcheol lets out a breath through his teeth. “Then we kill Oh and Kwon first. Quietly. Cut their links. Secure the network. Then we go for the real kill.”

“We have to be fast,” you add. “Coordinated. No screw-ups. The moment one of them gets wind, they’ll vanish for good or trigger dead-man protocols.”

The team nods.

Then Jiwoo’s voice cuts through the line—softer, but clear.

“Yeah... but even if you manage to find them, somehow disable the bounties and kill them...You two can’t take on every gun in the field already on the way to you. Not alone.”

You glance at Seungcheol, jaw tight. He’s thinking it too.

The silence stretches.

Then Samira speaks.

“What if we give the mercs something else to chase?”

Everyone turns to her.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Samira leans in closer to her camera. “I’ve been tracking Jackal on the side. He’s still alive. Ricardo has him in one of his desert compounds. Hidden, but not unreachable.”

You freeze. Your mind starts spinning.

“Wait,” you say. “Reina, Mingyu—can you check if the original Jackal bounty is still live? The twelve million one?”

They’re already typing.

Mingyu shakes his head. “It’s dormant. Was put on hold after you both missed the retrieval.”

Seungcheol speaks then. “Can you reactivate it?”

Reina nods. “That bounty wasn’t encrypted. Global market. I can make it live again.”

Your voice is calm. Calculated. “Then do it. That should drag most mercenaries away from us. Especially if we leak intel about his location.”

Everyone falls silent again.

Then Seungcheol looks up. His voice is low.

“Let’s go to work.”

Bucharest is colder than expected.

You ride in on a black motorcycle, wind snapping at your borrowed jacket, face tucked beneath the visor of a matte helmet. The sun is just beginning to dip past the skyline, turning the haze of the city into a sheet of golden shadow. You keep to the alleys. Avoid open roads. Your fake ID has already been scanned twice, and thanks to Mingyu’s surprisingly competent alias work, no alarms were triggered.

You’ll file that under surprising things you’re not commenting on.

Much like the fact that Reina never left his safe house.

She’s now patching in from his personal terminal.

Jiwoo, however, is in Athens, and operating her own satellite rig.

“Gwisin, target is stationary,” Reina’s voice says in your comms, sharp as ever. “Upper floor of the building at coordinates 46.7691, 23.5899. Minimal guards. Two confirmed exits.”

“Copy that,” you whisper, crouched behind the gun.

You’ve scoped this place earlier—ten hours ago, to be exact. Found your perch on the fifth floor, shattered window perfectly angled toward the balcony where Oh takes his evening smoke. You’ve lined your sniper rifle up and calibrated for wind, trajectory, and velocity.

Now all you need is the target.

“Any movement yet?” you murmur.

Jiwoo responds. “Nothing yet. He’s still inside.”

You wait.

Time passes slowly in moments like these. The only rhythm is your breath, the slow clench and flex of your fingers around the rifle, and the occasional murmured updates from the girls. You watch out for Oh through your scope—his reflection in the window. Reading. Moving papers.

Then—footsteps.

You freeze.

Your breath stills, and your hands lift off the rifle slowly.

The building is supposed to be empty. You were thorough.

You immediately abandon your post, sliding silently back into the darkness behind you. You blend into it, breath stilling, spine flush to the wall.

Jiwoo’s voice crackles in your ear.

“He’s heading to the door. Looks like he’s prepping to move. You’ll have a clear—”

“I’ve got company,” you whisper, tight and low. “Hold your positions. Do not lose track of Oh.”

There’s a pause.

Then Reina says, “Copy. We’re holding.”

You draw your karambit.

Light floods faintly from beneath the hallway door.

Three shadows. Boots. You clock their cadence, their height, their coordination.

The Vasile triplets.

Mercenaries-for-hire. Romanian. Silent hitters. Raised together. Kill together. And now, they think they’re here to kill you.

The first one enters, rifle low. His head turns. That’s all the opening you need. You move like the wind, slicing your karambit clean across his throat. He drops without a sound.

The second shouts, raising his gun, but you’re already behind the nearest wall. You draw the silenced pistol at your hip and shoot once—chest shot. He stumbles, gasps, drops.

The third one charges you—clever, hand-to-hand. You duck his swing and slam your elbow into his ribcage. He knees you in the thigh. Pain pulses through your leg, but you keep your balance. You twist around him and slam your boot into his kneecap. He falls. You follow him to the floor and drive your blade through his neck, slicing upwards.

Silence falls again.

Blood pools quietly between broken cracks of flooring.

Then—

“Gwisin,” Jiwoo’s voice crackles, “Oh’s outside. He’s walking.”

You groan under your breath. “Of course he is.”

You sprint for the window. Your rifle is abandoned. So are the bodies.

You swing your leg out onto the fire escape and slide down the cold metal, the sound of your boots thudding against the wall as you descend. At the base, you toss the ladder down and emerge into an alley, breathing hard.

Your hand slips into your side pocket. A small black GPS device flashes with Oh’s blinking signal.

You speak into the comms. “Jiwoo, Reina—I need a city redirect. Get him into the northeast corner. I’ll meet him there.”

Reina clicks into action. “Hacking local lights now. You’ve got two minutes before I trigger.”

“Give me three,” you respond.

You’re walking fast now, weaving through market streets and narrow alleys, always a shadow. You guide Reina through every junction.

Traffic halts suddenly at your command. Oh is forced off his original path.

He walks. Alone. No security. You smile.

“He’s close,” you murmur. “Jiwoo, clear?”

“Clear,” she answers. “No cameras. No civilians. You’re good.”

You double back through a quieter route, entering the side street from the far end. Oh is still walking, checking his phone; his pace is fast, but he looks distracted.

You drop your eyes, tuck your blade into your sleeve, and walk straight toward him. Thirty steps. Twenty. Ten.

He passes you.

You spin, arm over his shoulder, blade slicing deep and fast across his throat in one clean arc.

His blood sprays silently across the brick walls. He collapses without a sound.

You wipe the blade on your pants, spin it once on your finger, and slip it into your jacket.

“It’s done,” you whisper into your comm.

“Confirmed,” Jiwoo replies after a beat, voice hushed.

Reina exhales. “One down, three to go.”

You walk away without looking back.

The first head has rolled.

Dubai is a city that refuses to sleep.

Glass towers claw at the sky, each one gleaming with its own brand of opulence. Gold trims, velvet ropes, and secrets buried under mirrored floors. For a man who wants to disappear, it’s a living nightmare.

Which is, of course, why Mr. Kwon chose it.

Seungcheol adjusts the cuff of his suit as he walks through the private entrance of Elara, one of Dubai’s most exclusive high-end clubs, his steps confident and deliberate. A different kind of camouflage. He’s not invisible here—not in this white-pressed designer shirt and sleek black jacket. He doesn’t blend in. He owns the room.

“Mingyu?” he murmurs, the comm in his ear catching his voice beneath the music.

“You’re clear. VIP is in the left wing. Same booth as his last visit. And yeah, Kwon’s already six drinks in,” Mingyu answers from the other end, back at their makeshift satellite station in his safe house.

“Woozi?”

“Confirming no other threats have pinged in your area. You’re solo,” comes the clipped reply. Good.

Seungcheol adjusts his stance slightly as he moves toward the main floor. The lights pulse golden. Music throbs under his shoes like a second heartbeat. The crowd is decadent—diamonds and champagne, cleavage and cologne. And in the centre of it all sits Mr. Kwon.

VIP booth. Surrounded by women.

Seungcheol signals a passing waiter and flashes a smile. “Your finest bottle of Boërl & Kroff. Send it to the gentleman in the booth. No note.”

The waiter nods, takes the cash, and slips away. Seconds later, Kwon is laughing and downing champagne straight from the bottle, frothy and bubbling down his chin. The women cheer; one of them straddles his thigh. Seungcheol watches it all unfold from across the room, a quiet predator sipping a scotch he’ll never finish.

You cross his mind unbidden. The rifle in your hands. The quiet precision of your kills. He wonders—Have you done it yet? Are you safe?

He shakes the thought away.

Focus.

Time ticks forward slowly. Kwon grows drunker, heavier-lidded. Then, finally, he rises—stumbling slightly, laughing, waving the women off.

Bathroom break.

Seungcheol downs his drink and follows.

The hallway is dimly lit. Long. Opulent in design but silent. The door to the bathroom swings open, and Seungcheol slips in a few moments later.

Inside, Kwon is already at the sink. Washing his hands like he’s preparing for a goddamn sermon. He’s humming.

When he looks up, he catches Seungcheol’s reflection in the mirror.

The moment of recognition is quick. Seungcheol is quicker.

His arm wraps around Kwon’s neck, cutting off the air, holding tight. Kwon thrashes once, twice, tries to claw at him, tries to scream—but it’s too late. His body slumps, and Seungcheol lowers him to the tile.

“Goodnight,” he mutters coldly.

The second the body hits the floor, Seungcheol straightens his suit, slicks his hair back with one sweep, and checks his reflection in the mirror. His muscles strain again. It’s almost poetic now.

He turns toward the exit. Left leads back to the party. Right leads out.

He turns right.

He only makes it ten feet before a gold chain lashes around his ankle like a striking snake. He hits the floor hard, forearms slamming into tile, the wind knocked from his chest.

The chain yanks.

He rolls—just in time.

A figure charges at him with the elegance of a dancer and the savagery of a cobra. Full force, she lands on top of him.

They wrestle—hands, knees, elbows. She’s fast. Precise. Smiling.

“Hello, darling,” she purrs, her accent unmistakable. “Still breaking hearts?”

“Varsha,” he growls. “Didn’t expect you to come crawling back.”

She slams her fist into his ribs.

He kicks upward, rolling her off. They separate, both springing to their feet at once—Seungcheol doing a clean kick-up, landing squarely in a fighter’s stance.

She twirls the chain in one hand. Her snake bracelet, coiled and ready.

“Heard you were married now,” she says, circling. “Shame.”

“Shame you don’t know when to quit,” he mutters.

They lunge at the same time.

She swings the chain—he ducks, grabs the end mid-air, and yanks.

She flies forward, caught off guard, and he spins her into the wall. Her head cracks against a mirror.

She recovers. Slashes at his face. He blocks with his forearm, the chain cutting into his skin. He counters.

A blade slides from the inside of his sleeve—his last resort.

He plunges it deep into her gut before she can wrench away. Her breath hitches. Blood trickles out of her mouth.

He leans in, twisting the knife once before pulling it out and stabbing it in again.

“Should’ve stayed a one-night stand.” She collapses.

The comms buzz in his ear, and Seungcheol finally registers the noise.

“Hyung—what the hell was that noise?” Woozi demands.

Seungcheol breathes hard, blood dripping from his hand. He wipes the blade on his pants.

“Target’s down,” he says. “And so is the unexpected company.”

“Tell me that wasn’t Varsha?” Mingyu asks, incredulous.

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

Seungcheol crouches beside the body for one second, then stands.

His suit is wrinkled, blood-streaked. His forearm stings. But the mission’s done.

The second head has rolled.

“Director Kwon is confirmed dead,” Reina says, her voice in your earpiece over the static of the line.

You’re crouched on the edge of a building rooftop in Bucharest, the skyline painted grey behind you, your breath cooling in the early evening air.

“Seungcheol did it in a club bathroom—clean choke. No witnesses, no trail,” she continues.

You exhale, tension loosening from your shoulders, the adrenaline of your own mission slowly bleeding out of your system.

“Good,” you reply, voice soft.

“I’ve just updated your travel packet. New alias, new flight plan. Small private jet’s waiting for you twenty clicks out of town. That should land you in Luang Namtha before midnight. From there, quad into the jungle—Seungcheol’s safehouse is mapped.”

“That where we regroup?”

“Yeah. Wonwoo’s sending another weapons crate to the site tomorrow. You’ll need it before you move on Kang.”

“Copy that,” you murmur. “I’ll move soon.”

You’re about to kill the comm when you hear it.

A low voice in the background—Mingyu’s, unmistakably.

“I can’t believe Varsha, of all people, showed up.”

You freeze, head tilting slightly.

“Kind of crazy that she’s still breathing after all these years. Woozi, remember her? That whole mess in Tangier? And now she tried to choke Seungcheol in a Dubai nightclub? Crazy bitch.”

A pause.

Then Mingyu again, voice casual, joking—too joking.

“Guess some flings really don’t take rejection well. But at least Cheol’s still got it, huh?”

Your blood runs cold. Then hot.

Varsha.

You’ve heard the name before. Not often, not clearly—It’s been passed around the underground like an urban legend: exotic, lethal, likes to strangle her targets with some kind of metal chain disguised as jewellery. A merc. A black widow.

And apparently, your husband’s slept with her.

Your jaw clenches.

You hang up the call with Reina before she can hear your tone shift.

It takes hours to get through immigration, over the Laos border, and deeper into the jungle. Your boots are caked in water and mud by the time you reach the last marker—an overgrown path with an old iron sign buried beneath moss and vines. The GPS flashes green in your hand.

Safehouse reached.

Your heartbeat picks up as you walk forward past the thick of the trees. You push through the foliage, parting vines and leaves until you finally see it—an old concrete structure, half-buried in the landscape but clearly maintained.

And standing in front of it, looking far too calm and far too attractive in a grey tactical shirt and jungle-worn cargo pants—Seungcheol.

His eyes light up the second he sees you.

He takes a step forward, and you feel your chest tighten, all that tension from the last few days crumbling in an instant.

God, he’s alive.

He walks right up to you, takes your face in his hands, and kisses you—hard.

It’s frantic, hungry, grateful. All heat and breath and want. You melt into it for a second, eyes fluttering shut, fingers curling into his shirt.

And then—

The name echoes again.

Varsha.

You snap out of it, pushing him back with one hand to his chest.

And then you slap him. Hard.

“Ow—!” he groans, jerking his head. “What the hell was that for?”

You don’t even let him recover.

You shove him again, your words tumbling out like bullets. “Who is Varsha, huh? And how long have you been sleeping with her?”

He blinks. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Choi—” You hit his chest. “Who is she? When did you sleep with her? Was it before the wedding or after? The last time you were in Dubai? How long has this been going on?!”

“Okay, wow—” he starts, reaching for you.

You slap his hands away.

“You smug, lying, arrogant—God, you’re unbelievable. You brag to your friends like some frat boy, and then just... what? Hide it from me? Your wife?”

“Babe—”

“No!” You push him again. “Don’t you ‘babe’ me. And don’t touch me. Not after this. I’ll find that bitch and kill her myself. Right after I kill you.”

He tries again, grabbing for your arms.

You swat at him like a feral cat.

“Jesus, okay, stop—” he groans, catching your wrists and holding them in place. “Stop—just—stop hitting me for one second—”

“Why? You can’t take it? Was she better? Did she use the—”

He lets out a laugh then, loud and full-bodied.

And then he pulls you flush against him, hands still locked around your waist, gripping you tight enough you can’t wriggle free.

“You don't have to kill her,” he says, voice rough with amusement. “I already did.”

You freeze.

“...what?”

His mouth quirks. “She came at me in the club. Chained my ankle. Thought she could collect my bounty. I stabbed her. Right through the gut. She’s dead.”

You stare at him, blinking.

He raises an eyebrow. “What? You didn’t think I was out there making out with her, did you?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Look away, completely mortified.

He smirks.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze. “I’m such an idiot.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just tilts your chin up with one hand, waiting until your eyes meet his again.

And instead of teasing you further, he leans down—close enough that his breath ghosts against your lips.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he murmurs.

You scoff. “I’m not jealous.”

“You literally said you’d kill her.”

“That’s not the same thing—”

He laughs again.

You roll your eyes but don’t move away. Not even when he leans in, brushing his lips over yours with a feather-light touch. Not even when he whispers against your mouth.

“Trust me, baby, you’re the only one I want.”

You sigh, letting your forehead press to his.

“Good,” you whisper back.

And then he kisses you again.

The second Seungcheol’s mouth slants over yours again, something raw and almost reckless rises between you. Whatever apology you didn’t say for your blow-up burns off your tongue as your teeth sink into his lower lip instead. His hissed inhale at the sting makes something low in your stomach coil and thrum.

He pulls you closer like he’s starved. But you’re the one who can’t get enough.

The world narrows to your tongues fighting for dominance, teeth clashing and mouths bruising. You don’t even register the door closing behind you, or your boots tracking mud into the safe house. Seungcheol blindly stumbles back into the small main room, dragging you with him, hands gripping your hips like he needs the grounding.

You hit a wall. A stack of crates topples. Neither of you flinch.

He chuckles against your mouth when it crashes to the floor.

“Careful,” he murmurs, breathless. “You’re gonna wreck the place.”

You bite his bottom lip again. “I don’t care.”

Another kiss. Another half-step, and suddenly, he falls into a chair, dragging you with him.

You straddle his lap without hesitation, your thighs bracketing his hips, and your clothed core presses against the thick, growing bulge in his pants. His hands slide up your sides beneath your shirt, rough and warm, and you grind down on him with purpose. He groans into your mouth at the friction—one hand tightening on your waist while the other fists the hem of your shirt and yanks it up and over your head.

You break the kiss just long enough to let it go, arms flying overhead, before your lips crash back to his. Your hands are already at his belt, clumsily undoing the clasp, fingers fumbling with impatience as his hands work to undo your bra.

His mouth trails from your lips down your neck. “Jesus. You’re—”

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

You finally get his belt open, unzipping his pants while he kisses along the curve of your jaw and down your collarbone as he pushes your bra straps down. His hips buck slightly when your hand slides inside the waistband of his boxers, brushing against his hard length. You lean back, just enough to push his chest down into the chair.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, fingers splayed on his sternum. “And don’t touch.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at your warning but obliges. You slide off his lap, dropping to your knees between his legs. His eyes darken instantly.

“Baby, what—”

“Shut. Up.”

You slap his hands away when he tries to touch you, and he groans, watching as you reach for his waistband and tug everything down and off—pants, underwear, all at once. His cock springs free, flushed and thick and already hard, bobbing slightly against his abdomen.

You don’t tease. Not yet.

You lean in and envelop him in your mouth.

His strangled groan echoes around the room as your mouth closes over the head of his cock, wet and hot and needy. You drag your tongue slowly along the underside of his shaft, taking your time, then hollow your cheeks and suck him deeper, feeling the stretch in your jaw and the way his body tenses instantly.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, hands fisting the edge of the chair. “Holy shit.”

You bob your head, tongue swirling, alternating suction with slow drags, and soon he’s groaning again, hips jerking subtly up into your mouth before he forces himself to still.

You take your time—too much time.

Your hand joins your ministrations, wrapping around the base of his cock, pumping slowly while your mouth works the head. You stroke in rhythm with your lips, twisting, flicking your tongue, pulling back to suck hard at the tip before going deep again.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, one hand falling into your hair despite your warning.

You let him tug, guide, just enough to make your scalp sting.

He starts panting, the tension in his thighs ratcheting up.

“Baby—shit—I’m close—”

You immediately pull off. He gasps at the sudden loss of contact, body twitching at the near-orgasm, hands still in your hair.

You look at him as you start stroking him again—slow, deliberate, not letting him tip over.

His head thunks back against the chair. “You’re fucking evil.”

You smirk. “And yet, you married me.”

He groans, head turning to the side like he’s trying to focus on anything else. But it doesn’t help. Your hand never stops. But it’s not enough. Not fast enough, not tight enough. Minutes tick by. You go down again.

He jerks up so fast you nearly choke. Your lips wrap around his tip again, and you find a new rhythm—suck, stroke, lick, repeat.

He’s shaking when he groans, “Gonna come—fuck—”

You stop. Again.

“Fucking hell!” he barks, hands flying to the armrests.

You glance up with innocent eyes. “Something wrong, baby?”

“Don’t make me—” He grits his teeth, cheeks flushed and body glistening with sweat. “Do not make me beg.”

You smirk, pumping him once—twice—slowly. He groans, head falling forward. “You’re gonna pay for this—”

“Shut up and take it.”

The third time you take him in your mouth, you don’t wait for the warning.

You edge him again, stopping just as his thighs start to tremble and the base of his spine tenses in that telltale way. You pull off. Again.

A string of saliva connects your mouth to the tip of his cock.

He’s not groaning anymore. He’s whining. Your big, bad assassin husband is actually whining.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, eyes blown wide with desperation. “Please.”

You tilt your head. “Please what?” He glares. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You stroke him just once, and he groans. “Be in control?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at you like he wants to throttle you—or fuck you so hard the walls come down.

You lean in close again, lips brushing the tip.

“You’re punishing me, aren’t you?” he rasps. “For Dubai. For Varsha.”

You lick your lips. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“But you love it.”

He laughs through a moan. You smile, letting your tongue flick out—just enough to taste him again. And then, you sit back on your heels. Completely still. You don’t touch him. Don’t kiss him. Don’t move.

He stares at you, furious and hard and on the brink of madness.

You rise slowly to your feet, running your thumb across your bottom lip and gathering the saliva and precum gathered at the corner of your mouth.

You lick it clean, smiling.

You don’t expect him to move that fast.

One second you’re still standing in front of him, pleased with yourself, watching Seungcheol’s cock throb with need between his thighs… and the next, he’s out of the chair.

Before you can so much as flinch or retaliate, you’re airborne.

“Hey—” you yelp as he picks you up, manhandling you like you weigh nothing at all, and throws you across the room. Your back hits the mattress with a heavy oomph, limbs bouncing slightly on the bed as the air is knocked from your lungs.

You manage to suck in a breath before his body crashes down on top of yours, caging you in.

“You think you’re funny?” he growls lowly, his nose brushing yours as he pins your wrists above your head. You grin. “Maybe.”

He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive.

The heat from earlier flares again, but it’s darker now, fiercer. His mouth travels fast—biting down on your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You moan, arching beneath him, and he laughs against your skin.

You feel his hand on your chest before you register the slap—his palm hitting your breast hard enough to sting, then immediately squeezing it after.

“Fuck—” you whimper, legs twitching around his hips.

His mouth closes around your nipple in response—hot, wet, rough—and he sucks hard, alternating with his teeth. You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Still feeling bratty?” he mutters against your breast.

He doesn’t give you the time to retort—instead, he grabs your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat, and bites down on your neck instead. The sharp jolt sends sparks straight between your legs.

Your pants are ripped off you in the next heartbeat—tugged down so roughly they take your panties with them, leaving you sprawled naked and gasping on the bed.

He kisses his way down, leaving a trail of saliva and fire along your ribs, your stomach, and your hipbone.

When his mouth hovers over your soaked heat, your legs tremble. His breath ghosts over your core, and you meet his eyes, dark and ravenous, from between your thighs.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he says lowly, voice laced with mocking amusement. “Fingers? Mouth? Or cock?”

You blink, brain fogged with heat.

“What…?”

Seungcheol grins. “Tch. Thought so. Haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already fucked out. You get to choose, baby. But choose wisely.” He leans closer, nose brushing your clit. “You’ll only get one.”

That finally snaps you out of it.

“Cock,” you whisper, voice hoarse and expectant.

He smirks. “Good choice.”

And then your world flips on its axis. Literally.

He grabs your thighs and flips you with a single motion. You shriek in surprise as you land on your stomach. He yanks you onto all fours.

“Cheol—!” you start, but he’s pushing your face into the mattress, his palm heavy against the back of your head.

“Shut up,” he mutters commandingly. “You asked for this.”

You feel his cock behind you—hard, hot, lined up with your weeping entrance—and then he’s inside you in one brutal, punishing thrust.

You cry out into the bedding, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he splits you open.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans behind you, his hands bruising your hips.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

He starts pounding into you from behind, hips slamming against your ass with heavy, rhythmic force. The sound is obscene—skin on skin, your wetness, your gasps and his growls filling the tiny space.

You’re moaning, whining, helpless against the onslaught of his body.

Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs. He spanks your ass hard once—then again—and again, until you let out a sob, only to moan even when his palm lands on you again.

Your core clenches wildly around him.

“Fuck— you’re gripping me like a vice,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “You like this? Huh, baby? Like being used?”

You can only cry out ‘Yes’ in response.

When your legs begin to shake, he grabs your hair and yanks you upright—your back slamming against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, keeping his grip tight in your hair as his free hand slides in front of your face.

You do without hesitation. Two fingers slide past your lips—rubbing over your tongue, pressing down against it.

“Suck.”

You moan as you obey, your tongue swirling over his fingers, your mouth hot and desperate, sucking on his digits like you did his cock. When he’s satisfied, he pulls them free and slides them down—between your thighs, right to your clit.

You cry out when his slick fingers start rubbing fast, ruthless circles over your pulsing nub.

“Cheol— oh god—fuck—”

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs against your ear. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

Your fingers dig into his arm as your orgasm suddenly crashes through you. It’s violent. Wild. And takes you by force. Your body locks, clenches, and trembles as the pressure explodes and pleasure rips through your nerves.

Seungcheol doesn’t stop.

He keeps thrusting, keeps circling your clit, keeps fucking you through it—overstimulation already setting in as you scream into the mattress.

He lets you fall forward again, and you collapse bonelessly, face down into the bed. He doesn’t stop. His hands grab your hips, holding you steady as he chases his own release.

He spanks your ass again, the sounds loud and lewd.

“Shit—fuck—fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering.

And then he spills inside you with a loud, broken groan.

Three more thrusts. Shallow. Slow. Making sure every drop stays buried deep. He finally pulls out, breath catching in his throat.

You’re wrecked. Soaked. Glistening. Barely able to move.

He flops down beside you, dragging your twitching body into his arms. You’re gasping, limbs limp, brain swimming—but a giggle bubbles out anyway.

“That was…” you pant, dazed. “Yeah. I should definitely rile you up more often.”

He groans playfully, burying his face into your neck. “Let’s not.”

The jungle is still sleeping when reality decides to wake you up.

The sharp buzz of his satellite phone on the nightstand and the soft, steady beeping from your GPS tracker lighting up beside the bed wake you both from your slumber. The haze of last night’s sweat-slicked limbs and tangled sheets is still warm on your skin, but the moment is gone as fast as it came. Instinct takes over.

Seungcheol grabs the sat phone and answers without hesitation. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Wonwoo says, gruff and casual as ever. “Shipment’s dropped. It’s in the clearing three clicks northeast of you. Sent the coordinates to your wife’s tracker.”

“She got it,” Seungcheol replies, throwing a quick glance at you as you nod.

“Good. Stay sharp out there,” Wonwoo mutters. “And… don’t die.”

Seungcheol breathes out. “Right back at you, Woo.”

Wonwoo disconnects, and just like that, the warmth of the bed, the afterglow—it all fades. You look at each other for a heartbeat, and then the switch flips.

Game time.

You both get dressed in practised silence. Vests. Gloves. Boots. Every movement is efficient. Clean. Sharp. Two ghosts suiting up for a kill.

Outside, the air is thick with jungle humidity. You follow Seungcheol as he rounds the side of the safe house, stepping over vines and damp earth until he crouches down and yanks off a heavy tarp.

Underneath it—well hidden—is a weathered military-grade jeep.

“Of course, you had this here,” you mutter, lips twitching slightly.

He grins as he gets in. “Had to leave myself a ride.”

You climb into the passenger seat, pulling your GPS forward. “Take the path north, then veer right at the ridge. The drop is just past the waterline clearing.”

The jeep lurches forward, engine snarling low and quiet, and you both fall into the tense stillness of the mission. Every branch that scrapes the side of the jeep, every call of birds overhead, every bump in the road—it all heightens your senses.

It doesn’t take long before you reach the clearing.

Seungcheol kills the engine, and the world goes eerily quiet except for the rustle of wind through leaves. You step out, weapons drawn, scanning your surroundings. Then you see it.

A dark metal crate sits just ahead, nestled in the grass like a gift from the gods.

Seungcheol breaks it open with a crowbar, and your eyes widen.

Wonwoo went off.

Inside the crate lies a small armoury. Sleek, matte-black rifles. Knives with ceramic edges. Ammo in every calibre. Smoke bombs. Blackout tech. Scoped pistols. Infrared sensors. Heat detectors. New comms gear. Suppressors.

“Damn,” you mutter, running your hand across a silencer. “This is better than Christmas.”

You both start suiting up—checking each item before adding it to your loadout. Sights calibrated. Knives balanced. Comms synced.

You’re just about to zip up your tactical vest when something catches your eye at the bottom of the crate.

A flash drive.

You pick it up. Silver casing with black marker on the side: XOXO, Reina.

Your eyebrows lift. “The hell is this?”

Seungcheol is already watching you, so he throws you his sat phone, and you dial Reina. She answers after three rings, sounding distinctly out of breath.

“Yeah—hello?”

You narrow your eyes. “...You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies too fast. “Totally fine. Just finished working out. What’s up?”

You stare into the jungle. “Got your gift.”

Silence.

Then Reina exhales. “Oh. Right. The drive.” Her voice shifts, businesslike. “That’s a virus I wrote to scramble Kang and Lim’s encrypted program. Once you’re in, it’ll override the signal.”

You glance at Seungcheol. “Define ‘in’.”

“As I mentioned, it uses biometric access,” Reina explains. “Voice, retinal, and fingerprint. The print scan is advanced—it monitors heart rate and body temp. If either spike, a fail-safe activates. It’s basically a dead man’s switch.”

Seungcheol groans behind you. “So… a walk in the park.”

Reina snorts. “You’ll have to get Kang to unlock the system without triggering any alarms. Once you’re in, insert the flash drive. It’ll spoof the signal to Lim—make it seem like the bounty’s still live on her end, but dead to the global market. She’ll never know.”

You blink. “That’s… impressive.”

“I know,” Reina says smugly.

You start to thank her, then pause—smirking slightly.

“You know,” you say smugly, “Next time, maybe think twice when you decide to “work out” again. And do it preferably after we’ve walked towards possible death.”

More silence.

Then a very quiet, “God, you’re creepy. Can’t hide shit from you.”

You laugh. “You’re not that subtle, Reina.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, but you can hear the faint smile in her voice. “Good luck. Don’t die.”

“Back at you.” You hang up.

When you turn around, Seungcheol’s watching you with a faint smirk.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just something about a pot and kettle.”

“I didn’t hear you complain last night.”

He chuckles at your statement, but it fades as the moment quiets.

Your eyes meet, and the atmosphere shifts. Reality settles like a weight on your shoulders.

It’s go time.

The sun rides high above the canopy by the time the wheels of the jeep crunch to a stop beneath the thick shadows of the jungle. You and Seungcheol sit in stillness for a moment, the low hum of the engine dying out as he kills the ignition. Birds call in the distance, muffled by the density of the leaves, and the air is heavy with anticipation.

“We’re close,” you murmur, checking your GPS. “About one klick northeast.”

He nods once, scanning the tree line. “We’ll go on foot from here. We park any closer; we risk setting off possible perimeter sensors.”

Without another word, you both exit the vehicle and disappear into the green.

The jungle is unforgiving—thick vines, hanging moss, and humidity clinging to your skin like a second suit. You pull a machete from your belt, and Seungcheol does the same, both of you slashing carefully through the underbrush, keeping your steps measured and soundless. There’s no conversation, just the rhythm of your shared breaths and blades, and the silent language spoken between trained killers.

After a short climb, you reach a ridge. It crests gently above a natural dip in the earth, and below it, spread across a cleared stretch of jungle floor, lies Kang’s compound.

Modern. Sleek. Built like a fortress with luxury trimmings—glass walls, solar panels, and a central structure acting as an office or control centre. It stands out in the wild like a dagger.

You drop to your stomach near the edge of the ridge, dragging your binoculars from your pack. Beside you, Seungcheol pulls out his own gear—infrared heat sensors, a laser rangefinder. You share what you see in low, practised whispers.

“Two snipers. North and southeast towers,” you murmur. “Both posted high, rifles trained toward the outer edge.”

“Got eyes on two more guards. Heavily armed, center-left of the courtyard near the entrance,” he adds. “Looks like they’re protecting the main path in.”

You tap the side of your lens, switching to thermal.

“Seven more, patrolling inside the compound. Standard rotation—seems like they’re on a ten-minute loop. Armed, but not alert.”

“Visual on Kang?”

You scan the second floor of the compound and freeze when you find the shadowed silhouette of a tall man, pacing across what appears to be an office.

“There,” you whisper, nudging Seungcheol. “Tall, wide shoulders. Movement pattern matches. Looks like he’s talking to someone—”

Seungcheol adjusts his lens. “Confirmed. That’s him.”

You nod and reach into your pack again, pulling out the scrambler. You power it on and set the frequency, watching as the blinking green light turns steady blue.

“Alarms scrambled. Cameras looped. We’ll have a twenty-minute window before their system reboots, and he realizes something’s off.”

“Plenty of time,” Seungcheol replies, cocking your rifle and attaching the silencer and balancing it on a tripod.

You both lie flat on the ridge, shoulder to shoulder. You take the snipers. He watches for movement.

“North tower first,” you whisper.

You adjust the sight, take a breath, and squeeze the trigger. The silencer reduces the crack to a faint hiss, and the sniper in the north tower drops like a ragdoll. One down.

You shift slightly. “Southeast tower.”

Another shot. Another body slumps, this time into the rail, his body tumbling quietly over the edge into the brush.

“Clear,” you mutter. “I’ll move. You take east. I’ll go west.”

Seungcheol nods, already sliding down the hill.

You stay behind a moment longer, disassembling your rifle and pocketing the scrambler. Then you’re on your feet, slipping through the trees silently.

You move fast and low.

By the time you reach the outer edge of the compound, Seungcheol has already taken out the two guards near the courtyard. You spot their bodies tucked neatly behind a stone wall, blood blooming silently across their shirts. You nod to yourself and slip around the west side, coming up behind the greenhouse wing. A guard steps out to smoke. You waste no time.

Karambit to his throat. A gurgled gasp. You pull him into the shadows, wipe the blade, and move on.

Another guard rounds the corner, humming to himself. You take him down in two swift moves—elbow to the windpipe, blade to the kidney. He falls in a twitch.

Inside, the compound is eerily silent. The scrambler continues to work wonders—no alarms, no flickers of suspicion from the guards, still unaware they’re being hunted.

You and Seungcheol clear the floors like ghosts. He moves swiftly on the east side, the occasional thud of a body hitting the tile filtering through your comms. You press into the south corridor, slicing through two more men and dragging them into an empty bathroom.

With every guard down, every hallway cleared, the silence grows heavier. Anticipation coils tighter in your gut.

Finally, you reach the top floor.

And just like that—you’re standing at Kang’s office door.

Seungcheol rounds the corner from the other direction, his face slick with sweat, blood spatters on his cheek, but his eyes sharp. He meets your gaze, and you both press flat against either side of the door. You nod once to each other.

Seungcheol opens the door with a silent push, and you toss a smoke bomb inside.

The hiss of the release is immediate, followed by a fast bloom of dense, grey smoke that overtakes the pristine mahogany of his luxury office. The desk disappears, the floor vanishes beneath haze, and you hear the sound of a chair scraping back sharply.

“What the—?!” Kang’s voice barks in confusion.

You slip inside, silent and focused. You can hear Kang’s movements: stumbling, coughing, his shoes thudding heavily against the floor as he tries to orient himself. There’s a crash—he’s knocked something off his desk—and then a shuffle of panic.

Then silence.

Until the feeling of a cold, steely barrel of a gun chamber touches his forehead.

“Don’t move,” Seungcheol says, voice calm, firm, and ice-sharp.

He freezes.

“Seungcheol?” Kang rasps through the smoke.

Your figure melts from the shadows behind him like a ghost. Your karambit is back in your hand, its curved blade cold and gleaming. You press it to the side of Kang’s throat.

He stiffens instantly.

Your voice is quiet and cold, the edge of your breath brushing his ear. “Hello, Kang. Miss us?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out a rough laugh, half-amused, half-appalled. “You two have really lost your minds.”

He tries to move, but you press the blade a hair deeper. A single drop of blood runs down his neck.

He barks another laugh. “The two biggest targets on the global kill list walk right into my compound. I should be flattered. Or furious.”

Seungcheol says nothing, only pressing the gun harder to his forehead.

“I underestimated you, Seungcheol. I knew you were soft, but this? Playing Bonnie and Clyde with your little wife? How’s it feel, huh? Always in her shadow?”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. He’s still as stone, but the way his jaw clenches tells you exactly how hard he’s biting back the need to pull the trigger.

Seungcheol finally speaks, voice low, cold. “It feels like I married the only person worth trusting in this goddamn world. And the fact you’re scared of her proves it.”

You smirk.

Leaning closer, you whisper, “Let’s see if we can keep you calm enough to survive the next few minutes, shall we?”

Kang glares. “What do you want?”

“Access,” you say simply. “To your program.”

He scoffs. “You think I’m going to just hand it over?”

You press the karambit harder into the tender skin beneath his jaw, a steady stream of blood oozing from the tip piercing his skin. “No. You’re going to walk us through it. And if you fuck around—if you even flinch the wrong way—you’ll die before the failsafe ever gets a chance to go off.”

Kang huffs through his nose, but walks to the desk with your blade still at his throat. Seungcheol stays close by, his gun never wavering. Kang’s fingers tremble slightly as he wakes up the terminal. The light from the monitor casts strange shadows across his face as he clears his throat and accesses the program.

“Director Kang Hojin,” he states, firm and loud. “Override sequence Omega Black, authorisation Sigma-One-Seven-Delta.”

The system chimes.

Voice scan accepted.

He places his hand on the scanner. Another chime.

Fingerprint accepted.

Then comes the retinal scan. He leans forward towards the webcam. The screen buzzes.

Access denied. Retinal match not found.

Your heart stutters. Seungcheol’s grip on his gun tightens.

Kang lifts his head with a smug look. “Oops.”

You grab his shoulder and force him back down. “Do it again. Don’t blink.”

Kang exhales sharply through his nose and leans forward again. This time, he holds perfectly still.

Retinal scan accepted.

Access granted.

Relief floods you, but you shove it down. No room for error now.

“Bounty logs,” Seungcheol says.

Kang navigates the system with practised fingers, moving through encrypted folders. “Here. This is what you want.”

You reach into your belt and pull out the flash drive. Kang’s eyes flicker to it.

“Plug it in,” Seungcheol says. You do.

The second the drive locks in, the screen flashes. Code scrolls, long strings of green bleeding across black. The virus is doing its job.

“You idiots have no idea what you’ve just done,” Kang growls. “You think Lim won’t find this? You think she didn’t plan for this?”

You say nothing. Seungcheol watches the screen. Progress: 82%.

“Even if you kill me, she’ll never stop. You’re nothing to her. Ants. She’ll make sure the entire world hunts you for sport.”

The progress bar reaches 100%.

Final confirmation: Bounty Deactivated — Market Update Complete.

“You talk too much,” Seungcheol mutters. Then he pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits Kang clean between the eyes. His head snaps back before slumping forward onto the keyboard, blood blooming fast beneath him. The room goes quiet.

You exhale. Slide the flash drive from the port and tuck it back into your belt.

“Let’s go,” Seungcheol says.

You’re two steps toward the door when the monitor flickers red.

On the screen, a new prompt flashes: ALARM ACTIVATED — FAILSAFE INITIATED — DETONATION SEQUENCE: 2:00

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

“Run,” Seungcheol breathes, already grabbing your wrist. “GO!”

Your boots slam against the floor as you both bolt from Kang’s office, weaving past his slumped, lifeless body behind his desk. The halls flash red—emergency lights triggered by the failsafe.

“Where did that come from?!” Seungcheol shouts.

“My scrambler!” you gasp, realisation slamming into you like a truck. “It triggered the reboot. The system finally recognised us.”

01:45.

You skid through the corridor, heart in your throat, legs pumping hard. Down the stairs—two at a time—your boots barely hitting the steps before you’re flying again. You hear Seungcheol right behind you, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses between each inhale.

You nearly slip on the last stair, but Seungcheol grabs your arm and steadies you without stopping. The two of you slam through a side exit and into the open air of the jungle’s edge.

01:02

“Too far,” you choke out. “We parked too far—”

“We’re not making the jeep,” he says, teeth clenched. “Find cover.”

You don’t argue. You veer left, leaping over a fallen tree trunk, ducking under a vine. Your legs burn. The world is loud with your breaths, your pulse in your ears, the scream of your muscles.

00:54

Behind you, the compound hums unnaturally, the kind of silence that feels like something holding its breath. You glance back—just a flash—and see smoke already leaking from the vents on the roof. The timer is real. The end is coming.

“There!” Seungcheol shouts behind you, pointing.

A rock formation, jagged and moss-covered, partially buried under tangled roots. A crevice big enough—maybe.

He speeds up. You do, too.

00:32

You’re panting. Staggering. Tripping over your own feet—but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Then—just as your feet hit the edge of the formation—arms wrap around your waist.

Seungcheol lifts you, spins, and throws the both of you behind the largest boulder.

You crash into the dirt hard, grass in your mouth, Seungcheol’s weight covering you entirely. His arms pin you down, his body a shield.

He curls around you, breath hot against your ear.

“Hold on,” he whispers.

You shut your eyes. You feel his heartbeat.

00:01.

The sky lights orange. Fire screams through the trees. The compound behind you explodes in a catastrophic blast that tears the jungle apart. Glass, steel, smoke and flame shoot into the air like a volcanic eruption.

Debris pelts the ridge. Metal thuds against the boulder you hide behind. The earth shakes.

You cry out once, but it’s swallowed by the roar.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. His arms cage you tighter, shielding every inch of you. His weight grounds you, anchors you to the earth as the fury rages overhead.

Then—

Silence.

Smoke. Crackling. The compound groans as its structure collapses.

Your ears ring. Your skin is coated in ash and dust. You blink slowly, chest heaving.

Seungcheol lifts his head first.

His hair is singed at the edges. There’s a bleeding cut on his arm from fallen debris. But he’s alive.

You roll beneath him slightly, dazed, pupils blown wide as your gaze meets his.

Neither of you speak.

You just reach up with shaking fingers and brush a smear of soot from his cheek.

Then you mouth it:

Thank you.

He lets out a dry chuckle, then shifts beside you, flopping onto his back in the grass with a groan.

The two of you stare up at the sky above. Bits of scorched leaves flutter down like feathers.

The train hums steadily beneath your feet, metal wheels grinding softly against iron tracks as the landscape rolls by in a blur of dusk and shadow. It’s your second train in two days, and the rhythm has become something almost meditative—lulling, even soothing—if not for the weight pressing down on your chest.

Munich was a blur. Quick layover. New platform. A different conductor, different glances, different whispers of German you barely registered through the haze of concentration and caffeine. Now it’s Luxembourg ahead, the final stretch before you disappear into the woods, heading toward a place the rest of the world doesn’t even know exists.

You sit cross-legged on the small fold-out sleeper bunk in your private cabin, flicking through weapons one by one. Cleaning cloths. Fresh rounds. Blade oil. The hum of the train is your only soundtrack.

Across from you, Seungcheol mirrors your movements, his back against the wall, knees up, long fingers reassembling the slide of his pistol with practised ease. It’s not about necessity at this point. Everything’s already ready. It’s about habit. Control. The illusion of it, anyway.

You glance up at him, catching the crease between his brows and the faint tremor in his thumb as he locks the magazine into place. He’s steady. Always has been. But this isn’t like any mission you’ve done before.

He senses your eyes on him and glances up, offering a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You ever gonna stop checking that knife?” he asks.

You twirl the karambit around your fingers. “Not tonight.”

He nods like he understands—and he does. Of course, he does.

There’s a long stretch of silence before he speaks again, this time more carefully. “Can you tell me about her?”

You pause, eyes narrowing slightly. “Lim?”

He nods. “I’ve never met her. Never even seen a photo. Only heard what Reina and Jiwoo said. But if I’m going to walk into her house with a bullet chambered, I want to understand who we’re really facing.”

You sit back, the weight of the knife still warm in your palm. You stare out the window for a beat—at the darkening sky, at the streaks of stars beginning to appear above dense silhouettes of trees and valleys—before you speak.

“She’s brilliant,” you say softly, letting the words form with intention. “And terrifying in the most elegant way imaginable. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t make threats. She makes promises. And she keeps them. Always.”

Seungcheol listens, his jaw tight.

“She recruits people like an art collector would. She studies them. Waits. Makes them feel seen. Then she bends them to her will so subtly they don’t even realize they’ve changed sides. And when she’s done with them… she never gets her hands dirty. You’ll never see it coming.”

You feel his gaze on you, but you keep your eyes on the knife in your hand.

“I watched her take down five agencies from the inside just by turning people against each other. I watched her call a kill order on a pregnant agent because she had doubts about continuing. I saw the body. The husband. The baby didn’t make it.”

You swallow hard.

“She told me once that loyalty was just a leash wrapped in velvet. She said affection was a liability… and love?” You look up now, straight into Seungcheol’s eyes. “Love was a knife people begged to be stabbed with.”

The quiet after your words stretches thin between you, taut and cold. His face is unreadable for a long beat, but his hands are clenched, and you know that fury lives just beneath his skin.

“She gave the order for me to kill you,” you murmur. “When I married you, she knew who you were. She could have given me the order right then and there. But she waited until she was sure of my feelings for you. Until she was sure it would hurt me. She was always ten steps ahead.”

Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes. “And you almost did.”

You nod. “I would’ve. I nearly did. But when I saw your face…” Your voice breaks, just slightly. “I couldn’t do it.”

“So this is it,” he murmurs. “The end of the road.”

You nod slowly. “If we fail, she disappears. The whole web collapses. And people like Reina, Mingyu, Jiwoo, Joshua—they’ll be hunted. You and I?” You give a faint, dry laugh. “We won’t even be worth the cleanup effort. She’ll make an example of us.”

“And if we win?”

You don’t answer him.

Seungcheol leans back against the wall again, exhaling heavily through his nose. “This is the part where I say we can still back out, isn’t it?”

You smile wryly. “That boat in Trinidad still floating?”

He chuckles—a low, humourless sound—but you’re glad to hear it.

“That cabin in the Alps is looking mighty tempting now,” he murmurs, gaze distant. “Just the two of us. Snowed in. No names. No guns.”

You lean your head back against the window, closing your eyes for a second.

He turns toward you again, one corner of his mouth twitching. “We’re idiots.”

“Mm.” You smile. “But we’re in love. That’s worse.”

The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s… full. Weighty with all the things you aren’t saying, all the possibilities you won’t let yourself dream about right now. Your eyes meet his in the quiet—two people teetering at the edge of something neither of you can control.

No more chances after this.

No more exits.

You sit up slowly, slide the karambit back into your thigh holster, and reach for his hand.

“Till death do us part, right?” you ask, voice steady.

His eyes soften, his fingers tightening around yours like a promise.

“...and probably still after that, too,” he whispers.

The forest is silent. Still. Too still.

You and Seungcheol move like a whisper between the trees, every step calculated, every crunch of damp underbrush softened by instinct and years of experience. The canopy above shivers faintly in the wind, moonlight occasionally slashing through the leaves in silver streaks. Your gear is strapped tight to your body, weapons close. You feel your heartbeat in your throat, steady but forceful. The weight of what’s ahead presses against your ribcage like a warning.

After nearly an hour on foot, there it is.

Lim’s estate.

It rises from the forest, glass and metal shimmering faintly in the dark. But not glass—mirrors. Massive mirrored panels encase the exterior walls, reflecting the surrounding trees and sky so perfectly it makes the entire compound look like a trick of the eye. Almost invisible. Almost unreal.

You crouch down with Seungcheol behind the trunk of a fallen tree, binoculars raised. But they don’t help. The reflections are endless. No windows to see through. No weak spots. You try the thermal sensors, the electromagnetic sweeper, even the pulse radar.

Nothing. Complete blackout.

Seungcheol’s expression hardens beside you. “We’re going in blind.”

You nod once, tension coiling low in your stomach.

At least the scrambler still works. You check the signal and feel a flicker of control return. “No alarms. No cameras,” you murmur.

“But everything else?” he asks.

You meet his gaze. “We’re caught in her web now.”

Just then, movement—a silhouette rounding the west side of the compound. A guard. Walking alone, slow, almost bored. Rifle at his side. Head turning in lazy arcs.

You both recognize it instantly: your window.

You slip over the tree, bodies melting into the foliage. The air feels colder the closer you get to the structure, like something sinister is waiting. You signal. Seungcheol nods, flanking left. You go right.

The guard never sees it coming.

One swift, clean movement—your blade slicing silently, Seungcheol catching the body before it hits the ground. You both drag him into the brush and dart to the wall. A hidden side door. Seungcheol picks the lock, fast and silent, while you cover him.

The door creaks open with a soft hiss.

And then you’re in.

The compound swallows you in darkness. No overhead lights. Just muted emergency bulbs glowing red along the baseboards. The air smells faintly of bleach and expensive perfume.

Together, you move room by room—clinical hallways, offices filled with screens, empty staircases. You kill quickly, efficiently. One by one, the guards fall. They don’t scream. They don’t even know what’s happening until it’s over. You and Seungcheol sweep the entire ground floor, then the first, avoiding the glass-walled atrium and sticking to shadowed corners.

No alarms. No reinforcements. No Lim.

You’re starting to feel a strange sense of unease. Like it’s all too easy.

Then—just as your boot hits the top of the second-floor landing—it happens.

A voice rings out, smooth and cold, echoing through the speakers tucked into every corner.

“Gwisin.” You feel Seungcheol stiffen behind you. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Your body freezes. You’d thought—hoped—you were ahead. But of course not. You warned Seungcheol yourself: she’s always ten steps in front.

The silence that follows is deafening. You look down the hallway. Then, with a mechanical hiss, a door at the end slides open.

A deep, impossible darkness yawns within.

You don’t move. Neither does Seungcheol.

“Come in,” Lim’s voice purrs. “I insist.”

You glance at Seungcheol. His jaw clenches, but he nods once. No turning back now.

You move in sync, every step echoing on the polished black floors. The office is silent, save for your breathing. Then, the door shuts behind you with a hiss of finality, locking you in the dark.

And then—

Bang.

“Agh—!”

The sound of the gunshot is deafening, sharp and shocking in the enclosed space. You scream his name, reaching out, panic clawing at your throat.

“Cheol—!”

He drops beside you, groaning in pain, clutching his leg. You see the blood, dark and hot, pouring from his thigh.

“Stop.” Lim’s voice snaps, sharp now, slicing through the dark like a knife.

“He’s not dead. Yet. But if you take one more step, Gwisin, the next bullet goes through his skull.”

Your hands lift immediately. You straighten slowly, your heart thundering, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Seungcheol grabs your hand as you try to move, fingers slick with blood.

He’s trying to stay conscious. His teeth are clenched, his breathing shallow. But his eyes never leave yours.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t do this.”

You turn to Lim, face blank. “I’m here,” you say aloud, stepping forward into the dark. “I’ll play your stupid games. Just don’t touch him again.”

The lights flicker to life.

And there she is.

Madame Lim sits in the centre of the room, calm and unbothered, her white suit pristine, her legs crossed as if she were merely waiting for tea. Her hair is swept back, face emotionless, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. A table separates the chair facing hers.

Atop it: a single, silver revolver.

Your stomach drops. Lim smiles slowly.

“You remember how this works.”

You stare at the gun. At the chairs.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel real, consuming dread curl its claws into your chest.

Russian Roulette.

And you already know—only one of you will be walking away.

Your legs carry you forward, one heavy step after the next, the sound of your boots echoing in the stillness like distant thunder. The pain in your chest doesn’t come from a wound, but it hurts just the same—coiled fury, barely contained. You can feel the heat of Seungcheol’s blood still on your hand, your breath caught somewhere between rage and terror.

The chair is waiting. Empty.

You sit slowly, your knees trembling under the weight of what you’re walking into.

Across from you, Madame Lim lounges in her seat like the queen she’s always pretended to be—composed, elegant, a portrait of detached cruelty. She eyes you with a quiet satisfaction, her red lips curling into something that’s almost… amused.

“Welcome home, darling,” she says smoothly.

You clench your jaw. The mask doesn’t slip.

“I’m here,” you say evenly. “What’s the play?”

Lim’s smirk widens. Slowly, she reaches for the revolver resting on the table between you, her delicate fingers wrapping around the cold metal like it’s a treasured artefact.

She flips it open with a practised snap, turns it so you can see—

One bullet.

She closes the chamber and spins it. The click-click-click of the revolver spinning fills the silence between you, steady and cruel.

Then she sets it down, the handle pointing to the space between you.

“Simple,” she says, voice like silk over broken glass. “We spin the revolver. Whoever the handle lands on takes the first shot. If you win, you get the pleasure of accessing my system, removing your bounty, and tearing my empire apart from the ground up… before you put a bullet through my skull.”

She pauses, lips curling.

“But if I win… I get to watch the life drain from your eyes. I get to see the anguish on Seungcheol’s face when I shoot the love of his life in front of him. Right before I kill him, too. Tragically romantic.”

Your nails dig into your thighs beneath the table, the only outward sign of how close you are to snapping. But your voice remains even.

“You forget I need you alive to access your system. So this is a waste of time. I lose no matter what.”

Lim tuts, rising gracefully from her chair. “Oh no, darling. Quite the contrary.”

She walks toward the far side of the room, the hem of her white suit jacket swaying with each precise step. You glance behind you just once—Seungcheol still lies on the ground, bleeding, pale, but breathing. His eyes find yours, and the look there nearly unravels you.

You turn back to Lim just in time to see her approach her desk and pull out a sleek black laptop.

She returns, sets it down beside the revolver with exaggerated care, and slowly opens it. The screen glows to life. One by one, she performs the biometric logins—retinal, fingerprint, and voice. Just like Kang had.

Then she leans back, smug. “Now, you don’t need me alive anymore.”

You stare at her. And she stares right back, the game finally unfolding, the trap finally sprung.

“Let’s begin,” she says softly.

She takes the revolver, gives it a spin again, and when it stops—

The handle points directly at you.

You inhale deeply, picking it up. The weight of it is intimate and horrifying all at once. One in six. You press it to your temple, finger tightening on the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Lim smiles, pleased. You slide the revolver across the table.

She picks it up gracefully and points it to her own head, never blinking, never breaking eye contact.

Click.

Still nothing. Your turn again.

You pick it up, ignoring the burn in your lungs, the sweat forming at the back of your neck. Lim is watching you with that same gleaming hunger.

“You always were weak,” she says. “Falling in love. Letting yourself care. You would’ve ruled this world, Gwisin, if you hadn’t gone soft.”

You ignore her. Gun to your temple.

Click.

You breathe out slowly, chest tight. She snatches it next, almost eagerly, her voice rising.

“You should’ve killed him. He was never worth it. Do you know how pathetic you look, crawling around for a man who’d bleed out for you? Do you think he’ll survive this anyway? Or do you just want someone to cry over your corpse?”

Gun raised.

Click.

Still nothing. Now you know. This is it.

If you get the bullet, it’s over. If not—you win.

She leans forward, taunting, her voice a venomous hiss now.

“He’s not going to make it. You’ve already lost, darling. Look at him—pale, dying, weak. Just like your resolve. Like your entire rebellion. You could’ve chosen me. But instead, you’re nothing more than a wife in mourning.”

You cut her off, hand closing around the gun mid-sentence. Her mouth stills, eyes flicking downward as you lift it once more. You don’t speak. You don’t blink. You just pull the trigger.

Click.

Silence. Everything stops. You don’t move. She doesn’t move.

Because that was the fifth shot.

And everyone in the room knows what that means.

The sixth belongs to her.

She smiles—slow, awful, the knowing kind of smile that monsters wear in their final moments.

You gently place the revolver back down, never looking away as you pick up the laptop. You pull the flash drive from your pocket with a trembling hand and plug it in.

Lines of code scroll by. You follow Reina’s instructions to the letter.

The virus deploys.

One by one, every trace of the bounty system begins to dismantle itself. Files corrupt. Names disappear. Targets are wiped clean. You check twice, then a third time. It’s done.

You press one final command, and the entire system shuts down.

No more empires. No more Lim.

Your victory tastes like ash.

You stand slowly, refusing to look at her, and turn toward the man on the floor.

“Cheol…” you whisper, approaching him softly.

That’s when it happens.

“Sorry, darling,” Lim purrs. “Can’t let you win.”

Bang.

You freeze. But the pain never comes.

The thud of a body hitting the floor echoes behind you. And when you turn— She’s there.

Madame Lim.

Shot through the chest.

Seungcheol’s pistol clatters to the ground beside him, his arm falling limp.

He’s panting, eyes fluttering, drained from the blood loss and effort it took to raise the weapon. But he did it. He saved you. Again.

“No— no, no, no, baby, stay with me—”

You scramble to him, sliding to the floor, pressing your hands hard against his thigh. Blood oozes between your fingers. You tear at your shirt, using the fabric to make a quick tourniquet above the wound.

His skin is clammy. Pale.

“Don’t do this to me,” you plead, voice cracking. “Don’t you dare go quiet now, Choi Seungcheol.”

He tries to speak, but no words come out. His eyes close.

“NO!” you scream, pressing harder, doing everything you can to keep him tethered to you. “Stay awake. Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you now.”

You grab your comms, tears streaking down your face.

“Reina! Mingyu! Jiwoo! Anyone!” you cry into the mic. “He’s down—he’s hit! We need extraction now—NOW!”

Static. Then Reina’s voice breaks through, panicked but focused.

“We’re on our way. Hold on. Just hold on.”

You sob, forehead pressed to his as you hold the wound with both hands.

“You promised me,” you whisper. “You said even after death, remember? So don’t you dare let go. Stay. You stay with me.”

The Caribbean sun beats down from a cloudless sky, the wind gentle as it dances through the sails of the boat that floats lazily just off the coast of Trinidad. Seagulls cry in the distance, their wings cutting through the heat as waves lap softly against the hull. The air tastes like salt, and stillness, and peace. For once, the world is quiet.

You lay stretched across a sun-bleached lounge chair on the deck, skin warm, drink sweating in your hand. A lazy breeze rolls over your bare stomach, ruffling your hair. Sunglasses shield your eyes, but you’re not really looking at anything. Just the endless blue horizon.

It’s been six months.

Six months since the compound. Six months since Madame Lim fell. Since you screamed into the comms for someone—anyone—to come and save the man bleeding out in your arms.

And now—this. The boat. His boat.

The one he joked about right before you came up with that ridiculous plan to take on your bosses. The mythical exit plan. A sailboat docked and waiting off the coast of Trinidad for a day that might never come. But it did come.

You take another sip of your drink and close your eyes.

The sun presses hot against your skin. Your breathing slows.

Then— A creak of wood.

Bare feet padding across the deck.

You don’t bother opening your eyes. You know who it is.

Reina’s voice floats out from the cabin, bright and amused. “I swear, this place is turning me into a whole new woman.”

You lift your sunglasses to peer at her. She emerges wearing a bikini that somehow manages to be both functional and designer, two fresh cocktails in her hands.

She walks over and hands you one before plopping down in the chair beside yours with a content sigh.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

The boat rocks gently, and the sea stretches out in all directions.

Reina swirls her drink, then glances at you. “You know,” she says softly, “Seungcheol was onto something, keeping this boat stashed away.”

You smile, a slow curve of your lips. There’s something bittersweet in it.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He definitely was.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavy, not sad. Just full. You both sit with it. With the past. With what you lost. With what you kept.

Then—

“Is that how you talk about me when I’m not around?”

The voice cuts through the stillness like lightning. Familiar. Deep. Teasing.

A shadow moves at the stern of the boat.

Then, emerging from the water with a grin and a sun-drenched gleam in his eyes—

Seungcheol.

Shirtless, drenched, water trailing down his broad chest. His swimming trunks cling to his hips. His hair is dark and wet, pushed back by the sea. His towel is slung casually over one shoulder, and his smile—lazy, wicked, alive—makes your heart skip.

The scar on his leg is visible, faint against his tan skin. He walks with a slight limp still, but he’s upright. Strong. Getting better every day.

You stare, lips parted in a grin that spreads like a sunrise across your face. “You’re supposed to warn a girl before you sneak back on deck.”

He approaches, towel-drying his face, and when he leans over, he kisses you. Softly. Warmly. His lips linger, just long enough to remind you that this—he—is real.

“I heard you talking shit,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “You heard wrong.”

He slides into the space beside you, pulling your legs gently over his lap, his hand resting casually on your thigh like it belongs there. Because it does.

“When are you coming in for a swim?” he asks, nudging you with a grin. “Water’s perfect.”

“When I feel like it,” you reply, tipping your glass toward him with a lazy clink.

Reina groans. “Ugh. You two are disgusting.”

You and Seungcheol both smirk, not even bothering to deny it.

The three of you laugh, and for a moment, everything is light.

Beep.

A sound breaks from the cabin. Muffled. Sharp. Urgent.

Your heart stutters.

You’re on your feet in an instant. So is Seungcheol. Both of you race below deck, Reina on your heels. You slide into the cabin, heart already pounding in your chest.

There it is.

You recognize it immediately. One of your old encrypted devices, the ones you used when Lim & Associates was still in operation, the one on which your bounties arrived.

You reach for it, hands steady despite the fear unfurling in your gut.

The screen flickers to life. Code scrolls. Then—

A name.

Target: Kim Mingyu.

Alias: Fireball.

Bounty: 3 Million.

Your blood turns to ice.

Seungcheol reads it beside you, lips parting in disbelief. “What…”

Reina appears in the doorway, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

You turn the screen toward her.

She sees the name. And freezes.

“What the hell did that idiot do now?”

A/N: Andddd, it's here! After how much you guys seemed to love part one, I couldn't not write this second part. Hope you all enjoyed the rollercoaster that was Gwisin and S.Coups. Are you ready for the second storyline? 👀💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[nerdygirlramblings]

omega!soldier continues

previous

Now that you've passed your qualifiers, Price seems almost cocky about having you train with the rest of the team. You're no longer alone with Ghost in the gym but sparring with him, Soap, and Gaz. One teaches you a move and has you practice it on the others: individual hits, combinations, attacks and tactical retreats.

They test your endurance and teach you more efficient ways to fight in close combat. Before them, you might have claimed decent fighting skills, but they push you hard, and you realize you were only fooling yourself. You drill moves over and over until they become muscle memory. Then they set you up to spar beta and omega rookies who won't make waves when you beat them.

When you ask why so much intense fight training is necessary, Ghost replies, "We're a small team, Ren. Often sent in where bigger groups can't easily go. And we rarely have backup." For a moment, his eyes cloud over with a haunted film, but he blinks and it's gone, replaced with pure determination. "'S just us. Need you to be able to defend yourself, defend the pack, in close combat situations." You don't correct his comment about the pack; though you aren't pack yet, you understand how important these men are to one another.

They set you up with routines to maintain your muscle strength, building up what you need to pull off the kinds of maneuvers they show you for taking down larger, most likely more physically powerful, opponents.

Occasionally, even Price comes to training, and that's when things get interesting. When Price is there, you don't do your typical weight training, nor do you spar. Instead , when he's there, Price sets the four of you up in competition on some of the PT qualifier exercises. You're unsurprised to find you can do more pull-ups then Ghost and that Gaz has everyone beat with sit-ups. You're completely floored, however, at how thoroughly you beat all theee men with the beep test.

You can't keep the confusion from you glance when Price catches your eye. He hums and says, "We all gotta keep on top of our training." He smirks and adds, "An' a little friendly competition always brings out the best in these boys."

Soap and Gaz join you on the shooting range. Gaz focuses on your short range weapons; Soap helps Ghost train you on the sniper rifles. "'s good Ren," he tells you. "Price wants to try ye on a few things tae see where ye fit." You've learned by now that he and Ghost tend to take the sniper's nest, and Gaz and Price tend to be the first line breech crew. Price's desire to see where he can best use your skills is understandable and completely expected with his role as task force captain.

Every once in awhile, Price joins you on the shooting range, and the rest of the task force have you show off what you can do like someone showing off their pet's newly learned tricks. If it were anyone else, you might mind the attitude, but you've come to recognize the pride in their voices and stances at how much you're learning and how well you're doing.

You don't ever say it, but you are too. You don't want Price to regret his choice to have you on the task force, so his approval, the lowly murmured "good girl" when you hit a target again, means the world. You know it could easily be condescending, especially from an alpha to an omega, but the warm, honeyed tone is pure appreciation.

As days slide into weeks, there's a shift on base. Alpha scents are more aggressive, dominant. The betas' smells take on an undercurrent of stress. Everywhere you go, there seem to be more people.

The gym is busy when you enter. Most machines and free weights are being used. There are soldiers practicing on the speed bag. A crowd rings the mat as you take down other sergeants - betas and alphas - bodies pressing in but leaving a wide berth around the 141.

On the shooting range, you need to wait for an open lane, or the armory only lets you borrow one or two weapons at a time. And forget moving the target's distance; there are too many soldiers waiting to shift things more than once, so some days you only work with long range weapons while others are short range. Regardless of the day, your shots cluster tightly on your targets.

It strikes you as strange, this seemingly sudden influx of soldiers. But when you ask about it, no one else seems to notice.

"Ah havnae noticed. Maybe squads schedules changed?" Soap proffers.

Gaz is blase, shrugging off your question with, "Nothing seems different to me."

Ghost is the one whose response feels least like it's gaslighting you, though you feel he's still missing something. "Yeah, I seen 'em loitering about. They only wish they were half as good as us. Need all the help they can get to be anywhere near our level "

It comes to a head in the mess at supper a few days later. You're in line between Ghost and Gaz when an alpha storms in, the scent of ozone pouring off him. You can't see any visible rank insignia, but that doesn't matter when he growls, "Which a you cunts is Ren?"

Every hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you momentarily freeze, before a gentle bump from Gaz's tray reminds you to keep moving. You try and put the irate alpha out of mind, grabbing some meatloaf and carrots. But the second, lower growl, the aggressive attack barely restrained, of "Who the fuck is Ren?" is hard to ignore.

Simon and Gaz square up on either side of you and herd you to the table where Price and Soap wait. By now more than half the mess is watching the alpha. Some are spoiling for a fight themselves, the tension you've noticed for days being given a possible outlet. Others are sensibly trying to eat and leave unobtrusively through side doors.

When the alpha snarls and moves to grab a rookie walking by, Price and Ghost are on their feet in an instant. They crowd the other alpha, and Price leans into his space, a hair's breath from the other soldier's face. You can't hear what's said, but you watch the man's face go from red to nearly purple before draining of all color. Price turns to come back, and you watch Ghost band his arms around the aggressive soldier and frog-march him out of the mess.

The tension in the room dissipates almost immediately. You feel like you can breathe again.

Price and Ghost return to the table and sit down to their meals. Everyone tucks in as though nothing happened. A few quiet, tense moments of eating pass before you can't hold you tongue any longer.

"Why did he want me? I've never seen him before," you say, voice low so only your task force can hear you.

"'s nothin' to worry about," Price tells you. "Ferget 'em and eat."

You try, biting down a forkful that turns to ash on your tongue. Soon, though, you simply stop eating. Your fork sits, unmoving, on your plate. Price drops his gaze to it and where you wring your hands.

He sighs, put-upon, but cracks. "'E's mad tha' ya kicked 'im off the board," Price finally admits.

"The boards?" You look around at your team. "What boards?"

"They're like scoreboards," Kyle tells you between bites. "Names of top performances from everything from pushups per minute to time on the distances to tightness on shooting targets."

The furrow between your brows deepens. "How can I have kicked someone off something I didn't know existed?" Your heart rate has been climbing since the alpha first growled your name.

Price ran a hand down his face. "I'm afraid 's my fault, Ren." He meets you eye and tells you, "I been submitting results from some 'a the tests we've done and your work on the range. Seems like no one ever bother to think an omega might make the boards, so no one paid attention before." His bitter disbelief is on full display with his the last sentence. "Told brass not to use your name or designation to keep ya safe, but they had to put something down."

Your name on the boards. You at the top of base records. You don't care if other soldiers know who you are. The idea that Price is so proud he wants you to earn more stars and bars is enough. You finally feel like part of the pack team.

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly

[elssero]

/ BITE ME

-elssero kinktober

✟ vampire!reader x sub!prohero dynamite, dom!reader, fem! reader, monsterfucking, bloodsucking, cumming untouched (kinda), overstimulation, public, m!masterbation. porn WITH plot. sorry it’s a lot of plot. (you attack him, slight violence) (apologies for any typos!)

pro hero dynamite- often described as a strong willed, stubborn, determined and valiant man- a role model to many. but most importantly- he’s incredibly overconfident.

he could guess that’s how he found himself in his currently situation. on a solo mission deep inside dark woods that he’s unfamiliar with- a mission that he was warned over and over again should have been a team up.

but he’s dynamite? the number two ranked hero? a symbol of power and strength. he doesn’t need backup or help on trivial missions like this. it should be easy, in theory- at least for him.

the brief he was given for this particular mission has minimal information- with each victim seeming to not completely remember the events of the night they were attacked, memories coming back to them in fragmented pieces.

the case involves a series of attacks that take place in a small, rural town. rich with folklore and community, on the surface- the location seems perfect. having a low crime rate and filled with life.

from what each victim can remember, the attacks seems to begin the same. the statistics of the assaulted immediately draw the hero’s attention- young people, ranged in their early twenties with eighty percent being men.

now normally, in cases like these that describe who seems to be a serial attacker, the victims, most of the time are women. and although it is not impossible, it it very rare that most of the victims are men.

this in itself interests dynamite. he feels stupid, and incredibly sexist for thinking it- but he can’t help but enjoy the challenge of taking down a villain who appears to be targeting men around his age group.

seemingly- each attack begins somewhat innocently. the setting of a bar or the local park being the beginning of the story.

the victims describe being approached by an entity that seems to take the form of a beautiful women. with eyes so enchanting they struggled to look away, a smile so captivating they couldn’t say no.

their lured- seduced into a forest, the same one he’s in now. they describe following the women as she leads them deeper into the trees, under the impression that she had a home- or at least a place for them to stay inside the woods.

as they move further and further into the forest, a piercing feeling of unease fills their stomach. an indication that something isn’t right, but when the women turns around and gives them a sly smile they can’t help but continue to follow her.

a shift happens almost immediately- the entity they were previously trailing behind seems to disappear in front of them, moving faster than able to understand by the human eye.

it happens in an instant, a cold breeze catches the victim, before their able to process the change she appears directly in front of them, pulling said victim towards her with inhumane strength.

if they’re able to see her- for even a second they would take note of her eyes, once captivating now glowing a deep shape of red- she approaches almost invisibly, illuminated only slightly by the glimmer of the moonlight. sharp fangs extrude from her mouth for only a second before a piercing cold slices their neck.

victims describe feeling something they can only describe as being drained, their life force being taken from them before they blackout- waking up the next morning on the outskirts of the forest, alone.

as far as the local authorities are aware, no one had died from these encounters, just severe pains and blackouts lasting upwards of a week.

what intrigues dynamite the most about this case is the way the victims describe their attacker- as someone beautiful, enchanting, even going as far to describe her as having ethereal beauty, somewhat otherworldly.

he can’t help but be interested, wanting for himself to see the mythical appearance of the entity who continues to terrorise this town. the assumption the commission have came too is that it must be a downside of a quirk. a quirk that forces the inhabited town feed on the blood of others in order to stay alive.

the cold of the night is beginning to affect bakugo as he wanders aimlessly through the darkened woods, the air is cool and thick with the scent of nature. his senses are heightened as his vision adjusts to the dim light. it makes every silhouette of the trees, every breeze of a branch appear more mysterious.

every step on the soft and damp earth feels purposeful, amplified by the surrounding silence. the deeper he ventures, the more disoriented he feels. the trees feel like their closing in, wait? has he seen that log before?

that’s when he hears it, a louder, heavier rustling of leaves, branches snapping under what sounds to be a prominent weight unlike any of the forest creatures he had encountered during his journey.

the hair on the back of his neck stands sharply as he whips his head towards the sound- not fast enough when he hears it again on the other side of him. he’s being surrounded, circled.

the forest seems to breath with him as he takes faster, heavier breaths, fighting the fear he feels inside the vast, dark woods, filled with whispers.

seemingly in a flash he feels a hand reach his back- his reflexes allowing him to turn towards to figure before he’s tackled, his back hitting the ground his a thud, closing his eyes quickly as he winces in pain.

the feeling of the hand on his back and the weight of the creatures legs beginning to straddle him make it clear he hasn’t been attacked by an animal, certainly not.

upon opening his eyes, he is met with a sight he hadn’t fully prepared for. you. illuminated only by beams of starlight that struggle to penetrate the dense canopy of trees surrounding you.

he can see you though, the glow of your red eyes captivate him, he knows he has the right person. you look down on him, hair drapes along your figure, looking up at you now, he feels as through the previous descriptions of your sightings don’t even do your intense beauty justice.

your mouth is agape, breathing almost animalistic, before you move your face down into his neck, taking a long, drawn out breath. when you move back to look at him his breath hitches, a smile evident on your face.

“your not from here, are you?” the smile on your face makes him feel uneasy, unable to move even if he tried due to your intense grip on him, he can’t speak.

instead you nod, taking his silence as an answer, thankfully. “cute costume.. what are you? some sort of hero?” the mocking in your voice agitates him.

he groans as he attempts to move- you only increase the grip you have on him in return. “oh come on hero- your really trying to run away so quickly? the fun part hasn’t even begun”

the vice you have on his waist with your legs only tightens, digging your knees into the ground to capture him properly. this isn’t the way this was supposed to go- you had him trapped before he even laid eyes on you.

helpless- a feeling dynamite does not enjoy, but with every struggle against your grip it becomes clear you aren’t letting him go anytime soon.

a pit in his stomach begins to grow- you won’t kill him, it doesn’t seem to be your style but he can’t help the fear- and the desire that pools inside.

it was foolish of him to wander into unknown territory- he knows that now as he watchesyou take in the scent of him- his eyes go wide when he feels your breath on his neck once again.

a giggle escapes your lips, thighs tightening around his waist, an increased pressure building in his pants, he feels pathetic.

rushing to force something out of mouth he attempts to speak to you- “w-wait!”- it comes out a little more breathy than he’d like.

“huh- so you do talk.” you don’t appear to be taking him seriously- instead aiming to mock- make fun of his resist.

“w-what are you?” it seems like the right question to ask- even if he can’t turn you in, maybe he could get more information to give to the commission. even if the story is ultimately too embarrassing to bear. “oh? me? are you sure your in any sort of position to be asking questions right now?”

he lowers in his head in response “you have put me in a good mood.. it’s a little difficult to explain-” he doesn’t fully understand what you mean, opting to stay quiet and allow you to continue “you might not believe me, but i guess you don’t need too- i’m a vampire.”

his mouth forms an o in shock- and confusion? his brows furrow slightly, unable to determine if your being serious or not “w-what?- like in the stories?”

“hmm yes i suppose so-” you don’t seem to be paying any mind to his confusion- instead moving your fingers delicacy along his chest.

“so w-what you just, feed on people?” he watched the movements of your fingers- as they rise and fall with every breath he takes-

“i have too” you seem amused by his questioning- he wonders if you’ve ever had to explain yourself before, you look down at his face now, noticing his red dusted cheeks “however it appears that you don’t seem to mind huh hero?”

he feels uneasy, the tone of your mockery going straight to his stomach, his pants tightening “you wanna give me your name hero?”

“d-dynamite-” you shake your head at that, clearing unimpressed by his answer “what about your real name?”

he takes a second to think about his answer- not finding any positive reasons to lie he continues “bakugo- katsuki bakugo.”

you analyse him for a second- trying to work out if he’s feeling the truth, you take his flushed expression as honestly “katsuki huh- that’s pretty cute- and there’s so much of you too-”

you move your attention away from his face, moving your hands around his frame, a hand coming up to grip his throat “how do you feel about letting me you drain you?”

his breath hitches- his stomach begins to flutter at the thought- his hips rutting up slightly as he imagines it “you wanna let me suck your blood? hm?”

his answer is immediate- it comes of desperate, worried if he takes too long to reply you’d leave him here- alone “o-okay- fuck.”

he feels your breath on his neck again, this time even closer, your nose inches away from his nape as you bury your face into him.

with a vice-like grip the feeling of your fangs  immobilises him, the sharp cold bite pierces the soft flesh of his skin and a flood of warmth spills into your mouth- “taste even better than i’d imagined-“

it comes out deep and gritty- matched with the groan that leaves his throat, you both seem to be enjoying this- “s-shit”

unable to control himself- his hips beginning rutting up against your own- the bulge in his pants feeling to heavy to ignore, moaning at the feeling of you against his neck, getting impossibly more hard when he attempts to move his hands but is stopped by your grip.

totally under your control- unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, the feeling begins to pool in his stomach even quicker- embarrassingly quickly.

sooner than he’d like- he’s bucking up with an increasing fast pace, you don’t make any move to help him- instead entirely focused on the blood seeping from his neck.

in a sudden move he’s cumming- dampening the inside of his suit with his seed as he continues to rut upwards- unable to contain his moans of pleasure.

this seems to grab your attention- moving your head away from his neck and lifting your hips slightly- he whines at the loss of pressure “oh? this is new.”

you take a moment to look at him- taking in his fucked out expression due to both his premature orgasm and his loss of blood “god aren’t you pathetic? the feeling of me sucking your blood made you cum hero?”

degradation- this is new to him, infact everything going on right is new to him, he’s not used to this feeling of submission, it makes his cock stir. “oh. f-fuck”

you think for a second- contemplating your options before you completely remove yourself from him, ignoring his plea “yknow- blood isn’t the only way a vampire can steal human essence.”

manoeuvring yourself beside him you delicately place your hands around the belt of his suit- teasing him. his eyes blow wide as you tug on his pants, taking his ruined boxers with them. he groans at the sudden feeling of the air against his cock.

gaping at him, you run your fingers up his dick- it’s long and thick, covered in cum from the ruins of his previous orgasm, you take some on your fingers and lick it off- all while maintaining intense eye contact- “i think this will do just fine- you wanna cum for me again hero?”

he can’t help the way his eyes roll back when you hum against your fingers- sucking them clean of his cum “y-yeah” the same feeling of patheticness washing over him “fuck y-you!”

a low chuckle comes from your lips-“hm i don’t think you mean that- look at you! made a mess all over yourself-” the sentence itself makes his cock twitch-

wrapping a hand around his dick- squeezing it slightly before before you begin to move your hand up and down- listening to his groans.

“o-oh fuck” his words come out disgruntled- his cock painfully hard as you work your fingers up and down it.

“what’s that katsuki? you wanna cum?” yes- yes god his head falls back at your words, mouth agape as he’s unable to control the sounds leaving his throat- doing nothing to stop you ruining him. “y-yeah!”

“how badly?” he groans in response- unable to deal with your relentless teasing- wishing nothing more than to cum again.

you stop your movements in an instant- he whines at the lack of stimulation “cmon answer the question katsuki? how badly do you wanna cum for me?”

it comes out in whines as he speaks- “s-so bad- ah!” his hips buck up into you as you begin to move your hand again- attempting to match your pace.

unable to control himself any longer due to the sensation your movements- and your words are giving him- he cums again- this time shooting ropes all over the pair of you-

you move quickly in order to catch it all, licking up his chest to catch the parts that landed there, you continue the movements of your mouth until it reaches the base of this cock- now red and twitching.

“coming all this way to deal with me too.. i’m starting to think that maybe you came looking for this” he shakes his head in refusal-

instead you begin to take long- slow licks from the base of his cock to the tip- teasing him relentlessly “you think you can give me another?”

tears breach his eyes when you take his tip into your mouth, tongue swirling around it- “n-no! can’t ! it’s too much!”

you remove yourself from him in an instant- tears now rolling down his face as he whines “are you sure?”

he’s too far gone already- completely immersed in your movements- embarrassment bubbling in his throat “no- no stop! touch me!”

you smile- a wicked one, you know you’ve got him. “i knew it- gonna cum again for me?” you dip back down- latching your mouth onto his cock yet again, hands move to grip his waist to stop him fucking your face.

“gonna cum like some touchstarved bitch for me huh?” you stop your attack on his dick only momentarily to speak before lunging down again- this time taking him fully.

it doesn’t take long to have him cumming again- thick ropes down your throat as both of your eyes roll back in pleasure- “thaats it- good job..” you allow the remaining seconds of his orgasm to rush though him- by the time he’s conscious enough to open his eyes your already stood up, fixing yourself.

“this was fun dynamite-” you take a look at him from the ground below him- dominating him as he pouts up at you-

“however, if you come around here looking for me again.. i can’t promise that you’ll be so lucky a second time round.”

he’s upset- upset that your moving away from him so quickly, upset that you seem to be leaving him“w-what? what do you mean?”

almost- you almost take pity on him, his fucked out face and the dust of red on his cheeks- he looks cute like this. that’s the problem. “was already hard enough for me to hold back this time”

you begin to walk away from him- ignoring how he seems to grasp himself up- fixing himself in the process“well- have a good one katsuki-” your voice comes out even more mysterious than before-

“s-stop! where are you going??” there’s longing in his eyes- already missing the effect your touch has on him- but by the time he gets up to catch you- your gone.

he whips around in circles- hoping- maybe to find a trace of where you went, failing miserably.

leaving him alone- in that same dark forest he first ventured to find you- he feels a sense of emptiness, alone with a pang of drowsiness that seems to hit him all that once. reaching his hand up to take a feel at the pain in his neck- he graces over the marks you left. cold, wet blood lacing his fingers before his vision goes black.