#from blood and ash headers

[refugiodafada]

A Shadow In The Ember (Flesh and Fire series) lockscreen and wallpapers

like if you save. © refugiodafada

[hellfire--cult]

MafiaBoss!Alpha!Eddie Munson x Omega!Fem!Reader

wc: 17k

+18, omegaverse, boss and secretary, possessive behaviour, jealousy, blood mentions, biting, rough, smut, p in v (unprotected), oral (both ways), slight dubcon at a point, mentions of nancy x reader, fingering, heat and rutting behaviour, breeding kink, spit, marking, degradation

Plot: Being the secretary of a Mafia boss was not easy, much less when you believed your boss was your scent mate and you knew he made your omega coworkers stay after hours to fuck them, yet he never called you to stay. It was time to move on, but your boss smelled the scent of another Alpha on you and decided to make sure you knew who you belonged to.

A/N: it was intended to be just a smut thing, never to be this long. Oh well, enjoy 9k words of pure filth out of that count. this isn't the header i intended, but it'll do

Don't be lazy and reblog.

AFTER HOURS

You didn’t want to pay it much attention. 

You absolutely didn’t. 

But you couldn’t help yourself as you smelled him, walking through the doors a room away. That scent was filled with ash and iron, yet it was intoxicating in the most addicting of ways. You didn’t want to be loving his scent, but you just couldn't avoid it. The omega inside of you always craved to go closer for a deeper smell, but you couldn’t.

He is your boss and you can’t want him this way. You can’t. You’re his secretary, well, one of them. There are four of you in total, always sitting outside of his office at your respective desks. Your coworkers are Omegas, just like yourself, and you have known them for over six months since you started working here.

You found the job offer through a friend of yours, Robin. Your beta best friend that told you her girlfriend was looking for a new secretary at her workplace. You were desperate to leave your old job, being dragged around by a misogynistic Alpha, telling you you were too dumb to be more than a mere assistant, even if you were great at your work and did it all so he would not have anything to do during the day.

You were shoving your resume in Robin’s hands the second she said that. You wanted out, you needed out, and Robin gladly passed it on to her girlfriend. You were called for an interview a week later, but you didn’t expect the job offer to come from one of the highest social buildings in the city. 

You never knew what was inside but you could only guess it was a big company of some sort. When walking through the building, you could smell iron all around you, not blood to be exact, but just a strong smell. It smelled… powerful. A scent that intensified the more you walked through the office.

Then you finally saw Chrissy, going into a glassed room for your interview. You had met Chrissy before, but just a wave from afar. Robin told you Chrissy preferred to stay away from social events, or from meeting new people because of her work. That threw you off but your friend smiled apologetically and you didn’t press on the subject.

As the interview went on, the iron smell got stronger, sharper, only for you to turn around and for your eyes to clash against deep brown ones with dilated pupils. The smell was coming from him. From the man dressed in black outside of the room, his face almost touching the glass, his breath fogging it from how hard he was inhaling and exhaling. 

You remember how awe-struck you were with him, and you remember how badly you wanted to get up from your chair to rush after him. But you saw him take a step back, giving Chrissy a nod and then walking away. You were confused and looked at Chrissy with a questioning look and that’s when you found out.

This was the Komodo mafia gang. They owned many businesses, residences, buildings… You were being interviewed to be Eddie Munson’s secretary. Eddie Munson is an alpha, and the boss of this gang. The owner. The leader. 

Your thoughts were cut off when you saw the doors open, your head whipping to the side to see your boss walking in, ripping his blazer off, the smell of actual blood rushing into the room. All the omegas winced at the smell, as well as the other betas that were walking around with paperwork in their hands. 

Your worry raised, unlike the other Omegas who were aroused or scared in the room, you were worried. Did something happen to him? Is the blood splattered on his shirt his own? Someone else’s? Your nose twitched as a sweet note of vanilla invaded you, and you saw Eddie walking by your desk, giving you a pointed look.

“I’m fine. Anything I need to catch up on?” His voice was low as he stood in front of your desk and you stood up as you tried to go back into your professional stance, shaking your head.

“No sir. I already knew that Kromstar’s dealership had to be sealed in the morning, so I took care of that.” You stood proudly, chin tilted up as you looked at your boss’s reaction. A small smirk was sent your way, followed by a single nod. You grabbed the paperwork from your desk and raised it towards him.

“Perfect. Good job my Rose.” He leaned forward, his hands reaching to hold the paperwork, but the tip of his index finger ran over yours and your breath left your lungs for a second as an electric shock ran down your spine. Your eyes locked with his as you saw his nose flare up slightly and then he took a step back from you.

“Do you– need me to get you some fresh clothes, Mr. Munson?” You kept your voice to a normal level, steady, professional. He shook his head as his eyes scanned your face, only to then look away and start walking towards his office.

“No, Chrissy already prepared stuff for me.” And like that, the scent slowly went away as he closed the doors to his office behind him. You turned your head to see the other omegas and betas looking at you and then returned to their business. 

You sighed as you sat down again. Rose. His Rose. Eddie named his workers with flowers, but the only one that he called by her name was Chrissy. Steve, the male omega, he called Sunflower. Heather, the other female omega, he called Cosmo, and then Carol he called Carnation.

When you were named Rose you were surprised. You wondered what color of rose he pictured when naming you it. Was it pink? Red? White? A rosebud? A single rose? What colors were the other Omegas? Either way, your name caused a string of rumors that didn’t cease until a month later from your first day at your new job.

But he never referred to them as… his. You were the only one. You always wondered why.

You looked up to see Steve and Heather gossiping, and you wondered why you were never close to them. It was fairly civil, but you can’t say you shared a single lunch with them, nor with Carol. You guessed you were not part of their group because–

“Sunflower.” Chrissy’s voice made your head snap towards the big black office doors, her head peeking out. She sent a small greeting smile your way, which you reciprocated before she turned her head back to Steve, who was standing up from his desk so the Alpha knew she had his attention. “Stay after hours tonight.”

You heard a chirp coming from Steve’s way, the scent of lust filling the room as well as happiness. Heather’s scent soured as she received a shoulder wiggle from Steve, showing himself off. Your stomach twirled, moved all around, and you looked down at your paperwork, knowing your scent might be bitter.

You felt your body burn with anger, sadness, and jealousy, the omega inside of you wanting to let out a whine of distress. It was not fair. You were pretty sure you were the one who wanted him the most, you were sure of it… Six months you worked here, six months you’ve seen the other three omegas being called in for after hours, knowing damn well the Alpha was fucking them behind his office doors, and…

You were never called.

Not once. You came to the conclusion he did it to keep it professional with at least one of his secretaries, but– why did it have to be you? Why? His scent drives you crazy, so much so that after that first interview you went into a triggered heat, and you weren’t even near your heat date. 

But you felt his stare. You felt it many times. You saw how his nose flared every time he came close to you, smelling you, taking in your scent just like you did with him. Your omega wanted to jump on the Alpha, and much more knowing he is a good man. He donates to schools and helps with the medical bills of many elderly people in the hospitals. Elderly people that have no one or very little. Not to mention how safe you knew you would be with someone like him. You and your pups would be cared for exceptionally.

Your Omega yearns to be submissive to this Alpha, to be bred by him, mated, protected… But Eddie can’t even see you as a random fuck. He sees you as just what you are. His secretary. You are nothing else but his dutiful, professional secretary. Nothing more, nothing less. You were the only secretary he didn’t fuck so that the job gets done, unlike the other three.

But later on, when you were already out of the office doors, you noticed you left your jacket behind. You would have not cared for it and just retrieved it the next day if it weren't for the fact that it was a friday, and it was your favorite jacket. So you went back up, all the way to the 23rd floor. 

And god you wish you hadn’t.

The smell of sex filled your nostrils as you walked out of the elevator doors. His scent, spiked, aroused, strong, and fierce. You walked by the cubicles where a few betas were still typing away stuff, only caring for the job to be done. Guards stood by the door where your desk was, your office.

You were let in and you felt your knees weaken and tremble the closer you got to the desk, which was the closest to Eddie’s door. His office. You could hear the purring, the moaning, Steve calling Eddie’s name, and–

“Alpha– Knot me– Knot me, please–”

You felt like vomiting. You needed to get out of there. You needed to run. You needed to leave this place. Your hand snatched the jacket off the back of your chair and you rushed out of the doors and past all the cubicles. You didn’t want to think about it. You couldn’t bear to think about Eddie knotting someone. 

As soon as the doors of the elevators closed, you let yourself whine and sob a couple of times as tears filled your eyes. Why do you feel so rejected? Nothing ever happened between the two of you. Nothing. The words were very little, and the most physical contact you had with him was the brushing of fingertips when he reached for something that was on your hand.

It didn’t make sense, but it might mean you found your scent mate… only that it’s one-sided. If it is that, you would have to leave the city. Leaving the job only won’t do the trick, you need to leave the city, fuck, even the state. 

You felt your belly cramp less and less the more floors you went down and the less you could smell the aroused Omega and the feral Alpha. You can’t keep doing this. Maybe you need the distraction. You need someone else.

These six months you’ve been working here, there was this pull or this sense of respect that didn’t allow you to properly agree to dates or encounters with other people. Not even betas. You didn’t know why but you just felt like you needed to reject these advances. Your hands gripped your purse and zipped it open, taking out your cell phone and opening your Instagram.

Maybe this will help you feel better.

It did, yet it didn’t.

It did because Nancy was very sweet. The Alpha met you through Robin at a party once, and you chatted all night long, exchanging usernames on Instagram with one another. She messaged you a couple of times but soon after you started your new job and you didn’t feel the need to engage with her in such a manner any longer.

And when meeting with her she was kind, and respectful, and you were the one that had to initiate the flirting stance of the night out. Nancy was a good alpha. She looked like she could take care of you, so you didn’t mind when she asked if you wanted to go back to her place. 

That’s when your mind couldn’t help but think of someone else when having sex with Nancy.

It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want to imagine him, but you felt like if you didn’t you wouldn’t have been able to even suck her cock. You don’t know what to make out of it, but you wanted her to knot you. You wanted it so you could confirm if you had an unrequited scent mate situation, and by the looks of it, it seems you did… You didn’t let Nancy knot you. You backed out at the last minute.

Her knot bumped into your entrance a couple of times, but you couldn’t let it in. You just let out warning growls at her everytime it did and Nancy respected it. But, even amidst all of that, you at least had your thirst quenched. Even if a bit and with someone you didn’t truly want.

Now monday, back in the forsaken office you want to burn down to start a whole new torturous week. You were at your desk, putting your paperwork away as Carol talked to you from hers, steps away from yours.

“Someone had fun.” She snickers as she chews on her gum and you glance once at her and back down, Steve’s voice filling your ears.

“Carol, knock it off.” Out of the three omegas, Steve was the most tolerable one. You looked up at him and he gave you a nod and then looked back down at his papers. Carol scrunched her nose and then started writing down on her contracts. 

You wondered if the three showers you took were not enough. You were sure it was enough. You didn’t have any marks on you, you told Nancy not to leave any. You sighed at how unprofessional this might make you seem in front of everyone. You tried taking the scent off but it seems it didn’t work and now everyone knows. 

The iron scent filled your nostrils and you knew your boss got off the elevator. All of you got up from your desks to receive your boss, but your nose scrunched when you started smelling something bitter or pungent. The doors opened with Eddie, followed by Chrissy right on his heels. His hands were in his pockets as the four secretary omegas gave a nod and a greeting to their boss. 

He was about to pass by you but he suddenly stopped. You tilted your head as you saw his nose flaring slightly. The scent in the room became a little suffocating, your knees feeling like they wanted to give up on you and it seemed that it was taking an effect on the other omegas because you could hear Heather whining in fear in the corner of the room.

You didn’t know what was going on, but then another scent joined in, spicy, alarmed. Chrissy was inspecting Eddie’s back and then she slowly turned to face you. Her eyes widened slightly as she took a deep breath in. 

Your eyes were wide, eyebrows meeting in the middle as you saw Eddie slowly turning to face you. His eyes were black, pure black. You could feel your omega wanting to submit, to ask for forgiveness, but for what? You didn’t do anything wrong, so why is his anger directed towards you? 

“Mr. Munson?” Your voice was small and worried, but you needed to know why he was looking at you like he wanted to… kill you? 

“Mr. Munson, I think we should head inside.” Chrissy’s hand pressed on his shoulder as Eddie’s eyes kept scanning you, from head to toe. Did you do something? Did you forget to do paperwork on friday? Did you miss a client? No, it’s not like you… but who knows? You are human.

Eddie’s face got closer to yours as you stood there, looking at him as he towered over you, his presence bigger than this room, and you felt like you were being suffocated. You felt your heart hammering in your chest, his breath hitting your face as it came out of his nostrils in harsh puffs. 

His face was tense, his jaw clenched, and a vein was popping out on his forehead. Then you heard a low rumble, a vibration and you realized that he was growling. Your boss was growling at you. You whined slightly now, knowing you had done something wrong. You didn’t know what but he was displeased with you, no, he was angry, furious with you.

“Sir–” Chrissy tried again, this time more alarmed, more pressure in her tone, but keeping her Alpha rank below Eddie’s. She sounded worried as she looked at you and then back at Eddie, and– was he going to fire you? What did you do?

Eddie growled loudly as a rough hand made your pen holder fly across the room and hit the wall with force. You gasped and jumped one step back at the sudden aggressiveness, never having seen your boss like this. You were scared, worried, alarmed, but you wanted to apologize, for whatever you did. 

The male Alpha huffed once and marched into his office. Chrissy was breathing heavily and then looked at you, shaking her head to calm you down. You didn’t notice the whine that was leaving your throat until Chrissy tried to shush you.

“What– Did I forget to do something on friday?” You were trembling, and Chrissy shook her head and was about to press a hand on your shoulder, trying to comfort you, only to retreat before doing so.

“N-No… he– had a rough weekend. Please, don’t be alarmed omegas, just– Please, have a twenty-minute break and come back.” Chrissy gave you one last glance before she turned and rushed into the Alpha’s office. You looked at the other Omegas in the room and they were as confused as you but more scared. The guard nodded to you all towards the other door, and you wanted to barge into his office and ask if he was okay. Ask for forgiveness, or do something to make him feel better.

But as you were escorted out for your break, you started hearing things breaking inside his office as well as muffled yelling. You held a whine in as your body trembled and then you walked out of your office. You looked at the other three omegas who only crossed their arms at you with frowns on their faces.

“What the fuck did you do?” Heather asked and you shook your head, not knowing what to say.

“I– I swear I don’t know, I– I did all my work on friday and I rechecked today and everything is fine?” Your heart wanted to explode and your stomach twisted with nerves and you needed to pace. You needed to let go of the energy that was consuming you. The omegas followed you as you walked towards the balcony to get some air, the murmurs of your other coworkers making your head throb. You didn’t need the speculations or people making more rumors about you. Not right now.

“You did something! Did you check properly?” Steve asked this time and you growled at them, taking them aback. Omegas hardly growled, only when purely distressed or displeased.

“I didn’t! Maybe it was one of you that lacked on their job to get their pussy wet with the boss and since I’m the only one that actually works, I get the fucking blame!” Your voice was loud, high-pitched, angry, and fed up. Carol cleared her throat and scoffed as she squinted at you.

“Don’t blame it on us. It’s not our fault he doesn’t want to touch a single strand of your head.” Your heart plummeted to the ground at that and Steve pressed a hand on Carol’s shoulder only for her to rip it out of his grasp and walk away. 

You were looking down at the floor, and you felt your eyes fill with tears. You heard Steve and Heather mumble something to one another before walking away, and then all you could hear was the beating of your heart in your ears. What did you do? What have you done so badly, so wrongly, for him to get angry like this?

Will you get fired? Maybe… Fuck, what if you do get fired? But didn’t you want to? Wasn’t that one of the best decisions for you? You didn’t want to feel this anymore, this rejection, this pain in your gut. You don’t want to be near him any longer, not if you have to watch him be with others all the time. Watch him choose others before you. You can’t keep doing that to yourself.

So maybe if he fires you it is for the best. Whatever the reason might be. You would be able to move on at one point, leaving the city, away from him and his scent. Yes, it will hurt leaving Robin behind, but you can’t bear it. You can’t. Seeing him this angry at you, not only makes you feel little and useless, but also it adds up to the rejection. You feel unwanted, undesired.

You take your time, taking deep breaths before walking back. The other three already returned to their desks, but you took one more minute to yourself. You took a deep breath in before you walked through your office doors and you could hear your coworkers typing away, in silence.

The air was tense, the scent around you all was covered by sprays and blockers, yet you could still smell the bitterness, the sourness, the musk. You just wanted to head home. You needed to head home. Maybe you can call Chrissy and tell her you don’t feel well. Yeah, you’ll do that.

You walked towards your desk and slowly sat down on your chair. As soon as you did, Eddie’s door opened and Chrissy walked out, closing the door behind her. All the omegas snapped their heads to look at her, expectantly, except for you. You knew that when Chrissy walked out of Eddie’s office it meant–

“You’ll stay after hours tonight.” That. She always says that. Wait–

“Huh?” Your head snapped upwards to see Chrissy looking down at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“You’ll stay after hours tonight. No questions asked, you cannot reject it. You must stay.”

Your eyes were wide as you looked at how she turned and walked back into the black doors, the guard moving away for her to enter. You looked at the door, and stared at it as if what just happened was a fantasy that happened in your head. There’s– 

Your breathing accelerated as you looked down at the desk. This wasn’t like when he asked for Steve or Heather or Carol to stay, wasn’t it? You couldn’t smell anything, fuck, you couldn’t smell what he was feeling at all. You can still smell the bitterness despite the blockers in the room, but you don’t know if it is remnants of before or–

“Hey, hey, you need to calm down.” You didn’t notice Steve was in front of you with worry in his eyes as he rested his palms on your desk. You looked at him, frowning, lip trembling, and you didn’t notice the whines coming from your throat. Your eyes filled with tears as the anxiety consumed you, and you were in clear distress.

“I mean, Steve, she has every right to be like this, it’s not like he is calling her to do what he does to us.” Heather snickered on the corner, disguising her displeasure of you being called tonight, but also calm because the boss was not in a good mood at all. That comment didn’t make you feel any better, if anything, it made you feel worse. 

The first time you are asked to stay after hours, and it’s because you might get fired or– killed? It looked like that. He looked like he was going to eat you or rip you to shreds, not sexually. It didn’t look like that for you at all, and the scent he was leaving was a clear giveaway.

“Heather, shut the fuck up, you’re not helping.” Steve bared his teeth slightly at the coworker and all you could do was stare down at your desk. You started frowning as you looked down at your papers. Everything is fine… You know it. You know everything you did was right and on time. Work wise? You were impeccable.

Your posture changed as you straightened up and took a deep breath in. You cleared your throat and gathered your papers and looked at your computer. You will recheck but, you know everything was fine. You looked at Steve and directed a soft smile his way.

“I’m fine. It was nice working with you Steve, I say this just in case we don’t see eachother after today.” Your voice became low, calm as your thoughts settled. Whatever you did, it wasn’t of your knowledge, or whatever someone else did and blamed it on you. You know you did everything right, so even if you’re scared… terrified, you will stand your ground.

Steve only cleared his throat and walked back to his desk as Heather and Carol looked back down to their computers as they shared one look. It wasn’t nice working with them, you weren’t going to lie to them, but Steve was the only one that helped you with stuff, despite him fucking your possible scent mate.

Now it was a matter of waiting, looking at your watch as the hours went by, and your nerves started eating away your intestines, your stomach, just everything. You felt like you were being consumed slowly but you had to keep your head straight. You were not going to be chewed for something you didn’t do, or a misunderstanding, or a rumor.

You might not return to your office tomorrow, so you started putting some of your stuff all together in your drawer, maybe someone will bring you a cardboard box for later on. Steve was looking at you from the corner of his eye, eyebrows frowned as he typed away.

And then, 6 PM arrived. Chrissy walked out from the black doors and looked at the other three Omegas with a sharp look.

“Leave immediately.” Your breath was taken out of your lungs as you heard her authoritative tone, her Alpha voice vibrating against the walls of your office. Steve gave you one last look before he got up from his chair and ducked his head as a goodbye. You stayed in your chair as you saw how the other omegas left the office giving you final glances.

Your heart was accelerated, wanting to break out from your chest and you felt the blood rushing through your ears like a waterfall. You looked at Chrissy and she turned to face the guard. Without a word, the guard that was on Eddie’s door walked out of your office, surprising you because the guards never left.

“Um… why is Geoffrey–” 

“You must stay on this floor. The boss doesn’t want…” Chrissy bit her tongue as she looked at you with a frown. You didn’t know if it was stern, or worried, or a mixture of both. “Get inside his office once you do not hear anyone else. Good luck Rose.”

And then you saw Chrissy walking out of the door of your office. You sucked in a breath as you saw from the open door how all the betas were being commanded to leave, which never happened. There were always a few who stayed or did night shifts. Your breath was heavy as you realized Chrissy was clearing out the floor, leaving you and Eddie as the only people on it.

You heard the elevator ding many times as people left. You still couldn’t smell anything, and you didn’t notice you were scratching the wood of your desk from your anxiety. You sharpened your ear until no more dings came from outside. You gulped as you shakily stood up from your chair and looked at the big black double doors. 

You stepped away and fixed yourself, wanting to appear unaffected or as professional as possible, not wanting him to know how anxious you were. You took a few steps towards his office, your heels clicking on the floor. You took a sharp deep breath in as your hand trembled, grabbing the door handle. You then opened it and– oh god–

The scent was strong, pungent, making your nose burn. It was a mixture of so many smells, including wood, lemon, ash, and leather? Musk? But you also noticed the hint of bitterness, of sourness. Strong and sharp. It was suffocating, yet– you could feel your belly turning, strongly, pulling you to him. You felt your body growing hot, just like it always did when you caught his scent but this time it was ten times worse.

You held your breath in order to concentrate on your task of walking inside, seeing his back turned to you, behind his desk, and looking out his big windows, going all the way to the very tall ceiling. His hair was tied up in a bun, wearing a black buttoned-up shirt with a loosened burgundy tie around his neck, with the sleeves rolled up just under his elbows and his black pants. He had a cigarette in his hand and you could see the smoke leaving him as it went over his head.

“Lock the door after you walk in.” His voice was demanding, not yet authoritative. You wanted to run away from this confrontation but you knew he would come in contact with you one way or another. 

You slowly stepped inside, feeling like every step was one step closer to your doom, or to something unknown. You closed the door and took a deep breath in as you locked the door just as he ordered. Were you… going to die? Did you read something you shouldn’t have? You don’t remember anything that would have made you think you shouldn’t have, so–

“Come closer Rose.” His voice was strained, angry still. You gulped and followed his instructions, slowly taking steps closer to him until you were ten steps away from his desk. The scent was stronger and you felt like kneeling before him as you felt wetness start to pool inside your underwear. You were embarrassed, but maybe he won't notice if you don’t show it. Fuck his scent for making you this way, you might die right now, and all you can feel is being horny?

“Sir… What do you… need me for?” You asked, slowly and mostly submissive, to show him that whatever he says will go, at least for now. You heard a rumble, and you didn’t know if it was a groan or a growl. He took a puff out of his cigarette before speaking again.

“Do you know why you’re here?” 

“Not really… Did I do something to make you this displeased?” It was a risky question, but someone had to break the ice for it. 

“You did.” You felt your breath being knocked out of your lungs. Fuck, what did you do? What could you have possibly done? Whatever you did was no small thing, remembering how he threw your pen holder across the room. 

“I– I checked everything I did on friday and I didn’t notice anything– Was it something my colleagues had to do that–”

“Did she knot you?”

Your mouth fell open as you looked at his back, your heart stopping completely at the question. How did he–?

“What?”

“I asked you a question, Rose, so you answer it accordingly.” And then your boss slowly started turning around, and you felt your blood leaving your body as his eyes, now all black, not a single speck of brown anywhere looked into your soul. You couldn’t see his irises from how dilated his pupils were. His features were clenched, eyebrows tense, and when he fully turned to you, you saw how his chest was moving quicker than normal because of his breathing. “Did. She. Knot. You.”

Your eyes looked into his again, noticing the anger, the rage, the desperation that lingers there. Your scent probably spiked right now because irritation coursed through you. How dare he? Why? You need confirmation that he has the information of your personal life, because, why the fuck would he need it?

“I’m sorry Sir, she?”

“Nancy Wheeler. 27. Journalist. Presented at the age of 15 as an Alpha, moved to the city of Chicago three years ago to pursue her career. She has two siblings, her father, and mother still alive, no Omega mated to her, so this is your last chance to answer. Did she knot you?” His voice was low, commanding, not yet authoritative in his Alpha tone, but it was coming to it. Your lip twitched at this man's audacity, not understanding the reason for the interrogation.

“With due respect, I don’t think my personal affairs are important at all.” And then Eddie’s hands slammed against the desk and your eyes widened when the Alpha’s teeth were suddenly bared, growling at you, the noise sending a wave of daggers across your entire skin.

“I CAN SMELL HER ON YOU!” His voice was loud enough that you felt like the walls shook from its vibration. Your heart was about to explode as you took a step backwards, your belly turning in fear as well as– arousal? Nerves? You couldn’t pinpoint it, but his scent was becoming stronger and stronger and it was making your mind turn hazy and your belly cramp slightly.

How dare he? How dare he ask something like that? Why does he care or why does he acknowledge it? Is it because Nancy’s Alpha scent was stronger than his? Was his ego crushed? You stepped back to the place you were standing, your face stern as you defied your boss, your senses on alert and sharp as you looked at him, trying not to glare to not create more discourse.

“I repeat, I do not believe my personal business has anything to do with you, sir. I do not meddle in yours, except work-related. All professional business.” Your voice was firm and assertive, yet there was a hint of shakiness behind it. Of course there was, Eddie was still baring his teeth at you, the air around you clenching your lungs, tightly, wanting to rip them apart.

He put out the cigarette on the ashtray, or one would say he smashed it into it from the force he sent his hand down. His nose scrunched up in distaste as he clenched his eyes tightly as if trying to contain himself from something. You were overwhelmed with all the Alpha pheromones that were around you, and you couldn’t understand the reason behind the question. You opened your mouth to speak again but he interrupted you with a rough tone.

“Why the fuck did you let another alpha touch you?” He asked but you didn’t know if he was asking it to you or if he was talking to himself because he was still not looking at you. He was clenching his eyes as his hands gripped the edge of the desk. You noticed the veins popping on his forearms, underneath the ink, you could still see the bumps thanks to the reflection of the soft lamps around you. 

“Sir–”

“And you didn’t even take her scent off of you. You didn’t wash her fucking scent off your skin.” His eyes looked into yours again, his top lip twitching into showing off his teeth again but he was containing himself so it seemed. You gulped and looked down at your feet, trying to control your breathing as you felt yourself becoming smaller each second he stared at you.

“I– I tried. I thought I managed but– I’m sorry if it is unprofessional–” and you heard him let out a sarcastic chuckle, making you look back up at him.

“Unprofessional? Yes. You can call it that… so I’ll take that stench off of you.” Your eyebrows knitted together in the center of your forehead, not understanding the meaning of his words.

“You’ll– I don’t understand?” And the room became silent. You made a displeased sound when you felt some slick soaking your panties and it started being a little uncomfortable. You wanted to bolt out of here, you wanted to go away but you felt– you felt like you were being preyed on. You felt like fucking prey.

“I will take that putrid smell away. I will replace it with my scent.”

And you froze. You felt as if all the blood had drained from your body in just one instant. You couldn’t feel the tip of your fingers as you watched him as he rounded the desk, steps slowly taken, the sound muffled by the single large carpet against the wooden floor. You were breathing as best as you could as your mind processed his words. 

His scent? Why? You two– 

“We– Why?” 

“Because you are mine.” And that made your blood come back to your veins, but it was burning now. His? You’re his? You saw how his eyebrow twitched at the change of attitude inside of you once again.

“Yours? I’m not yours, sir. I am free to do as I please… just like you are.” You saw his jaw clenching at your defiance as he stood in front of you, two steps away, towering over you. He smelled so good, but so strong, so dangerously strong. He squinted his eyes slightly at you as he scanned your body, and then back at your face.

“Time to change that. Strip.” You couldn’t process his words correctly in your brain. What did he say? Why–

“What–?” His eyes were staring into your soul as his hands clenched at his sides.

“Strip.” And you didn’t want to comply, you wanted answers first, or at least for him to realize how hypocritical he was being. Your body trembled with the need of submission but you prevailed, not wanting to fall for it.

“I don’t see the need to.” And that’s when you heard it, the growl, and his teeth were bared once more. 

“I said, strip, Omega.” His voice, now authoritative in his Alpha command. You felt yourself become limp, your mind shutting off slightly from rationality and control. You could only tear up as your hands went towards the buttons of your blouse against your will. You wanted answers, you needed them, not do this. 

His eyes watched you as you slowly undressed, and every try of you gaining control of your hands once again was useless. If it were another Alpha, you could have probably fought the command, but Eddie was your kryptonite. Now you are sure he is your scent mate, though you are not his. This is enough proof. Not being able to stop at all, even if there might be danger, that’s when your omega is in complete submission to THEIR alpha.

Your hands removed your blouse first, then you unzipped, and dropped your tube skirt, then got out of your shoes. You were not looking at him as you felt your eyes burning, your hands moving towards your back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall down. The last piece of clothing were your black lace panties. 

You didn’t realize you were trembling as your hand got under the elastic of your underwear, but a hand stopped you. A ringed, tattooed hand gently grasped yours and you felt yourself breathing again, for some reason feeling safe. You shortly realized it was him releasing calming pheromones towards you. His feelings were being a whiplash for you, not understanding the brutal change, not understanding if he wanted to intimidate you or rather calm you.

“You– You have your fun with the other omegas… why can’t I have my own?” Your voice came out small, but then you raised your head to look at him. His eyes were black, pitch black. His nose was flaring as he looked at you and his mouth was slightly open, and you took notice of his fangs being enlarged somewhat. You frowned at the display, at how– desperate he looked.

“I will ask… one more time…” His voice low, strained, and there was a hint of begging behind it. “Did she knot you?”

And your face twisted, your scent soured making his nose scrunch up, his eyebrow twitch as he scanned your features. 

“Did you knot them? Sunflower? Carnation? All?” You hissed through your teeth, your displeasure known for once and for all, and then, the room felt as if it spun around you, oxygen was exchanged for his smell.

A loud snarl was heard from him, vibrating within himself and you swore you could feel it inside you as well from how intense it was. How alarming. How threatening. How empowering. How… possessive. It made you shiver, whimper, and look at him with eyes filled with uncertainty, fear, excitement, arousal, and nervousness– just a mix of many emotions.

And you knew he could smell you. You knew he could smell the slick, your juices just making a mess out of your thin thong, coming out from the sides and already dampening your inner thighs. You couldn’t help yourself, you couldn’t help how your limbs were trembling for his touch, and you didn’t have to wait long for it, just not how you expected.

Tattooed hands went towards the loosened tie around his neck and undid it in one single tug. Your heart skipped a beat as he put the tie in his mouth, biting onto it, while he grabbed your wrists, making you gasp at the sudden touch, but then– fear mixed with arousal. He held your wrists together in front of you with just one hand, while he used the other to wrap the tie around them, expertly, and then tying them up together. 

It was tight, a small whimper getting stuck in your throat.

His right hand flew to the back of your head, clenching your hair in a warning and threatening grip, a hiss falling from your lips as he pulled your face closer to his. His hot breath falling on your lips like molten lava, his eyes long gone from rationality, and you know, you just know, you cannot defy him. Not now.

“On your knees.” He didn’t use his Alpha tone. He didn’t have to. Despite your fear, the twist in your gut, your dignity yelling at you at the back of your head to not do this, to not become one of his many toys just because his alpha pride was hurt, you still got on your knees. It was slow, and your eyes never left his as you sunk lower.

His hand left your head and went to undo his pants, and the zipper noise made your eyes move to the bulge that was in front of you. You couldn’t help the feeling of wanting to nuzzle your face against it, but you weren’t going to indulge in that feeling. You weren’t going to become putty, even if your omega was jumping happily, making you want to purr in delight and chirp because your scent mate was finally looking your way.

His tattooed hands, scarred even, pulled the zipper down and then his pants went downwards with a push. Your eyes were fixated on the wet stain that was over the dark blue hue of the fabric of his boxers. Your tongue tingled with the need of darting it out to lick on it, needing to taste it, to finally have his flavor in your mouth.

He could probably see it, how your eyes teared up, or clouded, pupils starting to dilate slowly, and how your own wetness was gushing out even more. You wanted to rip the tie off with your teeth, let your hands free to touch him, but– No. You cannot do this. It’s not fair. But it is what you have wanted all along, isn’t it? You closed your eyes to try to keep your brain to yourself, trying to control your body, at least regain a bit of it.

“Mr. Munson– I will not be one more for the collection.” You didn’t expect a low chuckle to escape him, but you could hear the angered growl behind it, expressing how disgusting that comment of yours was. Your eyes opened, looking up at him, only to see enraged eyes and bared teeth directed your way, which only made you tremble in fear, in anticipation, and in eagerness.

“You have no idea what the fuck you are talking about, My Rose.” His. Why is there so much anger coming from the Alpha that is now towering you? You cannot comprehend it. You cannot really understand it. His hands moved, you noticed, and then when your eyes went back to your front, your breath caught in your throat.

His cock sprung out and hit his pelvis as he pulled his boxers down enough to release it. It was thick. The tip was bright red, and it looked like it hurt. You couldn’t help yourself when your mouth started watering, seeing the drop of precum leaking out of the tip. You felt your saliva pooling on your tongue, your eyes fixated on it, and your body was suddenly set ablaze as your wrists tried pulling against the tie with no chance of success of untying yourself.

“Taste it.” Eddie’s voice was low, and commanding, and you didn’t really know if he was using his Alpha tone or not, but your body reacted instantly. Your tongue darted out, and the tip of it scooped up that drop of precum escaping him. You tasted it, mouth closed and if your mind was hazy before, it was now gone. Out of the window who you were before tasting him. Dead was the woman who could probably live without the need to know this taste. 

Your eyes were closed as you moaned at how delicious he was. Everything made sense, puzzles were put together, that little earring you thought you lost was found again, you discovered the secret ingredient to a recipe you never got right. And then–

Your eyes opened, revealing that tears had filled them, slick dripping furiously down your inner thighs, body trembling, lip wobbling as you stared up at him. The Alpha that made you simply lose yourself.

“Please… Please…” You begged. You didn’t even need to probably, but you still begged. His hand went towards your head again, his fingertips softly digging into your scalp. His jaw was clenched, strained.

“Open, Omega.” Electricity rushed through your body at the command, at his voice calling you omega. He called you it. And how can you ever defy him? Not now. Not ever. Not after this.

Your eyes looked at the red tip in front of you, and you saw how his dick twitched, bobbing a little, as if anticipating your touch, your warmth. His hand was still on the back of your head, but was not pushing you. Not that it needed to. 

Your mouth opened, tongue lolling out just slightly as you leaned forward. The tip touched your tongue first and then you kept going, finally taking him inside your mouth. A pleased growl vibrated through the room, and Eddie could only throw his head back in delight as your warmth finally started to engulf him.

Moaning is the only thing that could be heard from you the more you took him inside. Once you knew you couldn’t go further without choking, you moved your hands to help yourself only to whine at feeling them tied. You could only use your mouth on him, but it was no time to complain. There wasn’t any.

His grip tightened as you started bobbing your head, coating his dick in saliva, all over, slobbering it so much that it started running down the side of your mouth. You didn’t know it, but the Alpha before you was losing his mind, fighting against the animal that was inside of him.

Your moans helped with the vibrations around him, and you felt your entire body just burning inside out. You pulled away to be able to dip the tip of your tongue onto the slit of the head of his cock. He groaned loudly as he looked down at you and then you felt him guide you, which you obliged. 

His cock went inside your mouth again, and you started moving faster, but not by choice. If it were your call, you would take your time to taste him properly, try to trace every ridge of his veins so that it burns into your memory because, you don’t know if you will ever have this opportunity again. 

Even if your mind was knocked out of the park, you still remember how he has never called on you for months. How he slept with others and not you. How when the slight bit of his ego got damaged, he commanded you to be on your knees for him. So yes, you do not know if this will ever happen again.

So you’ll take this chance.

His hand guided you to move faster on him, your tongue slurping against the shaft, allowing him to slide in easily over and over into your mouth. Your pussy clenched with need around absolutely nothing. The scent of him filling you, sweaty, and with the distinctive little hints of cackling wood in the fire. 

Your belly turned at hearing his grunts, willing your eyes to open and look up at him, still moving your head, swallowing him in. He was looking down at you with his eyebrows meeting in the middle, groaning, growling, grunting under his breath. He looked in pain, or was it desperation? You couldn’t figure it out, but it can wait, right now you just want to keep tasting him.

You closed your eyes again, and his hips started moving against your movements, making him go a little deeper, beginning to touch the back of your throat. You started feeling the beginnings of your gags, but you focused on breathing through your nose. His grip tightened at the back of your head and then out of nowhere, he pushed you into his thrust. You yelped, or rather choked a yelp in surprise, feeling the tip of his cock pushing further into your throat. 

Your eyes started burning, raising your hands to grab onto his right knee, a silent plea to pull away before you start gagging. But at the same time you didn’t want him away, because your nose was now into his pubic hair, his scent stronger than ever and the omega inside of you was elated. 

“Taking me so good in that little mouth of yours. Such a good omega for me.” His voice was strained but you could only purr at his praise, but that action made you lose concentration and you gagged on him, coughing, and his grip loosened for you to pull away. You gasped for air as he got out of your mouth with a pop. You breathed heavily as you felt tears running down your cheeks, looking up at him with a lost look in your eyes.

“Did you say that to them as well?” The words were out of your mouth before you could think. Even in your delight, it seems the rejection you suffered these past months was not easy to forget. Not even if you were in the one thing you have wanted to experience all this time. 

He was looking down at you in disbelief. He thought he was clear enough, but he was never good with words, and his actions could be better. He snarled down at you, his fangs showing in displeasure, but you didn’t back down and you hissed at him. Your omega wanted answers, defying the Alpha towering over you, and Eddie was taken aback by it. 

You felt possessive, needing to know if he had knotted your coworkers, if he had called them omegas, if he had called them sweet yet nasty names. You felt this was your Alpha, and you were angry, saddened, disappointed. He wasn’t yours, but you certainly felt he was, and this is your excuse for the way you’re reacting.

“Dense as fuck. Cute, but aren’t you a dumb little thing?” You were stunned at his insult but you winced when he dug his fingertips into your scalp, pulling you up on your feet once more, and then he continued talking “-- let me do to you things I didn’t do with the rest.”

His lips were on yours in a frenzy, making you gasp in surprise, not expecting him to kiss you at all. He didn’t seem like the man to be keen on kissing, because most of the time people thought of it as intimate, or caring. Maybe he was not one of those people and you were completely wrong about him, because the fact is– You don’t know him at all.

But how could you complain when he didn’t care that you just had him in your mouth? His lips were hungrily devouring yours, tasting himself, and you. He groaned into the kiss, his chest rumbling in delight, resembling a purr that only made you whimper in need, your hands reaching up to grab onto his shirt. Your wrists started to hurt as you kept tugging at them to be able to touch, to feel more, but it seemed that he didn’t intend to take the tie off.

His teeth bit onto your bottom lip, and you winced as he tugged on it before pulling away. Your eyes fixated on him as he licked his teeth with his tongue and you could see the red tint on them. You were bleeding and he was moaning at the taste of it, which only made the slick overflow and run down your legs more than before.

You whined in need as you felt a cramp punching you in your belly. The need of his knot resembled that of a heat, but you knew you were not due yet. The last one you had, you asked for a week off, and it was a month ago. You had to wait for another month for your next heat, so you didn’t understand why you were cramping.

Was it because of him? Was it just his mere scent and touch enough to induce you into a placebo of a heat? Into the feel of it? He was clearly your scent mate, there was no question now. There were no doubts. To make you feel like a bitch in heat at any time of the month, that is only something scent mates are able to do.

His eyes found yours as you licked your bottom lip, tasting the iron of your own blood. It wasn’t a deep or long cut, but it was still a small one. His chest rumbled as he took a sharp intake of breath in, smelling you, your arousal, your slick. His eyes closed for a second as you stared at his features, wanting to grab onto his face and kiss him again, but– you were not able to.

“I need to fucking taste you.” You gasped at his words and then you were guided towards his desk. You saw him just throw everything on the floor, including important paperwork. You knew it was important because it was the same thing you have been working on the last week. Once the desk was cleared and he turned to face you again, you opened your mouth to complain, only to be interrupted by his hand gripping your bicep, tightly and pushing you against the desk, your hip hitting the edge of it.

You whimpered in pain, knowing very well that it would leave a bruise on your skin. Your breath got caught in your throat when his hands pressed on your waist and lifted you off the ground in order to place you on the desk. His breaths were heavy, looking at you with intensity and purpose. A shiver ran down your spine when his digits dug into the skin of your waist, fingernails seemingly sharper as it scratched your flesh.

A yelp escaped your lips as his hands pushed on your shoulders, making you fall back, laying down on the desk and quickly, his hands moved to your knees in order to spread your legs for him. You whimpered as you could tell there was a string of your slick connecting both your inner thighs, the cold air making it obvious. Tears of embarrassment filled your eyes as you turned your head to the side, hiding your face behind your tied hands.

“Don’t you dare fucking hide your face from me.” You didn’t listen, not caring for the warning growl he directed your way. Suddenly your hands were engulfed by a singular larger one and pushed upwards, over your head, your knuckles slamming against the hardwood of the desk. Your breathing hitched as your head looked back at him, a piercing and threatening gaze as he bared his teeth for your submission. 

His eyes went towards your breasts, and without a second to waste, he dove downwards, taking your right nipple into his mouth. Your body jerked at the touch, and you bit your bottom lip to hold back a moan, only to whimper in pain as you remembered you had a cut. You realized he did it on purpose so you wouldn’t be able to bite onto anything to hold back your noises. 

His tongue swirled on your perked nipple, making your stomach jump at the attention, his scent spiking up with a hint of sweetness, delight. An appreciative growl, a low purr vibrated in his throat at your taste, at your reaction to him. His free hand went to rub your left nipple, his calloused fingertips rough to the touch, and then he nipped on your right one, making you gasp as your back arched, his hand holding your wrists tightening.

He pinched and bit and sucked on your nipples like a man starved, like this was the one thing he had been dreaming about for an eternity. Your eyes widened in the haze of your lust as you saw him rubbing his neck against your breasts, passing his scent gland all over. He was marking you, putting a claim on you that you didn’t think he deserved even if you wanted it and wanted to chirp in contentment.

“Sir–”

“Alpha.” He demanded and your eyes clashed with his again. He was right on your face, eyes dark as he asked you to call him the one thing you have been wanting to call him the moment you smelled him six months ago. Why now? Should you comply? Should you call him what he wants, needs?

“A–A–” You tried, but you knew that the moment you called him that way, you were going to enter in a mild state of a hivemind. Your rationality will fade slowly, only caring for the knot of the Alpha that was towering over you right now. His knot, his scent, his bite. You felt his hand leave your wrists but before you could lower them, his hand grabbed your chin roughly, making you pucker your lips as you felt the rumble in his chest.

“I’m your Alpha, Omega, and you will call me as such.” He spat through his teeth and you could only whine, which got cut short when a moan replaced it. His hips pressed against yours and you could feel his cock pressing against your clothed, wet and throbbing cunt. You felt yourself clench at nothing. Absolutely nothing. You were fucking desperate. 

“Y–You… are not mine… and I’m not yours.” Your voice was muffled by your puckered lips and he only hissed at you in complete displeasure, in disgust towards your words.

“We’ll change that tonight. Once and for all.” He removed his hand from your breast and held onto the elastic of your thong. You gasped in pain as he pulled, the lace digging into your skin the more he stretched it until you heard a rip. You hissed at the burn the pull left on your hip, and then his hand left your face, letting you move your jaw freely once more. 

Your mind raced at his words, not knowing what he meant, looking at the ceiling as if it would whisper the answer to you, whisper the meaning of this whole act towards you, but your body jerked out of its trance when you felt his tongue running from the middle of your chest and downwards, tasting your sweat. 

Your back arched as you held a moan in, trying not to bite onto your bottom lip when he pressed the tip of his tongue onto your belly. He was closer to where you had been wanting him the most for so long. You should stop this, but can you? Do you even have the willpower to do that? The answer was simple when you felt like puking at the idea of stopping him at all.

You felt his breath hit your pussy, your ripped thong still dangling on your right inner thigh. You shivered since the air made the wetness become cold, and you put your hands on your chest, not knowing where to place them. You heard him inhale deeply, a low rumble being heard from him.

“You smell so delicious… so fucking good My Rose.” You whined at the name, wanting to tell him to call you Omega, just like he demanded you to call him Alpha. You needed to hear it again, for your own sanity before you became someone that does not know the word ‘dignity’.

“I–” You couldn’t even start talking that his hot tongue licked your slick off your inner right thigh first, and he moaned in pleasure. Your eyes widened at the feeling of it, but mostly at the sound that came out of him, and it prompted your pussy to clench and more slick to come out on a string and down towards the table below you, at the edge of it.

He licked your left inner thigh now, slurped on it and then sucked on your skin, taking your cold juices into his mouth. Your breath was stuttering at the feeling as your pussy clenched and clenched, and you wanted to yell at him, to please touch you, lick you, eat you, just anything–

And your eyes widened when he flattened his tongue all over your slit to take a long lick from it. It felt divine, you were finally in bliss as your body felt like it was in flames. It felt as if someone threw a bucket of cold water on you, but it was a temporary relief. Unbeknownst to you, your boss was trembling at the taste of you as his dick twitched in absolute need.

The resemblance of a purr could be heard in the room, not coming from you, but from him. His hands dug into your inner thighs, fingertips marking you as he stared at your pussy, his breathing becoming slightly erratic the more he looked at it. And then, he didn’t hold back.

He went in, starved, desperate, his lips circling around your aching clit and sucking on it as he kept your legs spread for him. You gasped at the feeling and finally let a moan escape your lips, but Eddie was not even listening. You could smell his scent becoming stronger than before, and you couldn’t help but purr at the notice of high arousal, of pleasure, and it was all because of one lick on your pussy.

His tongue started lapping in between your folds, running all over and slurping all the slick that just kept coming out of you. He was moaning into you as you arched your back at every flick to your clit. He was making the most obscene sounds against you and you were loving it. You felt him pull away from you, a growl of pleasure escaping him and you wanted to look down but you couldn’t use your elbows to push yourself up to do so.

“You taste so good. So fucking good. I’m addicted, I knew I would be, but jesus fuck–” His tongue went back on you, a moan leaving you as he licked your clit and sucked on it to create that amazing friction you ached for. What does he mean? What does he mean by ‘he knew’? Did he want to do this to you before? 

“Why– Why didn’t you ever–” You gasped when you felt his tongue sliding inside of you, your back arching towards the ceiling and the small of your back aching at the hardness of the desk below you. Your body was lit on absolute fire, burning you from inside out, not caring if you died in the process of it. It was almost unbearable.

He moaned loudly into you, his dick leaking precum each second that passed, twitching in need at the feel he has around his tongue. He wants to feel the fluttering of your walls that are on his tongue, around his cock. His nose rubbed against your clit as he shook his head a bit at you. He pulled away to run a finger over your slit, covering it in your juices.

“Look at it… So pretty for me. So ready to receive her Alpha.” Your pussy clenched on nothing at his praise, a purr vibrating in your throat as your hips moved against him, making the Alpha smirk in victory. “You want that, My rose? Want me to be your Alpha?”

You didn’t know if he was messing with you or not. How many times did he use this as his dirty talk when fucking Steve? Carol? Heather? How many times did he say these things to them? How many times have they fallen for this trick? 

“Don’t– Don’t play with me.” A warning snarl was sent your way and your back arched as he roughly introduced his middle finger inside of you, a gasp escaping your lips.

“I’m going to make you beg for my knot. I’m going to hear you screaming for me. I’ll make sure of this.” His finger twirled upwards as he started thrusting in and out of you in short yet striking movements. Your soft spot was rubbed on, over and over again, and the moans were coming out of your mouth without any self control.

Your mind started becoming fuzzy the more pleasure you felt, the more slick that came out of you, and the more he moaned against you at each flick of his tongue on your clit. You didn’t want to comply with his orders, but you couldn’t fight your omegan instinct much longer. 

“Oh– fuck!” You yelled out as you felt his ring finger join his middle one, his tempo increasing as he sucked on your clit, and the gushing sounds of your juices could be heard around the room, mixing with your moans, with his groans, and the smell of pure arousal was intoxicating and just making the both of you feel as if you were high.

The coil in your belly started turning, wildly, and you knew you were going to have a strong one. The one person you consider ‘Your Alpha’ was touching you the way you’ve always wanted, and by him and him only. How could you not purr? Chirp? Moan loudly?

Your hands went down to grab onto his hair, who had the bun already a bit messy from his movements, and even with your wrists tied, you managed to cling to him. He moaned into your pussy and your walls started clenching all around his fingers and that’s when you felt him add his index finger, your eyes widening at the stretch, but you felt a certain relief, like a wave of cold air washing over you.

“You need to be ready for my knot. C’mon Omega, cum around your Alpha’s fingers.” You moaned when he called himself your Alpha. As if it were true. As if he truly was just yours and for a moment you believed him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you, the loud squelching of juices even more depraved than before.

“Ed–Ed–” You stuttered out in between moans only to receive a growl in response and then you yelped as pain and pleasure mixed as he bit your clit, and even if it was gentle, it was still a sensible area. It was a warning, a threat to comply with his previous order.

“Say it.” And he twisted his fingers upwards as he made short thrusts yet quick and you felt your belly about to explode, your fingers digging into his hair as you pushed his head into you. Your knees were now bent, and you saw them tremble on the sides of his head. Your body started to shake as your mouth fell open and your eyes started going to the back of your head.

“A–Alpha!” Your orgasm crashed on you like a train, shaking you all over, short circuiting your brain and leaving you gasping for air as stars filled your vision. Eddie only cursed under his breath as his mouth latched onto your clit to help you ride your orgasm out, your pussy clenching around his fingers like a vice, and your slick was just running down, dripping from you.

He moaned at the taste of your orgasm, different to your normal slick. It was sweeter, tastier, and more intoxicating. Your grip loosened once you felt yourself stop trembling wildly, your walls unclenching from around his fingers as you slowly came down from your climax. Your breathing was heavy, feeling drained from how hard your orgasm was just now. You called him Alpha. You gave in. 

Your eyes were closed as you felt him leave your clit, and slowly pulled his fingers out from you, making an involuntary whine escape your throat at the loss of him. You felt defeated. You gave him what you didn’t want to give to someone who only sees you as one more notch in his belt. Another Omega he knotted. 

Your nose scrunched up as the air around you smelled way too intense, so much that you felt it prickle your nose. You couldn’t quite identify what it could be, but you felt like the appropriate word would be, desperation. Your eyes opened and you saw Eddie looking down at you, your slick all over his mouth, his fangs enlarged, his pupils blown out, and–

Your eyes widened as realization hit you. You were in the presence of an Alpha that had a triggered semi-rut. Your eyes went down to his still exposed pelvis, and his dick was larger, and just purely red and pulsing with need. Precum just oozed out from the tip and dripped down the shaft, and it was all for you.

And your mind was gone.

“A– Alpha…” You whimpered as your hivemind took over. Your irises were gone from how wide your pupils were, and your slick was overflowing the edge of the desk and falling onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. You raised your knees towards your chest, letting you show off your pussy to him, presenting yourself in a semi mating press. 

He licked his lips as he looked down at you, his chest moving up and down as he hissed through his teeth. Your Alpha, for some reason, you felt like he was fighting against something. It felt as if he was trying to fight off the rut. But you didn’t want him to. Maybe he knots you, and breeds you, hopefully. You want a pup with him, a pup from your scent mate, yes.

“Please, Alpha, my Alpha…” You begged and that was enough for Eddie to come out of his trance, his hands moving to the back of your knees for support as he moved his hips forward, and his cock ran over your slicked folds, making you moan desperately as you salivated in your mouth. ��More, more, more–”

“Yes my Omega. My beautiful Omega… My Rose, your Alpha will give you more. Always.” His tip caught on your entrance and you gasped and you showed your Alpha your wrists, begging for him to take them off so your hands could touch him properly.

“I need to touch you, please, I’ll be good, I promise!” He immediately worked on the tie, yanking it off, probably ripping it apart in the process, and your hands shot up, trying to unbutton his shirt, whining with need to see, touch, feel his skin. His hands grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and he pulled, the buttons snapping and the shirt was ripped open, a breath of relief leaving his lips.

Your eyes scanned the tattooed chest, just a few tattoos here and there, scars that littered all over his stomach as well. You could hear your heartbeat into your ears, your body setting on fire at the sight of the layer of sweat covering his skin. Your hands, now with painful markings around their wrists but you could care less about that now, went forward to touch his stomach.

Fingernails scratched onto the flesh as another thrust of his hips made the tip enter you for just a second, a desperate whimper leaving your lips as you looked up at him with a pleading look. Why isn’t your Alpha taking you? Does he not want you? Are you not as pretty as the others? Your belly cramped, making you clench your eyes as pain shot towards your entire body.

“She didn’t knot you, didn’t she?” Your eyes shot open at the question and you looked at the man towering over you as his grip tightened underneath your knees. You wanted to tell him the truth, comply, but you were also feeling betrayed, used, and played with.

“D-Did you knot them?” Your voice was small and shaky, knowing you weren’t in the position to question the Alpha. You were in a vulnerable state, completely open for the kill. 

And with a loud growl, the biggest one you heard him give yet, he seethed himself inside of you in one powerful thrust.

You threw your head back as you shrieked at the sudden stretch, at the sudden pressure and the pain. It wasn’t great, but it was still painful, yet, your cramps stopped, just a little bit. They stopped stinging like knives, leaving a pain that can only be calmed by a knot. His knot. Tears ran down your cheeks as you gasped for air, your mouth open while you stared at the ceiling, and he bottomed inside of you, inch by inch.

He was big, the biggest you’ve ever had and it felt good, yet painful even with the foreplay. You pissed him off with your response, and you knew it because you could still hear him growling inside of his chest, groaning at the feel of you around him. 

His pelvis clashed against yours and you guided one of your hands towards your belly and you could swear you could feel him when you pressed. He was too deep inside of you and– and– you needed him to move. He needs to move. Your cramps are coming back as well as the cloudiness of your mind.

“P-Please Alpha, move–”

“I won’t move until you tell me.” His voice came out through his teeth as he looked down at you. More tears ran down your eyes as you tried to move your hips against him and he snarled at you in warning. “Tell me!”

“She didn’t! I couldn’t! The only– The only knot I want is–” And a sob ripped out of you as you looked at the man above you. It wasn’t fair, to be in this state and having no control, and knowing that after this, it would be forgotten, a fling of the moment because his ego got smashed.

“Is mine. The only knot you want is mine… And it’s the only one you’ll ever get from now on.” And his hips reeled back, only to slam themselves against you once again, making you choke up on a moan, your breath being knocked out of you instantly, the tip of his cock hitting the deepest part inside of you.

He felt divine, the burning of the first thrust slowly dissipating the more he moved his hips, going in and out of you as you adjusted to his size. The cramps were obscured by the waves of pleasure that your body started to feel, your limbs becoming limp for him to maneuver however he liked.

His fingertips were bruising your skin and his eyes were fixed where the two of you were connecting over and over again, and he grunted in pleasure at the sight, seeing himself disappear inside you, filling you up and feeling your cunt squeezing him, friction burning him from head to toes.

“Ah–” You gasped into your moan as he straightened up to pick up the pace, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving the tip inside, only to then go back in at a steady pace. Your hands flew to the edges on each side of the desk, trying to ground yourself as your mind reeled, your Omegan pheromones only making the Alpha in the room even more feral.

“So good, fuck, you feel so good baby. So, so, so fucking good.” He hissed out, his eyebrows meeting in the middle, a strained look on his face as his jaw clenched, still looking down at his cock going into your pussy, and he could see how your slick overflowed all around him.

You chirped at the praise as you bounced on the desk at each hit of his hips against yours, moans coming out of both your mouths and your rationality shut off once more as another cramp suddenly hit your belly. You weren’t being satisfied. Your needs were not being met and you were becoming restless.

“M-More…” You whimpered and he only tsked as he kept the same pace, not relenting to your begging.

“More what?” He knew exactly what you wanted, and he was playing with you. Tears of exasperation filled your eyes as you moved your hips in retaliation, making him hiss at you from the sudden action.

“More please? Please Alpha… I need– Faster, rougher– It hurts, it hurts–” And you were referring to that in so many ways. How your cramps hurt right now because your body needs and requires his knot, or how your whole soul hurt these past months knowing he never chose you for this before. He chose others, right in your face.

“Anything for my dumb little omega.” You didn’t know why he was insulting you, but you had no time to think. Your eyes widened as you gasped, followed by pleased mewls and loud moans as his hips started snapping against yours, the slapping on skin bouncing on every wall and bookcase, echoing thanks to the tall ceiling above you.

You now realize why he made everyone leave the entire floor.

His pace was rough, deep and fast, fucking into you desperately and your fingernails dug into the wood of the edge’s of the desk as you felt your insides being basically rearranged by him. Your cramps were still there but getting his cock inside of you helped somewhat, the pleasure overpowering it at times. You were loud, crying your moans out, your breaths, your huffs, and the yelling of his name.

His eyes were fixated now on your body, how it moved up and down thanks to his movements, your tear stained face, your open mouth that only let out filthy sounds, mumbling his name on the low in the haze of it all. You felt yourself start to flutter around his dick, the abuse against your g-spot making it an easy climax from the overstimulation. New tears prickled your eyes as your body jerked at every thrust, your belly coiling up, causing another cramp to happen. You whined loudly as your hips started meeting with his thrusts, desperately.

“Please, please, Eddie, my Alpha, more–” You were begging, pleading, imploring him to help you, because you were feeling good, but you weren’t at the same time because you needed more, your body still unsatisfied. You knew what it wanted, and it wasn’t just his knot. You wanted his bite.

“Tell me what you want.” You mewled as his thrusts turned deep, his hips coming to a slower pace and he circled them against you. You didn’t want to tell him, it is too embarrassing, knowing he is only doing this just for lust, and that he has done it with the rest, many times. Suddenly, a cry tore out from your mouth and you looked at Eddie with his teeth biting into your right calf. Your body jerked at the sudden bite, and your hands flew in reflex to try to grab him, but you weren’t strong enough to push yourself up and towards him.

“It hurts– Stop–” He growled as he pulled away from your skin, blood at the corner of his mouth, teeth glistening with a crimson hue. You looked at the bite, at his mark in your flesh and you chirped at the sight, wanting the same mark around your mating gland. It looked so pretty, so perfect, and it felt like you were owned. He hissed at you and his hips came to a halt, bottoming out inside of you. 

“Tell me what you want. I won’t continue until you tell me.” His jaw was clenched, the vein on his neck popping out from how much he was holding himself back from continuing your very destruction. You whined once more as you felt the burning of his bite on your calf, a drop of blood oozing out.

“I– I can’t– Not when you knotted… the others– embarrassing, Alpha, it’s embarrassing–” You were sobbing now, the pain from the past six months rushing back to you in a wave, clashing against the happiness you feel now, making you a bit dizzy from the mix of emotions. 

You heard him sigh and you dared to look at him through your tears, and he was looking down at you with a pained look. Why is he looking at you like that? Maybe it’s pity? Or maybe he feels sorry for how dumb you are? How naive? Or maybe–

“Oh my Omega… I have never knotted any of them.”

Your eyes fully opened at that, your heart thrumming in your chest as your body shook with excitement against your own will. What did he say? You saw his tongue darting out, his hand caressing your calf gently and pushing it towards his mouth so he can lick the wound clean. He side eyed you as he did this action, making your pussy clench around him, making the both of you hiss, remembering the position you are in.

“But– But I heard–”

“And I never complied.” He took his hands off your calf and the back of your left knee to lean forward. Your breathing was erratic, your hands immediately flying to hold onto his shoulders to pull him closer. His hands caged you in, one on each side of your head as he looked down at you. “-- I couldn’t comply.”

You blinked with confusion and doubt in your eyes. You wanted to believe him, you really wanted to, but– 

“Why?” Was the question flying out of your mouth and he leaned down towards you, his lips finding purchase on yours and you could only purr out of instinct, your heart exploding with happiness and joy inside your chest, trying to take the spotlight off of the thunder raging in your head.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and your legs around his waist, pushing him into you. You both groaned at the action, making him pull away from the soft peck, his pupils back to being completely dilated and you moaned as his cock twitched inside of you. A growl escaped him as he quickly wrapped his arms around your frame and lifted you off the desk, a gasp leaving your lips and your grip tightened all around him.

You knew his instincts kicked in again, his mind clouded once more, but the knowledge that he never knotted the others was starting to settle in your head, and it was slowly making you go back to that state of mind where the only thing that mattered was being bred and knotted by the Alpha that was holding you tightly in his arms.

You felt yourself being lowered and the carpet hit your back, your eyes finding the ceiling once again. His hands grabbed onto your knees and he pulled them away from himself, making you untangle your legs from his waist. He bared his teeth at you as you didn’t let go of his shoulders, and you quickly complied, submitting yourself to him.

“Good Omega. My Omega.” He suddenly pulled out from you as he kneeled back and you whined with a sob, lifting yourself with help of your elbows to look at him.

“NO! Alpha, please, I need your knot, please– Why are you doing this? I–” His hand pressed against your chest and pushed you back down, snarling at you to let him work. You gasped when he grabbed onto your knees, keeping them apart, but then roughly pushing them up towards your chest, and you felt your hips rising from the ground, bending your body slightly.

His knees were now on each side of your hips as he leaned forward, towering over your frame, his cock twitching and your eyes could see the base of his cock pulsating, ready for his knot to pop. You purred and salivated at it, wanting it, desiring it, needing it and then you realized–

You were put in a mating press.

His cock went in with one harsh thrust, and you swear you could feel him at the back of your throat as you threw your head back. Your hands grabbed onto the carpet below you for some grounding, but you only let yourself smile in pleasure, in bliss, as you felt him burn inside of you. 

His knuckles were white from how hard his grip was on your knees to keep you in that position. A position that helps with fecundation. He groaned loudly when you clenched around him, your climax coming back to you as if it had never left moments ago. Your belly ached, cramped, turned, but most of all, it burned. It was burning you with the need of release, the need to be filled, the need of him.

His thrusts started quick and powerful, knocking the breath out of you at each jerk, the carpet burning your back as you rubbed it back and forth. You couldn’t care less. Not the burn of the back or the pain of your wrists or the bite on your calf. He could hurt you, bend you, break you, and you would be fine with all of that. At least, you mean something to him that way. Something different than the rest.

“Mine. Mine. Mine. You’re fucking mine.” He growled, over and over again while he fucked into you like a madman, like an animal. He was sweating, your eyes following every drop, his hair clinging to the sides of his face, and he was the most beautiful person in this whole wide world. He is calling you his, maybe thanks to his small triggered rut, but you had no time to feel the pain of that realization yet.

“Alpha, it feels so good. Fill me up, please, pretty please–” You didn’t recognize your voice. Needy, dripping with lust and pleasure, and you don’t remember a single time you talked like this. Not even when you shared your heats with your ex. You never begged like this. This is what a scent mate does to someone. It turns you fucking stupid.

The slapping of skin was filthy, wet sounds following them because your slick was being produced at each thrust of his. It was probably a mess, and you know it because you turned your head to see the edge of the desk you laid on moments ago, and the side had your slick dripping down in a single streak towards the floor, and a small pool of it formed at the foot of the desk. 

His thighs were drenched in you, and you moaned loudly at the thought, your eyes returning to meet his. He moaned your name under his breath and you trembled at the sound of it. He called you by your name, not rose, not omega. Your name. It made your belly come closer and closer to the edge, pussy fluttering and clenching all around him as he continued his powerful thrusts.

Your vision became blurry as tears mixed with how cockdrunk you became, but you could see a thin silver necklace dangling from his neck, back and forth. Your nails dug into the carpet underneath you as your breath picked up a pace, feeling the coil in your stomach and belly turn wildly, your orgasm threatening you to explode at any second. 

“Alpha– Alpha– I’m–” And he grunted as your eyes widened with a surprised gasp when you felt the beginning of his knot start to hit your entrance. You could feel it popping in and then back out, his teeth bared and he finally looked at you, a yellow glint flashing in his eyes as he stared down at you.

“I’m going to knot you. I’m going to knot you and breed you, over and over and over again… And I’m going to mate you.” You didn’t know if you were making it up, you didn’t know anymore. It sounded way too good to be true– “Oh, you don’t believe me?” 

Your eyes widened, shock washing over you as you tried to talk, only for loud cries to escape your lips when his thrusts became hard, rough, and the knot started swelling more and more, making it a little painful when it started popping in and out of you. Your mind was a haze, the only need being his knot. His knot. His knot.

“Alph–” You couldn’t talk because of this position, which was a bit straining, and the air was just simply knocked out of you at each thrust. You couldn’t breathe properly, feeling as if you were going to pass out. His teeth were now bared, fangs just slightly enlarged, snarling as he huffed in pleasure.

“You’re mine. All mine. Forever mine, my omega.” Your pussy clenched at the words, your mind no longer your own, and you cried out as your climax finally hit you, tightening all around his cock and now, his knot swelling instantly, impossible to pull out without hurting you, so he braced himself on his knees to push deep into you, and then he moaned loudly as his breath trembled when he locked himself inside of you, his cum filling your belly.

Your pussy milked him as your cramps finally stopped, leaving you in the stars. Your trembling was intense as you felt him spill inside of you and the more you clenched, the more cum he let out. It was never ending, the both of you moaning, groaning, and purring. He moved his hips once, a whimper leaving your lips and a growl rumbling in his chest.

He let go of your knees, his breathing heavy, his nostrils flaring as he leaned forward, his upper body bending as one hand cradles the back of your head, while the other holds your left bicep. His eyes clashed with yours, breaths intertwining between the two of you, chests heaving as the scents inside the room made your head spin.

He leaned down and you felt him lick the scent gland on your neck, his cock twitching inside of you and you swore you could feel more cum leaking out from him. You groaned, your eyes closing as he tasted you. His chest rumbled as he pressed his own scent gland against yours, true to his word. He cleansed the other alpha’s smell from you, replacing it with his own. He then proceeded to scent your mating gland, which only broke you.

He marked you in ways he probably doesn’t understand. After this, the two of you will go back to boss and secretary. You will have to leave, leaving this, leaving him behind you. Turn him into your past. You will probably have to go to an omegan therapist after this, and you would also leave Robin–

And the world stopped.

Everything. The universe. The stars. Your own breath. Your heart. Time itself. What…?

And then, fire. Fire spreading all over you coming from your mating gland. Your mating gland that was suddenly bitten into by the alpha that had his knot deep inside of you. You were bitten. He bit you. He claimed you. You were now his. 

A scream ripped out from your chest as another orgasm came crashing out of nowhere, clenching around him like a vice, milking him even more. He moaned into your skin, the hand on the back of your head holding you tightly as you shook underneath him. You didn’t understand anything. He was telling the truth. Eddie… Your– Your Alpha. He was your alpha now. For real.

He pulled away from you with a gasp for air, your blood all over his lips and teeth. You could feel his pleasure. His joy. His desire. His fear. His nervousness. His ecstasy. His delightfulness. Everything. He pressed a soft kiss on your lips, your shock still apparent, even if the kiss sent a million jolts of electricity through your body.

He pulled away with a chuckle and he proceeded to lean down again, pushing your head into his own mating gland this time. Your eyes were lost as you wondered what he wanted, his smell slowly bringing you down to earth once more, time moving again, the stars and the universe continuing their course.

“Bite me. Bite me back Omega.” Surprise was displayed on your features as soon as he said those words. It wasn’t common for omegas to bite their alphas back to seal the bond, the mating process, but people say it’s for the bond to be permanent, for eternity, for the mates to find eachother in this time and the next.

Your hands went towards his back, your nails dragging across his shirt, he never took it off. You could feel how damp it was thanks to the sweat, clinging to his body, and now– your eyes filled with tears, knowing now that he also knew you were his scent mate. This was never one sided. You have a lot of questions to ask him, but now… right now–

Your small fangs pierced through his mating gland.

He gave a small whimper as you felt iron filling your mouth. His blood. His scent. He was now all over you, and inside of you, in every sense and way possible. You moaned at his taste when you felt him twitch inside of you once more, his knot pulsing. You couldn’t believe it. As you retreated your mouth from him and laid your head back down on the carpet, you finally smiled.

He looked down at you, and you knew he was hoping you weren’t mad at him. He took your liberty and freedom in a single night thanks to his jealousy. To his possessiveness. To his fear of losing you. Your right hand moved towards his face, caressing his cheek gently, and he gave you a reassuring smile, closing his eyes, leaning towards your touch.

This is the first time you saw him like this. Vulnerable. A true smile of happiness on his lips, and it was all because of you. How could you be mad at him when he gave you what you’ve been wanting for the past six months you’ve known him? Something you didn’t think was possible, or that it was just in your head, or it was simply one sided? No… You could never be mad at him for it.

“My Alpha…” You whispered, your breaths starting to slow down as exhaustion started to wash over you, knowing your body will ache the following day, but you couldn’t care less. His eyes opened again, and he leaned down to press a soft kiss on your lips, a huff escaping his nose in pure delight. He pulled away a second later, his right hand caressing the side of your face, wiping your tears away. Tears you didn’t notice had fallen down your eyes.

“My Omega… Mine only… so dumb for not realizing what I was trying to say…” Your eyes closed as a satisfied sigh escaped your lips, relief washing over you. His hand kept caressing your face, his soft lips pressing on your forehead, your cheek, tender and caring. Keeping you safe in his arms, his embrace being your safest nest, at least for tonight.

“Eddie…” You mumbled as your consciousness started to slip away as slumber started to overtake you. You heard your name being called out by him after a soft kiss was pressed against your forehead. Your heart now filled with joy, your mating gland ablaze, but you could not feel the pain. 

“Rest darling… I’ll keep you safe.” 

And then, darkness.

His back was against the headboard of the bed hidden inside his office. He just had to press a button and a bookcase would fall down to reveal itself as a king sized mattress. He held his cellphone on his left hand, calling on Chrissy while his right arm was around your sleeping frame, completely knocked out as you laid on your side, your head on his chest and right hand over his heart. 

Once he knew his knot had deflated, he got you both in a more comfortable position. He will have to explain himself to you but now, he had to–

“Tell me you didn’t boss.” Chrissy’s voice blasted in his ear, making him hiss and pull the phone away from him. His fingers were softly brushing your back, keeping you asleep.

“It is done.” His voice was low as he looked down at you, your breaths coming out from your mouth evenly and calm. A soft smile appeared on his lips, feeling the wound of your bite pulsing and burning on his shoulder, but it only made him happier. He heard Chrissy letting out an exasperated sigh on the other side of the phone, making his smile fall and look out the window.

“We haven’t solved the issue with the Hagans. You had to wait until that was finished! They will now know about your mate and target her!” His jaw clenched as his arm tightened around your frame, making you whimper slightly at the tightness but not in pain, just a sound in your sleep. 

“I won’t let them touch her, you know that.” Chrissy sighed once more. He knew his right hand was right, but he couldn’t– “Chris, I couldn’t let her slip away from me. She is my scent mate. It was going to happen sooner or later, and the other omegas were not a useful distraction any longer.”

“I know Eddie…” There was a moment of silence before Chrissy continued talking, “but it doesn’t take away the fact that she will be targeted from now on. Something you were trying to avoid all this while by keeping your distance… So, what now?”

And Eddie pondered. He looked out the window as his mind worked, the need to protect you now ten times bigger, may he say twenty thanks to the bond. You two are mated for life now. In this life and the next, and the next, and he has to protect you with everything that he is, even if his own life is at risk.

“Then I guess I have to kill Tommy once and for all and take the clan for myself.” Chrissy remained silent on the other side. It wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all. He was going to do it peacefully, but Tommy was not a bright or reasonable leader. He was never happy about Eddie’s negotiations, always threatening him and his group, and Eddie knows he will threaten your life in order to get what he wants.

So he prefers to have Tommy’s head in his hands than wait for him to do something stupid.

“Alright… It’s settled.” He hears a rustling of papers, knowing she is taking down notes. He feels you stir slightly, but you just fixed your head on his chest, letting out a soft sigh as you kept sleeping. “And then?”

Eddie frowned in thought and looked down at your frame. A smirk spread on his face as he looked all over your body, his eyes resting over your waist, seeing your belly from the side.

“Get me a house. Somewhere residential, private, secure.” His voice was imperative, and he knew Chrissy was going to comply with no questions asked.

“Alright. How many rooms?” And his lips pressed on the top of your head as a smile spread on them, almost wickedly so.

“Let’s start… with four.”

End

a/n: time to get bred ig, hope u enjoyed, don't forget to leave a reblog, a comment on the reblog doesn't hurt either pretty pls

[yuujispinkhair]

Cowboy Sukuna (Part 1)

Sukuna became a cowboy so he wouldn't have to let anyone tell him what to do. And because he wanted to put some distance between himself and his little brother so Sukuna wouldn't drag him into his mess. Sukuna is made for the lonesome cowboy life. He doesn't need anyone by his side. He isn't looking for love. At least that's what he thinks until he meets you, a pretty girl in a flowery dress and cowboy boots who somehow knows how to tear Sukuna's walls down.

Cowboy!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: Cowboy AU, fluff + smut Word Count: 7.5k Playlist: Cowboy Sukuna Warnings: 18+, smut, cigarettes, alcohol, fistfights, blood. Minors don't interact. This story is inspired by @sweetlandspos fanart of Cowboy Sukuna (also this is the selfie he sends Reader). I saw him and fell in love, and I just HAD to write a story about this sexy cowboy. Divider @/benkeibear. The art in the header was used with permission from @/sweetlandspos

Sukuna grew up thinking he belonged nowhere. He can't even remember his dad and his mama didn't want him either. He was raised by his grandpa, but Sukuna was a wild one, a rebel and troublemaker, famous in his small town but for all the wrong reasons. He got all those tattoos when he was far too young, got into all those fistfights, broke all those hearts, and even got into trouble with the cops once. His gramps told Sukuna he was a bad influence on his little brother, so when Sukuna was old enough, he left it all behind and bought this old ranch in the middle of nowhere.

He renovated the old farmhouse all by himself and built his own life out here. A life he could be proud of. It's a lonely life. No wife, no kids, not even a girlfriend. Just Sukuna and his dog and horse and the cows. And lots of hard work. But it's what Sukuna tells himself he wants. The bad boy cowboy never even considered getting married. He doesn't think he is made for love. He isn't even sure he deserves it or is capable of it. Sukuna enjoys life out here in the middle of nowhere and tells himself he doesn't need anyone by his side, anyway.

If he wants to fuck, he can drive to town and flirt his way into some pretty girl's bed. It's never anything serious. Just a few hours of fun and then Sukuna is gone again. No goodbye kiss, no exchange of phone numbers. The only thing he leaves behind are some muddy bootprints on her front porch, and some cigarette ash flicked out of his car window.

Sukuna doesn't expect to ever find love or even want to find it. And he certainly doesn't think that he will meet his future wife on a random Tuesday morning in the shabby old hardware store he has been frequenting for years.

He got into his pickup truck at sunrise, driving several hours to the small town to buy some things in the hardware store, and that's where he runs into you, a sweet little thing in a flowery dress and pretty cowboy boots, wringing your hands nervously when Sukuna has some questions regarding the pond supplies he wants to buy.

He grins at you, taking his cowboy hat off and nodding at you respectfully, all polite because contrary to what he looks like with all his tattoos and the intimidating height and muscular build, he can be a gentleman if he wants to, and you seem like such a sweetheart, Sukuna thinks you deserve his best charming self.

You tell him it's your first day working here and you have to check with your boss. You apologize profusely to Sukuna, and he can't stop the smirk from spreading over his tattooed face because you are so damn cute.

He tells you, "It's okay, ma'am, I have time.", and watches you get all flustered before you hurry to the back of the store.

You return a few minutes later with a warm smile on your face and answer Sukuna's questions, showing him around and also helping him pick some other things he says he needs (which he doesn't, but he likes the way you smile at him and the way your sweet flowery perfume fills his nose anytime you move).

You even insist on helping him load the items into his pickup truck,

"See it as compensation for my earlier lack of fishing pond knowledge."

And Sukuna laughs and thanks you,

"There is nothing you have to compensate for. I am very pleased with your service."

He eyes the nameplate attached to your dress and addresses you by your name, letting it roll off his tongue in his low, velvety voice that he knows girls find sexy. Sukuna can see that you are affected by his charm, and he grins broadly at you when he tips his cowboy hat in a farewell. And you smile so sweetly at him, and Sukuna is pretty sure you really mean it when you tell him to come back again soon.

Sukuna is back in town only a week later, picking up a new saddle he ordered at the local saddler, but he drives past the hardware store on his way back, and something makes him slow down, makes him take one last deep drag from his cigarette and then flick the cigarette butt out the open window before Sukuna pulls into the small parking lot.

Sukuna tells himself it's a good idea to have a little look around when he already made the long drive into town anyway. He could use a new toolbox. The old one is still functioning, but this new one comes with a sweet girl in a cute little skirt and those shiny cowboy boots. Sukuna spends thirty minutes in the little shop until he finally sees you coming out from the back.

Your gaze meets his, and he sees the way your eyes widen just as Sukuna grins at you, tipping his cowboy hat in greeting and casually strolling over to you.

You smile brightly at him, remembering him (Of course you do. Sukuna knows he always leaves an impression), greeting him by his name, and asking him how you can be of help.

Sukuna cocks his head, a lazy smirk spreading over his handsome, tattooed face, letting his gaze travel over your pretty face and cute curves, thinking that he definitely knows some things you could help him with. He is pretty sure he could have you in his truck in no time at all, his calloused hands slipping under your cute little skirt while your pretty mouth moans his name. But something makes him hold back.

It's untypical for Sukuna. He drove all the way to town and will only be here for a few hours. Usually, he makes good use of that time to get his fill of some sweet pussy wrapped around his cock to keep him satisfied for the long lonely nights to come once he is back home again, riding over the plains, herding his cows.

But Sukuna looks at your sweet smile and your genuine kindness, and it doesn't feel right to only fuck you and then leave again to never see you again.

And so Sukuna doesn't try to get under your skirt but instead leans down to grin at you and ask you to help him pick a nice new toolbox.

He walks out of the store an hour later, not just with a new toolbox but also a new BBQ grill, some lawn chairs, and a saddle bag he could have gotten in much better quality at the saddler he just came from. But it's okay because it meant that he could spend a whole hour with you in the shitty little hardware store, letting you show him around, talking to him in your sweet voice with the thick accent, while Sukuna watched your little skirt sway around your knees.

You accompany him to his truck again, and Sukuna smirks at you like the devil that he is, asking in a teasing voice,

"Is this some new service your store offers? Helping every customer load their stuff into their cars? Or is this a special service just for me?"

His smirk grows bigger when he sees how flustered you get once again, and he adds,

"No need to get all shy on me, sweetheart. I like being your favorite customer."

You giggle nervously but smile that bright smile at him again and quickly ask him where he lives and what he's doing for a living. And Sukuna laughs and points at his cowboy hat,

"This is what I'm doing. The hat isn't just a sexy accessory."

"Oh? So you're really a cowboy?"

"Yeah, as real as you can meet one. I have my own ranch a few hours from here. Just me and my animals."

You smile at him, getting a slightly dreamy look in your eyes, telling him,

"That sounds nice."

Sukuna doesn't know why his chest feels so fluttery and warm the whole drive home. He even catches himself humming along softly to one of those stupid, catchy lovesongs playing on the country station on his shitty old car radio.

Cowboy Sukuna doesn't know what it is, but lately, he keeps coming to town more often than usual. It's Friday night, and he's sitting in the small bar with the roses on the wooden sign above the old-fashioned saloon doors.

Sukuna is drinking whiskey with some rancher who wants to buy several cows from him, when Sukuna suddenly sees you. All pretty and sexy without knowing it, in your blue jeans and the cropped blouse, laughing unrestrainedly with your girls after a long work day.

Sukuna can't take his eyes off you. He watches you over the rim of his whiskey glass, feeling that strange warmth in his chest again. He's about to put his glass down and walk over to you when he sees a guy bump into you.

The asshole is acting as if it was by accident, but he is far too handsy for Sukuna's taste. Standing much too close to you, his shoulders brushing against yours, his mouth at your ear, saying something to you.

Sukuna grits his teeth.

You smile politely at the guy, laughing awkwardly, not at all like when you laugh with Sukuna. You are uncomfortable. That much is clear to see, but Sukuna can tell you are a good girl who was taught to always be nice and polite, even to that guy with the grabby hands. That pathetic worm puts a hand on your hip, and Sukuna sees red.

He slams his whiskey glass down on the table and crosses the small bar in a few large steps, grabbing that handsy guy and pulling him off you with an angry growl. Sukuna slams him into the wall, glaring at him, his voice low and dangerous,

"Get your dirty hands off her, or I'll fucking kill you!"

Your wide, surprised eyes stare at Sukuna, and that nameless guy screams and tries to punch him, but Sukuna just laughs about the pathetic attempt and drags him further away from you, grabbing him by the collar as Sukuna's right fist connects with the asshole's face.

Sukuna has always been good at fistfights. He is a rough guy, a dirty fighter, sadistic when someone pisses him off. He tried to stay out of trouble those last few years, but tonight, he is not restraining his anger, not when it comes to protecting you.

He smirks devilishly at the guy when that asshole manages to land a hit on Sukuna's face. It just manages to rile Sukuna up even more. He laughs and taunts that loser for hitting like a little boy before Sukuna attacks again and sends the guy tumbling to the floor with the next hard punch.

It's then that your small, soft hands wrap around Sukuna's tattooed biceps, and your sweet voice says his name with so much worry that it makes Sukuna stop going after that guy on the floor. He just jerks his head at the guy, telling him to get lost,

"If you know what's good for you, you better stay a mile away from that sweet lady in the future. Now apologize to her."

And the guy scrambles to his feet, mumbling a sorry before he flees from the bar and from Sukuna.

Sukuna slowly turns around, running a tattooed hand through his pink hair. He wipes his split lip on his sleeve, gives you a lopsided grin, and asks if you are okay.

And you stare at him with big, worried eyes, taking in the blood on his tattooed face, but a small smile plays around your lips as you tell Sukuna,

"Thank you for getting him away from me. I am fine... but what about you? Your lip... let me fix that, please."

You take Sukuna's large hand in your smaller one, tugging gently on it, and Sukuna follows you out of the bar.

You lead him down the road to your small house, inviting him in, not to have sex with him, but to patch him up, and somehow it feels a lot more intimate than all the times combined that Sukuna went home with another girl.

You are so sweet to him, scolding him for getting into a fight and getting himself hurt, but your fingers are so gentle when you wipe the blood off Sukuna's face and put a band-aid on his split lip. You smile softly as you trace the tattoos on Sukuna's jaw with your fingers and whisper a thank you to him.

"Thank you for protecting me from that guy and teaching him a lesson. You're a good guy."

And Sukuna laughs roughly, grinning at you and shaking his head,

"That's a first. Usually, I get called the opposite."

And you laugh with him, your soft fingers still cupping his chin and touching his tattoos oh so gently, insisting that even though he looks like a bad boy, Sukuna seems really nice.

Sukuna is so close to just pulling you on his lap and kissing you, but he refrains from doing it. Because he knows where it would lead, and for once in his life, Sukuna doesn't want a one-night stand. He doesn't want to fuck you and then drive back to his life out on the ranch to never see you again.

He doesn't want that with you. He wants to see you again, and he wants to take things slow. He wants to court you in an old-fashioned way.

Sukuna eats the homemade pie you bring him and drinks the coffee you insist he should drink before he drives back home. He thanks you politely for playing nurse for him and for feeding him, looking at you with the most charming smile he can give you with his split lip. And you tell him he is welcome and that he knows now where to find you if he ever needs someone to patch him up again.

Sukuna returns a week later to the hardware store, not because he needs to buy anything, but for you. He sees you smile when you spot him leaning casually against a wooden fence display, twirling his cowboy hat in his fingers and smirking that lazy grin at you.

You only have eyes for him, forgetting what you want to say to the customers you are serving. Looking at them in confusion and stuttering an excuse before your gaze wanders back to Sukuna. And Sukuna's smirk grows bigger.

He didn't even dress nice. He is just wearing his typical black jeans and cowboy boots, and one of the flannel shirts he always wears on the ranch. But he knows he looks good anyway. Sukuna knows the ladies love his handsome face and his tall and strong body with all those well-defined muscles from all the hard work. And his pink hair and tattoos are very popular with the country girls, too. They all get weak in the knees for a bad boy like Sukuna.

But somehow, he doesn't want to be a bad boy when it comes to you. A strange warmth spreads through Sukuna's chest when you leave the other customers standing and come over to him with that big smile on your pretty face, greeting him and telling him that it's nice to see him again.

No, Sukuna doesn't want to be an asshole or a bad boy when it comes to you. He wants to be a good man for you. He is polite to you, sweet, and respectful. A true cowboy and gentleman.

He grins his boyish grin at you, cocking his head and drawls,

"I thought I should stop by to check on you. Make sure there aren't any weird guys I have to fistfight for you."

Sukuna flirts with you and makes you laugh and giggle until your boss gives you side eyes and informs you that you shouldn't pester customers. But Sukuna turns to the man, towering over him,

"She is just helping me decide which products to buy. You shouldn't berate her but rather give her a raise. This sweet lady is the best thing about this shitty store. The only reason I keep coming back."

You burst out laughing the moment your boss has left and Sukuna thinks his stomach has never felt so fluttery. He asks you when your shift is over and if he can take you out for dinner. He is delighted when you say yes.

Sukuna waits until your shift is over and then leads you to his old pickup truck, holding open the door for you, giving you a hand, and helping you climb into it. His hand rests a bit longer than necessary on the small of your back, but you don't seem to mind.

He takes you to a cozy little restaurant that he has been to several times before. Always alone because Sukuna never went on dates in the past. But the elderly lady who owns the restaurant always tells Sukuna that she knows the type of cowboy Sukuna is from the time when she was still a young girl.

"Oh, I have had several boys like you in my life. Y'all are such handsome devils, but always breaking hearts everywhere you go because you are always running from something, and you don't even know from what. I wish for you to find the right girl one day. And if you do, bring her here."

And now Sukuna is here with you, walking into the restaurant with his arm wrapped lightly around you, catching the knowing gaze of the old lady behind the counter. She leads the two of you to a table on the patio, all romantic with wildflowers in a mason jar and fairy lights overhead.

Sukuna has never been on a real date, but he likes this. He likes to be here with you, chat with you, laugh with you, and hold your hand on the table, watching his long tattooed fingers interlace with your smaller ones, which feel so soft.

The hours slip by without either of you noticing how late it is.

When it is time to bring you home, Sukuna drives you to your house, parks the truck in front of it, and turns to you to say the typical flirty stuff that he usually says to girls, but he stops when he sees your smile, and somehow anything he usually says seems so hollow and fake, and it wouldn't be right to say it to you.

Sukuna closes his mouth again, gulping hard, the bad boy cowboy at a loss for words for the first time in his life.

This feeling is new to Sukuna. All of this is new to him. This warmth in his chest and the fluttery feeling in his stomach. And how he is so damn scared to fuck things up and lose you before you even are his.

How can Sukuna even say anything at all to you when everything he wants to tell you is so fucking raw and loaded with feelings he has never felt before? When it all makes him feel so fucking vulnerable?

Like the fact that Sukuna really enjoys spending time with you and that he wants to see you again. Or that he is pretty sure he gets butterflies when hearing your laugh. Or that he never believed in love, but he thinks he is starting to do it now.

He can't say those things, can he?

In the end, it doesn't need any words from him. You smile at him and thank him for the lovely evening, adding a bit shyly that you aren't used to going on dates, and then stutter because you realize what you said and you are worried that it wasn't really a date and you made a fool of yourself by assuming it was one.

And Sukuna can't help but grin and then do the one thing that will shut you up and hopefully ease your worries:

He kisses you right there in his truck. Cups your chin with his calloused hand and brushes his lips softly over yours. Careful, gentle. Something Sukuna usually isn't, but you bring out some part of him that was dormant until now.

Sukuna wants this kiss to be special. He wants to be gentle with you because you are gentle with him, too. You are sweet and kind. You treat him as if he is deserving of tenderness.

You make a cute, surprised sound, but don't pull away. Instead, your hand lands on Sukuna's neck, caressing the short stubble of his undercut, pulling him closer as your lips begin to move against his, too, and Sukuna can't help but smile into the sweetest kiss he ever had.

When the two of you pull apart again, Sukuna smiles at you, a genuine, soft smile, and tells you,

"It was absolutely a date. And I had a lovely evening, too, princess. Let me take you out to dinner again soon."

Sukuna watches you get out of his truck and walk to your front door. He lifts a hand to give you a little wave when you turn around in the open doorway to smile at him once again, whisper-shouting to him that you wish him a safe drive home.

Sukuna stays in his truck outside your house until the light in your living room goes on, and he knows you are safe and sound before he finally pulls out of your driveway and makes his long way home, his thoughts filled with your smile and the taste of your sweet lips and tongue in his mouth.

Sukuna stays true to the promise he made to himself and really takes things slow with you. He has to work anyway, look after his ranch, fix some fences, and ride across the plains, where he meets no other human being for several days. But you are on his mind the whole time.

He sends you pictures from his rides when he is lucky and gets a signal. Selfies of him on horseback, grinning at you with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. And some pics of some of his cows, smiling when you ask for their names.

"They don't have names. I just numbered them. But you can give them names if you like, sweetheart."

And you do. You send Sukuna the stupidest names you can think of, and he can't stop grinning,

"I sure hope you won't be in charge of naming any kids."

"Well, I will let their daddy help choose the names if he has such a problem with my name-giving skills."

And Sukuna's head spins at the implication. You're a tease in such a sweet way, and it drives him completely insane.

But Sukuna knows he drives you crazy for him, too. He knows that as much as you like the normal pictures he sends you, you also love the thirst traps he blesses you with.

The pictures where he is shirtless, all his tattoos and defined muscles on display for you, sweat glistening on his strong body, his faded, ripped jeans sitting low on his hips and doing nothing to hide the massive bulge throbbing in them.

You send him pictures, too, not as shameless as the thirst traps Sukuna sends you, but enough to drive him crazy. He has never held himself back so long, but damn, he thinks you are worth all the hard-ons he has and only his own hand to take care of them. Sure, Sukuna could drive to the next bar and find a random girl to ease that pressure, but he doesn't want it. There is only one girl he wants.

Sukuna can wait. He knows you are worth it.

And as much as he wants to have you under him, leaving scratches on his back and squealing his name in pleasure, he also wants to just talk to you or maybe take you on a little ride on his horse.

He calls you every night just to hear your voice and ask about your day, laughing about all the rude customers at the hardware store. Sukuna asks you what you had for dinner and listens to all the latest gossip your mama told you. Sometimes, he falls asleep while listening to your sweet voice and sees a text from you in the morning telling him that he sounds cute when he snores.

Maybe that's ruining the bad-boy reputation that Sukuna has all over your small town, but he doesn't give a fuck. You can see this other side of him. You are the exception, and he finds that he likes that.

Sukuna visits the town as often as his ranch duties allow so he can take you on dates. Sometimes, he drives his old pickup truck, but sometimes, he takes his motorcycle, grinning at you when he parks it in front of your house and takes off his helmet, running a hand through his ruffled hair to smooth it down again, and telling you to come hop on so he can take you on a ride. And you raise an eyebrow jokingly,

"When you said you are a cowboy, I pictured a guy on a real horse..."

And there is this happy sparkle in your eyes, and that sweet laugh falling from your lips. And fuck, Sukuna knows he is a lost man.

He grins back at you, leaning down to greet you with a slow, deep kiss before he holds out his helmet to you,

"This cowboy will let you ride his horse soon, too, but for now, let me show you a bit more horsepower."

Sukuna loves the feeling of your body snuggling against his back, your hands wrapped tightly around his waist, your hands caressing his chest and his abs through his shirt, and your loud, excited laugh when Sukuna accelerates his bike and speeds down the dirt road leading to nowhere, leaving a cloud of dust and dirt behind.

Sukuna parks his motorcycle at a pretty pond and spreads out a picnic blanket in the grass. The two of you sit down to eat something, but it only takes a few minutes before the snacks are forgotten, and Sukuna rolls on top of you and kisses you until he feels dizzy, and you sigh into his mouth.

When you look up at him and touch his face, trace his tattoos with your fingertips, and smile at him, Sukuna knows that he has never been this genuinely happy in his life. But at the same time, it scares him. It terrifies him to feel so much.

He strolls down to the pond, smoking a cigarette while looking over the smooth surface of the water, trying to calm down and stop his fears from swallowing him. Trying to stop that voice in his head that whispers to him that this cowboy should do what he is best at and just run and isolate himself and live his life in solitude.

But your sweet laugh carries to Sukuna's ears as you run towards him, pulling him out of his dark thoughts. Your small hand wraps around his tattooed biceps, and you lean against his side,

"Hey cowboy, come back. I have some homemade lemonade and cake in my bag."

Sukuna turns his head to look at you, at the way you tilt your head to smile up at him, eyes full of affection. How could he walk away from this? Yeah, he is scared out of his mind of all those feelings, but he would regret it even more if he ran.

He blows out his cigarette smoke slowly as a lazy grin spreads over his face, and he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead.

"Homemade lemonade? You sure know the way to my heart, huh, princess?"

He lets you take his hand and pull him back to the picnic blanket, sipping your lemonade and letting you climb in his lap and feed him the cake you baked for him, and Sukuna wraps his arms around your waist, capturing your lips in a sweet, sexy kiss, hoping you can understand the silent promises his tongue writes against yours.

All the words he doesn't dare say out loud because they scare him. But Sukuna knows it's you for him. He knows that he wants by his side. He knows you are his girl and hopes he is your boy, too. He hopes he is a man who is deserving of you and your sweetness. Sukuna promises you silently that he will work damn hard to be that man.

It takes weeks before the two of you have sex.

Sukuna takes you on another date with his old truck this time, driving far out to watch the stars with you and lying in the bed of his truck with you in his arms.

He brought you flowers. The wild ones which grow on his ranch because he feels like you enjoy them more than the ones from the flower shops, and it makes him happy to see you with something from his life.

You thanked him with a sweet kiss and put some of the flowers in your hair, laughing when they fell out again, and Sukuna picked them up again and tucked them behind your ear.

And now those flowers are already out of your hair again, strewn all over the truck bed because the two of you are so lost in your deep tongue kisses and the feeling of your bodies grinding against each other.

The flowers are forgotten, just like the stars above. The only thing you know is each other's mouths and hands that tug on each other's clothes, craving more, needing skin-on-skin contact.

Sukuna's shirt has been long gone, and yours too, leaving you only in your lacey bra and the little skirt, driving Sukuna crazy. Your hands explore the naked skin of his broad back and his biceps, and your lips trail sweet kisses down Sukuna's neck, leaving your lipstick marks on him.

And Sukuna licks and kisses the swell of your breasts above your bra, finally pulling the pretty lacey thing down to reveal your even prettier tits. He sucks one nipple into his warm mouth as he looks up at your face, grinning when he sees your eyelashes flutter and hears the cute little noises you make for him.

You straddle Sukuna's lap, smiling at him with desire burning in your eyes while your small hands wander a bit shyly over his tattooed chest, and Sukuna thinks he will lose his mind if he doesn't finally take you.

He flips you over on your back, pushes his head under your skirt, and eats you out until your legs are shaking and your hands tug on his pink hair, and you cry out his name into the night.

You look up at Sukuna with parted lips and heavy-lidded eyes as you unbutton his jeans and get his achingly hard cock out, stroking him lovingly while you tell him to please make you his girl.

Sukuna has held back for so long but cannot do it anymore. Not when you look at him like that and stroke his cock like that and ask him to claim you. He pushes you down on the truck bed, his arms on each side of your head, his heavy body on top of yours, his lips claiming yours in a possessive, hungry kiss at the same time as his cock claims your sweet, warm pussy.

He takes you with hard, rough thrusts, fucking you almost feverishly once he feels your warm pussy around his cock. And for the first time in his life, Sukuna apologizes for the way he fucks. For his roughness, for his strength. But you cling to him and moan his name and tell him it's okay and that you want him exactly like this.

You leave scratches on Sukuna's back, and he fucks his seed into you over and over again. The two of you can't get enough of each other that night, making out and fucking in various positions until the sky becomes pink with the approaching sunrise, and both of you are sated and exhausted, and you slump against Sukuna's body, hugging him, pressing your tits firmly against his tattooed chest as his spent cock softens gradually inside you.

Sukuna lets his head fall back on the truck bed, his large hands lazily caressing your back, and he looks up at the sky that brings a new morning, thinking that it feels like it's a whole new life that is beginning today.

He drives you back to town an hour later, stealing glances at you the whole drive long, one tattooed hand resting on your naked thigh under your skirt, and your small hand lands on top of Sukuna's, caressing the back of his hand while you sing along to the country songs on the radio. Sukuna can't stop grinning the whole time.

But even after you start to have sex with each other, you still take time to get to know each other even better. It's fun and sexy but also deep and meaningful, and Sukuna catches himself being more open with you than he ever was with anyone before.

He tells you the truth when you ask about his family, tells you that it's messy, that he can't even remember his dad, and that his mama didn't want him either. He tells you about his little brother, who he hasn't seen in many years because Sukuna ran from home the moment he was 18. He confesses all the shit he did. All the stupid things a rebellious teenage Sukuna got involved in. All the trouble and pain he caused his family. All the regrets he has, when he looks back at his former life now.

And you take his large hand into both of yours and hold it so gently, and smile that sweet smile at him, telling him that sometimes families simply are like that. A mess.

You tell him that you like him the way he is, with all his rough edges, and that you wish Sukuna had more love in his life when he needed it the most as a child.

"But you have me now, Kuna. And I will make sure you don't feel alone."

You tear down his walls so easily, break him in the most beautiful way, and build him up again, even stronger than before, because now Sukuna knows what it feels like to be loved.

And Sukuna says those famous three words for the first time in his life.

He pulls you to him, holds you in his arms, and rests his chin on your head, swaying you softly from side to side as he murmurs those words into your hair, words he never thought he would say,

"I love you. And I want to be with you. I know it's hard to love a man like me, but I want this to work. I want you. I want us. And I will work hard for it."

He thinks he will melt when you tell him you love him too and that there is nothing hard about loving him at all.

For the first time in his life, Sukuna stays in someone's bed the whole night.

The two of you kiss at your front door, and you gently pull him inside. You kiss and laugh and playfully tease each other all the way to your bedroom, undressing each other on the way, leaving behind a trail of clothes on your floor.

You call him baby, and Sukuna thinks he will go crazy. He picks you up and carries you the rest of the way until he lays you down on your bed, his lips never leaving yours.

You don't fuck that night but make love, nice and slow. You look so beautiful lying under Sukuna, your face so close to his, your small hands caressing his biceps and his muscular back while Sukuna takes you with slow, deep thrusts, unable to tear his gaze away from you and the love in your eyes when you whisper his name.

Sukuna tells you he loves you again when he is about to cum, and it feels more intense than anything else he has ever experienced. Especially when he feels you cum on his cock, too, sobbing his name and returning the "I love you" several times while you shudder in pleasure beneath him.

Sukuna doesn't let go of you the whole night. He lets you use his chest as your pillow, wraps you in his strong arms, and holds you. The wild, freedom-loving cowboy who usually runs, suddenly all tame.

Sukuna thinks he is right where he should be. He wants to stay forever in your bed and in your arms, holding the girl he loves.

Of course, a cowboy like Sukuna has to leave again in the morning. His ranch needs him. There are miles and miles of fences to fix, horses to train, and cattle to herd. But Sukuna promises to call you every night.

"And if I don't have a signal, I want you to know that I will still think of you, okay princess? Let's make a deal. Every night at ten pm, I want you to look at the sky. And I'll do the same, wherever I am, and imagine you are by my side."

And he laughs softly and hugs you to his strong body, adding,

"I will think about you every second of the day anyway. And I am damn sure you can't get me out of your mind either, huh?"

He winks at you and grins his boyish grin, and you chuckle and get on your tiptoes to kiss his grin off him.

Before Sukuna drives off, you give him a leather cord with a small charm in the form of a horseshoe, telling him you saw it on the farmers market last weekend and thought of him.

"I want to give it to you because I hope it will bring you luck and keep you safe out there on all those lonely nights and long rides."

And Sukuna leaves his bandana at your place,

"So you have something to remind you of me while I am away, princess. Wear it around your pretty throat to keep the chilly winds away and to think of your favorite cowboy."

Sukuna calls you every day just like he promised.

But out here on the plains, where Sukuna is on horseback, with only his dog running along beside him, his life still feels lonely. This solitude used to be something Sukuna chose willingly for himself. Something he thought was the only life that was right for a man like him.

But now Sukuna feels this longing inside his chest, and the questions keep filling his mind. Does a cowboy really have to be alone? Does Sukuna really have to be alone?

His ranch and his life out here are the last parts of him, which Sukuna hasn't opened to you yet. It seemed too risky to bring you here, too intimate. This is the place, after all, where Sukuna fled to so he wouldn't hurt his little brother anymore. A place he used to see as some kind of fortress that kept other people safe from Sukuna and also kept him safe from feeling too much. A place where he was free from all the complications of human interactions.

But things have changed, haven't they?

Sukuna visits you as often as he can, and he catches himself telling you more about his everyday life as a cowboy while watching you closely for your reactions. He tells you what he loves about his life on the ranch, tells you that it is a lot of hard work and that it can be tough at times, but that it is also peaceful, and that he likes that he is free out there.

"I like that I am my own boss because I really don't do well with people trying to tell me what to do."

And you laugh and roll your eyes, and Sukuna grins at you with a wink and adds,

"Well, you are the exception, baby."

And as teasing and light-hearted as it sounds, Sukuna knows that he is telling the truth. He doesn't mind if you tell him what to do. He doesn't mind if he has to take responsibility for his actions. Not when it comes to you.

You beam at him and kiss his tattooed cheek and ask in that sweet voice,

"Will you finally show me your ranch, Sukuna?"

And he knows what you are really asking is for Sukuna to finally let you in. To let this last wall tumble to the ground and allow you into his life in every way.

Sukuna feels strangely nervous when driving you to his ranch. But not because he is scared of losing his last refuge. He is nervous because he is worried you won't like the life out here in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but endless miles of uninhabited land around you and only Sukuna and his animals to keep you company.

Sukuna hopes you will like it. Because there is this small voice in his mind that whispers to him, "I want her to stay."

Sukuna watches you carefully while he shows you around his small ranch, showing you the old farmhouse he renovated, the barn he built with his own hands, and the stables he gave a new paint and a modern interior.

Relief floods Sukuna's chest when he sees the genuine smile on your pretty face and the joy when you pet his favorite horse. You turn to him, telling him that you love his ranch and praising him for turning an old abandoned farm into this pretty place.

"You are so passionate about the things you want, Sukuna, and you work hard for them. That's an admirable trait. This place is beautiful."

Sukuna smirks proudly at you, feeling this warmth in his chest again. He wraps a strong, tattooed arm around your waist and pulls you against him. And he knows exactly what he wants.

"This place is even more beautiful with you here. You remember what I said about enjoying my freedom out here? I feel free with you by my side, too. It doesn't feel like I am giving anything up when I am with you. It feels like I am gaining something."

There are happy tears shining in your eyes when you look up at him, and you smile and put a small hand on Sukuna's defined chest, right where his heart is beating strong and fast,

"I would love to live here with you, cowboy. I could help you with the crops and make sure you always have something warm to eat when you come home in the evening. I could even help with the horses and the cows, I think. And I can keep you company out here and keep you warm at night."

Sukuna doesn't believe in a God, but he thinks some kind of higher power or fate or whatever must have finally blessed him. Must have finally allowed a fallen angel like him some sort of heaven, too.

Sukuna smiles at you, a gentle, genuine smile that he never gives to anyone else, and he takes his cowboy hat off and puts it carefully onto your head,

"Then welcome to your new home, cowgirl."

SIGHHHHH, this cowboy makes me swoon 😭😭💗💗 I didn't expect this story to become so long, but I just couldn't stop writing. It was one of those moments where Sukuna took things into his hands and made me tell the whole story, and of course I do what my man wants ;)

I hope you enjoyed falling in love with Cowboy!Sukuna, too 💗

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs would be very sweet.

There will be a Part 2 in which we see our life on Sukuna's ranch.

And once again: Thank you Émilie @sweetlandspos for drawing your beautiful and sexy Cowboy!Sukuna, who inspired me to write this AU!! I hope you find joy in this story!!

[heejamas]

YOUR HEART GOT TEETH | CHOI. YEONJUN ⨾ teaser

SYNOPSIS ٬⠀⠀✦ in a world ruled by blood and territory, you built your empire from ash and betrayal. years ago, yeonjun shattered your life with a single lie — and vanished. now he’s back, offering salvation laced with secrets, handing over pieces of your land to save the very people he once left to die. old scars reopen as you're forced into an alliance stitched together with memory, resentment, and the kind of tension that never really left. while danger brews at every border and loyalty crumbles beneath ambition, you must decide if the devil you once loved is worth trusting again — or burning with everything else.

PAIRINGS 🗝️ mafia! yeonjun x fem! reader

WARNINGS ❜୧ violence, mafia themes, enemies to lovers, stabbing, blood, grief, all kinds of illegal activities, fighting, smut WORDCOUNT ''. 25k est.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ٬ ✦ this is my first time writing a mafia fic and ngl i was super nervous 😭 i’ve never touched this theme before and i was so scared it would come off super cheesy or over-the-top but honestly?? i’m really happy with how it’s turning out so far 🖤 this is just a teaser — the full fic is coming soon, and if you wanna be tagged when it drops, just comment below! - Hi guys! this is rain @heesmiles, i'm making this layout for ronnie; i made the header too ! like this its so cutie core

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#nowplaying - teeth by 5 seconds of summer

Choi Yeonjun steps into the light like a punchline you should’ve seen coming.

He’s wearing all black, something tailored and expensive, hands in his pockets, and a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s been entertained for hours. His eyes settle on you instantly, curious, sharp, and already amused. “Well,” he drawls, voice smooth, deep, familiar in a way that makes your spine lock. “If I’d known you were gonna show up looking like that, I would’ve cleaned the place up a little.”

You don’t flinch, you don’t blink. “Yeonjun.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know my name. I’m flattered.”

You arch an eyebrow back. “You should be.”

Beomgyu takes a step closer, but you raise your hand again. Yeonjun’s eyes flick over him, then Jay, then land back on you with an edge of something darker. “So,” he says, voice lazy like a slow burn. “You want your boy back.”

“I do.”

“And you’re sure I have him.”

“I’m sure someone in your chain does. And if he’s not back by the end of the week, I���ll tear your operations down brick by brick until I find him.”

Yeonjun smiles wider, slow and amused, like you just told him a joke he wants to hear again. “Fight so dirty,” he says, almost a whisper, “but you love so sweet.”

TBR - 06.27.2025 | my masterlist

[christopherisfoive]

Static Between Stars

Pairing:Jedi!Han x f!Engineer!Reader (Star Wars AU)

Word count: 2.5k

a/n: originally this header was a gif and it was amazing but I couldn't resize it so here we are....self indulgence.

“Somewhere in the galaxy, a war still raged. But for a brief moment, in a forgotten station beneath a bitter sky, a Jedi and an engineer had stopped fighting. And maybe that was enough. For now.”

The distress call shouldn’t have come.

Your station wasn’t on any chart used by the Republic or the Resistance—and certainly not the Jedi. Varnis-4 was known only to the First Order and the unfortunate souls who got assigned there.

It wasn’t a planet. Not really. It was a rotating graveyard.

Varnis-4 had no real cities, no breathable atmosphere, and no strategic value beyond the secrets buried beneath its crust. The surface was covered in dust that clung to everything—clothes, skin, machines—and heat that soaked into your bones until even metal groaned under it.

The sky was permanently hazed with chemical ash, tinting the horizon in shades of muted red and burnt orange. Storms didn’t announce themselves. They rose like ghosts, loud with static and dry lightning, capable of frying entire relay towers in seconds.

You’d been stationed here for nearly eight months. Alone.

There were rotation teams, in theory. Maintenance crews that would fly in to check your progress, resupply your tools, and inspect the sealed sectors you monitored for command. But in practice, those visits had slowed. Then stopped.

Now, it was just you.

And the silence.

Which made the distress call all the more impossible.

It appeared on your console with no fanfare, no coded encryption—just a high-frequency ping. Something primitive. Desperate. Outside protocol.

You should have flagged it. Marked it for inspection. Let the static swallow it again.

Instead, you traced it.

And something in your gut shifted the moment you did.

The hoverbike stuttered beneath you as you pushed it across the canyon ridge, its engine coughing against the grit in the wind. You hadn't used it in weeks—there hadn't been a reason—but your hands moved instinctively, guiding it toward the signal.

The coordinates led you past the edge of your regular patrol range, where even your automated turrets went dark. The air here was thinner, and the terrain was fractured—old mining scars that had never fully healed.

And then you saw it.

A smear of metal carved into the landscape. Smoke curling into the haze. Whatever had gone down, it had come in too fast, with no stabilizers and no support.

You killed the engine and approached on foot, blaster drawn.

The ship was a single-seater. Scorched. Half-buried in stone. Its wings were snapped, the cockpit cracked open from the impact. You stepped over twisted hull plating, boots crunching against glass.

Then he moved.

Just a shift—a groan, low and ragged, from the shadow of the cockpit.

You saw the edge of his face first. Ash-streaked. Bleeding from his temple. His robe—if that’s what it was—hung off his shoulder in tatters. He coughed once and tried to sit up, hand pressed weakly to his side.

And in his other hand—

A lightsaber.

Your blood ran cold.

"Don’t," you said instinctively, voice sharp.

His head turned slightly, unfocused. “That obvious?” he rasped.

You didn’t answer. Your blaster was steady in your grip, aimed just above his heart.

He blinked slowly. "Are you... First Order?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not if you’re going to shoot me."

He coughed again and slumped back against the wreckage.

“I’ve had worse welcomes.”

You stood over him in silence.

This wasn’t in your protocols.

He was supposed to be dead.

And yet, here he was—bleeding, broken, breathing. A Jedi. A myth. A problem.

You should have turned around.

But you didn’t.

You dragged him back through the canyon with more effort than you’d admit.

He was heavier than he looked, or maybe you were just out of shape—your body used to tightening bolts, not hauling injured fugitives through grit and wind.

The hoverbike gave out halfway. You swore under your breath and walked the rest of the way, half-carrying, half-dragging him until the outer gates of your post came into view.

You shouldn’t have brought him back.

You told yourself that again as you punched in the override code, shielding the panel with your body like someone might be watching. You told yourself again as you guided him down the narrow hall toward the medical bay, the lights flickering overhead.

But when he slumped sideways into the wall, murmuring something you couldn’t make out, you caught him before he hit the floor.

The medbay had never held anything human before. It was designed for field kits and droid repair—functional, cramped, barely enough for one body, let alone two. But it was clean. And quiet.

You lowered him onto the cot and immediately turned to scrub your hands.

He was unconscious before you even started.

You worked quickly. Cut through layers of burned cloth, disinfected wounds, sealed what you could. The lightsaber—you placed it carefully out of reach, though part of you wanted to tear it apart just to see what was inside.

He had a name, probably. But right now, he was just a mess of bruises and blood and something far too dangerous to leave in a ditch.

You ran scans. He had a fractured rib, a mild concussion, and something—some flicker of light pulsing just beneath the skin—that your medical reader couldn’t quite parse. You didn’t need a manual to know what it was.

The Force.

You sat back in the chair across from him and stared.

The Jedi were supposed to be gone. Myth. Propaganda. Warnings passed down in dark corridors of command briefings.

And yet he was here.

A breathing contradiction.

You told yourself you’d wait until morning. That when he woke up, you’d ask questions. That if he tried anything, you’d be ready.

You didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep until the lights flickered back to life.

You blinked awake to the sound of a soft scrape against metal.

He was sitting up.

Barely, but enough to brace himself against the side rail of the cot, his eyes slitted open. The cuts on his face had scabbed, and his breathing was still rough, but he was awake—and watching you.

“Didn’t think you’d stick around,” he murmured.

You didn’t move. “Didn’t think you’d live.”

He gave you a look, half amusement, half pain. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. You expected him to demand to know where his weapon was. Or try something foolish with the Force.

Instead, he looked around the room slowly, taking it in.

“Not what I pictured for a First Order medbay,” he said.

“This isn’t a medbay. It’s a droid patch unit.”

He smiled faintly. “Still... you could’ve left me out there.”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “I considered it.”

“Let me guess—you’re not a stormtrooper.”

You didn’t answer.

He shifted, wincing. “You don’t wear the mask.”

“And you don’t wear a cause.”

He actually laughed. Just once. But it cracked the air between you, something sharp melting into something human.

“Touché,” he said. “So... what do I call you?”

You hesitated.

Then gave your name.

He repeated it, soft, like testing it for weight.

“Well,” he said, settling back against the cot, “thanks for not killing me. Yet.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re not staying.”

He closed his eyes again. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But somehow, you knew he already was.

By the third day, he was walking—sort of. Limping, really, one hand trailing along the wall for support. You tried to ignore the sound of his footsteps echoing through the station.

It didn’t work.

You found him by the storage bay, poking through a stack of ration crates like he’d never seen freeze-dried food before.

"Don’t open that," you said.

He looked up. "Too late."

You walked over and took the packet from him, resealing it with a hiss. "That was two months of protein supplements."

"You’re welcome, then," he said, flashing a grin. "I just saved you from a very bland future."

You rolled your eyes and turned to leave.

"You always this friendly?" he called after you.

"Only when I'm armed."

Later, you caught him in the control room, staring at the relay screen.

"That’s encrypted," you warned.

"I wasn’t trying to break in. Just... watching."

You stood beside him for a long moment.

"You said you weren’t staying."

He didn’t look at you. "I’m not."

"Then stop memorizing my system layout."

That made him grin. "Too late again."

He didn’t ask for a datapad, but you found him with one later. Scrolling through old repair logs, mapping out your work like he was trying to understand how you operated.

And for some reason, you let him.

You told yourself it was harmless.

That he was just bored.

But when he asked questions—about the way you rewired an old transponder, or why your defensive grid used obsolete code—you answered.

Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to know what he’d say next.

The fight came on day five.

You were recalibrating the relay node when he stepped in. He didn’t say anything at first—just leaned in the doorway, watching.

Then, without warning:

"That frequency modulation—it can track Force signatures, can’t it?"

You froze.

"Excuse me?"

"The array. I’ve seen tech like it before. It’s not just for long-range comms. The Order’s using this outpost to help hunt Jedi. Isn’t that what this is really about?"

You stood slowly. "You’re injured, off-grid, and alive because I didn’t leave you in a crater. Don’t start accusing me of things you can’t prove."

"So don’t deny it."

"You don’t know what you’re talking about."

His voice dropped. "Don’t I?"

You bristled. "You think you’re better? You and your dusty myths and Force tricks? Jedi disappeared when they lost the war. The rest of us had to keep surviving."

"You think the Order’s survival is worth what it costs?"

Your jaw clenched.

He stepped forward, expression unreadable. "How many people’s coordinates have you relayed without knowing where they ended up? Or did you know?"

The silence after that stretched long and thin.

"You don’t get to walk in here and decide what this place means," you said, voice flat. "You’re alive because of me. That’s the only reason you get to ask questions."

His eyes softened. Not with pity. With understanding.

That made it worse.

He left the room without another word.

That night, you didn’t sleep.

Neither did he.

The storm came the next evening.

You noticed it first by the static in your comms—a sharp crackle that interrupted even internal frequencies. Then came the temperature drop, quick and steep, followed by wind that pressed hard against the station walls like the planet was trying to peel them apart.

You moved through the corridor, sealing ports, checking pressure locks. You were in the control bay when you saw it—through the reinforced viewport.

Han was outside.

You cursed and ran.

He was standing near the outer antenna, facing the horizon. Ash swirled around him in fast, tight spirals, his robes caught in the wind, hair damp with chemical mist. He didn’t flinch as you approached.

“Are you out of your mind?” you shouted, grabbing his arm. “You’ll fry out here!”

He didn’t look at you. “The sky... it hums when the storm comes.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You’re going to die listening to weather?”

“It reminds me that I’m small,” he said. “And I need that.”

You didn’t let go. “I don’t care what you need. You want to stand under Force-forsaken lightning, do it after you leave.”

His eyes flicked to you, and for once, he didn’t smile.

You hauled him back inside.

The door sealed shut behind you. The storm hit seconds later—louder now, hammering the roof with a rhythm like blaster fire.

You stood there in silence, breathing hard.

Then Han said, “You’re kind of bossy when you care.”

You glared at him. “You’re kind of stupid when you talk.”

His grin was slow. “You like me.”

“I tolerate you. Because you’re half-dead and can’t outrun me.”

“You’d still chase me.”

You didn’t deny it.

He stepped closer, just slightly. The space between you shrank.

“I could stay until the storm passes,” he said. “Just until then.”

Your voice dropped. “That’s what you said last time.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away, either.

The storm raged through the night, sealing the station in a capsule of noise and electricity. You didn’t sleep. Neither did he.

Instead, you worked in parallel. He sat at your corner desk with a tool kit, helping you recalibrate power couplings, offering suggestions that were sometimes wrong but always interesting. You adjusted wiring while he passed you parts, shoulders occasionally brushing when space grew tight.

There was something domestic about it. Unsettling, but not unpleasant.

When the lights flickered, he handed you a power cell without being asked. When the comms whined, you were both already leaning toward the controls.

You didn’t talk about the argument. Not directly.

But when he said, quietly, “You’ve done a lot of things you didn’t choose,” you didn’t correct him.

And when you replied, “So have you,” he didn’t deny it.

At some point, you caught him watching you. Not with curiosity. Not with suspicion.

With something like understanding.

You looked away first.

By morning, the storm had passed.

But something between you hadn’t.

The supply drone was late. Then rerouted. Then erased from the delivery manifest altogether.

You tried not to panic. Logged a quiet report. Rechecked your outgoing logs.

Han sat across from you at the console, watching your fingers fly over the keys. He didn’t speak.

When you finally exhaled, leaning back in your chair, he asked, “That normal?”

“No.”

He tilted his head. “Then you think they know?”

You didn’t answer.

But the knot in your stomach did.

That night, you found him standing by the sealed entrance, his pack over one shoulder.

“You’re leaving,” you said.

He nodded. “It’s not safe for you anymore.”

You almost laughed. “It never was.”

He shifted. “Still. You’ve already done more than you should have.”

You glanced at the pack. “What will you do out there?”

He smiled faintly. “Survive. Like you.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything either of you had said.

When he finally turned to go, you didn’t stop him.

But when you returned to the control room an hour later, you found something resting on your bench.

A kyber crystal. Fractured. Still pulsing.

And beside it, a small strip of scrap metal. The edge of a wing—burned, carved with a name you recognized now.

Han.

You didn’t call out.

Didn’t chase.

You just sat there in the dark, thumb brushing over the uneven surface of the crystal.

Somewhere in the galaxy, the war kept going.

But for a brief moment, in a station forgotten by both sides, you had chosen something other than obedience.

And he had walked away with the knowledge that someone hadn’t seen him as a weapon.

That was enough.

For now.

[stripedstarsblueflags]

Put that guy in a situation 53, wings/supernatural features: Sargebon, Vampire!Logan x Phoenix!Alex

Edge Effect

Pairing: Sargebon

Word count: 10.2k

Rating: T (language, vaguely suggestive themes of an ambiguous nature)

GOT A LITTLE CARRIED AWAY OKAY?? on ao3 shortly

Logan always knows when Alex is about to shift.

Not that it’s subtle for everyone else. In the few days before, Alex is volatile, agitated, reactive to the point of being almost unapproachable. He snaps for no reason and speaks so fast he stutters almost every sentence. By the penultimate day, the change manifests in his eyes: they take on a reflective amber shine, the irises going from almost black to the deep orange of catching embers, full of sparking, red-hot energy.

Most people notice these symptoms when they begin– two or three days in advance, the amount of buildup the cycle needs before the phoenix ignites itself. Nobody sees that– Logan doesn’t know where Alex goes during the actual moment of the shift, just that he keeps himself well hidden until it’s over.

Logan might be the only one who knows it’s about to happen before Alex himself, though. He can smell it.

It’s noticeable almost a week in advance, the same way he can smell the heavy metallic grey in the air a week before a rainstorm.

Alex always smells a little like smoke– which makes sense. He’s a creature of fire and ashes first, blood and bones second; the glamours he uses to hide his wings and make them intangible enough to get in the car can’t change that. Most of the time, though, it’s a comforting sort of smoke– autumnal and fragrant, underlying hints of cinnamon or clove, warm and a little bit sharp in the way campfire smoke can be sharp. Logan felt a little addicted to it when he was first getting to know Alex– he’s acclimated now, but the gentle and fuzzy spell the scent had first seemed to put on him hasn’t abated. Sometimes he feels a little too close to Alex– like he’s waiting for himself to succumb to rising heat, to let himself get burned.

In a way, the shifts help with that– infatuation, attraction, whatever it is. They keep Alex from seeming too good to be true.

When the shift is approaching, even before the physical symptoms present, Alex’s scent is the first thing to be affected. It reminds Logan of a forest fire: something warm and playful at first, then the uneasy sensation of losing control, and finally everything soft and sweet burning up at once, charred and unfamiliar.

The smoke is the most pungent the day after, though, when he’s all but carrying the cinders with him. Maybe he really is– Logan’s rarely gotten more than a glimpse of his teammate’s wings, and never right after a shift. Maybe the ash clings to the feathers afterwards, dark and heavy, weighing him down.

Nobody talks to Logan about it; certainly not Alex himself. He doesn’t know if they talk to each other and just leave him out of the conversation, but it would make sense. As the first vampire in Formula 1, he isn’t exactly winning any popularity contests.

So far, Alex and Logan have gotten along just fine without their respective supernatural aspects playing a part. There hasn’t been any agreement or discussion on the matter; just a mutual longing to be able to exist as a person for once and not just an Entity. Logan would rather keep it that way; it feels nice to play at being normal, at being human– for as long as they can, anyway. An unspoken rule that keeps the escapism going for that much longer.

It’s not perfect, but he’ll take it. And he’ll take the quiet intimacy of knowing Alex a little more than he’s supposed to.

It isn’t possible to schedule the shifts, exactly, but there are certain measures that could be taken to push them back– suppressants, ice baths, fever reducers– just long enough to ensure Alex won’t burst into flames halfway through a race weekend. It’s tricky, but manageable, most of the time.

Fucking triple-headers, though…

The three weeks of Austin, Mexico and Vegas nearly culminated in disaster. Logan sensed the change in Alex by the end of the first week, and the symptoms manifested by the time they arrived at the following circuit. All the hyperactivity and short-fuse energy was so much worse with the knowledge that there wouldn’t be a break until after Vegas– Alex would have to hold back the fire by sheer force of will.

By qualifying, he was nearly unrecognizable.

Logan didn’t see him for two days after the race.

But the night before, he’d clocked William’s best ever result at Vegas, and a fastest lap to finish it off. Something about all that just simmering under the surface made him a demon behind the wheel. Heat waves radiated from his hidden wings. A permanent sheen of sweat glowed on his fevered skin. He looked like he was about to collapse, and then he got in the car…

He’d run in second for over nineteen laps before pitting, and finished the race in P4.

Not a podium, but from the cheers in the garage you would’ve thought the team won the whole damn championship. Logan was hiding in his driver’s room, trying to pretend the shame of another DNF (suspension failure that wasn’t even his fault this time) wasn’t slowly killing him inside when he’d heard the uproar.

He’d stumbled out of his room bewildered, panicked, half expecting to emerge into a riot, but it was just the ecstatic cheers of the team rushing out of the garage. A blue surge of adrenaline and pride would meet Alex in parc ferme after the cooldown lap, all beaming smiles and shaking fists, ready to celebrate the culmination of a drive that would surely go down in history.

Logan returned to the garage to wait, away from everybody else. Nobody asked him about it. Since bringing the car back, he’d become little more than an inanimate object, a nuisance in the sight line of the mechanics tasked with taking the tractor apart and seeing what the upteenth issue was– many of them glaring over their shoulder at him, no matter that he’d tried his best. He’d slunk away to his driver’s room after a while, watching the rest of the race on the TV and hoping the cameras wouldn’t pan to a blazing wreck.

Alex wasn’t blazing, but he sure looked like a wreck by the time he’d finished at the weigh station and snuck through the cameras to the garage. His hair was drenched and clinging to his forehead as if he’d poured an entire bottle over himself. The velcro around his ankles and wrists was undone, zipper half open, his hands shaking too badly to undo the race suit any further. His eyes were wild.

The noise, Logan thought.

He pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against and crossed the cluttered space carefully, resisting the urge to lift his hands as if he was approaching a cornered animal. On the way he grabbed a pair of headphones from the wrack on the wall. He kept his tone low and tentative, however, only loud enough to hear over the chaos without adding to the overall roar.

“Hey,” he’d said. Alex met his eyes in one snapping half turn that must’ve hurt his neck; Logan almost stepped away, mouth going draw. Alex’s eyes were bright red, like rings of lava. His teeth were clenched so hard Logan could see the quivering tension all down his neck. He didn’t smell like smoke, he smelled like an electrical fire– black wire and twisted metal, a corrupting ozone haze so powerful one breath nearly knocked him out. Logan had to take a second to compose himself, forcing down the nausea.

“You’re okay, look at me,” he soothed, holding out the headphones. “You’re alright, you did good.” He gestured over his shoulder in the vague direction of their driver’s rooms. “Ice bath?”

Alex snatched the headphones and jammed them over his head, fingers going white around the material until he got it situated. Then he closed his eyes for a bit, chest heaving, hands still clasped firmly around the headphones as if the silence might slip through his fingers. He didn’t unclench his teeth long enough to answer, but he did nod almost frantically. Anything to keep the fire from starting now.

“Okay,” Logan said, forcing his voice to stay calm. He hesitated, then reached out and gave Alex’s wrist a gentle tug. “Come on.”

Alex gasped at the contact like he’d been holding his breath until that moment, but he had followed where he was led.

Logan hasn’t seen Alex at all until he flew back to England.

They both have sim work scheduled the next week, and Logan’s almost afraid for the first day their HQ schedules overlap. He keeps thinking of Alex’s red-hot eyes, the burning heat of his skin in the few seconds of contact when he’d grabbed his wrist, the heat waves rippling from his back and warping the air around him in a nauseating mirage. The way Alex had reacted at Logan’s voice, his touch: as if nothing else could bring him back from the verge of complete immolation.

It probably didn’t mean anything–

It can’t mean anything.

But it was the first time he’d seen Alex so vulnerable, the first time either of them had been exposed to the downsides that came with the other’s species. It’s not like Alex has ever seen Logan when he’s missed one too many feedings, all dripping fangs and frenzied hunger until he got what he needed. Logan is very, very careful to keep it that way. He doesn’t make that mistake often, but Alex of all people doesn’t need to know how bad it can get– how much of a monster he becomes.

Maybe there’s an element of shame in it for Alex, as well, even though his shifts are considerably less stigmatized. Either way, they don’t talk about these things. The averted disaster in Vegas seems to have crossed a line into a space he wasn’t ready for.

But when he first sees Alex, tucked morosely into a corner of the ground floor lounge (only slightly more extravagant than any average workplace canteen) all his apprehension is replaced with concern.

The heat and intensity is gone from his aura, thankfully, but he seems absolutely miserable in a too-big grey sweatshirt and an expression of absolute detachment on his face. Slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, he looks like he’s just suffered some massive blow and hasn’t even begun to recover. His usual restless, self conscious energy is completely subdued, instead replaced by a rigor mortis-level stillness.

They wouldn’t normally sit together– if not for how overpowering the smoke is for Logan, then at least for a mutual paranoid awkwardness. For some reason conversation is always so much easier in the paddock, where the roaring sounds of V6s and machinery render their voices undetectable and meaningless, than in a sterile room with washed-out lighting and endless, incriminating quiet. Also, everything smells like energy and burning fuel on track, so it’s the more soothing traces in the campfire aura that is Alex that really stand out. Outdoors in general always feels more open, more relaxed than whatever can go on behind closed doors.

But on seeing Alex’s dejected state, and recalling his panic in the garage, Logan makes the decision to approach him. He slides into the next chair with a deliberately nonchalant, “‘Sup.”

Alex laughs a little, a hoarse exhale that’s barely more than a cough. “You sound so American when you say that.”

Logan scoffs. “Gee, I wonder why.”

“Sup,” Alex imitates, deliberately pitching his voice low. “Wassup, bro. Wassup with you?”

Logan rolls his eyes and tries not to laugh, but doesn’t try very hard. “I’m sorry I’ve offended your British sensitivities.”

“Logan, no– it’s sensibilities.”

“Sometimes you sound exactly like George, you know that, right?”

Alex laughs, a little more sincerely, then winces. He swallows and shifts in his seat, trying to cover it up, but Logan catches it nonetheless.

“Just wanted to check in,” he says to Alex, softening his voice. “Y’know, after the race. You were fighting pretty hard.”

He doesn’t specify any further– fighting to keep the place, fighting to the oppressive desert heat, fighting the cycle of his own body that demanded the sparks catch immediately.

Alex doesn’t ask him to elaborate. “Yeah. I mean, good result, but… a night to forget, for sure.”

“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Alex smirks; Logan can tell he’s deliberately holding back laughter this time– not out of rudeness, more like a stilted sort of self-restraint.

“Shift went okay?” Logan asks.

The question shuts both of them up; Logan takes a minute to feel a surge of gratitude that his chalky vampire pallor won’t warm enough to blush, even as his face burns. He’s never asked that question before. The smooth, unbothered air he forced into his voice sounds blatantly artificial– maybe just to himself, because he can feel his own heart racing along with the overthinking, but it makes him cringe nonetheless.

Alex doesn’t look at him, a distracted haze settling over his eyes again. “I mean,” he starts, chewing his lips as he tries to find the right words. “As much as shifts can be, I guess. I’m used to it.”

Logan feels a pang of sympathy. He can’t relate exactly, of course, but he can picture the emotion vividly: the shame and exhaustion that comes with forcing yourself through an inhuman struggle just to get it over with. Coming back into your body with the remnants of the whole ordeal trapped under your skin, unwilling to let you go– pain, heightened sensitivity, ears ringing, heart racing. Feeling, even in the aftermath, like a creature– like a beast dominated by the needs and constructs of its baser form, void of complex thought, only an Entity wearing itself out through the same primitive ritual.

“Glad to get it over with, at least?” Logan prompts, hearing his own wavering hesitation. He asks because that’s how he feels after a feeding– sore and sick and laden with as much self-disgust as blood, but overwhelmingly relieved that the worst of it is behind him, at least for the time being.

“Yeah,” Alex admits after a pause. “That’s the only good part, I guess. The feeling like, I don’t know– like I got it out of my system.”

Logan nods thoughtfully, not really knowing how to respond. The relief he experiences has more to do with getting something into his system, so he definitely doesn’t want to try and bring that up now.

Instead, he tries to keep the focus on Alex. “That’s good to– I mean, good for me to hear. Like, that it didn’t go wrong. You seemed kind of freaked after the race.”

He doesn’t mean it as an insult, but Alex clearly takes it the wrong way. A look of warning flashes in his eyes, but just as quickly fizzles out like a match flame in a cold wind, and he casts his gaze down in strained hurt. It sends a jolt of panic through Logan, rapidly stepping in to overcorrect the perceived degradation: “No, no, not that that’s a bad thing– I mean, I’m the same when I’m hungry, you know, it’s so hard to keep it together– it was just. I don’t know. I was worried.”

Alex closes his eyes meekly. “I’m sorry.”

Logan shakes his head, which is stupid because Alex can’t see him, then gently contradicts. “Don’t be sorry, Alex. You couldn’t help it.”

Alex takes a deep breath, a brief spasm of tension gripping his shoulders for a minute like he wants to push back, then twists back into a slouch. “I didn’t mean to, uh– get like that. Like, let it show.” He clears his throat, abrupt and painful; when he continues his voice is hoarse but refortified. “Anyway.” A little too loudly. He grimaces and finds a softer pitch: “Like I said, I’m used to it. It’s a mess while it’s happening, but the fire can’t catch on anything that’s not me.” He drags his fingers distractedly through his hair, wrist jerking in a sudden spasm. His eyes look hollow and drained, bruiselike shadows eclipsing the sockets, and his jawline is sharp with tension. He still carries the acrid, stinging scent of smoke, but there’s something else underneath– spilled ink and wet paper, something bitterly fragile.

A cold, heavy silence seeps between them.

Finally, unable to stand the growing cavern of unspoken implication between them, Logan breaks.

“Does it hurt?” he asks quietly.

Alex’s eyes shoot up to his, a sudden spark of alertness flashing in his gaze. A flare of something bright and hot threads through the smoky haze for a second.

“Sorry, sorry,” Logan babbles quickly, putting his hands up in part placation, part surrender. “I don’t know if that’s, like, offensive or a stupid question or–“

“No, Logan, it’s okay.” Alex takes a deep breath and the tension leaves his scent, settling back into blackened charcoal. “I’m sorry, I was just surprised. I guess people think it’s offensive, or that I might–“ He swallows and casts his eyes down. “I don’t know. It’s just not something I’ve ever been asked before.”

“Really?” Logan finds that hard to believe; there’s nothing natural about the way Alex is holding himself. There’s tightness in every movement, a grimace on his face with every turn of his head. There’s no way nobody else has noticed. “No one?”

Alex shrugs, then winces. His next sentence is forced steadiness between gritted teeth. “Just hasn’t come up.”

Logan ducks his head, trying to meet Alex’s eyes. “But does it? Hurt, I mean.”

Alex exhales, shuddering, and then the mask drops. His shoulders droop. He lets his head fall forward. His eyes slide closed, and all the weariness washes over his face like murky water.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, it hurts like hell. The first few days after… like, before the regrowth starts– those are always the worst.”

Logan chews his lip. “How long will it hurt for?”

Alex lifts his head. His eyes hold a bewildered tenderness that wasn’t there before. “Why… why are you asking?”

It’s a fair question. Logan doesn’t have wings, there’s no way he could understand. Alex would be better off talking to George– the shapeshifter makes the transition from human to crow look effortless, but Logan knows George still struggles sometimes. He can smell it, after a particularly bad change– the sleek, birch bark scent of the crow that hangs around George’s human form hours afterwards. It hurts, too, though Logan doesn’t think George knows that he knows. Still, George might understand Alex better. Or Lando, or Max, or any of the other winged drivers.

But…. no one else had even asked?

Logan looks away, suddenly unsure. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

Alex laughs humorlessly. “Sucks to be paired with a phoenix, then.” He leans over to catch Logan’s eyes again as if he’s just remembered something. “Is the smoke still bothering you? I mean, I can’t smell it, but vampires…”

”It’s fine,” Logan lies, quickly cutting him off. The smoke around Alex is pungent, completely soaking the much preferable soft firewood and autumn leaves, but Logan’s learned to bear it more quickly than he thought he would.

He just doesn’t like hearing– that word. Vampire, fucking hell. Not even whispered, certainly not spoken aloud by anyone– especially not Alex. Alex is the only teammate he’s ever had who doesn’t treat him like a monster, like some unruly fevered beast hiding behind a facade of humanity. Alex doesn’t say the word aloud, but unlike pretty much everyone else around him, Logan doesn’t think he does it out of stigma or prejudice– more like he knows it bothers Logan, and won’t bang on doors that are closed for a reason. It’s one of the many things about Alex Logan finds himself being drawn to, despite the difference in species, despite the fact that a phoenix and a vampire pairing sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

“Really, I don’t mind,” he assures Alex. “I just wish there was something I could do to help.”

Alex tilts his head and half-unfolds form his slouch like he wants to say something, then thinks better of it.

“Um… is there something I can do?” Logan tries to keep the eager inflection out of his voice. He doesn’t want to scare Alex away with his desire to be a good friend– he knows better than to be careless with showing affection, because there’s always people who will see him as a threat no matter what he does.

But when Alex looks back at him and their eyes meet, there’s no sign of fear or suspicion in his eyes at all. Only a little bit of pleading, and a whole lot of pain.

“I mean, if you would– well, um. Yeah,” Alex says shakily, words starting to trip over each other again like they do when he’s not focusing. “Yeah, there is, actually. Can you just come closer?”

Logan frowns and hesitates, but Alex looks too exhausted to be doing a bit. He braces his hands against the table and slides the rolling chair closer to Alex’s, close enough that their arms are pressed together.

Alex sighs deeply, eyes sliding closed again. He leans in, drifting closer to Logan, and for a second Logan worries he’s going to fall asleep.

“Woah, uh, hi,” he says, laughing awkwardly to conceal the sudden lightheadedness he feels from this much contact. “What about this is helping, exactly?”

Alex must regain some lucidity, because he starts to squirm as if he’s just realized he’s halfway into a compromising position with his teammate– but he doesn’t pull away. He shakes his head to himself. “Cold,” he mutters. “You’re always cold. Helps. Feels good…”

Logan knows he’s cold. He’s heard it before, he’s seen it before on all the vital scans, but it’s not something he consciously thinks about. He doesn’t touch anybody. They don’t touch him. It doesn’t come up.

Only now Alex is practically about to fall into his lap. “Helps… the burns?” he asks.

“Yeah. Burns on the wings… the feathers.” Alex is starting to drift away again, words going lower and softer around the edges. He’s putting less and less effort into looking like he’s not going to fall asleep on Logan’s shoulder. “Happens every cycle, fucking sick of it…”

Logan studies Alex’s sallow skin, the bags under his eyes, the fresh split in his chapped lips. The brightest person he knows has faded to a lusterless outline within seventy-two hours.

”I’m guessing you’re not sleeping,” Logan says, trying to keep his voice neutral. Some of the other Williams personnel in the lounge are starting to give them quizzical glances; he gives them flat, tight-lipped smiles in return, like: Nothing to see here, thanks for checking in.

Alex shakes his head and huffs out a laugh that’s partially a scoff. “No chance. I have to sit in front of the refrigerator with my wings spread for, like, an hour before I can even think about getting tired.”

Logan laughs too, not unkindly. “That’s a nighttime ritual I haven’t heard before.”

”Probably because nobody’s idea of a relaxing time is sitting on the kitchen floor with your shirt off, wondering how much you’re racking up on someone else’s power bill.”

Logan’s arm is cramping; he wriggles it free from between them and drapes it over the back of Alex’s chair. Alex makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a purr and lets his head drop on Logan’s shoulder.

”I didn’t know I was that cold,” Logan says, just to distract himself from the racy pulses in his chest— phantom echoes of what anxiety felt like when he still had a heartbeat. This close to Alex, the smoky smell is almost overpowering, but now he can detect hints of underlying firewood and cinnamon, of the Alex he knows.

“Phoenixes are more sensitive to temperature,” Alex mumbles. It surprises Logan a little bit, because this kind of openness— clear, detailed, articulated— never happens between them. The pain and exhaustion seem to have taken Alex’s walls down. “Especially after a shift, when everything’s…” His voice drops. “Raw.”

The floating, dissociative quality to Alex’s voice is starting to worry Logan. “Are you going to be okay by practice next week?” he frets.

Alex seems to come back to himself. His eyes slide open, sobered by a dejected self-awareness, and he sits up straight. “Sorry,” he says quietly, then clears his throat. “Ah, sorry, yeah. I’ll be fine. The regrowth phase starts tomorrow, I think, or maybe after— still won’t be at my best, because of the sleep, but by Saturday I’ll–”

“I can help,” Logan blurts out, without a second spared for thought or consideration or wondering what the hell he’s offering.

Alex furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

‘I can help you sleep’? Who says that? Logan has never felt more awkward in his life. Every instinct is shouting at him to back out of it, to retreat, to pretend this strange and spontaneous intimacy between them never happened– but if he takes it back now, wouldn’t that be worse? What if Alex gets the wrong idea and starts to see Logan the way everyone else does– just another predator, waiting for a time to strike?

He has to explain, or at least attempt. “I mean we could just.” Logan waves his hand vaguely at the space between the two of them. “What we did just now. I could just… be near until you fall asleep, I guess.” He cringes with every word. Even to his own ears, he sounds like a creep: insinuating things, trying to invite himself into someone else’s embrace, a badly told lie with poorly concealed motivations.

Fuck it all, he just wants to help.

When Alex doesn’t answer immediately, Logan’s heart sinks. The closest thing he’s ever had to a real friendship– one that’s not defined by the fangs or the silver or the bottles at the back of the fridge– and he’s thrown it away because he doesn’t know how to talk like a normal person.

He’s halfway through standing up when Alex catches onto his wrist.

Logan flinches, but doesn’t pull away. He looks back at Alex, his dark and shining eyes, the awful angle of his shoulders, the smoke, the wavering glamour that barely hides the marred shapes of his wings…

“Yeah,” Alex says. His voice is unbearably broken, unbearably vulnerable. “Yeah, please. I’d like that.”

Logan breathes a sigh of relief, the tight fear in his chest melting away like ice in spring sunlight.

Logan can drive home straight from the factory, while Alex’s hotel for the week is a little farther away. So Logan takes Alex home.

He isn’t sure if he’s endlessly grateful or in agonizing despair that the car ride is less than twenty minutes.

In despair because he needs a lot more time to think of how he’s going to handle what comes next, what he offered. How much exactly does ‘I can help’ entail? What is Alex expecting from him? How can Logan make sure that he doesn’t surpass those expectations? It’d be tough to disappoint Alex, but it’s far better than overstepping a boundary he never understood in the first place. The pure confusion of everything is starting to be a source of regret.

But he’s still grateful for the shortness of the drive, because it ends up being the most awkward length of time he’s ever spent with someone in a captive space. He and Alex aren’t exactly attached at the hip the way other teammate pairings on the grid are– they’re not even particularly close, because closeness requires vulnerability and that’s a step neither of them have taken. But they can talk. They can talk for hours, rambling about anything and everything except what the social admin actually wants them to talk about. They can make inconsequential topics stretch over track walks, pit stop practice, data sessions– it helps with boredom, it helps with anxiety. Inconsequential connection during inconsequential times.

This singular car ride, in comparison, feels more than tense– it feels heavy, like Logan can feel the weight of everything they both aren’t saying aloud like gravity on a particularly banked turn.

He doesn’t remember if he’s ever been able to detect the changes in Alex’s scent this clearly before– every nuance, every fluctuation catching his attention like light flashing on glass. Maybe he’s only focusing now, because they’re about to… whatever it is he promised to do.

Can you just come closer?

He’s driving with the windows rolled down, even though it’s loud, because he didn’t want to be completely immersed in smoke for any length of time. But the farther he gets from the factory, the more Alex’s smell changes: warmer and softer, like the burnt and brittle edges of the shift are starting to crumble away. It feels like something’s being lifted, choking black clouds drifting away from gentle auburn air.

He has no idea what that means for a phoenix– for Alex. He’s not sure he wants to.

He definitely doesn’t want to know what it means that he’s paying this much attention.

It’s better, at least. The drive is incrementally more bearable.

Alex is looking out the window. Logan is not looking at Alex.

He manages to stomach the silence for less than a minute. Any longer trying to remember every single conversation starter he’s ever heard and he might actually forget how to talk.

He turns on the radio.

He isn’t paying any attention to the music, just noting that it’s loud enough to drown out the sound of Alex breathing next to him, when Alex speaks up: “You like this song.”

Logan almost looks over at Alex in the passenger seat, then thinks better of it. He spares a moment to listen; he can’t recognize the song by the first few bars. “Do I?”

“Yeah, just– just wait til the chorus.” Alex half-unfurls from where he’s curled up like a kitten against the door and gestures along with the music until it reaches the right verse:

“Won’t you help me sober up,” Alex sings. “Growing up, it made me numb…”

Logan smiles.

Alex cuts himself off. “I never said I was a good singer.”

“I’m not saying that either.”

”Hey!” Alex reaches out and swats him on the arm, but he’s laughing and uncoordinated. “They played it in the garage the other week, remember? Just like on shuffle. You told them to turn it up, so… yeah.”

Logan remembers that practice. He’s a little surprised that Alex remembers– he was half-gone by that point, twitchy and unfocused, gritting his teeth at sudden flashes of heat only he could feel.

It’s kind of sweet, that he remembered. That it stayed in his mind after, enough to bring it up again now.

Logan snaps himself out of it: “It’s okay, I guess.” Abrupt, noncommittal, closing a door. He has to be normal about this. He has to feel very normal or the next few hours are going to be a struggle.

Alex seems to get the point, curling back into himself for the remainder of the drive.

It’s still better with the music playing.

It’s dark outside by the time they get to Logan’s flat.

Logan turns to Alex the second they both cross the threshold, abruptly self-conscious about his living space. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, it’s perfectly normal. If anything, it’s almost too normal. Sparse and open, with nondescript furniture and nondescript flooring, off-white walls like blank TV screens framing everything in too much space– completely void of personality.

A little depressing, honestly, but he doesn’t have anyone to share it with– filling up the space with photographs, mementos, bits and pieces from childhood homes, splashes of color and memory… for nobody’s enjoyment but his own? The few occasions he’d tried to inlay any sense of his own identity into his living space had seemed both childish and self-destructive. He doesn’t want to miss home– who he used to be, who he thought he would be– any more than he already does.

He’s trying to think of a way to explain this to Alex when he inevitably gets judged for the barrenness of it all, but when Alex walks in, all he does is close his eyes.

Logan stares at him blankly, mouth halfway open on a forgotten sentence. Alex looks like he’s in a trance. His breath evens out, face tipped up. The stiff line of his shoulders dips into an easy slouch, tension finally softening. It’s a mirror image of his reaction this afternoon, when being close to Logan brought him the first sort of relief he’d had after endless nights of pain. Shock and satisfaction, vivid and open in every part of his expression.

It feels a little intimate to watch, honestly. Logan clears his throat– it takes him two tries to make a sound loud enough to startle Alex out of his stupor. “You good, mate?”

Alex flinches, lips pursed around a startled gasp. “Sorry, uh, yeah. I’m good.” He comes back to himself, a deep blush rising to his cheeks, and mumbles, “It’s just so… quiet here. Still.”

”Still what?”

”No, still, like– like cold water. Water when there’s no waves. The surface.”

”Still water,” Logan says flatly, frowning at Alex. If there’s supposed to be a metaphor here, Alex isn’t articulating it very well.

Alex ducks his head and fidgets with the zipper on his jacket. “It’s sort of like when I was with you earlier. I mean next to you.” He’s talking too fast for Logan to process each sentence by itself, his voice hurried and unsteady. He rolls up the cuffs of both sleeves, fussing with invisible differences in the lengths to get them even. He won’t hold eye contact for longer than a second. “Everything else can seem so loud, sometimes, and so close–“ He gestures around his face with his free hand, vague and claw-like. “Like, it feels like everything I’m touching is too much and I can’t even focus because I feel like I don’t have my own space– that’s not a phoenix thing, though, more like a…”

Logan is a bit taken aback by the sudden vulnerability, seemingly from out of nowhere. He feels like he should offer some words of comfort– sympathize with whatever Alex is trying to express– but Alex can’t even complete his thought, so he ends up waiting silently like a statue.

Alex looks back at him finally, eyes pleading and tired, like he’s expecting Logan to finish his sentence and spare them both the suffering of this awkward silence. He might as well have pinned Logan in place.

He can’t take it anymore. Feeling almost half-asleep, heavy too deep in the discomforts of his own body, he turns to the side and gestures down the hallway (stupidly, Alex doesn’t know where the thermostat is). “Cold enough?” he asks.

His voice sounds empty and dead in the space between them.

Alex flinches, then nods, then busies himself with taking off his shoes. A fraction of the anxiety eases out of his voice when he’s looking down, bracing one hand against a wall and lining up each shoe under the counter. “It’s not so much that the air needs to be cold,” he explains, voice finally evening out. “I mean, it helps, but when I’ve got the glamours up it feels– it feels less, I suppose. Like it doesn’t make as much of a difference.”

“Closer contact?” Logan asks, pushing a chair in at a different angle just to have something to do with his hands. He tries to run his fingers through his hair and flinches away from himself– there’s no temperature anywhere in his body. Bloodless fingers, bloodless face, sifting through strands as dry and brittle as wheat stalks. Tactile reminders over every inch of him that he’s not alive, that his voice and his breath and the light in his eyes can only be a barren facsimile of what he takes from the clueless donations of other people. He never notices it– the uncanny reality of his own undeath– unless he’s actually thinking about it. Or unless he’s recently been touching someone alive–

“Or is it like, weight?” he asks, because he needs to keep talking or he’s going to sink into the whirlwind of his own runaway thoughts.

“Both, I guess.” Alex gives up messing with his sleeves and takes off his jacket. His shirt rides up on one side before he gets both the sleeves off, revealing a sliver of his waist, trousers sitting low on his hips…

This brief glance does not affect Logan in any way.

He realizes he’s staring a second too late as Alex pauses with both hands twisted in the hem of his shirt. “Uh. I should probably take off the glamours for this, right? And the shirt?”

“It’s up to you,” Logan replies, then watches Alex’s face fall and realizes his carefully composed apathy is being taken as frustration. “Actually,” he adds hastily. “If you say they’re less– I mean they can feel, less, like the wings can feel less, than maybe you should– I don’t know, if you–“

He isn’t able to get out anything coherent, but Alex nods like he understands and shakes out his wrists. He pulls off his shirt with painstaking slowness, clutching it to his chest, arms folded in like the exposure if physically hurting him. Around his back and shoulders, the light falls in unnatural slips and slivers, faceting the air in the deceptive haze of the glamour. It takes the luster from his skin, sullen shadows making him look thinner than he is. His shadow on the wall behind him is uneven and ragged around the edges.

Logan doesn’t realize he’s staring until Alex looks away hurriedly, shoulders raised like he’s expecting a blow. “I need a little bit of space,” he says quietly.

Logan watches the lamplight shadows shift over Alex’s face, the cast-down dullness in his eyes, and recognizes the shame.

Unhuman, unnatural, unwanted. Entity. The eyes of someone who does not understand the reality of your form and all its constraints, who does not experience it and never will, eyes laying it bare with scrutiny and awe however accidental…

Finally, the tension falls in on itself, and he feels something soft and aching fit subtly in its place. He doesn’t want Alex to be in pain. He doesn’t want him to be ashamed.

He walks toward Alex and extends a hand.

Alex looks around, not having realized he’s backed himself into a corner, then back at Logan.

Logan’s worried he’s going to have to say something– to coax Alex out like a frightened animal– but Alex takes his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He doesn’t flinch, either, not like he did in the garage. Not like almost everyone else does when they touch a vampire.

Alex’s hand in his own is his hot– not enough to hurt, but hotter than a human’s. Or maybe it just seems that way because no one wants to touch Logan for more than a second, and Alex is still holding on.

The quiet between them feels different now. Heavier but not as sharp, not as tumultuous. Eye contact is still intense, but in the way that makes him want to hold it, not look away in fear. He remembers the fire in Alex’s eyes in Vegas, flickering and restrained, writhing beneath the surface of everything human that remained of Alex. He hadn’t wanted to look away then, either, even though it had scared him.

Logan is used to being the one others fear. The one others make eye contact with and find a lifeless, bottomless hunger that he doesn’t even realize he’s revealing until somebody’s eyes skitter away from his, prey-animal expression flashing out at him, panic and fear like bared teeth.

He’s in the exact opposite situation with Alex now. He doesn’t want to look away from the heat, from the riveting and tantalizing life simmering just under the surface of Alex, for even a second. Something about the intense focus with which Alex gazes back (he can’t remember if he’s seen Alex this focused at all, anywhere) tells him that Alex is just as entranced.

It’s scary. It’s irresistible.

He leads Alex into the center of the room, farthest from the walls. “This enough?” he asks. He doesn’t mean to speak as gently as he does. His voice comes out like the last lines of a song, tender and fading.

“Yeah,” Alex nods. He swallows and looks down– eye contact evaporating like turning off a gas stove, all the murmuring heat gone in an instant. Logan blinks a couple times, slightly dazed. “Ready?” he asks.

“I just need to concentrate,” Alex says, almost to himself. He doesn’t let go of Logan’s hand.

Logan shifts his weight. “Do you want me to–”

“No.”

Something about Alex changes, and now he has that look in his eyes again– not the redline intensity of a few seconds ago, but the far-off flicker that means he’s not all the way here, lost in smoke and sensation.

He doesn’t let go of Logan’s hand, though. His grip is sure, steady, hot.

Alex takes a deep breath and closes his eyes– Logan tries not to feel like he’s losing something.

It’s quieter than Logan might have expected, when Alex finally shakes himself free of the concealing spells and allows his wings to materialize. No flashing lights, no sparks, no fanfare. The air simply twists in on itself, a ripple of vertigo that blurs the scene behind Alex, and then his wings are there.

Logan can’t quite make out what he’s looking at, at first. Folded tightly over Alex’s shoulders, the shapes of the wings are indiscernible, lost in a ragged mass of shadow.

Then he spreads them.

It’s a slow, teeth-gritting process as Alex fights through pain and stiffness. His wings are huge, jet black in the places they’re not mottled red and copper with burn tissue and barely-emerging regrowth. The longest feathers quiver as they separate, and a light dusting of ash falls to the carpet.

It smells like something is burning, and like something has been burnt. The crackling lead up to immolation and the exhausted, hazy comedown, without the fire in the middle. It might soak into the walls. (Do Entity smells behave like that?) It should be an appalling prospect. Should be.

He can hardly be bothered, though, watching the feathers as they shift and settle over the flexing muscles of the wing. The plumage– the unburnt portions of it, anyway– isn’t even all that remarkable. No runes etched into the feathers, no lava-like hologram of heat moving through the shafts. Nothing superfluous or illustrative at all.

But he’s never seen this part of Alex before, and the list of viewers he’s joining was never that long to begin with. It’s vulnerability, raw and stinging and confusing, and it doesn’t settle right in his stomach. He draws his gaze away from the wings; if he stares too long he starts to feel like maybe he owes some sort of vulnerability in return. Which is not a thought that is wise or even safe to pursue.

Logan hasn’t been watching Alex; when he turns back, his breath hitches in his throat. Alex’s face is contorted with effort and pain, teeth bared, brow furrowed. He’s making a noise in the back of his throat not unlike a wounded animal.

”Woah–“ Logan starts.

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything more before Alex reaches out and grabs Logan’s other hand, squeezing both tightly. Logan’s so startled he nearly jumps out of his skin, but the contact seems to ground Alex, let him regain his focus.

Logan squeezes back, even though Alex’s heat and strength is hurting him. He wonders absurdly whether he’ll release his grip only to find patches of burns on his palms, red and blistering to match the wounds on Alex’s wings. The prospect makes his chest feel light and airy, but not with fear– something brighter, charged and high-strung.

Alex finally breathes out and extends his wings to their full span, stretching far enough that his shoulders lift and his back arches. He inhales shakily and lets go of Logan’s hands to scrub his hands over his face; the tingling numbness he leaves behind is like an electric current, deep and thrumming and unpleasant.

”Thank you,” Alex says, dropping his hands to reveal a sheepish expression and wide, apologetic eyes. “It’s weird to spread them out at first, sometimes. Like a really, really long practice session, maybe, just jammed up in one space for so long… not an easy stretch, at first. Sorry if I crushed your fingers.”

”They’re fine,” Logan says automatically without checking, then looks down just to be sure.

Redness blooms across his palms and around the backs of his hands, sunset-warm, almost radiant– almost alive. A small gasp of amazement is drawn from him, sudden and unexpected, and for a second he wants to laugh.

Alex looks up at him, startled. “Oh my god.” He reaches for Logan’s hands tentatively, then jerks back as if he’s the one who’s been burned. He stumbles backward, stammering, “Oh god, Logan, fuck, I’m so sorry, I can– what can I–“

“No, Alex, it’s fine,” Logan assures him. He makes himself look up from his hands (warm warm warm) to give Alex a gentle smile. “I’m not burned, that’s just what happens with heat, sometimes. Or pressure. It sort of… wakes the blood up, I guess.” He cringes at his own inelegant phrasing.

Alex steps back towards him, his wings rustling as they shift with his movement. He gestures uncertainly with his own hands, so Logan raises his palms and splays his fingers for Alex to see. The red is already fading.

”I don’t have a heartbeat,” Logan says to the small space between their hands. It hurts like a confession, like a secret that’s never been told. His voice sounds exactly how he feels: small, worn down, the not-quite shadows under an overcast sky. “I don’t have to breathe, either– I just do it as a habit, or a… compulsion, I guess. But that’s why it reacts that way sometimes– when there’s something warm outside, cause, you know… there’s no warmth in me.”

He means to laugh as he says it, to glaze the broken-glass edges of the truth with something as slick and syrupy as reflective humor, but he doesn’t manage it. He doesn’t have the breath by the end of the sentence, habitual or not.

Alex nods somberly. He drops his hands, inches below Logan’s, as the last of the almost-burns dissolves back into blue and gray.

Logan tucks his hands into fists and then tucks his fists in his pockets, ashamed. His cheeks don’t burn because he’s not blushing. He’s not alive enough to blush. “I’m not warm,” he finishes. He doesn’t mean to. His voice is dripping between the fractures.

The air in front of him shifts– Alex folding his wings behind him. His hair flutters in his eyes briefly, and he looks up.

Alex’s eyes are on Logan’s wrists, tense and pale above where he’s hidden his hands; now he looks up. “I like that about you,” he says.

They end up with Alex sitting cross-legged in the middle of the carpet, extended wings drooping to either side, baring the charred feathers to the air. Logan’s able to get a closer look this time, crouching beside Alex and peering over the wings.

“They’re like… tangled,” he says, staring at the blackened imprints left behind on the wings where the burnt stalks crosshatch over each other. Overlapping feathers meet in uneven, skewed chevrons, the unkempt feathers similar to how Alex’s hair looks right after a race when it’s gone wild under the helmet. Faint patches of orange and gold fluff are caught among the snarls of dead feathers– the first signs of the new plumage that’ll grow in soon, glossy and vivacious. Now the warm colors look like bits of sunset caught in barbed wire.

“That happens,” Alex mumbles, voice strained, tossing his head over his shoulder long enough to nod at Logan before curling back in on himself. “The burned feathers usually fall out on their own, it’s just harder when…” He shuts himself up quickly, tipping his head forward so that his hair hangs in his eyes.

“Harder when what?” Logan presses.

When Alex speaks, it’s low and forceful, an admission of guilt in a room of accusers. “When I have to hold it back,” he says. “Hold it– in, I guess. Hold the fire back.” He furrows his brow after he says it, lips curling around the words like they have an unpleasant aftertaste.

Logan thinks about holding his own hunger back– putting one foot in front of the other, one sentence in front of the other, second after second until he’’s a jittery mess of fake smiles when all he wants to do is… well, get it over with. Get what he needs. Beneath the desperation and the panic and the cavernous, all-consuming hunger, the shame sits in the bottom of his stomach like an anchor. The shame of being owned by instinct, and so obviously failing to pretend like he’s not.

Hold it– in, I guess. Yeah. He doesn’t need to ask Alex to elaborate.

Instead he settles to his knees, close enough to reach out. He tries to focus on the different kinds of hot he can smell– smoke, ash, fire, sparks. When and where each is focused. It’s gone from being suffocating to being just another element of the space around him, like the color of the light or the not-quite-silence of the humming traffic outside. He wants to focus on something outside of his own body because he feels awkward and disjointed, overthinking how normal people are supposed to nonchalantly move until nothing about him feels normal, let alone nonchalant. He ends up sitting behind Alex with his legs crossed, shins just barely pressing against Alex’s lower back. His hands feel stupid and empty by his sides, so close to the rich, gently flowing heat and yet not quite close enough. Even though being close was what he’d offered in the first place… Fuck, I’m terrible at this, he curses himself.

Alex doesn’t say anything as Logan shifts around, just interlaces his fingers in his lap. Now that the focus has shifted back to him, the pain seems to be coming back as well, no longer held at bay with distraction.

Logan draws in a deep breath (because he can, because he wants to) and finally raises one hand, letting it hover over the base of a wing where it juts over Alex’s shoulder blade. He wants to press down– card his fingers through the ash, spread his own gentle cold like rainwater over a barren desert– but he doesn’t. He’s apprehensive. The two of them are shifting in and out of vulnerability like a strobe light, shadowy interludes of privacy between flashes of sudden truths. He doesn’t know where the lines are anymore– the ones he has yet to cross. “Does it still hurt?” he asks. “I mean, I know it hurts, but– is it getting worse?”

Alex shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I’m sorry. Keep– keep it like that.” He rolls his shoulders, his left wing shifting up to meet Logan’s open palm. Logan almost pulls back, startled, but Alex just sighs, eyes sliding closed again. “It’s okay,” he breathes. His words sound like he’s giving Logan permission– his tone sounds like he’s begging.

Logan slides his hand between the feathers, reaching enough so Alex doesn’t have to keep the wing flexed anymore. He can feel the heat so vividly now (melting amber, lighter fluid, the blue-red spark of a match erupting to life)– more than when Alex had held his hands. From the wings themselves emanates a heat that’s simmering and searching, an entirely different energy from the rest of his body’s warmth. It’s a bit like laying a hand on an engine cover after a race– the even surface doing nothing to shield the urgent restlessness of the power underneath. It’s bright and pulsing and alive the way fire can be alive, and Logan feels it flow from his fingertips to his wrist like a heartbeat– like blood.

He doesn’t envy Alex for it, the way he used to envy the rest of the world. The scars and burn tissue twisting over the surface of the wings, shiny in the way flesh shouldn’t be, are impossible to envy. In the back of his head, Logan feels a frustrated kind of bewilderment; he doesn’t understand how Alex’s own body can’t against itself, what ill-thought design leads to this much pain in its own natural cycle, mercilessly recurring. The full regrowth and the rejuvenating, revitalizing end of the cycle will come soon, but is it worth all of this?

He doesn’t envy Alex, but he does feel a certain emptiness, hollow and void in his chest in a way he hasn’t been vulnerable to since he was just Turned– since the bloodlust first manifested.

He envies the heat itself. The life itself.

Without any real awareness or forethought, he reaches to the other wing, settles both hands deep in the feathers. THere are burns, ridged and flushed, under his fingertips.

Alex stops breathing entirely. Logan watches his eyes fly open, glassy and wild all at once, and he takes his hands back.

“No–” Alex tries to say. It comes out as a high-pitched whine in the back of his throat, whimpering and pathetic, and his shoulders shake at his own twisting, wanton voice. But he still thrusts both wings back, chasing Logan, chasing his touch.

“Breathe, then,” Logan commands. His voice is firm because he’s trying to remember to breathe himself, vampire lungs be damned, forcing his body to stay calm so Alex will stay calm, but it ends up low and firm in the back of his throat, deeper than his speaking voice, steadier. Like he really means it. Like he’s telling Alex what to do for the sake of watching him obey.

Well…

He has what Alex wants, doesn’t he? He’s literally holding it over him– an unspoken ultimatum in the palms of his hands, tantalizingly raised, tantalizingly empty.

Alex swallows, his throat hitching.

“Breathe,” Logan says again. “Or we stop.”

Alex lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes again. His next inhale is shaky but measured; Logan knows he must be counting in his head.

He lays his palms over Alex’s wings as Alex lets the tension leave them like uncurling a fist. The intact primaries brush the floor on either side as the wings fall half-open.

There’s still heat in Logan’s palms, in his wrists, in the listless veins of his arms that have forgotten how to hold a pulse. It hurts a little, but it’s also not unpleasant.

Alex takes another deep breath.

Logan dips his head over his shoulder. His jaw grazes the side of Alex’s neck when he speaks. “There you go.”

Alex keens. His fists are clenched, nails digging into his palms; Logan reaches over and swats the back of his hand. “None of that.”

Alex shivers, a rolling motion that has his wings opening further and then releasing, half of an upstroke. A fresh wave of heat warms Logan’s face, zings through the hand still combing through feathers.

Alex unclenches his fists, though.

Logan holds onto his wrists for a second, reassuring, then gets back to work.

Time passes like a dream, intangible and unmeasurable. The evening steps aside and night paints the room in flat blocks of shadow, hints of purple and blue laying claim to the lines and angles that make up the flat until the color goes entirely, and the darkness descends like a heavy quilt.

They’re still touching. Hands to feathers, shins to back– so much empty space left, but Logan doesn’t think he’s ever been closer.

“Can you take off your shirt.”

It isn’t a question. Alex’s voice is low, hazy and rough in the back of his throat, but his tone is unmistakably sure. The pretense of a question is immaterial; it’s a demand.

Logan was entranced in the repetitive task of dusting away the ash between the right secondaries, but now both his hands still. His fingertips are deep between the fibers now, firm and familiar on Alex’s wings, because he’s been here before. There’s a small, shifting flicker of possessiveness stirring in his chest that doesn’t have any place here–

Does it?

It’s dark. They’re not speaking, they haven’t spoken in hours, but they’re still touching. Touching anywhere as the light fades and the minutes shift over until it feels like everywhere. Logan’s hands are warm, deft like flowing water, like circulation. The contact could be in his fingertips or between his knuckles or his palms or his wrists or up his arms entirely. He can’t tell. They’re too close like this, every other sensation winking out one by one in the coming of the night until all he can feel is Alex.

Alex under his hands, Alex in his grasp. Alex who keens and shakes when he presses the hell of his palm against the toughness and tension over the bridge of his wings, because to Alex he’s still cold. I like that about you.

Logan stares at the hand he can’t see, just the vague presumption of the space they would take up if he really wanted to let his eyes adjust. He won’t bother. He still hesitates.

He’s not nervous. They’re close, they’re so close and they’ve been close. They’re breathing the same air. He can taste the warmth between his lips when he inhales, and if he closes his eyes he can pretend that Alex’s warmth is something he’s always had: a warmth and vitality that flows through him with every breath, that doesn’t have to be taken with sharp hunger and sharper teeth.

Like circulation…

He can live like this, with Alex. He can exist in a space of warmth and shadow and smoke and hold liquid heat in his hands and the dead channels of his body can open and course with a gentle light that maybe he didn’t deserve to lose and–

“Logan,” Alex murmurs.

Logan leans back long enough to strip off his shirt. For a minute, the sudden air hitting his back feels cold– a startled elation fills him like a flash of light, so brilliant and powerful for a second he thinks he’s going to pass out. He’s cold. He’s cold because he could feel warmth– because his body was warm– because he can be alive like this, wrapping around Alex, wrapped up in Alex, endlessly warm and rhythmic and close–

Maybe he’s a little drunk on it. Maybe more than a little.

But Alex isn’t any better.

He uncrosses his legs and opens them instead, creating a space for Alex to lean back into– hips nestled together, back to chest, skin to skin.

And–

God.

It’s–

“Fuck,” Alex gasps.

It’s been a few hours and a small eternity, and Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t double-check. Alex isn’t in pain. He doesn’t have to see his face to know that– the feeling in his voice, the wet raggedness to his breathing, the way his wings jerk open on instinct to their full span before curling back easily into Logan’s waiting hands…. He knows.

Alex’s feathers are soft against his chest. He can’t feel the burned stalks, the damaged tissue, the cinders, the pain– he’s watched so much of it unravel between his careful hands. He just feels soft and heat.

Heat that pulses for his still, cold heart. Alive in the way fire is alive. Not his, but not taken, either.

This close, Alex doesn’t smell like anything burning. Or anything that’s been burned.

He smells like auburn and lavender, like the colors of an autumn sunset, like the cinnamon swirls on a woodland breeze. Pure and gentle and sweet, unsharpened by the memory of flames. Maybe who he could have been, in another body. Another life.

Alex lifts his head, letting it drop back against the dip of Logan’s shoulder. Eyes closed, lips still parted, staggered breaths beginning to even.

“Feel so good,” he sighs, voice drifting.

Logan nods absently. He’s losing himself in this, in the colors and the smells and every part of his body that’s wrapped around Alex. More than just feathers and bone, more than the heat… he feels alive. So, so alive.

He was trying not to make any noise about it earlier, to not let his unnecessary breathing hold the tone of his relief, but… he might not be doing a good job anymore. He can’t tell. There’s only Alex.

Alex sounds like he’s forgotten Logan is there. His voice is laden with pleasure, almost obscene.

It doesn’t really matter the full extent of what they are or aren’t doing; he’s right. It is good. It feels more than good, it feels right.

“Yeah,” Logan murmurs. “Me too.”

Alex’s head starts to loll on Logan’s shoulder; Logan leans back a little and guides Alex further into him, one hand straying from the wings to cradle his head briefly. Alex swallows. Logan can feel the muscles of his throat flex beneath his palm. “I got you,” he says.

”I know.”

[awkwardchick87]

Challenge Friday piece of the @pixelcafe-network!!

Also my first time writing for Demon Slayer! Enjoy this angsty Gyutaro fic!

wc - 500ish

cw - angst, abuse, stockholm syndrome, character death, everyone dies, blood.

Looking around at the destruction you couldn’t help but think to yourself, this must have been the work of a Hashira. Curious, you had made your way back into the destroyed entertainment district after sneaking away from the three women helping people leave. You had to check on Gyutaro

You had been helping Daki and her brother for over a year now, in return, they kept you alive. In that year, you hadn’t meant to fall in love with Gyutaro. It was clear he did not feel the same way. You had spent countless hours making sure Daki was taken care of and pampered only so you could spend a few hours a night with Gyutaro. His hard features were beautiful to you. His marred skin, although rough, was perfect in your eyes. You had always wanted to reach out and touch the dark, cloud like marks on his skin.

The first time you touched him unintentionally, his hand shot up, gripping your face, “Focus on her, do not touch me again” his face inches away from yours as he jolted his head in his sister's direction. “You’re here to help us, nothing more. Be happy you’re still alive. Pathetic thing”

As the months wore on, casual brushes of your hand against his arms, a quick flash of your legs as you moved around the small room you had been confined to. Daki brought you small meals when she remembered you were human. Leaving you mostly with her brother when he was separated from her. He barely treated you like more than a pet, a small toy for him to play with and entertain himself.

The first time he touched you intentionally, after you had dropped a tea cup and the broken glass cut your palm, his rough hands were gentle. Bringing your palm up to his lips, drinking your blood in small sips as his eyes rolled to the back of his head before shoving your hand away, “bandage that.. before my sister sees.”

He kept his distance from you for a few days. The scent of your blood under the bandages was almost overwhelming to him while all you wanted was his attention again. He looked so serene while he drank your blood. It only served to deepen your feelings for him, to be the only one he would feed from.

You kept up your duties, even after Daki had suspected demon slayers were being sent. Overhearing her conversations with Gyutaro every night, you heard her mention capturing a few women who were snooping around, planning to poison another, and she suspects more will be sent, possibly a hashira.

None of you had expected the hashira would bring others with him. As you rounded a corner, the buildings all collapsed, some burning, you heard the fight before you ever saw it. Watching Gyutaro take on the hashira, a long with a younger demon slayer, while Daki was being attacked by two more younger slayers. You watched in horror as they were both beheaded, landing close enough to you that you could hear their arguing. Tears brimming in your eyes as you watched them start to disintegrate and turn to ash.

Watching them argue, your ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton. Everything was muffled and felt like it was in slow motion. Watching Gyutaros body release the blood slashes, finally closing your eyes, letting them hit you.

Banners by @adornedwithlight

Header by @awkwardchick87

[liecoris]

»»🌸 — # liecoris ( ' the flower of the [after] life ' ) — an independent, semi-selective, multi-fandom, multi-ship roleplay blog for my OC, Ito Mukuro - Shinjuku's Top Info Broker who moonlights as an Assassin。 With various animanga and video game verses/AUs。

Themes of this blog include [but are not limited to]: struggling to overcome grief, rising from ashes, spitting in the face of those who doubt you, using your body to get what you want, growing up too fast, treating mental illness with unhealthy coping mechanisms, the aftermath of being abandoned, the consequences of overworking oneself, and cold-blooded revenge。

Loved & Written by Koobs! ( she / her, 31 )

»»🌸 — Carrd || Playlist || Aesthetic Board || Wishlist Doc || Interest Checker || Thread Tracker || AU Master List || Fandom Verse Master List || Bio 

»»🌸 — Tags: Open Starters || Memes

»»🌸 — Affiliated With: ragnaofazure. memoriamexarca. chxckandmxte. @hcllsbigboss

icon borders & line dividers: © carrd & promo templates: © header banners: © face claim(s): Larcy/Princess of Bats, edited ( I Will Fall with the Emperor )

»»🌸 — THIS BLOG CAN AND WILL CONTAIN TRIGGERING CONTENT

»»🌸 — While I write in fandoms that have a lot of problematic people / a lot of drama in them, I am in no way affiliated with said fandoms. I'm like 30 and do not claim the negative energy stink that some fandoms permeate — 🌸 ««

»»🌸 — Mukuro may be mean to your muse sometimes - she's not the nicest person. She can and will be antagonistic and a bitch.

Minors ARE and WILL be blocked on sight。

[witchlingsandwyverns]

Is your icon Poppy Balfour from Blood and Ash?

It is, well spotted! Blood and Ash was I think the most recent book I read when I decided to update my header image. I was intrigued by how many fan art depictions had her without the veil and I wanted to try my hand at it! And it was the most recent art I did so made it my icon :]

[monchaeni]

mythical creatures— a list.

————————————————————————

welcome to a list of some (definitely not all nor a lot) mythical creatures~

feel free to use these as inspiration for your works or just read through it to find out a little about these creatures.

any questions or requests? id love to hear it !!

vampire;

A vampire is a mythical creature that subsists by feeding on the vital essence (generally in the form of blood) of the living; One of the undead that wanders at night to suck the blood of its human victims.

abilities;

turning others into one of their kind.

flying.

misting or vaporizing.

hypnosis.

immortality.

transformation.

strength.

siren;

In Greek mythology, the Sirens were dangerous creatures of the sea; Sirens were creatures from Greek mythology that enticed sailors to their destruction with their irresistibly beautiful singing; The Classical Greeks understood the Sirens differently: as bird-women.

…For with their high clear song the Sirens bewitch him, as they sit there in a meadow piled high with the mouldering skeletons of men, whose withered skin still hangs upon their bones. (The advice of Circe, Odyssey, 12:39-47)

abilities;

regeneration.

siren song.

strength.

transformation.

supernaturally beautiful and alluring.

phoenix;

The Phoenix is a mythical bird of great beauty fabled to live 500 or 600 years in the Arabian wilderness, to burn itself on a funeral pyre, and to rise from its ashes in the freshness of youth and live through another cycle of years: often an emblem of immortality or of reborn idealism or hope.

abilities;

self-resurrection

fire.

flying.

fire-embodiment.

zombie;

a frightening creature that is a dead person who has been brought back to life, but without human qualities. Zombies are not able to think and they are often shown as attacking and eating human beings.

abilities;

enhanced senses.

strength.

invulnerability.

resilience.

regeneration.

witch/witcher;

a witch/witcher is a person who is believed to have magical powers and who uses them to harm or help other people; a witch is a term rooted in European folklore and superstition for a practitioner of witchcraft, magic or sorcery.

abilities;

spell casting.

witchcraft.

channeling.

elemental control.

telekinesis.

extended lifespan.

thanks for tuning in. headers made by me. none of the photos in said headers are mine tho. information gathered from google.<33

@squoxle

@monchaeni out✌️

[refugiodafada]

Twitter Pack Flesh and Fire Series

like if you save. © refugiodafada

[warriorowan]

hey guys! i would like to ask whenever you make a request to be specific with how you want me to make it. like what highlight color you want, if messy or quotes header or both. this helps me a lot ♥

summary

couples

adamolive

alexava

alizehcyrus

averyjameson

axelrooney

christianstella

daemyra

danilachlan

dianadallas

evajacks

firstprince/alexhenry

gillow

hadleyelijah

irisroman

joeyaoife

jonathankennedy

knoxmemphis

knoxnaomi

konelena

lanalogan

maggiebrooks

manorian

maybellwesley

naominicholas

nathanstassie

nessamiko

percabeth

pipravi

rafepenny

rhysbridget

romajuliette

rowaelin

rowaelin pt.2

theowinter

vadcorvina

vip series

warnette

warnette pt.2

willacade

xadenviolet

rinaverse

jeremycecily

landonmia

nikobran

reinaasher

ronanteal

xanderkim

xanderkim pt.2

general

acotar series

a court of silver flames

book lovers

carrie soto is back

daisy jones and the six

from blood and ash

heartless

heartstopper

it ends with us

it ends with us pt.2

kingdom of the wicked

scythe

stormlight archive

the cruel prince

the infernal devices

the invisible life of addie larue

the unbecoming of mara dyer

characters

aelin galathynius

cardan greenbriar

cassian

feyre archeron

jude duarte

lucien vanserra

maven calore

nesta archeron

nikolai lantsov

victor vale

[tanjir0se]

As the World Caves In--Part 1 of 2

Pairings: Rengiyuu Words: 2.3k/? Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Everybody Lives AU Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Canon-typical Violence, Medical Procedures, Blood

It felt like he was in a dream. No, a nightmare. Any moment now he’d wake up screaming, heart pounding in his ears until it settled back to a normal pace. Any moment now he’d be back in the mansion gardens with Rengoku by his side, wisteria on the breeze, warm from the sun and the sound of Rengoku’s laughter. All he could hear now was his own heartbeat, all he could smell was the sharp copper scent of blood. His entire field of view had gone red. 

Summary: Giyuu was fortunate enough to be on a mission just South of the Mugen Train crash and the site of Rengoku's battle with Akaza. Now he's all that stands between Kyojuro and death.

Thank you to @babykirara for the amazing header she made for me that I can't stop using to decorate my various putting of Giyuu in Situations

UPDATE: read part 2 here!

Giyuu rarely put much thought into where Rengoku was headed on his missions. Being a Hashira seemed as easy for him as breathing, swordplay coming as naturally as the ease of his conversations. As much as he missed their walks in the gardens, their one-sided conversations, the hot flush on his face while they sparred in the training grounds, the idea of Rengoku facing genuine danger was foreign to him. 

As for himself, quite a few times Giyuu had awoken in the Butterfly mansion, bandaged and bleeding and bruised, always with Rengoku waiting by his side. He’d chide him for his recklessness, extol his strength as a demon slayer, and offer to help him train during his recovery. Their positions had yet to be reversed. Rengoku was…well, he was Rengoku. The flame Hashira would return with a few scrapes here and there, but they were easily outshined by his bright-as-the-sun smile. It was easy to ignore them. 

Until it wasn’t. Until that day. 

Giyuu sheathed his sword and exhaled, watching the demon he’d just decapitated smolder apart, ashes drifting into the early dawn sky. He’d been on the case of a demon at a local theater for a few days when he’d received a raven with a letter from Rengoku, telling him all about the latest mission he’d been assigned to: investigating the Mugen Train. It never took very long for Rengoku to return from whatever mission he was on, so Giyuu figured he’d hear all about it once they both returned to the mansion. 

The piercing cry of his crow nearly made him jump as he was turning to find his way back to the mansion. 

“Backup urgently requested! Backup urgently requested!” His crow was screeching as it fluttered down onto his shoulder. “Flame Hashira Kyojuro Rengoku requires urgent assistance in his pursuit of the Mugen Train demon!” Giyu leaned slightly away from its shrill voice directly in his ear. His eyes widened. 

“What happened?” He gripped his sword hilt with white knuckles. Rengoku never requested assistance, not in all the years they’d been Hashira together. His stomach clenched tightly, nearly painfully, Giyuu readied himself to run. 

“The train has crashed just north from here! An upper rank demon has appeared in the fight!” The crow reported. 

All at once Giyuu couldn’t breathe. His throat clamped shut, chest heaving, and all he could manage through the strangling grip of fear was three words: “Take me there.”

***

Giyuu could recall only one time he’d run so fast in all his life: nearly twenty years ago. Cold air had torn through his lungs but he hadn’t slowed. He couldn’t. The more distance he put between himself and the strangers he’d been left in the care of, the more likely he’d find someone who would listen to him. He couldn’t save his sister, but maybe if he kept running he’d find someone who could help him save someone else. The last thing he remembered that night was collapsing into the snow, exhausted, throat raw. In his exhaustion he remembered seeing her standing there, watching him with her sad eyes and raven-black hair. That was his last image of her. 

He couldn’t save his sister. All his life he’d never forgotten that helplessness. Now, following his crow toward the ever-growing plumes of smoke on the horizon, he felt it growing in his gut again. Not him. Anyone but him. 

The sun was beginning to rise as Giyuu came to the scene of the train crash. Aside from the murmur of survivors helping each other out of the wreckage, and the distant crackle of flames, it was eerily quiet. Whatever upper rank demon had been here would be long gone. The impending sunlight made sure of that. Perhaps Rengoku had simply defeated the upper rank before the sun rose, leaving the battlefield in silence. He certainly wouldn’t put it past him. And hoping was easier at the moment than despair. 

A surprising streak of pink caught his eye in the shadow of one of the train cars. Giyuu jogged toward it, picking up his speed when he realized what it was. 

“Nezuko.” he said stupidly, finding it to be the only thing he could think to say. The blond-haired kid that was always hanging around her was kneeling beside her with Tanjiro’s box open, ushering her inside. She looked up when she saw him, her magenta eyes glistening. The blond followed her gaze and gasped when he saw him. 

“Mr. Tomioka--”

“Where is Rengoku?” Giyuu interrupted. The blond just shook his head at him, eyes wide with fear, and pointed toward a grove of trees on the far end of the wreckage. Giyuu wordlessly followed his direction. 

He heard the sobs before he saw anything. The sky was thick and hazy with clearing smoke. Just over a small ridge he found a clearing before a large grove of trees. The ground was scarred with slashes from a sword, footprints in a fighting stance, trenches were a body had been blown back by some great force. The dirt glistened with blood, for a moment it was the only color in the gray-brown haze of smoke and dirt kicked up from battle.

Giyuu stumbled down the hill into the smoke. The sobs were getting louder, his chest was getting tighter, he doubted he’d be able to breathe even without the caustic cloud around him. After a few seconds of searching, Giyuu’s eyes fell on a flash of yellow, bright as the sun. Rengoku. 

“Kyojuro!” Giyuu managed. Hope and relief carried him forward through the smoke, but he slowed once again when the full scene appeared before him. 

Tanjiro, on his hands and knees, looked up at him as he appeared through the smog. Tears cut sharply through the grime and blood on his face. Behind him was the kid with the boar’s head, trembling violently, unable to look at him. Kneeling before them both was Rengoku himself. 

“Kyojuro.” Giyuu said, ignoring the look on Tanjiro’s face, the blood, the smoke. Rengoku didn’t move. His haori spilled out around him, soaked from the waist down with a halo of blood. There was a long beat of silence before Kyojuro abruptly, grotesquely slumped backwards, deadweight, hitting the dirty ground with a loud but hollow thump. 

“Mr. Rengoku…!” Tanjiro whimpered. “Please, Mr. Tomioka, help him!” 

Giyuu stared, disbelieving. It felt like he was in a dream. No, a nightmare. Any moment now he’d wake up screaming, heart pounding in his ears until it settled back to a normal pace. Any moment now he’d be back in the mansion gardens with Rengoku by his side, wisteria on the breeze, warm from the sun and the sound of Rengoku’s laughter. All he could hear now was his own heartbeat, all he could smell was the sharp copper scent of blood. His entire field of view had gone red. 

“Mr. Tomioka!” Tanjiro was shouting. Giyuu wasn’t listening. He was staring instead at his friend’s blasted-open abdomen, an ocean of red pouring out from the mangled flesh beneath his torn uniform. Something snapped inside of him, the fragile scaffolding he’d built around his heart shattering into pieces like Kyojuro’s body. Not him, not him, not him--

“Tomioka!” Tanjiro screamed. Giyuu blinked and found Tanjiro had stood and was tugging desperately on his haori. “Please!”

Giyuu looked at Tanjiro and inhaled. There he stood between his friend and oblivion. If he did nothing else for the rest of his life, he would reach into that oblivion and yank him back. Hands shaking, Giyuu finally moved. 

Quickly but gently, Giyuu took Kyojuro--Kyojuro’s body?--by the shoulders and lowered him to the ground, where he hit the blood soaked dirt with a heavy and sickening squelching sound. Long ago, when his hands were too small to hold a sword and his body too weak to swing it, Urokodaki had made sure to teach him how to force a heart to beat, how to fill another’s lungs with air. How to reach into oblivion and yank someone back. 

Back then he’d warned him it didn't often work, even when done perfectly. Back then he’d seen that firsthand, as he’d uselessly pumped the heart of a lifeless body crushed beyond repair. Giyuu remembered the blood soaking through the patterned robe and splattering onto the crushed kitsune mask beside him. 

He couldn’t save his sister. He couldn’t save Sabito and Makomo. Kyojuro now stared sightlessly up at him, his eyes half-open and splattered with blood. Giyuu knelt beside him, placed the heel of his pale hand against Kyojuro’s ruined chest, and pushed down with everything he had. 

Immediately he heard the crack of ribs snapping, felt them collapse inward like twigs beneath his hands. Giyuu sucked in a surprised and disgusted breath but continued anyway. He had to. He counted in his head the best he could but kept losing count as he watched blood flow up from Kyojuro’s chest and throat and onto his hands, soaking his uniform sleeves. Even counting took huge effort; all he could think about was his friend’s voice, his smile, the heat that came to his face whenever Kyojuro drew close to him. 

1, 2, 3, 4–Ah, Giyuu! My friend, how nice to see you again!—6, 7, 8, 9–Hah! You always know how to make me laugh. I always enjoy your company. 

Panting with effort, Giyuu found a rhythm, bending at the waist to throw his weight behind each artificial beat of Kyojuro’s heart. All those kind things Kyojuro had said to him and he’d never returned any of them. Not for lack of trying, and he knew Kyojuro understood…Each silent upward tilt of his lips, each time he drew a little closer, handed him something he was reaching for without him asking, remembered his order at their favorite Udon cart—I love you I love you I love you—but he’d never actually said it. 

It wasn’t as easy for him as it seemed to be for Kyojuro. That strangling grip around his throat seemed to never lessen, and the harder he tried to summon the words to express what he felt, the further they retreated back into his. The tighter the grip became. He swallowed.

“Come on, Kyo,” he spat through his teeth and the tightness in his throat, far beyond caring if the boys heard or noticed his use of the nickname he’d never said aloud. “Please…”

When he reached thirty, or felt like he’d gotten to thirty, Giyuu stopped and leaned down, tilting Kyojuro’s chin upward, pressing his lips to Kyojuro’s and breathing into him. Kyojuro’s chest—what was left of it—rose with the breath and fell again. The air escaped his cold lips in a loose gurgle. Another borrowed breath, another rush of blood, another long and frightening silence. Giyuu came away tasting blood and resumed pumping his chest again. 

He lost track of time. For that matter he’d lost track of space, too. The earth had fallen out beneath them. In that moment the only thing that could pull him back into orbit again was Kyojuro. He didn’t realize that the Kakushi had arrived and we’re taking over, not even when Tanjiro’s voice managed to reach him again.  

“Mr. Tomioka…?” He was calling. Giyuu ignored him and continued. His chest was beginning to heave with coming sobs; they became so intense he could barely move or breathe. Still he continued. Someone else was calling his name. Still he continued. I love you I love you I love you.

“Master Tomioka, we will take over from here.” A voice said. His shaking hands were so soaked with blood they were beginning to slide off of their position on Kyojuro’s sternum. “M-master Tomioka, please…” Someone was pulling on his arm, pulling him back and away from Kyojuro. Giyuu set his jaw and tried to continue but the hands continued pulling into finally they managed to get him off of Kyojuro, though his eyes did not move from Kyojuro’s face. 

“That’s enough, Mr. Tomioka.” Tanjiro was saying. The moment Giyuu stopped yanking against him in an attempt to get back to Kyojuro, Tanjiro released his arm and let him watch while Kakushi descended upon the scene, his vision blurred with tears he hadn’t realized had been falling from his eyes. The Kakushi swarmed him as they took over, their training clearly much fresher than Giyuu’s. 

His breath caught in his throat as it ripped in and out of his shattered chest. Giyuu felt faint, he felt his own heart stop, ears ringing as if he’d just been in an explosion. His own ribs were imploding too. The cliff edge of oblivion stretched out before him, the reality of the rest of his life without Kyojuro’s smile. It was everything he could do to keep himself upright.

Through the haze he heard one of the Kakushi speaking. 

“I have a pulse!”

Giyuu blinked. To his shock, Kyojuro’s chest was moving slowly up and down even without his intervention. Each exhale brought a small flow of blood from Kyojuro’s mouth, but he was breathing. His heart, somehow, was beating. The world resumed its spin. 

“You did it, Mr. Tomioka!” Tanjiro whispered in disbelief. He watched them load Rengoku onto a stretcher and take off toward the medical camp they were still setting up. Tanjiro pushed himself into a standing position, wavered, tried to remember how to breathe. Beside him, Tomioka remained motionless on his knees, his face even paler than usual. “Mr. Tomioka?” 

He was surprised into silence as Tomioka abruptly bent forward and vomited onto the bloody ground. Tanjiro’s hands hovered uselessly over Tomioka’s back, wanting to comfort him, too frightened to touch him, too worried he might vomit, too. Before he could decide what to do Tomioka jerked upright again and stood, shaking, blood dripping from his fingers.

Giyuu was not a praying man. It had never worked for him before. But for one moment, exhausted and faint and feeling the world tilt as it attempted to find its orbit again, Giyuu allowed himself to offer not a prayer, but a bargain. 

If you let him live, I swear, I’ll tell him everything.

[reblog4myfics]

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ THE DEADLY TRIO & HOW THEY TREAT THEIR GIRL..

---

Michael De Santa

He liked the way you looked in his house—barefoot in oversized knitwear, a messy bun pinned with a pen, your iPhone glowing soft on the marble counter beside a half-drunk iced coffee. You weren’t Amanda. You didn’t talk to him like a chore. You laughed, played with his tie, threw your legs across his lap while reruns of bad reality TV echoed off the glass windows.

That morning, he tossed you the keys to a cherry red convertible parked outside.

“Just a little something,” he said, like it was a trinket from the drugstore.

You squealed, climbed into the leather seat with your lip gloss still drying, and took blurry filtered pics for Instagram like it wasn’t technically cheating. Like he wasn’t old enough to be your—

Well. Let’s not talk about that.

Amanda did, though.

She cornered him in the kitchen later, right after yoga, reeking of sage and self-righteousness.

“A car? Michael? Are you out of your mind?”

He sipped his coffee like it was scotch. “What, you don’t think your yoga instructor would approve?”

That shut her up.

Back upstairs, he cupped your face and kissed you slow, hands on your thighs like he needed the warmth to breathe.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours, “I’m a bad, bad man.”

And the worst part? You liked it.

---

Trevor Phillips

You found him shirtless on the couch, one sock on, ash in his hair, something powdery spread across the table that looked like baking soda if baking soda came with a switchblade.

“Hi, baby!” he grinned, eyes wild. “Want some?”

You blinked, arms full of old vinyl records and a plastic bag from Bath & Body Works.

“I’m good,” you said, dropping everything on the counter. “You know that’s not my thing.”

He sniffed, laughed, scratched at his chest.

“Better not be,” he said casually. “’Cause if I catch you doin’ whatever the fuck this is—” he pointed to the line and grinned like the Joker, “—I’ll put a bullet through the goddamn sun. Then you. Then me.”

You paused. “That’s... hot.”

“It is hot. I’m a dangerous man, cupcake.”

You sat beside him anyway. His hand found your thigh. His heartbeat pounded through his fingers like war drums.

Despite the threats, despite the danger, despite the fact that his RV smelled like blood and gasoline—he’d wrap you up in his arms like a fever dream, lips bruising, hands wandering.

“You’re my little drug,” he’d mumble into your neck.

And honestly? That was enough.

---

Franklin Clinton

You didn’t expect him to know so much about cars. You knew he drove them, sure. But when he lifted the hood of his latest ride—a matte black beast with custom wheels and a stereo that could crack concrete—he looked like he belonged on a magazine cover you’d find folded in half under your brother’s bed.

“I thought this one looked good,” you said sheepishly. “Y’know. Like. Pretty.”

He smirked. “She’s got more than just looks, baby girl. Got turbo in here. Custom headers. She moves.”

You blinked. “So… is that like... fast?”

He laughed and tapped your nose. “You’re cute.”

You were perched on the edge of his car, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, the faint scent of Warm Vanilla Sugar lotion clinging to your skin. You didn’t know jack about torque or lift kits, but Franklin made you want to learn.

He started the engine and it growled like something alive.

You covered your ears and giggled. “Jesus!”

“Wanna take her out?”

“Franklin, I barely know how to park.”

“Good,” he said, opening the door for you. “Means I get to teach you.”

You got in. The seat swallowed you. The dashboard blinked like a spaceship. You could hear your heart in your ears.

But then he looked over at you, lips quirked up, hand already resting on your thigh.

“Don’t worry,” he said, smooth as silk. “You’re ridin’ with the best.”

---

[heejamas]

YOUR HEART GOT TEETH | CHOI. YEONJUN ⨾

SYNOPSIS ٬⠀⠀✦ in a world ruled by blood and territory, you built your empire from ash and betrayal. years ago, yeonjun shattered your life with a single lie — and vanished. now he’s back, offering salvation laced with secrets, handing over pieces of your land to save the very people he once left to die. old scars reopen as you're forced into an alliance stitched together with memory, resentment, and the kind of tension that never really left. while danger brews at every border and loyalty crumbles beneath ambition, you must decide if the devil you once loved is worth trusting again — or burning with everything else.

PAIRINGS 🗝️ mafia! yeonjun x fem! reader

WARNINGS ❜୧ violence, mafia themes, enemies to lovers, stabbing, blood, grief, all kinds of illegal activities, death of father figure, smut, dry humping WORDCOUNT ''. 28k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ٬ ✦ this is my first time writing a mafia fic and ngl i was super nervous 😭 i’ve never touched this theme before and i was so scared it would come off super cheesy or over-the-top but honestly?? i’m really happy with how it’s turned out so 🖤 hope you guys enjoy it!! Hi guys! this is rain @heesmiles, i'm making this layout for ronnie; i made the header too ! like this its so cutie core

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#nowplaying - teeth by 5 seconds of summer

Some nights, you forget what peace feels like. And when silence finally settles, you start to miss the sound of violence.

That’s the first thing you think when the cold of 3:17 a.m. presses into your skin like a warning. It’s quiet, but not the good kind. This silence has sharp edges. Because you’re standing on the rooftop of a building that doesn't belong to you but answers to your name. The city stretches around you, lit up like a lie, glittering and full of ghosts. Somewhere out there, someone is bleeding. Somewhere out there, someone’s praying they never hear your name.

You light a cigarette you won’t finish, you never do. Smoke curls between your fingers like it’s dancing for you, like it knows you’re the queen here. The Ghost Queen, that’s what they call you. No face, no past, and also no mercy. No one knows you’re you, the daughter of the man who burned half the underworld down before disappearing into his own flames. No one knows you were born in blood and named after betrayal, and you like it that way.

Behind you, the rusted door creaks open, but you don’t turn around. You already know it’s Beomgyu, your second-in-command, and the only person in this city you’d trust with your back turned. “They're calling again,” he says. Voice quiet, always calm. “Third deal this week gone sideways.”

You don’t answer right away. You exhale, watching the smoke dissolve into the night. “Same buyer?” you ask.

Beomgyu steps closer and leans on the ledge next to you, the city lights flickering in his dark eyes. “Different face. Same pattern. Military-grade weapons intercepted. Police got there too fast. Like... too fast.”

There it is, the rot you’ve been sensing all week. Something is off, and now it’s crawling into your business. “Is it local?” you ask, keeping your voice flat.

Beomgyu hesitates. “Maybe. But it’s spreading. Not just us.”

You glance at him and he meets your eyes. And you both know what name you’re not saying.

Choi Yeonjun.

You haven’t seen him in years. Not since you were teenagers. But you push the memory down like a knife you’re not ready to twist. Instead, you focus on the facts. If someone’s feeding intel to the police, they’re not just targeting you. They’re tearing a path through the power lines of the city. And eventually, that path leads to the Crimson Order, Yeonjun’s organization.

You stub out the cigarette on the concrete ledge. “Let the others know,” you say. “We don’t move anything for the next 48 hours. Nothing leaves the vault unless it’s fireproof and untraceable.”

Beomgyu nods, but doesn’t leave. You can feel him watching you. “You think it’s him?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You don’t answer, not directly. Instead, your eyes drift toward the horizon, toward the part of the city where red lights burn hotter than the rest, his territory. You think about a scar on someone else's skin. A knife in your own hand. The way his eyes looked the last time he saw you — not scared, not angry, but betrayed.

“I think,” you say slowly, “if it is him... he’s about to wish it wasn’t.”

You turn away from the edge. And behind you, the city keeps burning, because it usually burns like this. Most nights, the city is a machine of smoke and steel, humming with secrets too loud to keep. Your world lives in the cracks — the places where rules bend, loyalty bleeds, and every smile hides a blade. You don’t live, you move, you calculate. You don’t love, you protect, you bleed. And you only bleed for a few.

Downstairs, the lights are low. This is home, if you believe in that kind of thing. This is where you chose to stay with them. 

Next to Beomgyu, Choi Soobin’s on a laptop, legs pulled up on the couch like he lives there, because he kind of does. He’s the quiet one, the one who smiles the least and notices the most. He tracks shipments, hacks through government walls like it’s a game. Lee Heeseung walks in with two guns and a bag of dumplings. He places the guns on the table like offerings and tosses you the food like it’s more valuable. He’s been with you since the beginning, an he still calls you “Boss” but smiles like you’re just yourself and that’s why you trust him. Park Jay and Huh Yunjin are arguing over blueprints at the far table. It’s not real fighting, it never is. They’ve known each other too long to mean it. Yunjin is lethal in heels and poetry, and Jay’s the kind of man who doesn’t speak unless it’s necessary, but when he does, people shut up. They were the last to join you, but they fell into rhythm like they’d been there from the start.

This is your family. No blood, no birthrights, only fire and choice. And every person in this room would kill for you. Every one of them knows exactly what you’ve done and why. They don’t ask questions, but they’d follow you into hell. 

There’s a map on the wall. Red pins, black threads, coded notes. The whole city, a body open for surgery. Beomgyu stands beside you, arms crossed, eyes on the patterns. “Third deal,” he says. “Same setup. Same leak.”

“Where’s the weak point?” you ask.

Soobin answers from the couch without looking up. “It’s not us.”

You nod once, you didn’t think it was. That’s when Heeseung speaks, voice low. “It’s coming from across the river.”

Across the river. Yeonjun’s territory. You feel it before you hear it, that low thrum in your chest, but it is not anger or fear. It is recognition, like something crawling back out of your bones.  “Gear up,” you say. “We’re not waiting to get burned. We’re going to find out who’s lighting the match.”

Your family starts moving. You send Heeseung and Soobin the next morning. Heeseung wears his leather jacket like it’s a second skin, and doesn’t ask questions. Soobin taps his fingers against the grip of his gun while scanning the coordinates, already thinking three moves ahead. They’ll take an unmarked car and rotate comms every two hours. They’ll report directly to you, always. You don’t need to follow them, because you never micromanage blood.

The days pass slowly, so you keep your hands busy, meet with suppliers, cut ties with a contact who got too loud, relocate a storage unit after a whisper of police movement near the docks. You don’t sleep much, but that’s normal. Sleep is a luxury for people who don’t have targets on their backs or memories carved into their ribs.

By the third day, Beomgyu starts getting twitchy. He hates silence, especially when it stretches too long and sounds like a setup. Heeseung and Soobin send in updates, but they’re dry — trail’s cold, warehouse clean, contacts nervous. You get the sense that something is missing. Something’s being wiped before they get there. And on the seventh day, everything shifts. You’re sitting in the back room, cigarette lit, going over surveillance notes with Yunjin when the alert pings. Intercepted frequency. Jay bursts in without knocking, holding a black phone like it’s about to explode.

“Got something,” he says. “Encrypted, but Soobin cracked it.”

You stand slowly, taking the phone from his hand. The message is short, just a few lines, but they slice clean through the room.

to the ghost queen. someone’s leaking our supply lines too. if it’s you, run. if it’s not, stay out of the way.next time, we won’t send a warning.

— ㅊㅇㅈ

Choi Yeonjun. Your jaw tightens, but you don’t say a word.

Beomgyu lets out a low whistle. “Bold move. Must think we’re the ones playing rat.”

Yunjin leans against the table, arms crossed, voice cold. “Or he’s deflecting. Trying to pin it on us so we back off and stop sniffing too close.”

Heeseung, now back and leaning in the doorway, shrugs. “Or he’s bluffing. He wants to see how we move.”

But your head’s already spinning faster. You know Yeonjun, you know how he plays. Or at least, you knew him. He doesn’t know who you are now. To him, you’re just the Ghost Queen — the nameless, faceless woman who rose out of nowhere and carved a throne in the darkest corners of his world. He doesn’t know you were once just Y/N. The girl who ran barefoot through his father’s garden, who once made him get a scar that still splits his left eyebrow in two.

He doesn’t know you’re the reason he can’t look in the mirror without remembering betrayal. And now he’s threatening you? Bold move.

You toss the cigarette into the sink. “He thinks I’m behind this,” you say, voice low.

Jay steps closer. “Or he wants you to think he thinks that. To distract us while he closes in from another angle.”

“No,” you reply. “He’s angry. You don’t write a message like that unless you’re cornered.”

Beomgyu leans in, resting both hands on the table. “So he’s losing product too. Question is—who’s behind it? Because if it’s not him, and it’s not us...”

“Then someone else is cleaning the city,” Yunjin finishes.

It could be another player. But still, you don’t like this, you don’t like being warned. Especially not by someone like Choi Yeonjun, who speaks in threats and smiles like he wants to see your throat split open on marble. And maybe that stings more than it should. You built a name that erased everything you were before. And now, the boy with the scar you gave him thinks you’re just another myth he wants to destroy. So, let him try.

You straighten up, eyes sharper than the knife tucked in your boot. “Let’s make something clear,” you say, voice slicing through the room. “If someone’s feeding the police, we find them first. If Yeonjun’s lying, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth myself. And if he isn’t…” You glance at Beomgyu. “Then we send him a message too.”

Because you're not the girl he remembers. You're the Queen now, and your crown is carved from bone.

It’s been nine days since the first message. Fourteen days since someone started slicing through your shipments. Ten days of second-guessing routes, switching hands last minute, cutting corners and biting your own tail to stay alive. And still, they get to you.

This morning, another one of your cargos is seized. The police raid the docks just before sunrise, like they were handed a map and a schedule. Two of your men are arrested, one doesn’t come back. You hear the news in your office, mid-call, with one hand resting over a blueprint of a nightclub you were planning to take over next quarter.

On the fourth day of that same week, you decide to visit one of your quieter fronts — a gas station on the edge of the city, off a highway no one pays much attention to unless they need fuel or a place to bury something. It’s clean, minimal, looks just like any other rundown 24-hour joint, but it moves more money in a month than most luxury clubs. You pull up in a car no one would suspect. Hoodie up, sunglasses on, no guards this time. You walk inside, nod to the clerk — he knows not to speak unless necessary — and head toward the back, checking the logs.

Your phone rings just as you're thumbing through the most recent drop. Beomgyu. You answer without a word. His voice comes fast, low, urgent. “I found something,” he says. “Someone’s been rerouting the trucks before they even leave the safehouses. Which means whoever it is — they’ve got eyes inside.”

You still and your pulse slows. “Inside?” you echo, cold.

“Not ours,” Beomgyu says. “Or at least, not directly. It’s third-party tech. Someone piggybacking our routes, cloning trackers, feeding fake data. They’re making it look like both our sides are fucking each other up — but it’s neither of us.”

You’re about to ask who, when the sound of an engine makes your skin pull tight. A car rolls up outside, not just any car. Matte black, sleek body, custom license. It purrs into the lot like it owns the place. You don’t need to ask, because you know who it is before the door even opens.

Choi Yeonjun steps out of the driver’s side like he’s in a goddamn movie. Hair red like a warning, he’s wearing a long coat and sunglasses, but his scar is still pretty visible. He doesn’t look your way, he doesn’t know to. But he looks around the station, just once — a subtle glance, head tilted slightly like he knows exactly whose turf he’s standing on.

You press the phone closer to your ear. Beomgyu keeps talking, unaware of what’s unfolding in front of you. “I traced the breach back to an old supplier. Guy named Kang Minjae. He used to deal with Kim Mingyu’s crew before it fell. Now he’s freelance. Works with cops, rivals, whoever pays more. Guess who he’s been talking to lately?”

Your eyes stay locked on Yeonjun as he pops the gas tank, leans against the car. He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t recognize the girl who split his eyebrow open thirteen years ago. The one whose last name he still associates with betrayal. The one who’s now watching him from twenty feet away with the quiet rage of a storm about to break.

You whisper, “Tell me.”

Beomgyu answers. And your world shifts again. “It’s him,” he says. “He’s the one working with Kang Minjae. I double-checked the comms log. That message he sent last week? It was a bluff. He’s trying to pin this whole thing on you while bleeding you dry.”

You don’t say anything at first, just watch him from the other side of the gas station glass. Still leaning against the car like he’s waiting for something, or someone. So you think, of course it’s him. Of course it’s Yeonjun. The one person whose silence you still carry in your bones. The one boy you hurt enough to leave a scar, and the one man who turned that scar into a warning sign. 

You end the call without a word. Then, quiet and calm, you step into the backroom, peel off your hoodie, and pull your hair into a loose ponytail. You find one of the spare uniforms hanging behind the door, a faded blue jacket with an old patch on the sleeve. You smear a thumb under each eye, rubbing out whatever leftover makeup you had on. Just your face now, just your skin, just your eyes.

Let’s see if he remembers. So you walk outside, heart steady. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, voice casual but clear.

Yeonjun looks up, slowly. His sunglasses are still on, but his jaw tenses the moment your voice hits him. Something flickers. He straightens up just a little, head tilted like he’s trying to place you. The way your shoulders square. The curve of your mouth. Your eyes. 

“I’m good,” he says, but his voice is slow. Not arrogant, not yet. “Just filling up.”

You glance at the screen, and see the tank’s already full. You nod and move to ring him up inside. He follows, steps behind you like a shadow. You tap the register. “Card or cash?”

“Card,” he replies, watching you more than the screen.

You swipe it. Let it beep, pass it back with a steady hand. Up close, it’s easier to see the details of him, even with the sunglasses still on. The sharp line of his jaw, the way the light cuts through the red in his hair, the scar across his left eye like it was drawn there on purpose. It should’ve ruined his face, but it didn’t. If anything, it makes him look better, meaner, more interesting. Not that you’d say that out loud.

You allow yourself one second too long looking at him, cataloging the face you haven’t seen in years, now grown into something more dangerous, more defined. The mouth you remember yelling at you in a warehouse soaked in blood. And yet now, he stands there like nothing ever touched him.

So you smile, controlled. Tucked into the corner of your mouth. “Car like that?” you say, tilting your head toward the blacked-out Mercedes behind him. “Little risky to bring it to this side of town. People might start thinking you don’t know where you are.”

It’s not a threat, but it tastes like one. He lowers his sunglasses just a little, just enough to actually look at you properly this time, and something shifts in his expression. Not shock or recognition, but something close. His eyes drag across your face like they’re chasing a memory. He hesitates, just enough for you to catch it, before smirking, lazy and sharp.

“Maybe I like risky,” he says, voice smooth as velvet with a rip underneath. “Keeps things interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. You’re good at silence, better than he is. He lingers for half a beat too long, then slips the sunglasses back up, nods once, and heads for the door. The bell jingles as he exits, like it’s mocking you for letting him walk out so easy.

You stay behind the counter. Heart slow, breaths slower. He doesn’t know it’s you, but he looked at you like he almost did. And that’s worse than anything else, because now, he’ll start remembering. And if there’s one thing you know about Choi Yeonjun, it’s this: once he starts digging, he never stops.

The garage door slams shut behind you with that low, dragging creak that always feels too loud at night. The sound echoes through the old warehouse and you shrug off the jacket, throw the cap onto the nearest couch, and run a hand through your hair like it might wipe the whole evening clean. It doesn’t.

Beomgyu’s already waiting by the maps on the wall, arms crossed, head tilted, that focused look on his face he only gets when he knows he’s about to tell you something you won’t like. You don’t give him the chance to start. “I fucked up,” you say, blunt. 

Beomgyu doesn’t even blink. “Define fucked up.”

You pace. “I saw him. At the station. Just pulled in like he owned the place.”

“The car?”

You nod once. “Blacked-out Benz. Had to be him. And I—” You stop pacing and let out a breath. “I went to him. In disguise, just to see.” Beomgyu’s expression barely shifts, but you know him well enough to read it. He’s not surprised, just disappointed you didn’t tell him earlier. “He didn’t recognize me, or if he did, he didn’t show it. But still—” You sigh deeply. “It was stupid. I acted on instinct. That’s not how I do things anymore.”

You go quiet, the room does too. Then Beomgyu steps forward, flipping a paper file onto the table in front of you. Names, numbers, a few blurred photos stapled to the corner. “I found something,” he says, tone low. “He made a deal with Kang Minjae. Three weeks ago. Off the books, hush-hush, no lieutenants present. And guess who’s been quietly partnering with the militia to wipe competition out and feed the cops enough bait to look clean?”

You stare at the papers, your mouth goes dry. “So he is behind the intercepted shipments.”

Beomgyu nods once. “Looks like it.”

You lean forward, hands braced on your knees. “Then I was right. He didn’t go to that station for gas. He was sending a message. He wants to be seen. Or worse—he wanted me to see him.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “Maybe he suspects the Ghost Queen’s closer than he thought.”

That makes your stomach twist. You’ve built this empire in shadows, piece by piece, and no one ever tied the Ghost Queen to Y/N. You made damn sure of it. But today, you played with fire. “I can’t afford to be found,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Not by him. Not yet.”

Beomgyu crouches down in front of you, voice quiet but grounded. “Then you need to start playing like the Queen you are. No more instincts. No more stunts. You want to beat Choi Yeonjun? You outthink him.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s no fear there, not in him, but there’s belief in you. And you’re going to need that—every ounce of it. Because the closer Yeonjun gets to the truth, the more dangerous this game becomes. And if he remembers who you are? It’s not just your empire at stake, it’s everything.

You tell yourself it’s just another week. Another cycle. Another set of moves on the board you’ve been playing for too long to lose now. You and Yunjin meet in one of the upper rooms of the safehouse—no names, no phones, just the two of you and the map on the wall. Routes are rerouted, codes are changed. You think, maybe this time, you’re a step ahead.

Tuesday brings in a storm. You send Heeseung and Soobin out again. A small job, just a tail. Follow a man who’s been asking the wrong questions in the right places. He’s tied to Minjae. You’re sure of it, you just need proof. They leave before the sun’s up, but they don’t come back that night.

Wednesday, you don’t sleep. You sit in your office, boots up on the edge of the desk, the dim light of the monitors painting your face in cold blue. Beomgyu doesn’t say much, just brings coffee, updates, silence. Every phone buzz makes your pulse spike, but you don’t show it. 

Thursday morning, Heeseung stumbles through the gate, half-carried by Jay and bleeding down the side of his arm. No Soobin.

Your chest collapses in on itself the second you realize it. Heeseung’s face is torn, his voice barely works. “They knew we were coming,” he rasps. “They weren’t following us. We walked into it. Trap.”

He looks at you like he’s sorry, like he failed. You don’t say a word. You just turn, walk straight past everyone, slam the door behind you, and scream. You hit the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then another. You don’t care. You don’t even notice the blood on your knuckles until Beomgyu’s there, catching your wrist, holding it firm. “Y/N,” he says, voice low but grounding. “We’ll get him back.”

You shake your head, blinking hard. “No. I’m not risking anyone else. This time, it’s me.” 

Beomgyu doesn’t argue. He sees the fire in your eyes and knows better, so does everyone else. 

Thursday night, you sit alone in the old car parked on the edge of the city, staring out at the skyline. Your fingers tap the steering wheel, and you remember Soobin’s laugh in the safehouse kitchen. The way he always made sure you ate something, even when you were too caught up in work. The way he smiled like he didn’t belong in this world, like he was born for something softer, but he chose this. Chose you, and now he's gone. Taken. Probably tortured, maybe worse.

Friday morning, you open the vault. Pull out the black case no one’s seen in months. The one with the custom-made Glock, etched with your mark. You strap it to your side like a second skin, then tie your hair back with steady fingers. Jay says nothing when you pass him by. He just nods once, knows what this means. Heeseung sits on the couch, still stitched up, eyes hollow. You stop in front of him, crouch down to his level.

You press your forehead against his for half a second. “You did good. Rest now.”

He squeezes your hand, weak but alive. Then you stand. And for the first time in a long time, you feel it again—the burn in your chest, the ice in your spine. The part of you that built all of this from nothing. The part of you they call Ghost Queen like a prayer or a warning. You don’t wait for vengeance, you bring it.

You don’t say much on the drive there. Beomgyu’s hands are steady on the wheel, the engine humming under your feet like something alive. Jay sits beside you in the backseat, silent, but his eyes flick to yours every now and then, reading the mood. He knows, they both do. You’re not going in to play tonight.

The car turns onto a narrow street lit by red neon and the low buzz of cheap pop music leaking through walls. There’s no name on the building, just a flickering sign shaped like a crown, bent at the edges. Everyone in the city knows what it is. One of the quieter spots owned by Choi Yeonjun’s empire. A place where people talk when they’re not supposed to. A place that only exists because Yeonjun wants it to. You know it’s not a front, but it’s a center. Information moves through this place like blood. And tonight, you’re here to bleed it dry.

Beomgyu kills the engine. You step out of the car, heels hitting the ground like a rhythm no one dares interrupt. You’re dressed like you mean it—tailored black, gold at your wrists, your presence sharper than the weapons you keep hidden. Your eyes lined dark, mouth cold and still. You don’t wear your name on your face, but it clings to you anyway. And people turn to look, they always do.

Jay walks to the bouncer first. The guy’s thick, tattooed, wired on something too cheap to be clean. He squints at the three of you like he’s trying to put the puzzle together. But before he opens his mouth, Jay leans in and says one word, a password. You don’t know how he got it, but you trust him with this.

The bouncer stiffens, then he steps aside. You walk through it like you’ve been here before—which you haven’t, not like this. Not as yourself. You’ve sent people and you’ve heard stories. But this is you, in person, in full view.

And it doesn’t take long. You step into the main lounge, the music drops, low bass humming under the floor. Laughter dies in someone’s throat, glass clinks against tile, and then silence. You don’t have to say who you are, you’re not wearing a name tag. But Jay and Beomgyu are flanking you like twin wolves, and their faces are too well known to mistake. Ghost Queen never shows her face. But if they’re here like this—shoulders squared, eyes sharp—then everyone knows exactly who you must be.

In the far corner of the room, someone’s already moving. Calm, fast, precise. You spot him instantly—Kang Taehyun, right-hand to Yeonjun. He’s not dressed for war, but he’s always ready. His eyes land on you, then Jay, then Beomgyu. You can see the calculations spinning in his head, and then he moves. Not toward you, but toward the bar. With one sharp wave of his hand, he clears the place. Quietly, efficiently, like pulling a fire alarm with no fire. The girls disappear first, then the customers, then the staff. Soon, it’s just you, and Taehyun, and your two.

You step forward, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing just inside the circle of light that frames the empty dance floor. The music shuts off completely. You watch Taehyun’s posture shift, guarded, still polite, but alert. Always alert.

He speaks first. “Well,” he says, voice low and calm. “Didn’t think you’d ever step out of the shadows.”

You tilt your head. Don’t smile. “I thought you might appreciate a house call,” you answer. “Seeing as your boss likes sending threats through back channels.”

Jay doesn’t blink. Beomgyu rolls his shoulder, one hand casually near his waist, close to the blade you know is strapped under his jacket. Taehyun smiles, just a little, not kind. “He didn’t know who he was threatening,” he says.

“Neither do you,” you reply.

And for a second, just one heartbeat, the room feels like it’s holding its breath. You let the silence stretch. Let it cut. You’re not here to bluff. You’re not here to talk things through. You’re here to make sure they know what’s coming if this war keeps building. And Taehyun, smart as he is, knows that too, so he doesn’t speak again.

You take another step forward. “They took one of mine,” you say, voice low but steady. “I want him back.”

There’s a flicker in his expression, barely there. “You’re assuming we have him.”

You tilt your head. “You think I’d come here without knowing?”

Taehyun’s gaze narrows. “Even if you know where he is… what makes you so sure we’re the ones holding him?”

You smile, sharp and humorless. “Because he wouldn’t have gone down easy. And because whatever game you’re playing with these intercepted shipments, it’s gotten messy. Sloppy. And I know Yeonjun doesn’t like messy.”  Taehyun’s silence drags out a little too long. You sigh. “I’m not here to talk circles with lieutenants. If I came here in person,” you say, voice colder now, “you should know I came to talk to your boss too.”

Beomgyu finally breaks. “Are you sure about that?” His voice is low, close to your ear, but loud enough to carry. You glance at him, and it’s not even a smile this time, just a look, calm and certain. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

That’s when the air shifts. The lights don’t change, but everything else does. A shadow unsticks itself from the far corner of the room, like it had been there all along. Leaning, watching and waiting.

Choi Yeonjun steps into the light like a punchline you should’ve seen coming.

He’s wearing all black, something tailored and expensive, hands in his pockets, and a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s been entertained for hours. His eyes settle on you instantly, curious, sharp, and already amused. “Well,” he drawls, voice smooth, deep, familiar in a way that makes your spine lock. “If I’d known you were gonna show up looking like that, I would’ve cleaned the place up a little.”

You don’t flinch, you don’t blink. “Yeonjun.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know my name. I’m flattered.”

You arch an eyebrow back. “You should be.”

Beomgyu takes a step closer, but you raise your hand again. Yeonjun’s eyes flick over him, then Jay, then land back on you with an edge of something darker. “So,” he says, voice lazy like a slow burn. “You want your boy back.”

“I do.”

“And you’re sure I have him.”

“I’m sure someone in your chain does. And if he’s not back by the end of the week, I’ll tear your operations down brick by brick until I find him.”

Yeonjun smiles wider, slow and amused, like you just told him a joke he wants to hear again. “Fight so dirty,” he says, almost a whisper, “but you love so sweet.”

Your blood goes still. It’s not the words, it’s the way he says them. Like he knows something he shouldn't, like he remembers something he can't place. Like he’s talking to the stranger you used to be. So you meet his eyes, hard. “You have no idea who you’re talking to.”

He studies you for a long beat. Then he shrugs, the smirk still curling at his mouth like it’s carved there. “Maybe not. Or maybe I do, and you just don’t want me to.”

Your jaw tightens, but your face stays still. This is what he does, gets under skin, lingers where he’s not welcome. “Get him back to me,” you say. “Unharmed.”

Yeonjun tilts his head slowly, his eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to peel something back. “You know,” he says, voice smooth, laced with amusement, “I thought it was kind of cute. You, playing dress-up at that gas station. Hiding behind a hoodie like you were just some bored girl with a job to do.” His gaze sharpens. “But I’m not stupid. That face... it’s too familiar.” You say nothing, let him keep talking. His smile widens, all sharp teeth. “You ever work here before? Place like this? You’ve got the look. Maybe you were one of the girls. Back in the day. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Beomgyu steps again, this time, sharper, but you lift a hand and stop him without even looking. One slight move, and he stills, but the anger radiating off of him is palpable.

Yeonjun laughs, low and cruel. “You should keep your dog on a tighter leash.” He looks Beomgyu dead in the eye, then flicks his gaze back to you. “Lucky guy. Not everyone gets to have someone so beautiful and so... bossy.”

You tilt your head, slow, unimpressed. “I didn’t come here to listen to you flirt badly.”

He smirks. “I’m just saying, I like to know who I’m dealing with. And you’ve got secrets, sweetheart. Big ones.” His tone drops into something darker. “Like how you knew we had your guy.”

“I want him back,” you say, firm. “I don’t care who took him. If he’s in your territory, he’s your responsibility.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “Unfortunately, wasn’t me. I’ve got no reason to touch your people. Unless, of course, you’re working with the cops. Then we’ve got bigger problems.”

You blink once. “I’m not working with the fucking cops.”

He raises both eyebrows, mocking. “Could’ve fooled me. They’ve been intercepting my shipments. Getting real cozy with someone, and it sure as hell ain’t me.”

“I was going to say the same thing about you,” you snap, stepping forward. “Maybe you should look in the mirror before pointing fingers. You’re the one making deals with Kang Minjae. You think I don’t know?”

His smile falters just a fraction, but it’s there, and you catch it. The briefest glitch in his mask. “You’re bluffing,” he says, but there’s less certainty behind it now.

“So are you,” you fire back. “And here we are.”

Silence stretches between you like wire, razor-thin and ready to snap. The whole place feels tighter, tense. Taehyun is on edge, Beomgyu is burning beside you, and Jay’s eyes haven’t left Yeonjun once. But it’s just you and him in this moment. Two predators playing at civility.

“Talk so pretty,” he murmurs, lips curving slow. “But your heart got teeth.”

You stare at him, eyes cold. He still doesn’t know who you are. But he’s close, too close. And you can feel your past creeping in, inch by inch, on the heels of a boy with red hair and a scar you gave him.

Yeonjun exhales slowly, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze. “Well,” he drawls, almost bored, “unless this is just your very dramatic way of asking me out, I’m starting to think we’ve got a problem, sweetheart.”

Beomgyu scoffs under his breath, mutters something you catch just barely—“prick”—but you shut it down with a look.

Yeonjun doesn’t even glance his way, his entire focus is on you. “See, here’s the thing,” he goes on, voice low and almost amused, “I thought you were just fucking with me. And maybe you still are. But there’s one tiny detail I keep coming back to.” He leans forward just a bit, elbows resting on his knees. “My shipments are going missing. Yours are too. That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me.”

You don’t blink. “No. It doesn’t.”

“So either one of us is a very good liar,” he tilts his head, mock-thoughtful, “or we’ve got an enemy in common.”

Beomgyu shifts beside you, stiff. “You expect us to believe you’re not behind it?”

Yeonjun finally glances his way, lip curling slightly. “I expect you to shut up when the grown-ups are talking.” Beomgyu starts forward, but your hand lands on his chest, firm and contained. You shake your head once, and he steps back, jaw tight. “Cute,” Yeonjun murmurs. “Protective. You trained him well.”

You take a slow breath and turn to him fully. “We need to talk.”

“Aren’t we already?”

“Alone.”

He lifts a brow, clearly amused. “Wow. So forward.”

Taehyun looks at you, then Yeonjun, then you again. “Boss?”

Yeonjun shrugs, standing. “Why not? Let’s see what the queen has to say when she’s not hiding behind her princes.”

Beomgyu steps in immediately. “Gyu,” you say, calm but sharp. “Wait here. If I scream, kill everyone.”

That gets a reluctant laugh from Jay. “Subtle as always.”

You follow Yeonjun down a narrow hallway that leads to a private back room. He walks slowly, shoulders loose, like nothing in the world could touch him. Like he owns the floor and the city beneath it. You wonder, as you follow, how many people he’s fooled with that walk. You wonder how many more he’ll fool before someone finally gets to him.

He holds the door open for you, exaggerated and mocking. “After you, Your Highness.”

You brush past him with your chin high, and he shuts the door behind you. The room is dim, velvet-draped, stinking of expensive liquor and older secrets. You stand in the center and he leans on the edge of the table, arms folded, watching.

“So,” he says, that smirk never quite leaving his face, “what’s this? A truce? A confession?”

You cross your arms. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

You sigh, tired already. “Look. I don’t trust you. You don’t trust me. But if you’re telling the truth—if you’re really not behind this—then someone’s running both of us in circles.”

“And you think pillow talk’s gonna fix it?”

You step closer, tone steady. “I think two people with a common enemy have two choices. Work together, or let the enemy win.”

He laughs. “Work together?” he echoes. “That’s rich. Tell me, sweetheart, how do I team up with someone who won’t even tell me her name?” You don’t answer, not yet. He watches you, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to draw your outline in his mind. Then: “I know I’ve seen you before,” he says quietly. “Not just the gas station. Somewhere else.” You lift your chin and he studies your face. Silence lingers a little too long, and then his voice cuts through it. “You’ve got a war in you,” he says, slowly. “And I’m starting to think I like it.”

You almost smile. Almost, but not for him. Instead, you say, “If I’m here, it’s because someone I love is missing. And if I find out you had anything to do with that—”

Yeonjun cuts in, voice low and wry. “You’ll burn my empire to the ground? Sounds exhausting.” He tilts his head. “How about we skip the empty threats and you just tell me the truth.” Your expression doesn’t shift. He takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the smugness radiating off of him. “I’ll help you,” he says, voice casual, almost bored. “I’ll find out who took your boy and who’s fucking with our shipments.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what’s the catch?”

Yeonjun’s smile sharpens. “Tell me how we know each other.”

“We don’t.”

“Wrong answer.” He clicks his tongue. “Come on. You recognized me at the gas station. You came straight up to me wearing that little worker costume like you were playing a part. But you knew exactly who I was.”

You scoff, folding your arms. “The red hair, the expensive car, the scar. People talk.”

His eyes narrow, and he doesn’t believe you, not really. But he doesn’t push yet. “Hm,” he hums. “Yeah, people do talk. That’s the problem.” His gaze drifts over your face again, lingering. There’s something behind it now, not just arrogance. “You look like her, you know.” You stay still, too still. He keeps going, voice lower now. “The one who gave me this.” He gestures lightly to the scar slicing through the skin just above his left eye. “Never saw her coming. But when I did—she smiled. Just like you did. That kind of smile sticks.”

Your mouth is dry. “Sounds like she was smart.”

He tilts his head. “She was. Dead, though.” He shrugs, mock regretful. “Shame. She was pretty. Kinda looked like you.”

You shrug too, cool and detached. “Pretty girls die every day.”

“Mm,” he smirks. “True. But they don’t all pull blades on me and vanish.” You hold his stare. Let the weight of it settle between you. If he knows, he’s playing a long game, but you’ve been playing longer.

“Do we have a deal or not?” you ask.

He licks his bottom lip, just briefly. “I’ll help,” he says finally. “We both want the same thing. Whoever’s behind this is making a fool out of both of us. And I don’t like being made a fool.”

“Neither do I.”

“So,” he says, pushing off the table, standing to his full height, “you’ll give me updates, and I’ll give you mine. We trace the leaks. We find your boy. We kill whoever’s responsible.” You nod, slow. “Temporary alliance,” he adds. “Don’t get clingy.”

You almost laugh at that. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Yeonjun grins again, dark and satisfied. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

You lean in close, just enough that your lips almost brush his ear. “Would ruin the mystery, wouldn’t it?”

And with that, you turn and walk out, leaving him standing there, half-sure he just made a deal with the devil. And maybe a little intrigued by the fire still burning behind your eyes.

Jay and Beomgyu are standing where you left them with shoulders tense, gazes sharp, like they’ve been waiting for a gunshot. You don’t have to say much, you never do. Your heels click softly across the velvet floor, past flashing lights. You stop only when you’re close enough for them to hear you without raising your voice. “Let’s get out of here,” you say, smooth and low. 

Jay doesn’t say a word, just nods once. Beomgyu exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you walked in. As you reach the main doors, pushing past the heavy curtains, the air changing from incense and heat to something colder, Yeonjun’s voice calls out from across the club.

“Your Highness!”

You don’t flinch, but you stop. When you turn, he’s leaning lazily against the far wall, arms crossed like he’s got all the time in the world. Lit from behind, half in shadow. “Taehyun’ll be your point of contact,” he says, like it’s a gift. “He’s good with updates. Polite, too. I’m sure your boys will love him.” You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. He adds, “Try not to miss me too much.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just turn on your heel, long coat brushing your calves, and disappear into the dark.

The next few days move slow. Taehyun reaches out first. He’s cold and precise, just like Yeonjun promised. Every message comes through clean, encrypted. You assign Jay to keep the line open, Beomgyu to cross-check everything with your own intel. Heeseung handles the shadows, the street-level whispers, what people don’t say out loud.

There’s a name that keeps surfacing: Kang Minjae. You already had your suspicions, but now the links are undeniable. Minjae’s been moving like a roach in the walls, playing every side that lets him breathe a little longer. Yeonjun’s people confirm he’s got connections in the militia, and that he’s been sniffing around routes that were meant to stay quiet. Some of the evidence leads to areas only your own crew had access to — which means the leak might be internal. That truth burns worse than anything else.

You’re careful, never in the same place twice. Your face remains out of sight, your name still a whisper wrapped in fear. But inside your core, something's cracking. Soobin is still missing. His trail is faint, but not cold. Some surveillance footage caught a convoy passing through a border checkpoint under fake credentials, days after he vanished. The timestamp lines up with the night you lost him. Jay triangulates the route. Heeseung maps it. It points to a facility miles outside the city — nothing official, but everyone knows who controls it.

Militia. And you know who’s protecting them.

So you wait. You sharpen your knives in silence. Every meeting with your crew is sharper, tighter, more desperate. You sleep less, smoke more. And every time an update comes in from Taehyun, you read between the lines, looking for Yeonjun’s voice in the spaces where it shouldn’t be. He stays quiet. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad, but you’re sure of one thing: this isn’t over, not even close.

It’s a Tuesday. You head to one of your quieter spots, a laundromat tucked behind a strip of closed-down shops, one of your smaller fronts. No one’s supposed to be there but your crew. You’re not there for show, you’re there for air. Heeseung walks a step behind you, always watching. You push through the metal door, let it clang shut behind you, and immediately feel that slight shift in energy. Someone’s sitting on one of the folding tables near the back, legs swinging lazily, fingers drumming on the edge.

You know that face. Hueningkai. He shouldn’t be here.

Heeseung stiffens behind you before you can even whisper. Your body moves before your mind does, in casual steps, but the kind that keep your right hand free. Kai’s head lifts when he sees you, and he smiles. Bright, almost naive. “Didn’t know this place was open to the public again,” he says, voice all sunshine and breathy charm. He looks between you and Heeseung like you might be siblings, or hired help. “Nice jacket.”

You lean back against a dryer. Calm, but your pulse is sprinting. He doesn’t know you, not yet. But you know him, you’ve read his file. The boy with the baby face and the mind like a minefield. He works for Yeonjun. Keeps his hands clean, his lips looser than they should be. He plays dumb, but he isn’t.

You don’t answer him. Instead, you tilt your head toward Heeseung, eyes sharp. Handle it.

Heeseung steps forward. “What are you doing here?”

Kai shrugs. “Waiting for someone, I guess.”

“Someone sent you?”

“Kind of. We’re looking into something. One of Minjae’s old associates might’ve used this building a few weeks ago. It’s near the harbor.”

Your breath catches, because the harbor is too close, too damn close to where Soobin’s trail last pinged. If they think there’s a hideout nearby—you cut your own thought off. Your eyes snap back to Kai, who’s now looking at you more closely. Heeseung’s moved into a partial block, but it doesn’t matter. You can feel the recognition click behind Kai’s irises like a switch flipped without permission. His smile fades.

“Wait,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’re her.” Heeseung shifts, ready. Kai doesn’t move, but something in his whole posture turns glassy. “The Ghost Queen,” he murmurs. “Huh. You’re prettier than they said.”

You want to ask who said what, but you don’t. You’re too busy trying not to tip into a panic. Soobin. If Kai’s here, if he knows this spot’s hot, how long before they relocate Soobin? Or worse?

You step forward. “How close is the location?”

Kai blinks at you. “Close enough that you being here just set off some very loud alarms.” His smile returns, but it’s hollow now. All teeth, no warmth. 

You swallow hard. Rage pressing tight behind your ribs. You glance at Heeseung — you could go. You could move now, you could flip the building upside down, if Soobin’s that close. 

“You really shouldn’t let your emotions make your calls for you,” he adds gently, like he’s offering advice. “Someone could use that.” You should answer him. But then Kai reaches for his phone, calm and polite, and you don’t stop him. He dials fast, brings the phone to his ear with a sweet little hum. 

“Hey,” he says into the receiver. “It’s me. Yeah, no — I’m fine. But she’s here.” There’s a pause. His eyes stay on yours the whole time. “She’s nervous,” he says. “Like, the bad kind of nervous.” Another pause. Then: “No, no. She hasn’t done anything. But she might move before she should.”

He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Your throat is dry and your fists ache from clenching. Kai slides off the table and stretches like he’s just woken up from a nap. “Anyway,” he says brightly, “you should probably clear this place out. I’d hate for things to get messy again.”

Then he waves, cheerful and friendly. Insane. And walks out like he owns the air. Heeseung watches the door for a full minute after it closes, and you’re shaking slightly. Not from fear, from fury and desperation. From the suffocating ache of knowing that Soobin could be so close and you’re still one step behind. You exhale. 

“Heeseung, call Beomgyu. Jay. Everyone. Now.”

You’re already moving. Your voice comes out sharp, controlled, but barely. Your heart’s not in your chest anymore, it’s somewhere else, screaming. You shove open the back door of the laundromat and suck in air like you’ve been drowning. Heeseung’s at your side in an instant, grabbing your wrist. “You can’t just storm into this,” he says. “You’re not thinking—”

“I am thinking,” you snap. “I’m thinking that Soobin’s still alive. And if I waste another minute twiddling my fucking thumbs, he won’t be.” Your chest heaves. “He’s not just crew, Heeseung,” you whisper. “He’s family. He’s mine. If they kill him just to send me a message—” You cut yourself off, jaw tight. “I can’t live with that.”

Heeseung hesitates. He wants to fight you on it, but he sees your eyes. The shaking in your hands. The fear twisting beneath all your armor. “I’ll call them,” he says finally. “But if you’re wrong—”

“I’m not.”

He doesn’t argue again. You pace like a storm while he makes the calls, and twenty minutes later, you’re piling into two black SUVs with Beomgyu, Jay, Heeseung, Yunjin and three others you trust with your life. Nobody talks much. There’s no plan, just a location and a name and too many emotions to fit inside one car.

Beomgyu drives like he’s got something to prove. You’re in the front seat, fingers twitching in your lap. The closer you get, the more it feels like your skin’s turning inside out. “Are we sure this is it?” Jay asks from the back. “No chance it’s bait?”

“It’s always bait,” you say. “But sometimes the mouse still has to bite.”

The harbor comes into view, with containers stacked in quiet patterns, dim lights humming, the water black and endless. Beomgyu slows down before turning in, park just behind a half-burned warehouse a few blocks from the drop point. Everyone starts checking weapons. You don’t even glance at yours, it’s second nature by now. What you do look at, though, is the sleek black car that turns the corner right as you do. Expensive. You don’t need to see the plates because you know exactly who it is.

Beomgyu sees it too and his mouth twists. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

You stare as the engine cuts. The car door opens, and Yeonjun steps out like a goddamn ghost from a fire. Hair tied back, long coat, no urgency in his bones — just that unbearable swagger that you want to tear off his face, again. You exhale through your teeth. Beomgyu mutters something violent under his breath, already half-reaching for his gun. You stop him with a look.

“We might need him,” you say.

“Yeah? Or maybe he’s just here to gloat when they drag Soobin’s body out of the water.”

“Either way,” you say coldly, “we’re finding out.”

Heeseung joins you as you step out of the car. “You still wanna go in with no plan?”

You glance at the harbor, the shadows waiting inside it, then at Yeonjun, who’s now leaning against his car like he’s posing for a magazine cover. “No plan’s ever survived the first bullet,” you mutter. “Let’s move.”

And you do, straight into the lion’s den. You and your team stand near a stack of containers, weapons visible, eyes sharp. Five figures emerge from the far side, shadows peeling off the darkness like it’s nothing. Taehyun walks first, with Hueningkai at his side, bouncing slightly on his heels. Behind them, Chaewon moves like a ghost, quiet and deadly. Sunghoon stalks a few steps behind, all tension and watchfulness. And then, at the center of it all — Yeonjun.

He moves like he owns the ground beneath him, like the night shifts to make space for him. Of course he would show up with a team like that. He stops a few feet from you. No gun drawn. Just that infuriating smirk pulling at his mouth.

“I should’ve known you’d beat me here,” he says, voice low and amused. “But damn. No plan? No scout? Just vibes?”

Beomgyu growls beside you, but soon he steps back with a glare, jaw tight. You turn to Yeonjun. “I don’t have time to wait. Soobin’s in there. I can feel it.”

Yeonjun tilts his head, studying you with those sharp, calculating eyes. “And what? You were gonna run in, guns blazing, and hope for the best?” You don’t answer. He chuckles — soft, infuriating. “You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being desperate,” you say. “And I don’t have the luxury of pretending otherwise.”

That makes something shift in his expression. The smirk falters for a breath, then curves back up, softer this time. “You care about him,” he says. “That’s cute.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” he replies, surprisingly sincere. “I think it’s admirable. The way you fight for your people.” You say nothing. Yeonjun glances toward the maze of containers behind you all. “I know this place. Minjae used to run small trades out of here — weapons, mostly. Smuggled in, offloaded straight into trucks by the south gate.”

“Does he still use it?” Jay asks, stepping forward.

Yeonjun nods. “Sometimes. When he doesn’t want attention. He’s got a room near the waterline. Old office converted into a holding space. I’d bet money that’s where he’s keeping your guy.”

“What else?” you ask. “You don’t come here without more than a guess.”

Yeonjun flashes a grin. “You wound me.”

Taehyun sighs beside him. “There’s always at least three lookouts. Usually on the cranes, plus one by the west exit. If they spot us, they’ll burn whatever evidence they’ve got. People included.”

Your stomach clenches. Heeseung steps up beside you. “So what do we do?”

Yeonjun exchanges glances with his team, then he looks back at you. “We go in quiet. I’ll send Taehyun and Sunghoon up the cranes, take out the eyes. If we’re lucky, we’ve got five minutes before someone inside realizes we’re here.”

“And if we’re not lucky?” Beomgyu asks.

Yeonjun smiles. “Then it’s a bloodbath. But hey—” he looks at you, all charm and teeth “—at least we’ll get matching scars.” You glare at him. Yeonjun’s eyes slide back to yours, glinting with something that feels like amusement laced in real calculation. “We don’t have time to execute anything fancy. But I’ll make you a deal.”

You arch a brow. “This should be good.”

He smiles, slow and smug. “We go in together. Just the two of us. No noise. If we run into someone, we say we’re here to negotiate.”

Beomgyu steps in immediately, tension rolling off him. “No fucking way.”

“You trust him?” Jay asks you quietly.

You look over your shoulder. Everyone’s waiting on you. “No,” you admit. “But I trust that he doesn’t want to die tonight either.”

Beomgyu looks at you like he wants to argue more, but he knows better. His jaw ticks. “You sure about this?”

You nod. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says. Not a threat, but a promise.

Then you turn to Yeonjun, who grins like this is a game he’s already winning. “Let’s go,” you say. You and Yeonjun move through the outer edge of the harbor in silence, sticking close to the rows of containers. The metal is cold against your back every time you press into the shadows. You keep your pistol tight in your grip, the weight grounding. 

Yeonjun glances down at it, amused. “You don’t strike me as someone who handles her own mess.”

You don’t look at him. “That’s because I never had to appear in person. Until now.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Right. Ghost queen. Rarely seen, always whispered about. Real dramatic branding.”

You side-eye him. “You’re just jealous no one whispers about you. Only bitches.”

That makes him smirk. “Bold words for someone walking into a lion’s den with me.”

“I’m not afraid of lions.”

He hums, ducking beneath a rusted staircase, motioning for you to follow. You do, close enough to feel the heat off his body, but not close enough to lose your head. “Funny,” he says, leaning into the next bit of cover, “you never gave me the vibe of someone who’s reckless for people.”

“And you never gave me the vibe of someone who thinks before speaking.”

Yeonjun turns slightly, facing you under the shadow of the catwalk. “I think a lot of things. Especially when you’re around.”

You roll your eyes, scanning the area. “Focus.”

“I am,” he says, voice dropping low. “Laser sharp. Just distracted by the company.”

You adjust your grip on the pistol. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”

“Right. Your guy. Soobin.” He squints toward a building near the edge of the water. “If Minjae’s keeping anyone, it’ll be in that one. Windows are blacked out. No patrols near it.”

You glance toward it too. “We get closer. Quietly. Check it first.”

He starts forward again, and you follow. His hand brushes yours at one point — maybe by accident, maybe not. You don’t pull away, you keep moving. As you creep past an open bay, he says, almost casually, “You really would’ve killed me the other night if I’d been involved.”

“No hesitation,” you answer.

“That’s hot.”

You stop and glance at him, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“What? I like a woman who threatens me with conviction.”

You almost laugh. But instead, you focus ahead, heart pounding a little too fast for comfort. The door to the building is twenty feet away. The only thing standing between you and Soobin might be whatever trap Minjae left behind, or nothing at all. But either way, you’re not walking away until you know.

And then a sudden voice breaks the silence, too close, echoing faintly between the steel containers stacked around the edge of the dock. “Shit,” you whisper, grabbing Yeonjun by the arm and pulling him back fast. He doesn’t fight you, doesn’t speak either, he just follows.

You both slide behind a rusted container, low to the ground, barely a foot between you. The voices grow clearer. Two men, laughing about something. Footsteps scraping against the concrete. Yeonjun presses close, chest against your shoulder as you crouch beside him. His breath hits your jaw. The scent of him—something clean and expensive—wraps around you like smoke. Your pistol is still firm in your hand, the safety already off. His fingers graze the small of your back as he shifts just slightly to look around the edge. Too close. Too fucking close.

Your eyes catch on the faint silver scar above his eyebrow, half-faded now, but still familiar. You left it there. You remember the way his skin broke open, how red his face had been after. Yeonjun catches your staring.

“What?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You like my face that much?” You don’t answer, and his eyes narrow. The corner of his mouth lifts, sharp. “If I didn’t know she died… I’d say you look just like the girl who gave me this.” You stiffen, he sees it. “You even look at me the same way,” he continues, voice a little too soft now. “Like you’re already planning where you’ll leave the next one.” Still, you say nothing. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. “Interesting.”

“Back off,” you mutter, but you don’t move. Can’t. The space is too tight. The air’s too charged.

He leans in instead, just slightly, close enough for his words to press against your ear. “It’d be poetic, wouldn’t it? If the girl who carved my face turned out to be the one I keep thinking about every time I get bored at night.”

You shoot him a glare. “You’re disgusting.”

The voices outside fade, footsteps drifting elsewhere. But neither of you moves. His hand finds your waist, steady, possessive. 

“You hate me,” he says.

“More than anything.”

“Then why are you looking at me like you want me to kiss you?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

He leans in, lips barely brushing your cheek as he speaks. “I don’t wish. I get.”

There’s a fire in your chest. Not soft, not romantic. Not even something you’d name. It’s sharp and twisted and dangerous. The kind of tension you don’t survive if you indulge. You push him back — just enough to breathe. “We’re not here for this.” He doesn’t fight you, but he smiles like he knows something you don’t. “We’re here for Soobin,” you snap. “Focus.”

His gaze lingers on you a second longer. Then he nods, finally looking away. “Right,” he murmurs. “Let’s go find your boy.”

But even as he turns, you feel his eyes still on you, even when they’re not. Like he’s still working out the puzzle, and like he already knows the answer.

The door creaks as you and Yeonjun slip inside the warehouse. It smells like rust and oil, stale water and something older. The air is thick with the kind of silence that doesn’t sit right. Every step echoes a little too loud. You move slow, pistol raised. Yeonjun does the same, behind you. Your breath catches. Something shifts.

And then—

“Drop your weapons.”

Two clicks. Cold steel against both your temples. Fuck.

You don’t see them, but you feel them, the men behind you. You and Yeonjun exchange a glance, and with a slow, calculated movement, you both lower your guns to the ground. Boots scrape across the concrete. A shadow moves forward from the far end of the warehouse. Minjae.

He steps into the flickering light above, dressed in black, expression dark with something dangerous. “I expected more from you,” Minjae says, eyes fixed on Yeonjun. “Showing up here with company.”

Yeonjun lifts his brows, casual as ever, like he isn’t surrounded by armed men. “Relax. I came to talk. Thought we could work something out. You know, just… friendly business.”

Minjae doesn’t smile. “Who is that?”

Then Yeonjun shrugs. “My girl.”

You don’t flinch, you don’t even blink. The lie slides off him easily. There’s a beat of silence. Minjae’s eyes shift to you, cold and calculating. “I know why you’re really here,” he says. You stay silent. Let him keep talking, and he steps closer. “He’s Ghost Queen’s, isn’t he?”

Yeonjun gives a short, forced laugh. “You think I’m dumb enough to come here for her people? Come on. I don’t work with her.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Minjae snaps. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? That I wouldn’t find out?”

He signals to his men. A moment later, you feel rough hands wrench your wrists behind your back. Zip ties cut into your skin. Yeonjun resists for half a second before giving in with a bitter smile. “No need for the theatrics,” he mutters. “You could’ve just asked nicely.”

“Shut up,” one of the guards snaps, forcing him to his knees.

Minjae looks down at the both of you, satisfied. “You didn’t come here to talk. You came to find him.” Your jaw tightens. “I knew someone would come looking. I just didn’t think it’d be you. And certainly not with company.” His eyes scan your face again. “She’s too pretty for this life, don’t you think?”

Yeonjun’s smirk returns. “I like pretty things.”

Minjae crouches, eye level with you now. “Tell me, sweetheart. What’s your name?”

You don’t answer, but Yeonjun does. “She doesn’t need one.”

Minjae laughs. “Of course she doesn’t.” He stands. Pacing, thinking. Then he turns to one of his men. “Lock them up. Separately.”

Yeonjun tenses beside you. “That’s not necessary.”

Minjae smirks. “Oh, I think it is. Let’s see how long the Ghost Queen’s new pet lasts without his little gun.”

You clench your fists, biting back every instinct to fight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. But now you’re in Minjae’s hands, and whatever game he’s playing — it just got personal.

The room they put you in is small, metallic, no windows. Bare walls, one buzzing fluorescent light that flickers above you like it’s mocking your silence. It smells like mold and blood. You’ve been in worse places, but not many. You don’t know how long you sit there, could be minutes, could be hours. Then the door groans open and a guard steps in with rough hands, cold grip, and he yanks you up without a word and drags you down a narrow corridor.

You’re shoved into a larger space with a concrete floor. A single chair bolted to the ground. Your wrists are still zip-tied. A second later, they shove you down onto the chair and bind your ankles. And that’s when you see Yeonjun again, across the room, tied up to a pipe against the far wall. His head is tilted slightly down, a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth. His shirt is ripped at the shoulder, his face bruised, but his eyes don’t leave you. He looks at you like he never stopped.

Then the door creaks again, and Minjae walks in. He looks completely at ease, smug even, his black boots echoing off the concrete. “Well, well,” he says, circling you like a hawk. “Yeonjun’s girlfriend. I’ve been dying to meet you.” You glare up at him, jaw locked. He smirks, stopping right in front of you. “Can’t lie. I get it. Sharp mouth. Killer stare. I’d probably throw a few alliances in the trash for you too.”

“Choke on it,” you mutter.

Behind him, Yeonjun shifts slightly in his restraints. Minjae crouches in front of you. “Tell me, how long have you two been shacked up? Does he cook breakfast? Call you sweetheart? Or is it all bullets and blackout sex?”

You roll your eyes. “Go to hell.”

“Touchy,” he says, and then, click. A blade appears in his hand. Small, curved. Clean, at least for now. “Thing is,” Minjae says, voice light and casual, “you’re lying to me. I can feel it. And I don’t like being lied to.”

You keep your expression neutral, but your pulse spikes as the cold flat of the blade presses against your cheek. You don’t flinch, you refuse. “Maybe you’d look better with a scar. Right here.” He taps the tip against your cheekbone. “Something to match your boyfriend’s. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

“Get that fucking thing away from her.”

Yeonjun’s voice slashes through the air. Low, furious and dangerous.

Minjae stills. Turns his head slowly, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Yeonjun grits his teeth, jaw tight. “I said—get it away from her.”

The room falls quiet. Even you are surprised, but you still freeze, heart hammering.

Minjae’s smirk wavers. He straightens up, turning to face Yeonjun. “Interesting. You didn’t seem this protective when you walked in here like an idiot.”

Yeonjun breathes hard, nostrils flaring. “You want the truth? Fine.” He lifts his head slowly, eyes on Minjae, but you know he’s talking to both of you. “I was intercepting the shipments. All of them. Yours. Hers. Everyone’s. For weeks.”

Your blood runs cold. Minjae’s whole face shifts. “You what?”

Yeonjun continues, voice steady. “At first, I was helping you hit Ghost Queen’s routes. You paid well. You gave me access. I knew her ports, her blind spots. So yeah—I made it easy for you.”

You feel like the floor shifts under you. Your blood runs cold.

Minjae raises a brow, amused. “Right. So what changed?”

Yeonjun’s jaw ticks. “I started losing my own shipments.” That wipes the smirk off Minjae’s face. “Big ones,” Yeonjun says. “Routes only you knew about. Timings only you had.” Minjae stiffens. “I thought maybe Ghost Queen had found out and was hitting me back. I figured it was retaliation. But it wasn’t her.” Yeonjun finally lifts his eyes. Not to Minjae, to you. “It was you.”

Minjae’s amusement snaps in half, replaced by something sharp. “So what, you came here to cry about it?”

“No,” Yeonjun says, voice cold. “I came to fix it. That’s why I turned to her.”

Minjae’s head tilts. “Who?”

Yeonjun murmurs. “Ghost Queen. We’re working together. She wants Soobin back.”

You flinch, just barely, but enough. And when Minjae glances at you, you plaster on the most confused, irritated face you can, like none of this makes sense, like you have no idea what they’re talking about. “Wait,” Minjae says slowly. “That little shit was with her crew?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says. “And you took him because you thought he was with me. My guys said he was snooping around your port. You assumed he was part of my team.”

Minjae runs a hand down his face, pacing once. “Fuck. Thought you sent him to steal my shipment.”

“I didn’t,” Yeonjun says. “You were already stealing from me. Why would I send someone into your nest without backup? I just didn’t stop you when you grabbed him—because I knew whose he really was.”

You blink hard, chest pounding. So he knew, he knew the whole time that Soobin was yours, that he worked for you, and he let Minjae take him anyway. Used it to his advantage, he let you panic, let you come running. So you stare at Yeonjun, heat crawling up your neck, your fists clenched in the zip ties until your fingers start to go numb. Rage is bubbling under your skin, sharp and hot, but you hold it down — because Minjae can’t know who you are. Not yet.

Minjae exhales harshly, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. You two are a goddamn mess.”

No one speaks. He finally looks back at you, eyes narrowing like he’s reassessing everything. You force your expression blank, neutral, disinterested. Because Yeonjun may have just saved your cover, but he also sold you out. And now you owe him nothing.

Minjae’s boots echo as he crosses the room again, slower this time. You try not to shift in the chair, even as the plastic zip tie cuts into your wrists, even as the ache in your ankles pulses with every second. Then he’s in front of you, and the knife is back. He drags the flat of the blade along your shoulder, then up, slow, until the cold steel rests just under your chin, the sharp edge kissing the soft skin of your neck. You hold your breath.

Across the room, Yeonjun tenses so hard you swear the veins in his neck might snap. “Don’t,” he bites. “Minjae—”

But Minjae doesn’t look away from you. “You lied to me,” he says quietly. “You played me for a fool. I don’t like being made a fool, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun swallows hard. “I gave you information. I did my part.”

Minjae presses the blade in just enough for you to feel the sting. “No, no. You sold me a story and sat back while I bled for it.” He finally turns to look at Yeonjun. “Now you owe me.”

Yeonjun breathes through his nose, jaw locked. “What do you want?”

Minjae doesn’t blink. “Who else is at the port?”

Yeonjun hesitates. Then: “Just us.”

Minjae’s smile is thin and humorless. “Funny. Because my guys saw someone else.” Your stomach drops. “Skinny little bastard. Long black hair. Looked like a rat cornered in a trap. He was hiding inside one of the containers. Now he’s out there, making a fucking mess.”

Your heart drops so hard it might crash through your ribs. Beomgyu. You force yourself not to react, not to blink, not to move, not to scream. 

The blade is too close, the stakes are too high. Minjae tilts his head, still looking at you, but now his voice is directed at Yeonjun. “You really gonna sit there and keep lying to me? When I just watched that kid shoot two of my men and crawl back into a crate like some street dog?”

Yeonjun doesn’t answer. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding so loud you can almost hear it. His fingers twist against the restraints on his wrists, blood already seeping around the plastic. Minjae lets out a long sigh through his nose. Then the knife shifts — not cutting, not yet — but pressing. Just enough for you to feel the weight of it against your pulse point, enough to make you swallow reflexively, and feel the sting.

Yeonjun’s voice is gravel. “Let her go.” Minjae raises an eyebrow. “She has nothing to do with the boy,” Yeonjun continues, voice tight, almost strangled. “She’s not part of this.”

Minjae chuckles dark and bitter. “No? You’re dragging her around like a trophy then?”

Yeonjun’s eyes flash. “I said let her go.”

Minjae doesn’t move. “You want the kid back?” he asks. Minjae smiles, all teeth and violence. “You want her to walk out of here with her face intact? You want me to call off the guys who are probably about to blow your little container rat’s head off?” He steps back finally, pulling the knife away from your neck slowly, like it’s reluctant to leave. He wipes it casually on your shoulder, like you’re nothing but a napkin, and turns to face Yeonjun properly. “Then give me something.”

Yeonjun lifts his head. “What do you want?”

Minjae’s expression hardens. “Territory.” Yeonjun doesn’t flinch, but you can see it hit him like a punch. “You’ve got a route down south,” Minjae continues, pacing now, loose and dangerous. “Quiet. Prime for expansion. I want it.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Yeonjun growls.

Minjae shrugs. “Yeah, well, the deal changed when you lied to my face. When you helped the Ghost Queen behind my back. When you kept secrets.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You keep your expression neutral, though inside your blood is boiling. He knew, Yeonjun knew exactly who you were, and still played both sides. And now Beomgyu is out there, alone, likely cornered. Soobin is still missing. And your cover is hanging by a thread.

Yeonjun’s chest rises and falls with shallow, restrained breath. “You think you can just take a route from me?”

Minjae smirks. “I’m not asking. I’m offering you a trade. The kid for the route. Their life for peace. Simple math.”

Yeonjun’s jaw ticks as he breathes in slow through his nose, chest rising once, twice. You can see the calculations behind his eyes. His silence isn’t hesitation, it’s rage, controlled, deadly rage.

But Minjae mistakes it for weakness. He turns back to you without warning.

“No—”

Yeonjun’s voice is hoarse and sharp, but it’s too late. The blade slices across your cheek, clean and fast.

Pain blooms white-hot as your head jerks to the side, breath catching in your throat. The sting is immediate, followed by the slow warmth of blood slipping down your skin. It’s not deep, not fatal, but it’s a message. And Yeonjun receives it loud and clear, because he roars. A guttural sound tears out of his chest as he lunges forward against the restraints. His wrists strain, veins bulging, teeth bared like an animal ready to rip someone apart.

Minjae watches him, amused. “There it is,” he mutters, low. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

“You’re dead,” Yeonjun growls. “You’re fucking dead.”

Minjae raises the bloody blade, twirling it lazily in his hand. “Not if we make a deal.” Yeonjun freezes. “I want the southern route,” Minjae says again, calm now, like nothing just happened. “And I want access to one of the Ghost Queen’s ports. Not the main ones—something smaller. You can get it for me.”

Yeonjun’s eyes flick to you, your cheek slick with blood, your expression still and cold despite the pain. He doesn’t speak, but his silence this time means: yes.

Minjae grins. “There we go. Knew you had a rational side.”

Then he snaps his fingers, and two of his men appear instantly, grabbing you roughly by the arms. One of them mutters something about not getting blood on his jacket.

Yeonjun fights the bindings again. “Where are you taking her?”

“You’ll see,” Minjae replies, stepping aside. 

You don’t speak, and you don’t look at Yeonjun. You just let them drag you down a long, dim corridor. Every step makes your face throb, your jaw stiff from clenching. They push you through a rusted metal door and slam it shut behind you. And for a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing. The metal room is dim and cold, reeking of rust and sweat, but you barely register any of it—because right in front of you, alive but wrecked, is Soobin.

Your knees hit the floor hard as you scramble toward him, your throat catching on a sound you hadn’t realized you were holding back. His name leaves your mouth like a prayer, like it means something more than just syllables. “Soobin—”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes half-swollen and glassy, but he smiles, barely. “Hey.”

Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. You cup his face in both hands, thumb brushing over the bruises on his jaw, and you press your forehead against his like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. “God,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I thought—I thought you were—”

“I’m okay,” he rasps, but it’s a lie. He’s not okay, he’s barely breathing, but he’s alive.

“Y/N,” Beomgyu’s also there, and his voice is soft but urgent beside you. “You’re bleeding.”

You blink, disoriented, then remember the cut—your cheek throbs, the blood sticky and warm. You pull back just enough to see Beomgyu crouching beside you, eyes wide with panic. Before you can say anything, he’s already yanking at the hem of his shirt, tearing off a strip of fabric with his teeth. “Hold still,” he says, his hands trembling a little as he presses the makeshift cloth to your face. “I swear to God, if they touched you again, I’ll—”

“I’m okay,” you whisper again, voice thick, but you don’t stop him. He’s too focused, too gentle, like he’s trying to fix something with his bare hands. His fingers brush your jaw as he ties the cloth in place, the fabric warm from his skin. You glance between the two of them, heart racing. “Where are the others?”

Beomgyu exhales, sitting back on his heels. “Gone. Got out before things got ugly. I stayed because of Soobin. I couldn’t just—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t know they’d catch me too.”

Relief washes through you in waves, so overwhelming it makes your limbs weak. You sit down fully, still close to Soobin, the burn in your chest finally settling. But the weight of everything you’ve just been through presses in. You swallow. “It was Yeonjun,” you murmur, voice tight. “He was behind it all. From the beginning.” Both boys look at you, stunned into silence. You continue, barely able to meet their eyes. “He helped Minjae steal from me. From us. He lied about everything.”

Soobin flinches, like he didn’t want to hear that. Beomgyu clenches his jaw, fists tightening on his knees.

“I was going to kill him,” you say, raw and bitter. “I wanted to. I was so angry I couldn’t see straight.”

Beomgyu exhales through his nose. “We should kill him.”

But you shake your head. “He saved our lives.” They both blink at you. “If he hadn’t made a deal with Minjae, we’d be dead right now. All three of us. He gave up part of his territory. Maybe even part of his crew.”

Beomgyu and Soobin don’t say anything at first. Just sit there, taking it in. You’re curled between them, one arm still wrapped carefully around Soobin’s shoulder, the other resting against Beomgyu’s thigh. It’s the only way you can stay grounded, with touch, warmth. The knowledge that they’re here, really here.

Beomgyu scoffs beside you, shaking his head. “Yeah? Great. And what did we give up? You almost got your face carved off.”

“Almost.” The word slips out before you can stop it. You’re tired, so tired, but you cling to the sliver of logic that’s keeping you upright. “He didn’t have to do it. Yeonjun could’ve let us all die. Would’ve been easier for him.”

“Don’t care.” Beomgyu shifts beside you, folding his arms across his knees, his voice sharp. “Doesn’t erase everything else he did.”

You don’t argue. Because he’s right, too. 

It’s not long before the silence turns tense again. The door clangs open, sharp and sudden, and all three of you tense instinctively. Heavy boots scrape against the concrete, and a shadow moves inside. Yeonjun. They throw him in without ceremony. He stumbles forward, hands no longer bound but arms limp at his sides, and hits the ground with a harsh grunt. His clothes are soaked with sweat and grime, his face smeared with dirt and blood, not all of it his. His jacket’s gone, his knife, gone. The glint in his eye? Also gone. He’s empty now, hollowed out.

Beomgyu surges forward before you can react, fury written all over him. “You bastard—”

You grab his arm mid-motion, holding him back with both hands. “Beomgyu. Don’t.”

“Let me go!” he snaps, voice cracking, muscles tense under your fingers. “Look at her! Look what you let them do to her!”

Yeonjun doesn’t flinch, doesn’t raise his head, he just breathes slowly, like each inhale costs him something. “Could’ve been worse,” he mutters finally, voice hoarse. “Could’ve been all four of us in body bags.”

That does it. Beomgyu stops fighting, but he’s still vibrating with rage, breathing like he’s ready to explode. You stay between them, hand still clutching his wrist. Yeonjun finally looks up. His eyes go straight to your face—and linger on the bandage Beomgyu tied around your cheek. You watch something in him twist, and it’s not satisfaction, it’s shame. 

“No one else is coming,” Beomgyu says from the wall, voice dull. “So what now?”

You turn to Yeonjun. “Yeah,” you echo, still holding Beomgyu back. “What now?”

Yeonjun sighs and sits back against the wall, dragging his knees up to his chest. “They’ll keep us here a little longer. Keep us guessing. Then they’ll probably dump us in the middle of nowhere. Maybe in enemy territory. Maybe not.”

Beomgyu snorts. “How thoughtful.”

You frown. “And then what? We walk?”

“If we’re lucky,” Yeonjun mutters.

“If?”

He looks at you again, his expression unreadable. “I burned my deal to get you out alive. That’s all they wanted. Leverage. A show of power. Now that they’ve made their point, keeping us any longer is just a waste of resources.”

“And if they don’t let us go?” Soobin asks.

Yeonjun closes his eyes. “Then I’ll find another way.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “Yeah? With what army?”

But you don’t join in the cynicism, not this time. Because you saw the look in Yeonjun’s eyes when Minjae pressed that blade to your throat. That wasn’t strategy, that wasn’t calculation, that was something else. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that. But for now, you do the only thing you can—lean against Soobin, keep one hand wrapped around Beomgyu’s, and stare at Yeonjun like he’s both the reason you’re alive and the reason you’ll never sleep the same way again.

They don’t come for a while. You lose track of the hours, and it’s always cold, always quiet, except for the occasional drip of water somewhere behind the walls, or the sound of Beomgyu pacing like a caged animal. Soobin sleeps most of the time, his head on your lap. You run your fingers through his hair and try not to cry every time he winces in his sleep. Yeonjun doesn’t speak. He stays on the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes half-closed. Watching everything, but saying nothing.

It’s Beomgyu who breaks the silence most often—jokes, insults, wild theories about how you’re all going to die in increasingly dramatic ways. But even he starts to get quiet as the hours drag on.

Then, suddenly, without warning, the door slams open. You don’t even have time to stand. Boots thunder in, and black fabric is yanked over your head. You hear Soobin growling, and Beomgyu cursing. Someone grabs your arms, too rough and fast, and you’re being dragged, stumbling blindly, unable to see or fight back. The floor changes beneath your feet, concrete, gravel, then something smooth. A van. The ride is short, bumpy, silent. Then the doors open, and you’re thrown out like trash.

You hit the ground hard, gasping as the sack is ripped from your head. Cold wind, empty road. Forest on both sides. Nothing else. Soobin lands next to you with a grunt, then Beomgyu. Then Yeonjun. 

It’s only once you’re all out that you realize someone slipped something inside your pocket before throwing you out: your phone. So you scramble to unlock it, signal's weak, but it’s there, and you hit the contact you’ve called more than anyone else in your life. “Heeseung,” you breathe when he picks up. “It’s me.”

“Y/N?” His voice breaks. “Holy shit. Are you okay? Where are you? What happened? I’ve been going crazy—”

“We’re alive,” you say, eyes scanning the empty road. “They dumped us in the middle of nowhere. But we’re out.” You tell him everything, about Minjae, the deal, the betrayal, the scar on your face that’s still fresh and stinging. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens. You hear the way his breathing falters, like he’s struggling not to break down.

“Stay where you are,” he says finally. “I’m coming.”

The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly, still kneeling in the dirt, and then you turn. Yeonjun’s sitting nearby, arms resting lazily over his knees like he’s on a fucking picnic. Something in you snaps. You’re on your feet before you realize it, storming toward him.

“You lied to me.” He doesn’t move. “You used me.”

Beomgyu grabs you around the waist just as you lunge forward, arms locking around you from behind. “Don’t,” he mutters. “You’re already hurt.”

“I don’t care!” you shout, struggling in his grip, blood rushing in your ears. “I should kill him right now—”

“I know,” Beomgyu says softly, tightening his hold. “But you won’t.”

Yeonjun finally looks up at you. And for the first time since this whole nightmare started, he speaks with a calm so cold it makes your stomach twist.

“You think I don’t know who you are, Y/N?”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You think I don’t know exactly who you are?” His eyes drop to the cut on your cheek. “You think I don’t remember the night I got this?” He lifts his hand, fingers brushing over the faint, jagged scar that cuts through his eyebrow. 

Silence. Beomgyu’s grip goes still around you. Soobin’s head lifts. The wind whistles through the trees, like even the world wants to know what you’ll say next. But you don’t say anything, because the past just walked out of the shadows, wearing Yeonjun’s face. And suddenly, this isn’t about survival anymore. It’s about everything you thought you’d left behind—coming back to bite.

You were fifteen the last time you saw Choi Yeonjun.

Not this version of him — not the man with blood on his hands and a scar running down his face like a warning — but the boy. The boy in the silk shirts and the too-expensive shoes, the boy who rolled his eyes at banquet speeches and snuck you stolen desserts under the table. The boy who knew what it meant to feel trapped in gold cages.

You weren’t supposed to be friends. Children like you were meant to become weapons, not companions. But when you were forced into that same gilded room week after week, dressed like pawns in a game you didn’t ask to play, it was hard not to notice each other. He was magnetic, even then. All sharp smiles and lazy charm, already too good at getting what he wanted. You were colder, quieter. You watched more than you spoke. You already knew you were disposable — illegitimate, your father’s sin in a pretty dress. You had no seat at the table. No name that mattered.

Except to Yeonjun. He used to call you Ghost. You didn’t know if it was a compliment or a curse, but you liked it. It felt like something that belonged to you.

The night it all burned down started like any other. 

You were at the Choi estate, the grand mansion at the edge of the city, the one with the koi ponds and the marble floors and the halls that echoed when you breathed too loud. Your father, Kim Mingyu, was in meetings with Choi Hyunwoo, Yeonjun’s father. Talks of expanding routes. Sharing ports. Making more money off the war brewing overseas. You and Yeonjun had been shoved into the side parlor to stay out of the way. The windows were tall and the fireplace glowed, but the tension was always heavier when your fathers were close. Yeonjun sat sprawled in an armchair, and you were lying on the rug, arms crossed, counting each second you weren’t being used like leverage.

“I heard your dad wants to marry you off,” Yeonjun had said suddenly.

You didn’t flinch. “He wants to pretend I don’t exist. That’s not the same thing.”

Yeonjun looked at you, head tilted, lips twitching. “You know, if you married me, that would solve both our problems. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife.”

You rolled your eyes. “If you keep talking, I’ll be the one killing you.”

He laughed, you almost smiled. Almost.

Then— gunfire.

The kind that doesn’t echo through halls like thunder. The kind that thuds, short and final, and you both froze. 

Yeonjun stood first. You followed him to the door, but before he could open it—click. It locked from the outside. Someone didn’t want you to see what was happening. You banged on the wood. Nothing. The quiet that followed was worse than the gunfire.

After a while, the door opened. Yeonjun was expecting a servant. Maybe one of the guards. But it wasn’t that, it was a man you didn’t recognize. Pale skin, black suit, eyes like ice — too still, too calm for a house that had just swallowed gunfire. He stepped into the room and leaned down to whisper something in Yeonjun’s ear. You were still by the window, but you didn’t miss the way Yeonjun’s entire body went still. The way his jaw tightened, then clenched, like he was trying not to scream.

“Yeonjun?” you asked, turning toward him. “What is it?” He didn’t answer. You stepped closer. “What happened?” Nothing. No movement. No sound. You were standing right in front of him now. He was pale. His hands trembled. “What happened?” you asked again, more forceful, but still nothing. You raised your voice. “Yeonjun, what the fuck happened?”

And that’s when you saw it, the flicker of something in his eyes. Not grief, but guilt. Your chest dropped. “What did your father do?” you whispered.

Yeonjun looked at you then, finally. But not with answers, only silence. That was enough. Your hands slammed into his chest. Once. Twice. He let you, he didn’t even flinch. “You knew,” you spat. “You fucking knew, didn’t you?!”

His hands caught your wrists mid-swing. Not hard, just enough to stop you. “Y/N—”

And that’s when your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife. It was small, thin, sharp, hidden in the side of your boot. A gift from your real mother. The only thing she ever gave you. Your hand moved before your brain did. You slashed upward, sharp and fast, not caring where it landed. All you saw was red. All you heard was your father's voice, echoing in your skull. “Trust no one in silk.”

The blade caught him across the face. A clean, slicing arc from brow to cheekbone — just above his left eye. Blood bloomed instantly. Yeonjun stumbled back, gasping, a hand flying to his face. It came away red. He stared at you in disbelief, chest heaving. You didn’t flinch.

“You let them kill him,” you said, your voice shaking. “You let them kill my father.”

Still, he said nothing. And that silence was the last answer you needed. So, you ran. You didn’t stop to look back. Not when the door burst open again. Not when footsteps thundered after you through the corridor. Not when you reached the side gate and scaled it like a girl possessed. You ran until your legs gave out. And even then, you crawled.

It took them three days to declare you dead. A fire in your house. Charred remains. No doubt it was you. Probably suicide, probably shame.

But you weren’t dead. You were lying in a pool of garbage behind an abandoned noodle shop, ribs cracked, blood soaked into your shirt, half your face bruised black. You couldn’t see straight. You couldn’t move. That’s when Beomgyu found you. He was stealing food. That’s what he told you later, just trying to survive like everyone else. He could’ve run when he saw you, most people would’ve. But he didn’t. He swore at first — loud and panicked — then knelt beside you, pressing a shaking hand to your neck to find a pulse. You tried to speak, but you couldn’t. He carried you anyway.

You woke up two days later in a basement with a blanket over you and a bandage around your ribs. There was a sandwich on the floor. He was sitting in the corner, arms crossed, watching you like a stray that might bite. “I thought you were dead,” he muttered.

He didn’t ask your name, you didn’t ask his, but from that day on, he stayed close. You healed together. Then Soobin found you. He was older, smarter, calm in a way that made you wary. The three of you weren’t a gang. Not at first. Just strays with nothing left to lose. But slowly, you became something else. You started calling in debts. Digging up secrets. Using what you knew and what your father taught you — and twisting it into something deadlier.

A whisper started in the streets. A name, passed like a warning: The Ghost Queen.

No one knew it was you, not until the summit. Not until you walked into that hall like you owned it, head high, mask off, eyes colder than anyone remembered. Not until Yeonjun saw you again for the first time in a decade.

And in that moment, the scar on his face felt fresh again. Because the ghost he thought was buried, was standing in front of him. And this time, she wasn’t running.

The silence on that empty road was the kind that clung to your skin. You stood there, the black sack they’d shoved over your head was now on the ground, forgotten. The ache in your body didn’t matter anymore. Yeonjun sat a few steps away on the edge of the road, face bloodied, exhaustion sinking into his bones, but like none of this was new to him, like losing everything was just another Tuesday. You turned to face him, jaw clenched, hands shaking.

“So you know,” you said, voice low but laced with venom. “Good. I'm glad you know.” Yeonjun arched a brow, slow, like he was waiting for the punchline. “You know what you did. You know what I lost. You know what I had to survive after that night.” You gestured toward Beomgyu and Soobin. “These two? They saved me when you destroyed everything I had left. And even now, you’re still screwing me over.”

He let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered. He stood, brushing dust off his pants. “I’m the reason all of us are still breathing. I gave up part of my territory, part of my crew. If we’re keeping score, I’d say we’re even.”

Beomgyu stepped forward, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “You’re lucky she wouldn’t let me get to you. Because if it were up to me, you’d be face-down on this road spitting teeth.”

Yeonjun sighed like he was bored. “Ah, great. The dog keeps speaking.”

“You have no idea what you did to her,” Beomgyu snapped. “You think one scar makes it even? You sleep at night with her blood on your hands?”

Yeonjun’s gaze flicked to you, then to Beomgyu, then back. And then, quiet, cold: “She left a scar on me too. Don’t forget that. She knew exactly where to put the knife.”

You stepped forward before Beomgyu could explode again. “You deserved that knife, Yeonjun. Because when I needed you, you chose silence. You let them kill my father. You sided with yours.”

“I was fifteen, Y/N,” he shot back, eyes sharp now, voice rising. “I was locked in that room with you. I heard the gunshots the same as you. You think I had a choice?”

“You had a choice to follow me!” you shouted, your voice raw. “To help me. To find me. But instead, you left me to die. You let them burn me!” 

He flinched—not visibly, but you felt it. “I did look for you,” he said, voice low. “For years. I searched for your body. For any sign you might’ve lived. And all I ever found was ashes.”

You barked a humorless laugh. “How convenient. No need to deal with me. No need to face what you did. What you didn’t do.”

He took a step closer. The scar over his left eye caught the fading light. “And you? You hid behind a mask. Built an empire out of borrowed blood. Turned yourself into a ghost so you wouldn’t have to remember your own sins.”

“I survived,” you hissed. “That’s all I had.”

Yeonjun didn’t answer. For the first time in the entire fight, he looked like he didn’t have a comeback. And then, the rumble of an engine. Headlights broke through the dust cloud on the road. A black car, old but fast, came flying toward you like salvation itself.

Soobin turned. “It’s Heeseung.”

Beomgyu relaxed—just slightly—but his eyes stayed locked on Yeonjun like a loaded gun. The car skidded to a halt. The door flew open. Heeseung bolted out, panic and relief battling on his face. “You’re alive,” he breathed, rushing to you.

You didn’t speak. Just let him wrap his arms around you, just this once. Yeonjun watched from a distance, eyes unreadable, expression carved from stone. And you didn’t look back at him. But you knew he was looking, because he always was.

You stopped with one hand already on the van door, your other resting against the frame like it was the only thing holding you up. You didn’t turn immediately, but you felt him behind you. Heeseung turned too, halfway into the driver’s seat, brows rising with amusement as he saw who had the audacity to still be talking. “You need a ride, Your Majesty?” he drawled, mock-serious. “Plenty of room in the trunk.”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes with a muttered, “I’ll manage.”

Beomgyu didn’t even attempt to hide the snarl curling on his lips. “We should’ve left him in that ditch.”

“Beomgyu,” you warned softly, not because he was wrong, but because this wasn’t the time. He huffed, shooting Yeonjun one last glare before climbing into the van, slamming the door harder than necessary. You lingered a second longer, eyes locked on Yeonjun. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, half in shadow, half in the hazy morning light. His red hair looked more copper than flame now, but that scar — your scar — cut through it like it had the day you gave it to him. Time hadn’t softened him. If anything, it had carved him into something even sharper.

The dust had barely begun to settle when Yeonjun’s voice cut through it. “Y/N. We need to talk business,” he said, not with force or threat, just fact. You didn’t respond at first, just looked at him. And in that moment, something cracked. Not in your expression, because you were too well-trained for that. But behind your ribs, in that locked box you thought you’d buried. Because the worst part was that you remembered. You remembered everything.

Not just the betrayal. Not just the blood, but the moments before it all fell apart. You remembered silk shirts and wide staircases, sneaking out of boring banquets with Yeonjun to sit on the roof of his family’s estate, trading secrets under a sky too vast for two children bred for war. You remembered him giving you half his dessert when your father ignored you at dinner, remembered the way his eyes used to light up when he made you laugh. You remembered the hours spent in quiet competition — chess matches, blade training, stolen books you both claimed to hate but always finished anyway.

You remembered him grabbing your wrist in that room, trying to stop you, begging you not to open the door. You remembered the look in his eyes after you cut him. And you remembered running, not just from his family, but from him. Because he was the only person in that world who had ever seen you. And you didn’t know if you hated him more for failing you — or for still seeing you now.

“Come find me when it’s time,” you said finally, voice steady, chin high. 

You turned and climbed into the van. Heeseung looked at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t speak. Soobin passed you a water bottle, quiet and steady as always. Beomgyu just shook his head like he still couldn’t believe you let that man live. You didn’t explain yourself. You just leaned back into the seat as the van pulled onto the road, the rising sun spilling gold across the horizon like the world hadn’t just tried to kill you again.

Behind you, Yeonjun grew smaller in the rear window — a figure carved out of memory and regret. But he wasn’t gone. He never really was.

The week that followed was full of antiseptic, quiet rage, and the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep — but from surviving something you shouldn’t have.

The first morning back, you woke in your own bed, in your safehouse buried deep in the outer rings of the city. For a split second, you thought it had all been a nightmare. Until you turned your head and pain bloomed sharp across your cheek. You hissed, and before your fingers could even brush the wound, Beomgyu was already there.

“Don’t touch it,” he muttered, crouched beside the bed, eyes bruised with worry and zero sleep. “You’ll reopen the cut.” You tried to bat him away. He glared. “I swear to God, Y/N. Sit. Still.” So you did. Beomgyu cleaned the wound every morning, careful but muttering curses the whole time, most of them directed at Yeonjun. “You should’ve let me beat the shit out of him,” he grumbled more than once, dabbing ointment against the split skin like it was a battle tactic.

“I think your fists were too busy protecting my ribs,” you replied dryly, and he scowled but didn’t deny it.

Soobin, meanwhile, spent most of the week in bed. He had a cracked rib and a deep bruise on his thigh that turned every shade of black and blue before it started to fade. But he took it in stride, quiet as always, and only winced when Beomgyu wasn’t looking. You checked in with him often, more often than he liked. “I’m not dying,” he’d mutter, and you’d answer with, “Good.”

You didn’t mention that you barely slept. Or that some nights you stared at the ceiling for hours, replaying Yeonjun’s words, his voice, that look in his eyes when he said he knew who you were. Because the truth was, you didn’t know what haunted you more: the past, or the fact that he had lied.

By the third day, your inner circle had rotated to secure-mode. All comms were rerouted through Soobin’s backup systems, deep-web tunnels and burner signals only a handful of people in the world knew how to follow. Even then, everything was reduced to code. You stopped saying names. You stopped trusting phones. You stopped breathing easy. Because if Yeonjun was right — if Minjae had more planned — this wasn’t over.

You adapted quickly, you always did. You started giving orders again, rebuilding connections, tracking every whisper that floated through the city. You wore a hood every time you left the house, and your knife stayed strapped to your thigh. The cut on your face ached every time you moved your mouth, but you didn’t complain. Beomgyu did enough of that for both of you.

On the seventh night, you found a message waiting in your most encrypted channel. No name, no signature. Just coordinates, a time, and one line of text.

You're coming with me. Try to look like you like me.

You stared at the screen for a full minute before even breathing. The coordinates were downtown — one of Yeonjun’s more luxurious clubs, the kind that didn’t even have a name on the front, just a line of guards who knew when to keep their mouths shut. The time was just before midnight.

He was making a show, of course he was. You already knew what this was: he had something planned. A meeting, a gathering. And clearly, Yeonjun wanted to look like he had you in his pocket, because Minjae still thought you were his girlfriend. That was your leverage, that was your shield, and Yeonjun was cashing in.

“Absolutely not,” Beomgyu snapped, the second you brought it up. “I’m not letting you go parade around on that bastard’s arm like this is fucking prom night.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” you said calmly, sitting across from him. “I’m going. I’m just telling you in advance so you don’t explode and level the building.”

“You say that like it’s not still an option,” he muttered.

Heeseung, lounging on the couch nearby, raised a brow. “So we’re crashing a party now?”

“More like we’re playing pretend,” you said. “Yeonjun’s meeting with some major players, and he wants me there to make it look like we’re together. I’m not going in alone, though.”

Beomgyu narrowed his eyes. “You better not be suggesting—”

“I’m taking Jay and Heeseung.”

Jay blinked. “Wait. I am?”

You nodded. “Minjae hasn’t seen either of you in person. As far as he knows, you’re just… hot background noise.”

Heeseung grinned. “I am great at that.”

“Figures,” Beomgyu muttered. “You’re picking the two most reckless ones.”

“They’re unpredictable,” you said. “Which makes them valuable. And I trust them.”

Beomgyu didn’t argue. He just nodded. “Just don’t let Yeonjun get in your head.”

You didn’t answer that. Because part of you already knew: he was already there.

The club didn’t have a name. From the outside, it looked like a museum built for gods — all black marble and gold trimming, slick columns, a single brass door guarded by men who wore tuxedos carrying pistols under their lapels. There were no signs, no posted hours, no public records. If you were meant to be inside, you already knew. If you weren’t, you never found the door.

You stepped out of the black car just before midnight, heels clicking against the stone, silk brushing against your thighs. Your dress was fitted, ink-black, slashed low at the back, and a single necklace at your throat. Jay and Heeseung stepped out behind you, both in tailored black suits and matching expressions: calm, unreadable, dangerous. Bodyguards. Ghosts. Whatever you needed them to be.

The guards at the door let you in without a word. And inside, the bass was low, the air perfumed, gold lights flickered across the ceiling and the whole place smelled like heat, power, and money. There were no screams, no dancing, no crowd. Just whispers. Just very rich, very dangerous people pretending they weren’t afraid of one another.

You scanned the room, and of course, he was already watching you. Leaning against the bar like he owned it (which he did), Yeonjun was dressed in charcoal grey, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, his rings glittered when he lifted a glass to his lips, and his eyes burned through you even before you took your first step.

He didn’t move as you approached. Just raised an eyebrow and smirked, lazy and lethal. “No dog today?” he said. “I was hoping to see if he bites.”

You didn’t blink. “Beomgyu sends his regards. And his middle finger.”

Yeonjun smiled like you’d complimented him. “Ah, the language of love.”

You took the drink he offered, mostly for the excuse to put something in your hand that wasn’t a gun. “Cut the bullshit, Yeonjun. Why am I really here?”

“Because you like looking at me,” he said smoothly. “And because Minjae thinks you’re mine. So, you play the part, he doesn’t question why I kept the West docks. He thinks he’s dealing with me. Not with Ghost Queen, and that keeps you alive.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive.”

“No,” he said, leaning in, “but you need me to keep your empire breathing.”

You hated how close he was. Hated how calm he made you feel. Like standing in the eye of a hurricane. Everything around him was chaos, but he — Yeonjun — was composed destruction. A man who smiled while the building burned and said, You’re welcome for the warmth.

“You think all this justifies what you did?” you asked, eyes sharp.

He raised a brow. “What I did, darling, is what keeps your little boyfriend patching up Soobin’s wounds instead of burying him.”

You smiled without humor. “Careful. Your jealousy’s showing.”

“You always say that like it’s not part of my charm.” Yeonjun laughed like he actually liked his answer. You turned away, about to walk, but he caught your wrist lightly, easy, no force behind it. “You are wearing my necklace.”

Your hand rose instinctively to your collarbone. Shit, you hadn’t realized. Your body betrayed you before your mind caught up. Instinctively, your hand flew to your collarbone, the simple chain, delicate and old, still resting just beneath the neckline of your clothes. You hadn’t realized. Or maybe you had, and just refused to admit it to yourself. The weight of it had been familiar, comforting, buried beneath all the armor you’d learned to wear since that night. The night you gave him that scar.

Yeonjun was watching you closely. His eyes didn’t move from your face, but you could feel his attention shift from the necklace to the faint scar just beneath it. The bruise on your jaw was fading now, but the laceration across your cheekbone was angry and fresh, the stitches tight and unkind. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his gaze darkened, something unreadable moving behind it.

And then: voices behind him. Shoes on marble. Laughter and steel wrapped in suits. You turned just as Yeonjun did, instinctively stepping a fraction closer to him without meaning to.

Minjae arrived with men with cold eyes and colder hands behind him. His presence filled the room before he even spoke. Expensive suit, louder than the lighting. Yeonjun straightened, casual as ever, all lazy charm and mask-perfect posture.

“Minjae,” he greeted, voice like a blade in velvet. “Right on time.”

The older man’s eyes swept the room and landed on you. His gaze took its time, drinking you in with the kind of arrogant slowness that made your stomach turn. Yeonjun’s hand brushed the small of your back. A show, but also a claim. So you tilted your head, gave the smallest smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. You felt Heeseung and Jay nearby, playing their roles well, quiet and watchful from the far end of the room. 

Minjae grinned. “You should take care of that scar. I don’t like damaged goods.”

You smiled at him, slow and dangerous. “Good thing I’m not yours, then.”

There was a beat of silence. Yeonjun laughed first, then Minjae. The tension melted into something easier, at least on the surface, but the scar still burned, and the necklace still sat heavy on your skin. And Yeonjun’s hand, even though it barely touched you, felt hotter than it should.

When Minjae turned to greet someone else, Yeonjun leaned closer, breath brushing your temple. “Still sharp,” he murmured. “Still mine.”

You didn’t look at him, you didn’t have to. “You could never afford me.”

He chuckled. “Darling, I already paid in blood.”

And you both knew — neither of you were bluffing.

You could tell by the way the staff glanced at him like he was both owner and threat, the way people stepped aside when he moved, always a beat too late. Power had its own gravity, and he wore it like silk. He walked beside you with a drink in hand, not drinking it, just holding it like an accessory. His other hand occasionally brushed your back, your arm, your wrist. Always light, always casual. Always enough to remind you he could still find your pulse without trying.

“Smile, darling,” he murmured near your ear, smirk curling. “You look like you’re about to kill someone. Which, to be fair, would only make me love you more.”

Your eyes flicked sideways. “Do you flirt with every woman you’ve sold out to a warlord, or am I just special?”

Yeonjun tilted his head, feigning thought. “Definitely special. Most of them don’t survive long enough to flirt back.”

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t look away either. That was your power — the stillness. The knowledge that if Minjae, who scarred your face with the back of his ring-heavy hand, had any idea who you really were, this place would be on fire by now. And Yeonjun was playing the long game, he always was.

Jay leaned against a pillar in the far corner, glass in hand, posture loose but eyes hard. Heeseung was by the staircase, casual enough to pass as bored muscle, but watching every move Minjae made. They hadn’t said much since you arrived, because that was the deal. Stay close, stay quiet, intervene only if necessary.

Yeonjun led you through the crowd, nodding at names you half-recognized. He led you to a private balcony overlooking the main floor. Not far enough to be hidden, but high enough to feel untouchable. You leaned against the railing and he stood beside you, close. His gaze dropped to your scar again, thumb brushing your cheek before you could stop him. You didn’t move or flinch, but something in your stomach twisted tight. “I’ll kill him for you,” he said, tone too casual.

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t get to kill people for me anymore.”

His smile was sharp. “Who said it would be for you?” The silence stretched. He took a step closer, and your breath caught before you could help it. You turned your head, his hand dropped. Downstairs, Minjae laughed at something. Jay’s eyes flicked toward you, just once. Yeonjun leaned in again. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

His voice dipped low. “Being mine.”

You didn’t answer him, just stared. The kind of stare that had made men confess, cry, crumble. But Yeonjun only looked back like he’d been waiting years for it. “I was never yours,” you said finally, voice like smoke.

His smile didn’t falter. But something beneath it twisted, just a little. “You were supposed to be.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I was. If your father hadn’t murdered mine. If you hadn’t locked me in that room.”

Yeonjun’s smile faded at the edges. He leaned on the railing with one elbow, gaze dragging over your face. “Well,” he said after a long moment. “I guess we’re even. You gave me this one, after all.”

He tilted his face, and there it was — the faint but brutal line running along his eyebrow. Your work, your rage. Your proof that love could rot. “And now I’ve got this one,” you muttered, tapping your cheek where the newer scar still pinked beneath makeup. “Thanks to you.”

He looked at you like he might shatter the balcony glass with his bare hands. “Minjae did that. Not me.” You looked away and Yeonjun stepped in, voice dropping, a hiss. “He’s going to pay for putting his hands on you.” You scoffed. “I’m serious,” he said, closer now. “You think I’m gonna let anyone leave a mark on that face and walk out breathing?” You turned to snap at him, but froze. He was inches away, his mouth too close. “Though I have to admit… you wearing a scar that matches mine?” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then climbed slowly back up. “It suits you. Makes us look coordinated.”

Your glare sharpened. “Fuck you.”

He smirked. “Do you want to?”

You shoved him lightly, but not enough to make distance. He didn’t budge anyway. From the far end of the balcony, Minjae’s gaze found you both. You felt that chill like fingers down your spine. He was watching, curious. Yeonjun caught it instantly. His hand slid to your hip. Not forceful, just a gentle pull to remind you of the lie you were supposed to be living. “Eyes on us,” he whispered. “Play the part, sweetheart.”

“I’d rather jump.”

“Okay… but try not to bleed on the carpet. It’s imported.”

He leaned in then slowly, theatrical, intense, until his face was right there. His nose nearly brushing yours, his lips a breath away. His eyes locked on yours with that too-familiar glint: part hunger, part mischief, part ruin. And Minjae was still watching, waiting. So you didn’t flinch when Yeonjun’s mouth brushed your temple, your cheek, and hovered by your ear.

You didn’t mean to stare. But once you did, it was impossible to stop. Yeonjun’s face was older now, of course, but under the dim golden light of the balcony, you could still see the shadow of the boy he used to be. The one who smirked too easily. Who whispered reckless things when no one was listening. The one who used to lean so close you thought he’d kiss you, but never did. He was always just a breath away, dangling the possibility like a blade over your throat. 

You used to wonder what it would feel like — his mouth on yours. You were fifteen. A girl made of rage, and Yeonjun was a fire you wanted to hate but kept reaching for. You never let yourself find out, never crossed that line. But now, standing in the heat of his stare, you didn’t know why you ever thought you were safe from it.

Your gaze flicked up to the scar that split the edge of his left brow, faded now, but unmistakable. You’d given it to him in a moment of betrayal so bright it still burned behind your eyelids when you closed them. Funny. You'd thought it would make you feel powerful, seeing it. But it only made your chest ache.

“Still staring, sweetheart,” Yeonjun said, low and smug. “If you want to touch it, you can just ask.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You say that,” he said, leaning closer, “but your breath hitches every time I talk like this.” He wasn’t wrong. “I could make you forget who you’re pretending to be,” he whispered, mouth ghosting near your jaw. “One touch. One word. You’d remember exactly what it feels like to be mine.”

You turned toward him, mouth parted to curse, or worse, but the sound of a cough cut through the tension like a knife. Yeonjun didn’t even flinch. His gaze flicked lazily over your shoulder. Minjae stood by the balcony doors, watching you both with eyes too polite to be innocent.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Minjae said, though the smug twist of his lips made it clear — he wasn’t. His gaze lingered far too long on your face, right where the scar cut across your cheekbone. “But we’ve got business to discuss.”

You didn’t flinch, but your heart, however, knocked once, hard against your ribs when Minjae’s eyes landed on your face again. You knew that look. That casual cruelty, the one that reminded you exactly who gave you that scar, and exactly who still believed you were nothing more than Yeonjun’s favorite toy.

The corridor to the private lounge was quiet, lined with dim lights and mirrors that made everything seem hazy. You saw Jay just before you entered, leaned against the wall in black, dressed like security, his mouth set in a practiced scowl. If you didn’t know better, you’d believe the act yourself. Taehyun walked beside Yeonjun with silent confidence, his sharp eyes sweeping every shadow. And you played your part.

Inside the lounge, everything was low light and dark velvet. Minjae sat first, sprawling like he owned the room, and maybe, in some ways, he did. Jay stood near the door, eyes on you. On Minjae. On everything. Yeonjun didn’t sit until he’d guided you down beside him, his hand still warm on your waist. His thumb brushed up once, just a fraction, grazing your ribs through the fabric of your clothes. You gave him a warning look, and he only smirked.

“Let’s get to it, shall we?” Minjae said, lighting a cigar like the caricature of a villain. “I want to finalize the territory shift.” 

Yeonjun smiled lazily. “Of course.”

“Must be nice,” Minjae said after a beat, changing topics. “Having someone so pretty that devoted.” His eyes flicked to your face again, and something uglier bloomed behind his grin. “Though I don’t remember that scar being there last time.”

Yeonjun’s hand moved again, but not away. This time it slid across your lap, over the silk of your dress, and came to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, like a warning. Or maybe comfort, maybe both. You swallowed, eyes trained forward. You weren’t sure if it was your own pulse you were hearing, or Yeonjun’s.

Business was discussed, territories laid out. Taehyun handled most of the numbers, Jay nodding occasionally as if he were part of the team. But through all of it, Yeonjun never stopped touching you. His hand drifted to your knee, your waist, your back, in a casual, intimate, possessive way. Like he meant it, like he wanted Minjae to see.

And you let him, because Minjae couldn’t know the truth. Because Yeonjun was playing his role. Because, somewhere deep down — under all the betrayal and blood and broken pieces — you remembered what it was like to be touched by him and believe it was real. And maybe some part of you still wanted it to be.

The meeting ended, Minjae stood first, adjusting the lapel of his tailored jacket with that same smug smile glued to his face since the start of the night. He looked at Yeonjun, and then at you, lingering a second too long. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Getting territory from the Ghost Queen isn’t a small thing. You must have a special talent, Yeonjun. Or she must really like you.”

Yeonjun didn’t flinch, he just smiled dangerously slowly. His hand tightened slightly at your thighs, grounding you, warning you, comforting you. Almost like he was saying, Let it go. I’ve got this.

Minjae took a couple of steps toward the door, tossing a final comment over his shoulder. “I hope the scar makes your girlfriend even prettier.” A smirk. “Take good care of her, Yeonjun. Women like that are hard to find… and easy to mark.”

Your entire body stilled. Not from fear—you’d burned that out of your system years ago. But from the kind of fury that didn’t flash, it simmered, low and dangerous in your veins.

Yeonjun leaned in before you could speak, his voice brushing hot against your ear. “Give me one reason. Just one. And I’ll tear him apart.”

You didn’t answer. The tilt of your chin, the ice in your gaze, it was enough. Minjae left with his goons, the door swinging closed behind them like the end of a nightmare that didn’t know it was over. But Yeonjun didn’t step away, not even an inch. If anything, he pulled you closer, with his hand drifting up your back to rest at the back of your neck, thumb gently brushing just beneath your jaw. Possessive, protective and dangerous. Not for show this time, even if the performance had technically ended.

Jay let out a slow breath and finally stepped forward from the shadows, pulling out the earpiece he’d worn for the entire meeting. “Well,” he said, with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “if hell had a homeowners’ association, I think we just sat through the board meeting.”

Taehyun snorted quietly, heading to the table to collect the documents Minjae had left behind. “He really thinks he’s winning.”

“Let him,” Yeonjun said, fingers still tangled in your hair. His tone was calm, but it carried an undercurrent of violence. “The higher he thinks he is, the harder the fall.”

Jay crossed his arms and finally looked directly at you. “You alright?”

You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the door. “Yeah. The worst part’s over.”

Jay looked back at Yeonjun. “We need to get the logistics in place. Can’t hand over territory without locking in transport, security, collection.”

Yeonjun gave a small nod, finally turning, but he didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers stayed interlaced with yours, like the truth was still too dangerous to set down. Like he needed them to know you were his, even if it was still just pretend. Even if it never really was.

“Let’s handle that tonight,” he said, looking at the two of them. “But first…” He turned to you again, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. His expression softened only slightly—only for you. “I want to make sure she has what she needs. And that no one—ever—lays a finger on her again without bleeding for it.”

For a moment, it sat in your chest like warmth. Like safety. Like the kind of thing you'd once dreamed of when you were a teenager and he was still the boy with fire in his eyes and a promise on his lips. But then it cracked. Because it hit you, all at once—there was no one left to pretend for. Minjae was gone. The room was full of allies, no one was watching. You weren’t his girlfriend. And he wasn’t your hero, not anymore.

You stepped away from him like waking from a dream, the trance shattered. You didn’t even meet his eyes when you stood up. “You don’t need to worry about me, Yeonjun,” you said, voice cold. “I’ll handle it.”

There was a silence. Jay raised an eyebrow, halfway to speaking when you reached over and plucked the drink from his hand without asking. He didn’t stop you, just tilted his head slightly, watching as you started toward the door. “You need anything?” he asked, cautious.

You didn’t look back. “Yeah, to be alone.”

And then you were gone. You went straight to an outside balcony, the cold air outside hit you like a slap. You lit the cigarette with fingers that didn’t shake, but only because you wouldn’t allow them to. The burn in your chest wasn’t from the smoke. It was the memory of his hand on your waist, his voice in your ear, his lie living under your skin like a second pulse. He always did that—wrapped barbed wire in silk and called it love.

You heard the door open behind you ten minutes later. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. No one else had that kind of presence. That specific gravity.

“What the fuck was that?” Yeonjun’s voice was low, sharp, laced with confusion and something angrier underneath.

You didn’t turn. You exhaled, slow and bitter. “What was what?”

He stepped closer, not touching you now, not daring to. “You walking out like that. The attitude. The—” He stopped himself, like he wasn’t sure what the hell he was trying to say. “I’ve been protecting you all goddamn night. And now you're acting like—”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me.” That made him pause. You turned to face him finally, eyes dark. “I didn’t want your protection, Yeonjun. And especially not after everything you did.”

His jaw clenched. “I did what I had to do to keep you alive.”

“No,” you said. “You did what you had to do to keep yourself alive. Don’t rewrite history just because I’m standing here again.” He didn’t answer. You stepped closer, enough that your breath could find his collarbone. Enough to remind him that once upon a time, you wanted to be close. “You had years, Yeonjun. Years to come clean. Years to fix it.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice cracked barely. “You let me rot.”

“You think it didn’t kill me? I thought you were dead!”

“I think you lived just fine with it.”

He looked at you like he wanted to tear something apart. Maybe you. Maybe himself. “You think I wanted this?” he hissed.

“I think you let it happen,” you snapped. “And I think it’s too late now to play the good guy.” There was a silence. He stared at you with that same infuriating expression—equal parts regret and arrogance. The one you used to fall for. “I don’t need you,” you said, finally. “And I sure as hell don’t need you pretending like we’re anything anymore.”

Yeonjun tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “Then why are you still wearing my necklace?”

The question landed like a slap. And you didn’t have an answer.

Before you could even breathe, he was stepping closer. Each step heavy with something darker than tension, something primal. You stayed still, partly because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of moving. Partly because your legs didn’t fucking work when he looked at you like that. He stopped only when his chest nearly brushed yours.

His eyes dropped to your collarbone and he towered you, looking down at you. “Still fits you like it was made for you,” he murmured, voice honeyed and low. “Of course, it was. I picked it out when I was younger and so fucking in love with you I couldn’t think straight.” You blinked. The weight of that sentence crashing into you all at once, but he didn’t give you time to recover. “Funny thing is…” His gaze dragged up to your lips, then your eyes. “Even now—after all the blood, the lies, the shit we buried—I still look at you and want to fuck you against the nearest wall.”

You sucked in a breath.

“I still think about what your mouth would feel like saying my name the way you used to—sweet and desperate.” He tilted his head again, like he was admiring the way you looked pissed off and frozen in the same breath. “Still think about what your skin tastes like under all that attitude.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “But you’ve always liked me that way.”

And the worst part is that he wasn’t wrong. You hated the way your body reacted to him, how your pulse betrayed you, how your mind told you to step away and your feet stayed planted.

His eyes dropped again, this time to your mouth, and lingered. “Do you even know what you look like right now?” he whispered. “All cold and fire at the same time. Like you want to punish me for wanting you.”

“I should punish you,” you said, finally finding your voice again, though it came out rough.

Yeonjun smirked. “Baby, if that’s a threat, I’ll fucking beg for it.”

That made you flinch, just a little. But he saw it. Of course he saw it. And that was all the invitation he needed.

He tilted his head, watching your every breath like a predator. Then, slow as sin, he leaned in, close enough that his breath kissed the shell of your ear when he spoke again. “Tell me something.” His voice was a hushed rasp, too close, too deep. “In all these years… did anyone make you feel good?” Your lips parted, but he didn’t wait. “I mean—really good,” he continued, his mouth dragging close to your cheek. “The way I would’ve. The way I still want to.” A pause, his lips ghosting over your skin, not quite touching. “The way I will.”

You turned your head sharply, eyes slicing toward him. “You talk like I was yours to begin with.”

Yeonjun only smiled. “You were.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “We were young. You don’t get to rewrite that.”

“Young and stupid, yeah,” he agreed. “But you never stopped looking at me like you wanted to tear me apart. And you think I didn’t see that? You think I didn’t feel it?” He stepped in even closer, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head. “I’ve had to live with that image in my head for years. The way you looked that night you cut me. Face flushed. Hands shaking. Breathing like you’d just—God, I wanted to taste the blood on your fingers.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to stay cold, unbothered. “You’re sick.”

“And you love it.” He leaned down, murmuring right against your ear again. “Tell me, baby. Did anyone ever get to have you? Did they get to fuck that attitude out of you, or did they all fail?”

“Yeonjun—”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I’d ruin you,” he said, voice low and steady. “So slow, so good, you’d forget your own fucking name. You’d forget who you are—Ghost Queen or not. You’d just be mine.”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t answer, because you hated that a part of you was imagining it. His hot skin, rough hands, his mouth on your throat, dragging out every gasp like it belonged to him. You could almost feel it. The pressure, the filth of his words against your ear, the pull of him unraveling you. So you clenched your jaw, locking it in place. “You never had me.”

Yeonjun stared, quiet for a breath. Then the corner of his mouth curled. “But I could’ve,” he murmured, leaning in, lips brushing dangerously close to your cheek. “And I still could—maybe I should ask your little dog to watch us. What’s his name again? Beomgyu?”

You didn’t even think. In one clean, practiced movement, your hand slid from beneath your sleeve, the blade catching the low light as you slammed him back into the wall with your forearm to his chest and your knife pressed right to the hollow of his throat. The force of it knocked the smirk off his face, but only for a second. Then it was back, wider and hungrier.

“Well, well,” he breathed, tilting his head against the blade. A bead of blood bloomed at the contact, but he didn’t even flinch. “There she is.”

Your eyes were all fire, teeth clenched, breathing sharp. “Say his name again, Yeonjun. Say it. I fucking dare you.”

His hands didn’t go up, didn’t push you off. He stayed still, almost inviting the cut. That damn smirk still plastered across his lips. “You know,” he drawled, voice barely above a whisper, “you holding a knife to my throat is hotter than anything I’ve ever jerked off to—and I’ve had years to imagine this.” Your grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. But his gaze didn’t drop, it burned into yours. “I missed you,” he whispered. “You insane, deadly little thing.”

You hated the way your pulse betrayed you. How your body thrived off the proximity, off the danger. You could kill him, right here, right now. You wanted to. “You think you scare me?” you snapped.

“I hope so,” he said, smiling wider. “Because nothing makes me harder than a girl who might slit my throat after fucking me.”

Your blade was still slick against him, your chest rising and falling. But you didn’t need to move, because he did all the work for you, leaning in just enough so his lips hovered by your ear, voice thick with venom and something far more dangerous.

“What’s the matter?” Yeonjun said, low and sickeningly sweet. “Afraid I’ll say something else that gets you all worked up?” The weight of his body so close, the smell of his cologne crawling under your skin. “I've got a thousand fantasies about you pressing that knife a little lower.” He exhaled like he was enjoying himself. “God, I missed you. Every version of you. The girl who kissed my cheek once and made me lose sleep for a week, and the one who nearly slit my throat just now. They both get me off.” Your grip faltered for half a second, just enough for him to feel it, and he grinned. “Don’t know if you love me or you want me dead.”

You stepped back like the words were a punch to the chest. His gaze followed you as you turned, fast and sharp, like you had to run before your legs gave out. Before he said something even worse, or something you wanted to hear. You shoved the blade back into the sheath under your sleeve and stormed toward the club’s hall, the music echoing louder the closer you got. You thought you could lose him in the noise, that maybe if you slipped back into the crowd, back into the role, back into your armor, he’d vanish with the bloodlust and the memories.

But of course not. You’d barely made it to the bar when you felt him again, his hand finding your waist from behind like it had belonged there all along. His chest pressed to your back, lips brushing against the shell of your ear with that voice, that stupid, dangerous voice—

“We still have to sell the story, baby,” he whispered, shameless and slow. “Minjae’s watching. Don’t make me hold you tighter.”

“You keep touching me like that,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “And I swear to God, Yeonjun—”

“You’ll what?” He cut in, nuzzling against your hair. “Make me beg? Scream? Kill me in front of everyone?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe all three,” you said.

His smile was pure sin. “Fuck, I hope so.” But then he leaned in closer, voice a breath over your skin, lips ghosting the shell of your ear— “Truth is,” he murmured, slow, filthy, “I think about it every night. What would you let me do to you if my father didn’t kill yours.”

Your brain short-circuited. There was no time to think, just movement. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, hard enough to make him groan, and yanked his smug, beautiful face toward yours. His smirk only widened. You didn’t waste a second, you shoved him back across the room, until his back slammed into the wall near the nearest private door. You didn’t even check if anyone saw you twist the lock.

The second the door clicked shut, you spun him and slammed him against it, fingers still tight in his hair, breath heaving. He was grinning. “Knew you missed me, princess.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You grabbed his jaw, nails biting into his skin, and forced him to look at you. He was already hard, cocky as ever, eyes gleaming like he’d won some twisted game. But he didn’t say another word. You pressed in close, body flush to his, letting him feel every inch of your control. “You talk too much,” you muttered, dragging your mouth along his jaw—not kissing, just hovering and teasing. “Always did.”

“I can shut up,” he said, already breathless. “If you sit on my face.”

“Quiet,” you hissed. You slammed him back against the wall again, just to feel the sharp inhale he took. His eyes fluttered, and for a split second, the mask cracked, just enough to show how gone he was for you. How long he’d been starving for this. “Tell me you missed me,” you demanded.

He licked his lips, eyes blown wide. “I missed the way you make me fucking weak.”

You didn’t give him time to breathe. Your lips crashed against his jaw, not soft, not sweet. You sank your teeth into the sharp edge of it, biting down until his whole body jolted under your hands, a strangled groan ripping from his throat. You could feel him trembling. “Fuck,” he hissed, head tilting back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fucking bite me again—”

“I said shut up,” you growled against his skin, your breath hot and ragged. You licked where you’d just bitten, then bit again, just below his ear, harder. “God, you’re pathetic.”

He let out a low, breathy laugh, already wrecked. “Only for you.”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “I think about it every day, Jun. Every fucking day.” He stilled, but you didn’t stop. “The sound you made when I cut your face. That pitiful, shocked little gasp. You looked like a kicked dog. And I swear I wanted to kill you,” you whispered, pressing your mouth back to that same spot on his jawline, biting again. “After my father died, and your father left me rotting—you just let it happen. You walked away. You knew.”

“Y/N—”

“No.” You gripped his chin, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You let me starve. You let them humiliate me. And I swore—every fucking day—that I’d make you pay for it. I built myself from blood and ash, and you? And now you are fucking stealing from me.”

Yeonjun stilled. For one long, charged second, he didn’t move or speak. Then his eyes darkened and everything snapped. With a brutal sort of grace, he grabbed your wrists and spun you, slamming your back against the wall in a single, fluid motion. His breath was hot at your throat, his body crowding yours, his thigh sliding precisely between your legs until it was pressed against your heat firmly and deliberate. Your breath caught and you hated how fast your body betrayed you.

“You think you’re in control?” he growled, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, while the other slid down your side, fingers dragging painfully slow. “You think you built yourself?” His thigh pressed up hard, just enough friction to make you gasp, and he chuckled. “I love it when you look at me like you want to kill me—and fuck me in the same breath,” he hissed, lips brushing your jaw. 

You choked on a sound, part fury, part need, grinding involuntarily against the pressure between your legs and he smirked. “I bet you ache,” he whispered, mouth moving to the shell of your ear. “Bet you’ve always ached. You try to fall asleep at night, and you squeeze your thighs together, pretending it’s nothing. Pretending it’s not me you’re thinking about.” His voice dropped lower and meaner. “Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “When you touch yourself—because I know you do—do you pretend it’s my fingers? Or do you imagine me throwing you against a wall like this, fucking you so hard you forget your own name?”

His thigh flexed against you again, and your hips bucked helplessly in response. He grinned, dark and wolfish. “You hate that you want it. That you want me,” he breathed. “But you always have. Even back then. You were mine long before you knew what that meant.”

His hand slid under your dress, fingertips teasing the sensitive skin of your thigh, just barely skimming where you needed him most. “You wanna know what I think about?” he asked, voice rough and sinful. “I think about spreading you open. Holding your legs apart while I taste every inch of you—slow. So slow it hurts. I wanna hear you whimper. Wanna ruin you so completely until you cry for my dick. Again. And again.”

You gasped as his thigh pressed up again, harder, firmer, angled just right. It sent a jolt of pleasure through you so sharp your knees nearly gave out. His hands clamped down on your hips, tight and possessive, guiding you against the flex of his thigh. The friction sent another sharp jolt of heat through your core, and you cursed under your breath, biting down on your lip hard enough to hurt.

“That's it,” he rasped, grinding you down with purpose. “So eager now, aren’t you? I can feel how wet you are through your panties, baby. You're soaking me.” You clenched your jaw, trying to hold on to that last shred of control. But he was relentless, dragging your hips with a slow rhythm, the pressure maddening. “Go on,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy. “Use me. Ride my thigh like the needy little thing I always knew you were.”

“Shut up,” you spat, even as your hips betrayed you, rolling down against the muscle of his leg with pathetic desperation.

He chuckled, dark and hungry. “Shut me up, then. Or are you too busy soaking my pants like some spoiled brat in heat?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moons in his skin. You hated him. You hated how he knew exactly what to say. How your body responded to him like it had never belonged to you in the first place. “I should’ve slit your throat the day I found out what you did,” you hissed, breathless.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You should’ve. But you didn’t. And now look at you.” He leaned in closer, closer to your mouth, his lips almost touching yours. You turned your face at the last second, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw instead. You can’t kiss him right now. You don’t know how you feel about this. And he notices it, that resistance in you. So he rolled his thigh up again, harder this time, making your head tip back against the wall as a ragged moan escaped you. “You're grinding on me like a whore,” he murmured, leaning in close. “But you won't even let me kiss you?” He barked a laugh. “That’s cute.”

One of his hands slid up your back and tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp. “You're so good at pretending you're above this,” he whispered against your cheek. “But I can feel how close you are.”

Your lips parted, a breath catching, but no words came. He pressed his forehead to yours, keeping you pinned, his thigh flexing beneath you in slow, deliberate circles. “You're shaking. You gonna come just from this?” he whispered, tone wicked. “Gonna fall apart without me even needing to touch your pussy properly?”

“Fuck you,” you hissed, even as your fingers clutched his shirt like a lifeline.

“We already are,” he breathed. “You just don’t wanna admit it.” You tried to snarl something back, anything brutal, but all that came out was a broken whimper when he angled his leg just right again and ground you down on it hard. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me to ruin you.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

You hesitated. His grip on your hips tightened, and he dragged you over him again with a force that knocked the breath out of your lungs. “Say it, or I’ll stop.”

You looked at him. At the flushed skin, the blown pupils, the restraint in every muscle of his body barely holding back his own hunger. And something in you snapped. Not from surrender, but from something darker, older. Something forged in every time you’d had to bite your tongue, bury your desire, and walk away from him when all you really wanted was this. The way he looked at you now—wild, worshipful, starved like you were a sin he’d been denied too long—it ignited every sharp, burning edge of you.

You gripped the front of his shirt and yanked him closer, your breath brushing his lips. “You think you’re in control now,” you whispered, voice low and trembling with fury and want. “But you’re not. You never were.”

He grinned, teeth flashing, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Respect, maybe, or awe. “I’ve always been in control,” he murmured, dragging his thigh up again between your legs. “Even when I wasn’t touching you. Especially then.”

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead pressing against his for a beat. Your hips rolled of their own accord, chasing friction like your body had given up waiting for your mind to catch up. He hissed. “Fuck, that’s it. Keep going. Let me see what that perfect little cunt does when you stop pretending you don’t need me.”

His hands moved like instinct, one cupping your jaw, the other sliding down your spine and grabbing your ass as he ground you even harder into his thigh. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned into yours, the sound deep and guttural like he’d been dying for this. “You like that?” he rasped, mouth so close to yours. “Like grinding that soaked little pussy on me while I whisper every filthy thing I’ve ever wanted to do to you?”

You gasped as he rocked you forward again, the pressure brutal, perfect. “I wanna wreck you,” he said, voice like smoke and sin. “Wanna fuck you in every way. Wanna hear you beg for it, cry for it—thank me for it.” Your head tipped back, a raw sound catching in your throat. 

His thigh flexed under you again and your whole body jolted. “You gonna come for me like this?” he asked, hand sliding between you to press against your clit through the soaked fabric. “So desperate you’ll cream on my leg like a needy little slut?” You whimpered, you fought not to, but your hips bucked against his hand. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine. Say it and I’ll make you come right now.”

Your lips hovered near his, breathing him in. His breath ghosted over your mouth, but still—you wouldn’t kiss him. Not yet. That, you’d keep. That was your line. And then you whispered: “…I’m yours.”

He exhaled, like the words physically undid him. “That’s my fucking girl.”

His mouth was everywhere but your lips. He kissed your neck like he wanted to brand you, tongue dragging over your pulse, his teeth grazing that sensitive spot below your ear, making you shudder so hard it nearly hurt. You didn’t mean to move, but your hips ground down on his thigh anyway, desperate for friction, for relief. Yeonjun’s hands locked around your waist dragging you even closer. He rolled his thigh up hard, and you choked on your breath, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s right. Use me,” he whispered, and then, closer to your ear, darker: “But if you think I’m just gonna let you come without claiming every inch of you first, you’re fucking dreaming.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs shaking, brain fogging fast with the pressure building between your thighs. “I can feel it,” he groaned. “You’re right fucking there. Gonna soak my leg like a needy little slut, huh? Can’t even wait for my cock—just wanna make a mess on me.”

“Yeonjun—” you breathed, but you didn’t know what you were begging for.

He bit down gently on the curve of your jaw, just enough to make you whimper, then spoke so close to your ear it sent a bolt of heat down your spine. “You don’t wanna kiss me?” he taunted. “Fine. But you’re gonna come like this—shaking, grinding on me, moaning my name like a fucking bitch.”

You broke. The tension snapped like a rubber band. Your body convulsed, the orgasm tearing through you so hard you nearly sobbed. Your hips jerked once, twice, before collapsing into him, legs weak, chest heaving, mind blank with the force of it. You were screaming his name. And Yeonjun held you through it, strong and steady, one hand firm on your back, the other gently stroking your thigh, lips brushing your ear.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice smug and thick with hunger. “That’s my good fucking girl.”

And still, he didn’t kiss you, not yet. Instead, he held you there for a moment longer, letting your trembling body press against his as your breath came in broken, uneven bursts. One hand stayed planted low on your back, grounding you. The other trailed up slowly, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. “You came so hard, baby. Rubbed your needy little cunt on my thigh like you were made to be ruined by me.”

You twitched at his words, still raw from the high, but your body reacted anyway, too sensitive, too aware. He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes half-lidded, drunk on power and lust. And then he leaned in, his mouth angling toward yours, lips parted, close enough that his breath mingled with yours.

But something snapped. Reality slammed back into you, all at once—your heartbeat still frantic, your skin still hot, your body still aching... and all of it because of him. The person you swore you’d never let close again.

So you shoved him hard. He stumbled back a step, blinking in surprise, before a slow, amused grin curled his lips. “There she is,” he said, breathless, a dark chuckle in his throat. “My little hellcat.”

“Fuck you, Yeonjun,” you spat, fury and embarrassment colliding in your chest.

He tilted his head, eyes flicking to your mouth. “You bit your lip so hard, you’re bleeding.”

You reached up instinctively and sure enough, your fingers came away red. Yeonjun moved fast. Before you could stop him, he was already close again, hands on either side of your face, and he leaned in—not to kiss you, no—but to drag his tongue slowly along your lower lip, tasting the blood like it was something sacred.

You flinched. “Don’t—”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a wild gleam in his own. “Even your blood tastes good,” he murmured. “Bet I could get addicted to you.”

You shoved him again, harder this time, and he let you. “You don’t get to kiss me,” you snapped, breath still unsteady.

His smile was crooked now, smug. “Baby, I already made you come. With your clothes on. Grinding on my fucking thigh like a bitch.”

Your face burned fiercely—flushed with a storm of anger, humiliation, and something darker, more twisted beneath it all. “You’re disgusting,” you spat, jerking your dress down, trying to steady the ragged gasps that threatened to spill from your mouth. “This was a fucking mistake. It should’ve never happened.” You whipped around, ready to escape, to put miles between you and the man who’d just unraveled you without even shedding your clothes. But before you took two steps, his hand slammed down on your wrist. “Don’t,” you warned, voice sharp but shaky, refusing to turn back.

Yeonjun didn’t care. He yanked you back with a brutal ease, pressing you flush against his chest. His body was a furnace behind you, hot, and that unmistakable hardness pressed right where it needed to, digging into you. You froze, breath hitching, every nerve screaming. His fingers spread over your waist, gripping with possessive force, anchoring you.

“You really think this ends here?” he growled, voice thick. “After how soaked your panties got, creaming on my leg like some desperate little slut who can’t get enough?”

A shiver ran down your spine. Your fists curled, but you stayed rooted, helpless to deny the truth in his words. His voice dropped lower. “Run if you want. Go ahead. But I’m the only one who knows how to touch you like this. You are fucking mine, queen.”

Your breath caught, eyes burning with a mix of defiance and desire. Your body betrayed you, frozen against his relentless hold. His chest pressed heavier against your back, his hot breath trailing down your neck like liquid sin. “You’re gonna fucking replay this in your head,” he whispered, cruel and sweet all at once. Then, just like that—he released you.

You didn’t look back. But his voice echoed in your mind as you walked away, the filthy promise dragging after you like a shadow:

“You’ll come back. You always do. And next time? I’m gonna make you scream my name while I ruin you completely.”

You hated him, you did, you hated everything he had done, the lies, the pain, the silence. But you didn’t hate the way his touch made your pulse skip. You didn’t hate the way his voice, low and wrecked, had said: You are fucking mine, queen.

Yeonjun was a mess. A walking, bleeding contradiction. He was dangerous, infuriating even. But you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Because Yeonjun fought so dirty, but he loved so sweet. He talked so pretty, but his heart got teeth. And you’d never, never, never let go.

author’s note: okay confession time: this was my very first time diving into the mafia genre and honestly, i always avoided it because i was scared it would come off too cheesy or overdramatic. but somehow, with these two, everything just clicked. so i ended up really liking how everything aligned in the end because some loves don’t fit into the rules AND THAT being said… if by any chance you’d like to see what happens next, i’m already working on a part 2!! but it will take a while :( if you want to be in the taglist, let me know in the comments! ok byeeeeeee

my masterlist | last fic 🕷️🖤

taglist: @lovesickchoi @biteyoubiteme @heesmiles @xylatox @soobinieswife @deadlykitten404 @fancypeacepersona @zoemeltigloos @choibona14 @iyoonjh @usuallyunlikelyfox @cristy-101 @stormy1408

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures ꒱

[ohlookiehereanotheruser]

Masterlist of Denied Requests 3

Please take a crack at it everyone! Third Wave! More will be added later on!

Mogai

Coinings:

If it hasn't been coined already, can you do a term for an AFAB who identifies as another gender but still 'feels' like an AFAB/female and vice versa for AMABs?

Can you coin a term for one who wishes to be a luna moth?

Could I request charic term/flags for Pizzazz and Jem from the Jem and the Holograms comics? both coined by @/nereidcore ✅

can i please have a lumina ichihoshi-themed xenogender under the hackergender system?

May I request a gender based on a ( lost ) soul, daydreaming about wanting to be an angel ? - Coined by @/i-coin-stuff ✅ -

Editblr

Blinkies/Pixels/Stamps/Widgets:

None Submitted

Userboxes:

‘this user is married to loki laufeyson’ please?

May I get a dark gray and dusty-green userbox that says 'This user is gay for [SPOILERS]'?

Moodboard/Stimboards:

Could you do a Denki Kaminari stimboard?

Could I get a mermaid!Purpled stimboard or moodboard (whichever you want to do/is easier) with themes of family, and just general tropical feel/bright colors?

can I have a Kiibo moodboard inspired by Please Play-Bite?

could we get a moodboard for Rocket Raccoon (Marvel)? possibly with themes of space, family, & also anything to do with Nebula?

Can I get a Fall/Halloween theme stimboard? -

could i request a moodboard for a rinne amagi (enstars) kin who was in a relationship with mayoi ayase? i'd really love it if there were themes of thing like camping but that's not necessary?

can i request a blake (fnfhl) stimboard with glitter stims?

Could you make a moodboard with various Sanrio characters (including chococat)?

Can you do a Tsumugi cybercore moodboard?

Can i get an aggron (pokemon) stimboard?? -

Can I have a Celesgami moodboard themed after the song Dear Ms. Leading by The Dear Hunter?

Could I get a plaguegender stimboard?

May I ask for a Jeff the killer stimboard with red clear slime stims and knives/weapons stims?

may i request a black & white stimboard of Satou Ryusei from Tokyo revengers please ? And if it could include a football (⚽️) related stuff too?

may I have a quoll therian stimboard please? -

Can I request a moodboard for Sapphire from Steven Universe?

fallout stimboard (franchise)?

please could i get a rika orimoto (jjk) slime stimboard?

could you do a stimboard based off of noel gruber from "ride the cyclone" the musical?

could i get a jon sims (the magnus archives) moodboard with imagery of libraries, books, archives, and eyes, with a green color scheme? -

would you be able to do a stimboard for a clownfaced or primrose moth?

May i please request an moodboard for Ash Campbell from Sally face ??

Icon Requests:

Could I get an icon of Gir (dog version not robot) from invader zim on a gay pride flag with a screen mask?

could i request star n heart framed arlecchino reply icons?

lesbian Ara from Signalis icons please?

could you please do shinobu kocho pastel icons?

would xhe who stings be able to ask for some jellyfish themed replycons? -

Hiya, can I request purple icons of Gakupo from Vocaloid?

Could I request icons for Fukase (Vocaloid)? Medieval themed preferably but that's the only thing!

may I request headers and icons of Wally Darling with a summer/lovecore aesthetic? Any color is fine, whatever you think matches the vibe?

I was wondering If I can request some Red Blood Cell (From Cells at Work) icons?

May I ask for clown core DC comics Tim Drake icons? -

Could you please make some Sea Fairy icons of her newest skin Rippling Moon?

Can I request some asexual and aromantic icons of Rem (Death note) not with the flags combined, just two separate?

could you do some white and light pink themed icons for shirokuma from danganronpa?

could you possibly do genderfaun black pearl cookie replycons?

could i get some icons of raphael from teenage mutant ninja turtles 2012?Black and red and/or violent themed if that's fine

Rentry Graphics:

May i please request some Nahida (Genshin Impact) rentry icons?

Can i request a kedamono from popee the performer graphic?

NPTs/SNPTs/Usernames:

Can i ask for some Ace Markey based usernames?

Do you think you could come up with some usernames based off of Carmen San Diego?

Hi, could I request some Neos of Monika from ddlc? (Pronouns only)

Can I get some Airi momoi usernames?

Can I request some Vita (from Honkai Impact 3rd) themed Usernames? -

sua from alien stage id pack?

Dividers/Borders:

May I get a banner based on the ghost song "star of the show", specifically the macne nana clown module featured in its video? (Vocaloid)

Custom NPTs/SNPTs

None Submitted

PNG/Render/Mask Requests:

Can you do a sprite edit of Hajime with his left eye red and shoulder length dark brown hair? (Danganronpa)

can I have a sprite edit of the gen 3 (ruby and Sapphire) Hex Maniac with short orangish red hair and pastel goth fashion style her witch hat and cloak being light pastel purple and her undersuit being light pink. I hope it's not too much?

Layout Requests:

may i request some Twitter layouts for greater lord rukkhadevata/the previous dendro archon of sumeru from genshin impact?

Needy streamer overload blog layout with any theme please?

May i request some Tumblr layouts for eri from my hero academia?

Could I request a light blue furina/focalors layout for tumblr please? No kin/id/me tags please

May i request some Tumblr layouts for griseo from honkai impact? -

May i request some layouts for valvatorez from disgaea 4: a promise unforgotten?

Can you please make a Tumblr layout for griseo from honkai impact?

can I request a yui ohtsuki tumblr layout?

could I request a bitter choco decoration (og not pjsk) layout for tumblr?

uri gokou discord layout please?

can u make obsolete meat layout?

could you do an omori layout (as in the character)?

i'd love to request a layout for diluc (genshin) pleaseee

CAN I REQUEST A ESMERALDA FROM HUNCHBACK OF NOTREDAME TUMBLR LAYOUT PLS?

Package Request:

Cw: dialtown/dsaf, Maybe a matching stabby & shooty icons with layouts?

Would you do valentine/lovecore sweetheart (omori) layouts and maybe reply icons? Possibly with a subtle lesbian flag?

@/hayelowhat - Any sailor related stuff...?

Template Request

None Submitted

This is the third list, at this point, people have submitted asks to us. Thank you for your cooperation with the entitative.