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buckets-and-trees · 2 months ago

Note

There was a tradition at Vikings weddings (or maybe it was for all Nordic medieval) that the bride was given kittens, because they were symbol of goddess Freya. You know where I'm going with this ask, right? 🥺👉👈 Kittens from viking Steve? 🥺🥺🥺

Ceremonial Rituals

Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 6.7k

Content/Warnings: DARK newly established relationship - kidnapped wife; explicit smut: rough sex, unprotected vaginal intercourse, insemination; use of pet name (little wife, little bride)

Notes: Takes place within a week after So Black the Darkness Hums (Come Down from Battle would take place a month or so after this).

Previous Part | Series ↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Six mornings after being ripped from your home, warm water envelops your aching body as unfamiliar hands move across your skin. Two women, their faces stern and focused, scrub at your flesh with soft cloths, working suds of soap over your skin. Their touch is not unkind, but there is no warmth in their eyes when they glance at you—only a wary curiosity.

Five nights passed at sea since you were ripped from your home.

The voyage had been mercifully brief but miserable with your unfamiliarity of the churning sea that had you retching over the side of Steven's longship while he laughed and called you his "delicate flower." The warriors had sung and drank through the journey, celebrating their successful raid while you huddled beneath furs in Steven's private quarters, your body aching from Steven's relentless claiming of your body each night. He'd taken you in every way imaginable, a few times gently, more often rough, always leaving you confused by the pleasure he forced from you despite your circumstances.

You close your eyes against the memories of those nights at sea, the taste of salt on your lips, the rhythm of the waves beneath the ship matching the rhythm of his body against yours. You had learned quickly that resistance only made him rougher, more determined to break you. When you yielded, sometimes his touch would soften, and those moments of gentleness were almost more confusing than the brutality.

Five nights at sea, and then a late arrival after dark the night before. Steven had lifted you onto a horse waiting for him and brought you nearly straight to his bedchambers where he’d fucked you, then allowed you to sleep - a genuine rest without the rocking of a ship. Then just after dawn, he’d ushered you out of bed and into the hands of these two women for bathing.

"Keep still," the younger woman mutters as she works a comb through your tangled hair. Her strong fingers work methodically, untangling knots with practiced efficiency. You hadn’t realized you were fidgeting.

From their actions and a few of their murmured words to each other, you gather they're preparing you for some kind of ceremony. A formal introduction to Steven's people, perhaps.

"Stand," commands the older woman, her silver-streaked hair bound in complicated braids. She helps you from the wooden tub, wrapping you in soft linen that feels like a luxury after days at sea.

The younger woman approaches with an undergarment garment of creamy white, richly embroidered with silver threads along the neckline and sleeves. The fabric is finer than anything you've ever worn, even your wedding dress.

"Arms up," she instructs.

You comply, allowing them to slip the garment over your head. The fabric settles against your skin like water, cool and smooth. They cinch it at your waist with silken ties.

The younger woman leaves the room, saying she’ll be back presently.

The older woman begins working oils into your hair, the scent of lavender and something spicier filling your nostrils. Her fingers move with practiced precision, weaving small braids at your temples before gathering them back. You wonder if this is how Steven's people prepare all their captives, or if you're receiving special treatment as his tribute.

The door creaks open on iron hinges, drawing your attention from your somber thoughts. Two women enter the chamber—one balancing a wooden platter laden with a modest breakfast of bread, cheese, and sliced apples, while the other carefully carries a small woven basket from which tiny mewling sounds emerge.

Your curiosity momentarily overcomes your apprehension. "What is that?" you ask, gesturing toward the basket as the woman sets it near the hearth.

“From the king.” She pulls back the cloth covering, revealing four tiny kittens tumbling over each other—one mostly black, one orange, and one with mottled gray-white-and-tan fur. “As is tradition,” she adds.

Before you can fully process this unexpected gesture, the younger woman who had been helping you bathe returns. Your breath catches as you see the gleaming white fabric draped over her arms. It's unmistakably a wedding gown—more elaborate than the one you wore just days ago, with intricate silver embroidery matching your undergarment, and small blue stones sewn into the bodice that catch the morning light.

"The king requests you wear this," she says, her eyes watching your reaction carefully. "The ceremony begins at midmorning."

Your heart plummets and while there is yet the smallest of swoops in your stomach as understanding crashes over you. The bathing, the oils, the fine undergarment, the ceremonial gift of kittens—all of it suddenly makes terrible sense. Steven doesn't mean to merely present you as his captive or concubine.

He means to marry you. Today. Now.

"No," you whisper, the word escaping before you can stop it.

The older woman's hands pause in your hair, her expression softening for the first time. "It will be easier if you do not fight," she murmurs, so only you can hear. "The king has chosen you. That is... rare."

You swallow hard, fighting back tears. "I was already married. In my village—"

"That marriage no longer exists," the younger woman interrupts firmly. "King Steven has claimed you. What came before means nothing now."

The older woman resumes braiding your hair, her fingers gentle despite her words. "My name is Helga," she offers quietly. "I have served in this household since before Steven was born. The girl is Astrid, my granddaughter."

You meet Helga's eyes in the polished metal mirror before you. There is kindness there, but also resignation. She has seen many things in her years of service, you realize. Perhaps even other women in your position.

"Does he... does he do this often?" you ask, your voice barely audible.

“No, you are the first woman he’s ever brought back.”

Astrid approaches with the gown, her expression neutral. "Arms up again."

You comply mechanically, too numb to resist as the heavy fabric slides over your head. The dress settles around you, surprisingly light despite its elaborate embroidery.

"Eat," Helga says, pushing the platter toward you. "You'll need your strength."

You take a small bite of bread, though the taste of it doesn’t register in your mouth. Your stomach churns with anxiety, but you force yourself to eat, knowing Helga speaks true about needing strength.

One of the kittens, the orange one, tumbles from the basket and pads across the floor to bat at the hem of your new gown. Despite everything, a small smile tugs at your lips as you watch its playful antics.

"They are a traditional gift," Helga explains, noticing your interest. "Of course the king would send kittens for the new queen, to bring fertility and protection to the household as is customary for any new bride."

"Queen?" The word feels foreign on your tongue, impossible.

Astrid nods as she arranges the folds of your gown. "King Steven has no wife. He has had women, yes, but never a queen. You are to be the first."

The implications of Astrid's words leave you reeling. Not just a captive or concubine, but a queen. Steven's queen. The thought is as terrifying as it is bewildering.

"Why me?" you whisper, more to yourself than to the women attending you.

Helga's weathered hands pause in their work, her eyes meeting yours in the metal mirror. "That is for the king to say," she replies carefully. "But I have known him since he was a boy at his mother's breast. I have never seen him look at a woman the way he looked at you last night or this morning."

Your cheeks burn, remembering the intensity in Steven's gaze during your nights together. The mixture of cruelty and desire, possession and something else—something you cannot name.

The orange kitten pounces on your gown's hem again, tiny claws catching in the delicate fabric. You bend to disentangle it, grateful for the momentary distraction. The tiny creature purrs as your fingers brush its soft fur, and for a fleeting second, the simple pleasure of touching something so innocent calms your racing thoughts.

"It is time," Astrid announces, glancing toward the window where sunlight now streams fully through the leaded glass. A distant horn sounds, its deep note reverberating through the stone walls of the chamber.

Helga secures a silver circlet atop your head, nestling it among the intricate braids she's woven. "A queen must look the part," she murmurs, stepping back to assess her work.

Your reflection in the polished metal is that of a stranger—a woman adorned like nobility, her eyes haunted with memories of another life. The white gown, with its silver embroidery and blue stones, transforms you into someone you barely recognize. Is this truly to be your fate? To be queen to the man who destroyed everything you once held dear?

"The orange one seems to have chosen you," Helga observes as the kitten winds between your ankles, purring loudly. "A good omen. The goddess Freya sends her cats to women of strong spirit."

A knock at the door silences further conversation. Astrid opens it to reveal two warriors in gleaming armor, their expressions solemn.

"The king awaits his bride," one announces.

You take a deep breath, straightening your shoulders. Whatever ceremony awaits, whatever life stretches before you as Steven's queen, you will face it with dignity. Not for him, but for yourself. The tiny orange kitten mews plaintively as Helga gently returns it to the basket.

The warriors escort you through stone corridors adorned with tapestries depicting battles and hunts. Servants pause in their work to stare as you pass, their expressions ranging from curiosity to pity.

You are taken to a clearing at the edge of the forest. There are many people assembled, but it’s the natural and wild beauty of the place that steals you breath away. There are wildflowers everywhere, and you can see snow-capped mountains in the distance, so different from the rolling hills of your homeland.

Sunlight filters through the ancient trees that encircle the clearing, dappling the ground with shifting patterns of light and shadow. At its center stands an enormous oak, its massive trunk gnarled with age, branches reaching skyward like outstretched arms. Beneath it waits Steven, transformed from the brutal warrior you've known into something more regal—a king in truth, adorned in finery that complements your own.

His tunic is deep blue, embroidered with silver that catches the light with each breath he takes. A heavy cloak drapes his broad shoulders, and atop his head sits a simple crown of polished silver. His eyes find yours immediately, and the intensity of his gaze pins you in place.

The crowd parts as you approach, their murmurs rising and falling like waves. You recognize the hard, weathered faces of Steven's warriors mingled with—those of villagers, craftspeople, and servants. Some appear curious, others wary, but all watch with rapt attention as you're led toward Steven, wondering about the foreign bride their king has brought home.

A wizened old woman waits beside Steven, her white hair flowing loose over her shoulders, adorned with feathers and bones. Her eyes, milky with cataracts, seem to see through you rather than at you.

Steven extends his hand as you draw near, his expression unreadable. You hesitate, heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. To take his hand is to accept this fate, to acknowledge yourself as his queen. To refuse before his people would surely bring consequences you dare not contemplate.

Your fingers tremble as you place your hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, drawing you closer until you stand beside him beneath the ancient oak. The old woman begins to speak in a language you don't understand, her voice surprisingly strong despite her age. You catch only fragments of meaning—words about bonds, strength, and the joining of two souls.

Steven's eyes never leave your face as the old woman speaks. The intensity of his gaze makes your skin prickle with awareness. For the first time, you notice a different quality in his eyes—not just possession or lust, but something deeper, more complex. But it’s gone in an instant, quickly masked when he realizes you've noticed.

The ceremony continues, the old woman producing a length of intricately woven cord. She binds your hands together—your right to Steven's left—the symbolic joining making your heart race with the finality of it. The cord is soft against your skin, dyed in shades of blue and silver that match your wedding attire.

"This binding joins not just flesh, but fate," the old woman says, switching suddenly to the common tongue. Her accent is thick, but her words are clear enough. "What the gods have brought together, let no mortal tear asunder."

Steven's hand tightens around yours as the old woman produces a small silver knife. She pricks first his finger, then yours, pressing the wounds together so your blood mingles. The sharp sting barely registers through the haze of unreality surrounding you.

"Blood of his blood," the crone intones. "Flesh of his flesh. Two souls bound by the ancient ways."

The crowd murmurs their approval, the sound rising like a wave around you.

"You are mine now," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear. "My queen. My bride.."

Before you can respond, Steven kisses you, a claiming, his kiss thorough, but it’s the dangerous grip of his hands at your waist that has you trembling - something none see, but you feel.

The crowd erupts in cheers and shouts as Steven's lips claim yours, the noise washing over you like a physical force. When he finally releases you, your head spins—from lack of air or the sheer enormity of what has just happened, you cannot tell. The binding cord is ceremoniously unwound from your joined hands, but the symbolism remains, invisible chains now linking you to this man, this conqueror.

"Smile, little bride," Steven murmurs against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "They expect their new queen to look pleased."

You force your lips into what you hope resembles joy, though your heart pounds with a mixture of fear and confusion.

"Come," Steven says, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of command. "My people wish to celebrate their new queen."

He leads you through the throng, his large hand firmly clasping yours. People bow as you pass, some reaching out to touch the hem of your gown for luck. Their faces blur together—a sea of strangers who are now your people.

The festivities are already underway, musicians beginning to play, the people laugh and sing, some raise horns of mead in celebration. A feast has been prepared, you realize, as servants begin bringing forth platters of food to tables set up at the edge of the clearing.

Steven guides you to a table set on a raised platform, ornately carved chairs positioned at its center. The place of honor for the king and his new queen. As he seats you, his hand lingers possessively on the small of your back, a subtle reminder of your position.

"Eat," he commands, gesturing to the array of unfamiliar foods being laid before you. "You'll need your strength for tonight's celebrations."

The implication in his words sends a shiver down your spine. You reach for a piece of bread, if only to have something to do with your trembling hands. The food is rich and abundant – roasted meats, fresh fish, cheeses, fruits, and breads sweeter than any you've tasted before. Despite your churning emotions, your body betrays you with hunger after days of sea sickness and meager rations.

As you eat, Steven leans close, his beard brushing your ear. "My people approve of you," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that only you can hear. "They see your beauty, your strength. You will make a fine queen."

You swallow your bite of bread, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I know nothing of being queen to your people."

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, somehow both predatory and amused. "You will learn. I will teach you our ways, as I've already begun to teach you other things."

Heat rises to your cheeks at his implication, memories of your nights together flashing unbidden through your mind. You look away, focusing instead on the celebration unfolding before you. Warriors drink and boast of their exploits, young women dance to the music of drums and pipes, children dart between the tables, snatching treats when their elders aren't looking.

People approach to offer congratulations and gifts—intricate jewelry, finely woven textiles, weapons of exquisite craftsmanship. You accept each with a gracious smile. It was not they who stole you from your home.

As the celebration wears on, a strange feeling settles over you. These people—Steven's people—treat you with a deference you had not anticipated. Their eyes hold curiosity rather than malice, and some of the women offer shy smiles as they present their gifts. You realize it’s unlikely they know how you came to be here, that their king took you by force from another life.

"You're quiet, little bride," Steven murmurs, his hand coming to rest possessively on your thigh beneath the table. "Are your thoughts still with your village?"

You tense at his touch but force yourself to remain composed before his people. "I'm merely... overwhelmed," you answer truthfully.

Steven studies your face, his blue eyes searching. "You will learn to love it here," he says with no room for argument. "Our lands are rich, our people strong. And you..." his fingers trace a path up your thigh, "...will want for nothing as my queen."

You suppress a shiver at his touch. "And what of my duties as queen?" you ask, hoping to divert his attention from the intimate caress. "What will be expected of me?"

Steven leans back, taking a deep draught from his ornate drinking horn before answering. "You will oversee the household, settle disputes among the women, bear my children." His eyes darken at these last words. "Strong sons to carry my bloodline."

The thought of bearing his children sends a confusing mix of emotions through you – fear, resignation, and something else you dare not name. You take a sip of mead to hide your expression, the sweet liquid warming your throat.

Your eyes fall on a group of children playing near the edge of the clearing. They chase each other, laughing, carefree in a way you can scarcely remember feeling. One small girl with wild blonde hair catches your eye and waves shyly.

"The feast will continue until nightfall," Steven says, following your gaze. "But we need not stay that long."

Your stomach tightens at his implication. Despite all he's already taken from you, despite the nights on his ship, the thought of the wedding night still fills you with a mixture of dread and a burning you do not wish to acknowledge.

"More mead," Steven commands a passing servant, who hurriedly fills each of your cups at the royal table.

As twilight approaches, the celebration grows more boisterous. Warriors compete in feats of strength, their muscles glistening with sweat as they heft logs and stones to impress the crowd. Women dance with increasing abandon, skirts swirling as they weave between fires that now burn bright against the darkening sky.

You've slowly nursed many cups of mead as pressed on you be Steven for hours, the sweet honey wine making your head swim pleasantly, dulling the edges of your fear, but as you’ve dutifully eaten throughout the day and not drunk too swiftly, you feel you still have most of your wits about you. It is something else that truly affects you - Steven’s hand has not left your thigh, occasionally venturing higher in a possessive caress that each time sends unwanted flares of heat through your body.

"It is time," Steven declares suddenly, rising to his feet. The crowd falls silent, all eyes turning toward their king. "My bride and I thank you for your celebration, but now we must consummate our marriage."

A raucous cheer erupts from the gathering. Several warriors pound the tables with their fists. "To the king and his bride!" someone shouts, and the crowd roars even louder.

Your heart hammers in your chest as Steven pulls you to your feet. The crowd's cheering grows louder, more insistent, as he leads you away from the feast. Some of the men call out crude suggestions that make your cheeks burn, while women toss flower petals in your path—a strange juxtaposition of vulgarity and tradition that leaves you dizzy.

"Must you have announced it so boldly?" you whisper, struggling to keep pace with his long strides.

Steven glances down at you, amusement playing across his features. "It is our way. The consummation is an important part of the ceremony."

"We have already..." you begin, then falter, unable to speak the words aloud.

"Yes," he agrees, his voice dropping to a growl that sends shivers down your spine. "But not as husband and wife."

The walk back to the great hall feels both endless and too swift. Steven's hand remains firmly at the small of your back, guiding you through torchlit corridors. Servants bow as you pass, their eyes carefully averted. The sound of celebration fades behind you, replaced by the echo of your footsteps and the thundering of your pulse in your ears.

You recognize the door to Steven's chambers—your chambers now, you suppose. Two guards stand at attention outside, their expressions impassive as they open the heavy oak door. Steven leads you inside, and your breath catches at the transformation of the room. During your brief glimpse this morning, it had been merely a bedchamber—impressive in size and furnishings, but ordinary. Now it glows with dozens of candles, their light dancing across walls hung with tapestries of rich blues and silvers that match your wedding attire. The massive bed has been strewn with fresh furs and linens, and scattered with petals of blue wildflowers. The air is heavy with scents of beeswax, pine, and something sweeter—perhaps meadowsweet or lavender.

The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, and you flinch at the finality of it. You are alone with him now—your captor, your king, your husband.

Steven moves to a table that holds a flagon of wine, fruits, and honey cakes—sustenance for the long night ahead.

His back to you, he speaks, "You performed well today, little bride.”

"Thank you," you murmur, uncertain how else to respond to his strange compliment. Your fingers trace the intricate silver embroidery at your sleeve, needing something to occupy your hands.

Steven pours deep red wine into two goblets, the liquid catching the candlelight like blood. When he turns to face you, his expression has changed—the public face of the king replaced by something more primal, more intimate. More dangerous.

"Come," he says, extending one of the goblets.

You cross the room as slowly as you dare, taking the offered wine. Your fingers brush his, and even that small contact sends a jolt through your body. The wine is rich and heavy on your tongue, warming your throat as you swallow.

"Are you afraid?" Steven asks, watching you over the rim of his goblet.

The question catches you off guard with its directness. "Would it matter if I were?”

Steven's eyes narrow slightly at your question. He sets his goblet down on the table with deliberate care, the soft clink of metal against wood echoing in the quiet room.

"Yes," he says finally, surprising you with his answer. "It would matter."

He steps closer, and you resist the urge to retreat. His hand rises to your face, fingers tracing your cheekbone with unexpected gentleness.

"Fear has its purpose," he continues, his voice low. "It keeps us alive, makes us cautious. But there are different kinds of fear." His thumb brushes across your lower lip. "The fear of a warrior before battle is not the same as the fear of a child in the dark."

You take another sip of wine to steady yourself, to buy time before responding. "And what kind of fear do you think I should have, my king?"

A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. "The kind that quickens your pulse and makes your hands tremble." His hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in the intricate braids Helga had so carefully arranged. "The kind that heightens every sensation, makes every touch more intense."

You swallow hard, acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body, the scent of him—leather and pine and something uniquely male—filling your senses. His proximity affects you in ways you wish it didn't, your traitorous body responding to him despite everything.

His hands move to the silver circlet atop your head, removing it with careful precision. He places it on a nearby table, the metal catching the candlelight with a soft gleam. Your heart pounds as his fingers begin to work through your elaborately braided hair, unraveling Helga's careful work with methodical patience.

"Do you know why I chose you?" Steven asks, his voice a low rumble as he frees the last braid, allowing your hair to fall loose around your shoulders.

You shake your head, not trusting your voice.

"When I saw you in that wedding dress, fleeing through the forest..." His fingers trail down to trace your jawline. "Most women would have hidden, cowered. But you led others to safety. There was fire in your eyes even as my men dragged you before me."

His eyes search yours now, as though seeking that same fire. You stand perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break this strange moment of honesty between you.

"And then," he continues, his voice dropping even lower, "when I took you to my bed that first night, you fought me in ways no one has dared in years. Not with weapons, but with the defiance in your eyes, the tension in your body even as it betrayed you with pleasure."

You look away, shame burning your cheeks at the reminder of how your body had responded to his touch. His fingers grasp your chin firmly, forcing you to meet his gaze once more.

"Look at me when I speak to you," he commands, though his tone lacks the harshness you've come to expect. "A queen must never lower her eyes, not even to her king."

"Is that what you want?" you ask.

His eyes darken as he looks at you. "I want a queen who knows her place."

The gentleness vanishes in an instant. Steven's hand suddenly tightens in your hair, yanking your head back with brutal force. His mouth crashes down on yours, teeth clashing, nothing like the ceremonial kiss shared before his people. This is possession, pure and raw.

"Enough talk," he growls against your lips. "You are my wife now, and I will claim what's mine."

In one swift motion, he tears at the delicate fastenings of your wedding gown, the sound of ripping fabric filling the chamber. The beautiful silver embroidery that had caught the light so elegantly now lies in tatters as he roughly yanks the garment from your body.

"Did you think marriage would soften me?" Steven snarls, shoving you backward toward the bed. "That a ceremony would change what I am?"

Your back hits the furs, and before you can recover, Steven is upon you, his massive frame pinning you down. His mouth crashes against yours in a brutal kiss that has nothing of tenderness in it. His teeth catch your lower lip, the metallic taste of blood blooming on your tongue. You gasp, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, his tongue invading your mouth with the same ruthless determination he'd shown in conquering your village.

"I may have made you my queen," he growls into your mouth, "but never forget who you belong to."

His hands are everywhere, rough and demanding, leaving no part of you untouched. The thin undergarment provides little barrier to his exploration, and soon that too is torn away, leaving you naked beneath him.

"Mine," he snarls against your throat, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. "Say it."

You remain silent, a last, desperate act of defiance. His hand finds your breast, fingers pinching your nipple with painful intensity.

"Say it," he demands again, twisting harder.

"Yours," you gasp, the word torn from your throat.

A triumphant gleam lights his eyes as he releases your nipple, his hand sliding lower across your stomach. "Again," he commands.

"I'm yours," you repeat, the words burning like poison on your tongue. Yet beneath the bitterness lies something else—something you dare not examine too closely.

Steven's eyes flash with satisfaction. "Yes," he growls, "mine to take, mine to pleasure, mine to rule."

His mouth descends to your breast, teeth grazing the sensitive peak before his tongue soothes the sting. Despite your resistance, your body responds to his touch, as it has ever since the first night he claimed you. Your back arches involuntarily into his caress, and he chuckles darkly against your skin, the vibration sending shivers through you.

"Your body knows the truth even when your mind rebels," he murmurs, his breath hot against your dampened skin.

His hands push your thighs apart roughly, settling his weight between them. You can feel him hard against you, still clothed while you lie naked and vulnerable beneath him. The disparity in power is evident, but that’s not why you’re unhappy he’s still clothed - you want to feel his flesh pressed against your flesh.

The realization startles you, this unwanted craving. Your fingers find the fastenings of his tunic and begin to work them open. Steven's eyes widen slightly at your unexpected boldness, then narrow with renewed hunger.

"Eager, little bride?" he taunts, but allows you to continue undressing him. His tunic falls away, revealing the muscled torso you've come to know intimately during your nights at sea. The candlelight plays across his skin, highlighting scars both old and new—a map of battles won and lost.

Your fingers trace one particularly jagged scar that runs from his shoulder across his chest. "How did you get this one?" you ask, surprising yourself with the question.

Steven's hand covers yours, pressing it flat against the raised flesh. "A Saxon blade, three summers ago. I killed the man who gave it to me and six of his companions."

His admission s no surprise, yet still makes your blood chill.

His voice holds no remorse, only pride in his lethal skill. You wonder how many men have fallen to his sword, how many villages like yours have suffered under his raids. Yet here you are, naked beneath him, your body responding to his touch despite everything he's done.

"Does that frighten you?" Steven asks, his eyes studying your reaction. "To know you lie with a killer?"

You meet his gaze steadily. "I've always known what you are."

Something flickers in his eyes—approval, perhaps, at your honesty. His hand leaves yours to continue tracing the path of the scar, fingers trailing down his chest to the waistband of his breeches.

"And what am I?" he challenges, voice dropping to a dangerous purr.

"A warrior," you answer. "A conqueror."

“Your husband,” he says, guiding your hands to the laces of his breeches.

"My husband," you repeat, the word still foreign on your tongue as your fingers work at the laces. The fabric parts beneath your touch, revealing him, hard and ready.

Steven's eyes darken at your words. "Say it again," he commands, his voice rough with desire.

"My king," you repeat, louder this time. Something shifts between you in that moment - not submission exactly, but acknowledgment. This is your reality now, whether you chose it or not.

His hand cups your face, the touch unexpectedly gentle despite the ferocity in his eyes.

"And what does a wife owe her husband?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that resonates through your body.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze. "Her loyalty," you answer carefully. "Her obedience."

"Yes," he agrees, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"And what else?”

"Her body," you whisper, the words sending an unwelcome heat through your veins.

"Good," Steven growls, his approval darkening his eyes further. "And will you give your king what he is owed?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you realize this is no mere question—it's a test. Not of submission, but of understanding. Of acceptance. The wine and mead from the feast swim in your head, but not enough to blur the reality of your situation. This is your life now. This man—conqueror, king, husband—is your future.

"Yes," you answer, the single word sealing your fate more surely than any marriage ceremony.

His eyes flash with triumph, but also something else. He sheds his remaining clothing with efficient movements, then looms over you once more, gloriously naked, his body radiating heat in the candlelit chamber. Your eyes travel the landscape of his form - the broad shoulders, the muscled chest tapering to narrow hips, the powerful thighs. A warrior's body, honed by battle and hardship.

"Look your fill," he murmurs, arrogance coloring his tone. "All this belongs to you now, as you belong to me."

His hand slides up your thigh, fingers tracing patterns on your sensitive skin. Your breath catches as he moves higher, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, you can't help the small sound that escapes your lips.

"So wet for me already," he taunts, his fingers circling your sensitive bud with practiced precision. "Your body betrays your true feelings, little bride."

You turn your face away, eyes squeezing shut against the building pleasure. It's not fair how easily he can manipulate your responses, how thoroughly he knows your body after a handful of nights.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "I told you a queen must never lower her eyes, and certainly not when I have you like this."

Reluctantly, you obey, meeting his intense gaze. His hands slide beneath your thighs, lifting and spreading them wider as he positions himself between your legs. The head of his cock teases your entrance, hot and insistent. Despite everything, your body responds to his touch, growing slick with need.

"Tell me what you want," Steven demands, his voice husky with desire.

The words stick in your throat. To voice your desire feels like the final surrender, an admission you're not sure you're ready to make. Yet your body betrays you, hips shifting restlessly, seeking the friction he denies you.

"Say it," he growls, nipping at your earlobe. "I want to hear you beg for your king's cock."

"Please," you whisper, the word barely audible.

Steven's hand grips your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but firmly enough to demonstrate his power.

"Louder," he commands, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. "I want to hear you, wife."

"Please," you say, your voice stronger now. "I want... I want you inside me."

A slow, predatory smile spreads across Steven's face. "As you wish, my queen."

With one powerful thrust, he buries himself inside you. Your body, already accustomed to him after the nights at sea, accepts him more easily now, though his size still stretches you to your limit. He groans in satisfaction, his hand releasing your throat to brace himself above you.

Steven sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deeper than the last. His hands grip your hips, positioning you perfectly to take all of him. The bed creaks beneath your joined bodies, the sound mingling with your gasps and his grunts of pleasure. You find yourself clinging to his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he drives into you.

"Is this what you wanted, little bride?" he growls against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "To be fucked by your king on your wedding night?"

"Yes," you gasp, the word torn from you by a particularly deep thrust that hits something exquisite inside you. The shame you felt at your responses has begun to fade with each passing night in his possession, replaced by a hunger that frightens you with its intensity.

His rhythm never falters, each powerful thrust driving you closer to the edge. One of his hands slides between your bodies, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. Your back arches at his touch, a cry escaping your lips. Steven's mouth crashes down on yours, swallowing the sound as his fingers work in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me, wife," he commands, his voice strained with his own approaching release. "I will have you shatter around my cock."

The command in his voice triggers something primal within you. Your body obeys before your mind can protest, pleasure crashing through you in waves that leave you gasping and trembling beneath him. Your inner walls clench around him as you peak, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

Steven groans in satisfaction, his pace becoming erratic as your inner walls clench around him. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his release filling you as he groans your name—not "little bride" or "wife," but your actual name, the sound of it on his lips strangely intimate in this moment of abandon.

For several moments, the only sound in the chamber is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the furs, his body slick with sweat against yours. You should feel crushed, should want to push him away, but there's a strange comfort in the solid weight of him—an anchor as your life has been untethered from everything you knew before, in an ocean of unknown future.

Though he's buried to the hilt in you, Steven's hand still clutches your hip in a bruising grip, his breathing ragged against your neck. The candlelight flickers across his sweat-slicked shoulders as he finally stirs, pressing his lips to the tender spot beneath your ear in an unexpectedly gentle gesture.

"Mine," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. The possessive word should anger you, but instead sends an unwelcome shiver down your spine.

He shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a slick sound that makes your cheeks burn. Instead of rolling away, he gathers you against his chest, one muscular arm banded around your waist as if afraid you might flee. His heartbeat thunders against your back, gradually slowing to a steady rhythm.

"Your people seemed pleased with their new queen," Steven says after a long silence, his fingers absently stroking your lower back.

"You did well today," he murmurs, his voice rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. "My people are impressed by their new queen."

You remain silent, unsure how to respond to praise for a role you never sought. Steven draws a finger beneath the line of your jaw, gently forcing your chin to look up at him.

"You will learn to love it here," he says, and though his tone is soft, there's an undercurrent of command. "This is your home now. These are your people."

"And if I don't?" you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

Steven's eyes narrow, his jaw tightening at your question. For a moment, you fear you've pushed too far. Then his expression shifts, something almost like admiration flickering in his gaze.

"Then you will pretend, until the pretense becomes truth," he says simply. "You are no longer a village maiden, but a queen. My queen." His fingers trace idle patterns on your bare shoulder. "And queens must sometimes do what is necessary, regardless of their personal feelings."

You consider his words, the pragmatic truth in them. What choice do you have but to adapt to this new life? Your old one is lost to you forever.

"I'll try," you whisper, the words more honest than you intended. It's not submission exactly, but acknowledgment of your reality. You cannot change what has happened, can only move forward in this strange new life.

Steven's expression softens slightly, his hand moving to cup your cheek. "That is all I ask."

And then he presses your face up to meet his hungry lips, devouring yours again in a kiss.

And when he breaks it for a moment of air, he adds an ominous, "For now," before demanding to drink more from your mouth.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

SEQUEL: Fierce Affirming Sight of Sunlight

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #chris evans characters #steve rogers x you #aspen wrote something #female reader #viking steve #for the king & conqueror #viking au

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ivesambrose · 7 months ago

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Your 2025,

Happy New Year my loves 🤎

Frost & Fortune | 2025 Readings ✨

Services Offered

Client Love

Thank you for the tip 🎀

Picture 1

your central theme for this year deals with self expression, creativity, romance, children or your inner child as well as your health. You'll be refining your daily routine and approach your life with more structure and purpose instead of spontaneously doing what you want. A lot of you may have struggled with creative burn out or procrastination in the previous year but you'll be pushed out of your comfort zone when it comes to that. I see that some of you will sit down with yourself and really ask, "will a much younger and naive and vulnerable version of me truly look up to me or be happy with what I've become and who I am as a person?" In this question you'll find your answers and the changes you need to make. You might be a bit critical of yourself initially but understand that constrictive criticism towards yourself and making and effort afterwards is also a healthy thing to do. Some of you might even turn a turn a possible passion into a part of your daily life this can be getting a job that you're truly happy about it something that lets you fit in what you want to do into your daily routine efficiently. You might face situations that will test your resilience. You'll learn how to not emotionally lash out in situations. Keep your cool and decorum and navigate accordingly. You'll also learn how to pick your battles carefully. relationships will be significant focus. You'll learn who to associate with, who not to, how to show up for yourself and the significant people in your life. How to establish boundaries between you and the ones you consider acquaintances as well. Not everyone is your friend and shouldn't be. Some of you might be interacting with a lot of people possibly for career related purposes. Learn when to unwind, detach and take time solely for yourself. Don't fall into the trap of people pleasing. Certain relationships might be deepening too. Some of you might change homes or completely renovate your existing home. Some of you might be asserting your independence within your family as well. Others of you might be leaving your home/parents home and venturing off by yourselves learning how to navigate the world on your own and finding your voice. Your immediate environment will also play a prominent role in your life this year. Also expect a lot of short trips, learning and networking. Start of year: Focus on grounding yourself and building a solid foundation. It's okay to take things slow you're not running a marathon. Bring your focus on long term plans, establishing security at the same time enjoying life's pleasures.

Middle of year: Refine, work with diligence, keep a tracker or planner/journal, health(mind and body) will be primary focus.

End of year: Step into the spotlight and celebrate your growth. Look back at yourself with pride.

Picture 2

Your most transformative year yet. Central theme of destiny and finding one's soul's purpose. You'll be stepping out of your comfort zone regardless of the type of comfort it brought you and venture out into the unknown. The change will be profound and unlike anything you've experienced but it has been a long time coming. This will transform you into the person you're meant to be. Don't be scared. You have wanted this. Financial matters, inheritances, joint ventures might also play a role in your growth. Intuition will be at an all time high be sure to listen to what your instincts are telling you before being persuaded by the masses. You'll also be making a lot of meaningful connections this year. You'll finally be taking off a mask and freeing yourself from a cage you had put yourself in or felt you were in. You'll be honing your existing skills and learning new ones and will be manifesting opportunities extensively for yourself. All you need is blind faith. You'll be pushed to trust the unseen and the unknown. Put logic aside when it comes to your dreams and goals and other pursuits this year. Things will only make sense by the end of it. You'll be stepping into a more leadership role this year. People will be inspired by your confidence as well as charisma. There may even be a drastic change in your overall appearance or the way you talk and present yourself. Some of you might be moving away states or countries. It will be because it's time for you to pursue your dreams fearlessly. It's not about chasing them anymore, it's about making them a part of your reality so that it becomes normal and not something out of reach. A lot of people will be enamored by you and you might end up becoming their muse. You might also feel deeply connected to your spiritual side as well and have related experiences. Many experiences, places, people and even your dreams will inspire you immensely. Lot of deja vu moments as well. Again, trust in your gut feeling about places and people. You'll feel deeply connected to something this year, it will feel like home somehow or a part of you. This year is about finding the lost pieces of yourself and building cathedrals within your soul. You have immense power. Trust it. Start of year: A focus on building meaningful partnerships. Forging new ones too. (Professional, romantic or personal) Collaborations and commitments as well.

Middle of year: Communication, learning, trips, networking, ideas and recognition. Collecting and making a lot of memories. Lot of mental stimulation.

End of year: Significant development in your professional life, building a legacy, fame, reputation and taking note of your personal achievements.

Picture 3

Your central theme is personal growth through higher learning, expansion of ideas and unconventional approaches to life. This year is big on exploration as well as travel for you. You may have been following the norms or what's expected from you for a long time or because that was the only thing that was available to you so haven't yet gotten the chance to step out of the box but this will be changing now. This year also emphasizes focused determination and victory. All your obstacles will be overcome with sheer discipline. Remember where your awareness and focus goes, energy flows. Things will also gain momentum this year compared to the previous one so don't be surprised if things start coming through all at once after a period of stagnation. This is a good year for your creative pursuits as well as love. If you're a lover girl/lover boy, congratulations! Please romanticize your life even further actually. I feel as though you'll find someone or friends and people who are just as willing to pour into you and give as much as you do. You'll be learning to receive and nurture this year. Some of you might also be going for higher education which in itself is a huge achievement, please be proud of you and your academic achievements. You'll be very proficient in problem solving and finding clarity too. Your head will feel less like an entanglement of sizzling wires. you will be attracting individuals who balance out your energy and propell you forward as well. A lot of exchange of ideas and experiences. You may also want to build a community or become a part of one. A lot of you will be finding new hobbies as well and actually be sticking to them. Deep transformation is also unavoidable. Certain hidden aspects or information might come up but it will bring you more clarity than trauma. You will learn how to make proper financial investments or receive money from unknown or unconventional resources. You'll also feel like a version of you has died and is long gone but a new one blooms and makes sure those around you bloom as well. I feel a lot of you will make sure you turn your life into art/a cinematic experience this year no matter what. Start of year: You'll be cautious and communicative, pursuing knowledge and expanding your network. Let your voice be heard, let your ideas be known. New conversations, contracts, opportunities etc.

Middle of year: Noticeable and visible progress in every area of your life. Enjoy your journey.

End of year: A more balanced and harmonious energy, a focus on relationships as well as making yourself and your surroundings more beautiful.

#free readings #tarot community #divination community #pick a card #pac #pick a picture #pick a pile #2025 #2025 messages #2025 pick a cards #tarot readers #psychic readings #psychic connection #psychic community #psychic medium

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letteremi · 1 month ago

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fic-ception!

pairing: gojo x afab!reader

summary: you love your bf! you just can't blame a girl for indulging in her favourite works. and when he catches you? oops..

cw: 18+ only, nsfw (MDNI!!!), smut, piv sex, anal, fingering, light manhandling, dirty talk and some praise, creampie, aphrodisiac (pollen bb), dubcon, sex toy use, does this count as roleplay idk

Credit goes to @uzmacchiato for the divider!

Normally, Gojo insists on falling asleep together. And together means his lanky limbs wrapped around yours, breaths shared, and heartbeats in sync.

If you got home late — be it work, girls-night-out, or any event that did not involve him — expect Gojo to be waiting, ever so patiently, on your bed. Propped up against the wooden bedframe, a pillow behind him, and a book in hand. When he saw you trudge in, the blanket kicked aside, plushies sent flying, and you, flung onto the springy mattress with one of Gojo’s beefy arms like you weighed nothing.

Tonight was not one of those nights, it seemed.

Your sweet, stubborn, darling of a boyfriend had dozed off. His glasses askew on his face, likely from the way he’d slumped sideways into the pillow. The book had fallen to the floor, his arm still extended towards where it once was.

You want to pinch his cheeks. Squish his face. Is that what they call cuteness aggression?

Waking him wasn’t an option — he barely gets enough rest as is. You slink into the bathroom, the tiles cool underneath your feet. You brush your teeth, one mindless scrub at your gums after the other, before spitting it out and watching it slip down the drain. The rest of your night time routine is completed with the same efficiency.

You have one thought: get to bed.

You flick the lights off, stumble to your side of the bed, and slide into the blankets like you’re some panther.

Your hand is tucked under the coolness of the pillow, while you face the slumbering giant next to you. The moonlight carves delicate shadows onto his face, his wispy eyelashes fluttering every so often. REM sleep? He’s been out of it long before you came home.

And you’re glad, so happy, that he finally went to sleep early. You know how many late nights and early mornings he pulls.

It’s just…you’re ovulating right now. And ugh, this hunk of a man sleeping soundly right beside you is really sending your hormones into overdrive. He just smells so …him. All musk, and warm, and honey. Like comfort and sin, bundled into one big, breathing furnace of temptation.

Heat sparks low in your belly, and you feel a slight dampness in your panties. Fuck.

With a huff, you roll to face the wall, muttering another silent curse at how unfairly good he smells. Maybe in the morning, you’ll get your revenge.

Or maybe….

As if the universe is sending you a sign, your phone lights up from the bedside table.

Maybe…you don’t have to wait.

You reach for the phone. The wallpaper lights up with a photo of Gojo and you, and you quickly swipe away. The phone is cool in your hand as you unlock the screen, and open your favourite smutty fic. The one bookmarked under a very misleading folder name.

What did they say about desperate times?

Your eyes keep flicking back to your periphery, as if feeling guilty about this. But, he’s not awake right now. As if trying to shield the man beside you from what you’re about to read, you pull up the covers a bit more — ducking under the softness.

What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.

Notifs? Silenced. Brightness? All the way down. Pillow strategically between your legs? Check!

“Sir,” you squeak out, “Are you feeling okay?”

The jungle plants press in around you, vibrant foliage and giant, swathing leaves brushing at your knees. Sweat clings to you both like a second skin. Maybe this expedition was a bad idea.

Your commander had jumped at the opportunity — rare plants, exotic compounds, potential drug discoveries.

But now, your usually stoic commander is flushing, covered head to toe in strange powder. The plant had ejected its pollen right into his face when he leaned in close for a sample. His pupils are blown wide, bulge straining against the front of his pants.

You step closer, heartbeat thudding in your ears. He’s panting now,

“Sir, you’re burning up,” you comment, eyebrows furrowing. He flinches from your touch. And he smells….stronger. Musk and something else. Something raw, and feral.

You step back cautiously, your boots crunching softly against damp underbrush.

“y/n,” your commander growls, voice hoarse, “run.”

“Should’ve run when I told you to,” he rasps in your ear, hips rutting against your clothed ass as he pins you to the ground, the dirt and bark scraping at every inch of exposed skin. His weight pins you down, chest to your back, the heat of him searing through your thin clothes.

“Now, you’re gonna stay here and take it.”

And God, you will.

His hands are ruthless. Calloused palms sliding up your sides, fumbling with the buttons of your shirt. In his lust-addled state, the buttons are his worst enemy. And so, he rips the fabric, clawing at the scraps like it offended him. He grips your breasts without hesitation — rough, hungry, thumbs swiping across your nipples as he hisses into your neck.

You keen, throwing your head back in a shameful moan. Your cheeks flush.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” he growls. “My cock buried in you. Bent over a desk. Or like this — like an animal.”

You gasp — not in denial, but in shameful confirmation.

He laughs darkly, the sound vibrating through your spine and sending heat to your core.

“Fucking knew it,” he mutters. “Could smell you. Dripping for me. For this.”

You bury your face into your pillow, letting the phone flop beside you in defeat. Now, you really just wanted to try aphrodisiac chocolate with Satoru. This fic didn’t help matters. Now you’re even hornier than before — the patch in your panties only grew.

“Why’d you stop?”

You freeze.

The phone is still beside your pillow, screen dimmed to black. Your breath catches, and for a full second, you try to convince yourself that you imagined it.

But then you feel it: the brush of fingers at your hip, slow and deliberate.

Gojo’s voice rumbles again, barely above a whisper, right against the shell of your ear.

“C’mon, don’t leave me hanging. We were just getting to the good part.”

You whirl to face him, mortified.

“You were awake?”

He grins at you, sleepy and smug, eyes half-lidded and glinting like he just unwrapped his birthday present. “Not at first,” he hums, “But then someone kept shiftin’ around and breathing weird.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow again. “I hate you.”

“Nah.” He nudges your phone with a knuckle, reviving your fic, and showing exactly where you paused.

“So, did your commander grab your tit like this?” He man-handles you, shoving you against the mattress and propping you up on your hands and knees, kneeling behind you. Gojo grabs your right tit, pinching at the nipple and trailing feather light touches in its wake. “Or, was it like this?” His other hand fondles your neglected boob, using his thumb to ever-so-gently flick your teat until it pebbles, swirling the digit in circular motions.

The difference in his touch has you breathing heavily, shivering under his cool touch. It’s just the right amount of stimulation. God, you needed this. Saliva pools on your tongue, as the heat coils low in your belly.

Gojo’s hand splays itself across the width of your waist, urging you to kneel, face first. When you obey, you’re rewarded with a “Good girl, so obedient f’me, hm?”

Fuck. Your arousal is dripping out of you. Not that you’ll say it. Not that he already knows, he’s already sliding one long finger through your folds experimentally, oohing and aahing at how soaked you are already, humming like he’s won a prize.

You twist your head towards the sound of his voice, scowling at his self-satisfied smirk in your periphery. You glower — he grins. “Uh oh…,” Gojo says, “She’s mad.”

Gojo pulls the finger out. “You got this wet without me?” he pouts. He sounds…jealous? “Am I not good enough for you, baby?”

You’re the reason, idiot. You part your lips, but he doesn’t give you the chance to respond.

A hand slithers to the roots of your hair, fingers clinging to your scalp and shoving you down into the pillows. “Do you want me to be mean,” he husks, “like your precious commander?”

His fingers enter your tiny hole again, groaning as it flutters around his digits. He pumps once, twice, slides them out, just to wipe your slick on your back, painting your skin with arousal. You shudder as the cold air meets your juices, and Gojo laughs, delighted.

A pop! fills the air as he sucks his fingers and pulls them from his lips. “Mmmm.”

You hear the slide of your phone across the sheets. Was he consulting the fanfic? Probably. Wait, no, that means —

Gojo flips your world upright, palms locked on your hips as he pins you back to the mattress without hesitation. His eyes are blown wide, hungry, locking onto yours as he forces your thighs apart, kneeling between them.

One hand grips both of yours above your head, the other traces patterns down the swell of your breasts, to your waist, your inner thigh.

“So, Commander slides his torch up his subordinate’s ass?” Gojo asks, tone conversational, rummaging through your drawers. “Don’t have a torch, sweetheart, hope this’ll, do.”

He slathers the monster dildo with lube, stroking it until it glistens in the low light.

You writhe against his touch, but you’re no match against his rippling muscles. Gojo gets harder at the sight, his cock twitches at your glare. You, his sweet girl, helpless under him, glare and all. He could cum at the sight.

“Satoru, let’s just uhmph — talk!” Your plea dies when he presses his finger to your clit. The sensation has you bucking upwards, but that only makes it worse. (better). He cups your cunt in the palm of one large hand, thumb circling your pulsing bud, the rest of his fingers dipping in and out of your greedy hole like it’s his personal toy.

“You’re going to love this,” he mutters.

Without warning, the dildo presses against your asshole. Cold. Slick. Unforgiving. You gasp, body jolting, but Gojo’s weight keeps you pinned. He shushes you, almost sweetly.

“Shh, babe. This is what your commander did, right?” His voice is all mockery, taunting you.

He pushes the tip past your rim slowly, watching with an obsessive focus as your body stretches around it.

“So fucking tight,” he groans. “Relax, I’ve got you.”

Inch by inch, he feeds it into you. His eyes watch the way you squirm, hesitating when you let out a sound a little too loud, wince a bit too painfully. But each time, you nod, and he continues pushing.

The whimpers spill from your throat. “That’s it. Take it. Take it,” he coos.

When it’s fully seated inside, he lets go — admiring how the ring of muscle twitches. Your hole stuffed full. Your thighs trembling. The flush spreading down your chest.

You’re breathing like you can’t get enough air, the wind rattling through your chest, as you rest your eyes.

You feel stuffed. Overfull. The weight of it pressing into nerves you didn’t know existed. Walls of muscle clench down on it instinctively, the obscene heat pooling between your legs as your cunt clenches around nothing — needy and forgotten,

“Nasty girl,” Gojo rasps, continuing to tease your puffy pearl, “Y’know, sweetheart, checked your cycle today. I know you’re ovulating.”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to —

Thwap!

“ — aagghh,” you cry out, more pleasure than pain. He fills you in one brutal thrust, his cockhead knocking against your cervix like a battering ram. You twitch beneath him, the pressure relentless — too much, too fast. Gojo is pistoning his hips like he can’t get enough.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Gojo growls, hips flush to yours. “This greedy pussy missed me.” He doesn’t wait a second longer, cock dragging out halfway, and then slamming back in. Hard.

Every movement is magnified. The way Gojo rocks into your cunt grinds the toy in your ass, the two rubbing with delicious friction. Forcing our gasps that sound dangerously close to sobs.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, wet and obscene. The bed creaks under the force of Gojo’s thrusts, the bed frame slamming against the wall so hard you’re worried for its structural integrity. Gojo’s eyes latch onto your jiggling tits, before his gaze slides to your fucked-out face.

“Drenched before I even touched you,” he snarls into your ear, voice low and vicious. “Bet you soaked through the sheets reading. Dreaming about someone else shoving his cock in you?”

You whimper, struggling against his grip. You’re caged in.

“My touch-starved girl,” he breathes. “‘m so sorry for neglecting you like this, hm?” He punctuates each word with another thrust — deep, brutal, like he’s trying to fuck the apology into you. His pace is merciless, like he can’t go for more than half a second pressed against your tight walls. Pleasure, hot and white, builds until you’re spasming on his cock, lips parted in a wordless ‘o’.

Thick and heavy, ropes of cum fill you up. You moan at the sensation, whining when Gojo pulls out.

The man in question flops beside you, pulling you close, his bangs slicked onto his forehead.

“Can we do this again? Didn’t even get through all the positions…”

Oh no.

a/n: not proofread, sorry if there are any typos or anything xx exams are over yk what that means 😈

#jjk x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader smut #gojo x you smut #jjk #jjk fic #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #letteremi

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thedensworld · 20 days ago

Text

No Safe Place | C.Hs

Pairing: Hitman Vernon x reader

Genre: Action, Romance, Suggestive (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Preview: He was meant to kill for her, but he didn't expect to fall in love

Amazing gif from @chwedout 🤍🌼🤍🌼

Hansol glanced at the new message notification on his phone—an unknown number. Just two words, "hi". Followed by another, "I need your help."

They weren’t the first. He lost count of how many people had texted, called, or even left anonymous notes with the same desperate plea. Help me.

He wasn't a saint. Far from it. Not really a sinner either—though some might argue otherwise. Honestly, who gets to decide? But one thing was certain: he had helped some people. In his own way.

He grew up in a foster home after his parents died in a car crash when he was six.

It was supposed to be a trip to the beach before starting elementary school. He remembered the smell of sea salt and the soft sound of waves—before everything went black.

Instead of a classroom, he entered a new life in a cramped government house. The foster home wasn’t all bad. He shared it with one other kid, which made things bearable—almost fun sometimes. Minus Mrs. Park, the caretaker. God, she was horrible. He didn’t even want to start unpacking that.

Now, he's a hitman. People pay him to kill. Ironic, right? Some people study ten years behind a desk to keep a heart beating. He was trained to stop it in seconds.

At 12, a man adopted him. Just like that—papers signed, suitcase packed.

Mr. Ki. He never smiled, never yelled. Just barked orders like a military ghost. Hansol never understood why he had to run kilometers every morning, or why his squats and jumping jacks had to be counted out loud. Reflex training. Silence drills. Night vision tests.

Then, one day, Mr. Ki handed him a gun. No words. Just a deer in the woods. His first kill.

Cold eyes. Steady hands.

“You are Vernon now,” the man said.

That was the day Hansol died. And Vernon was born.

Now, he tossed his Nietzsche onto the nightstand and walked toward the computer, phone still in hand. He typed back, "Tell me."

Almost instantly, the reply came. "I'm Jung Y/n. I want you to kill my husband. His name is Lee Seokmin. He works at Shinjeon & Baek Law Group."

He arched a brow. Efficient. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Lee Seokmin.

Dozens of links. Headlines. Smiling photos. Press statements. Typical corporate face. White-collared. Polished. He clicked one photo—Seokmin, arm wrapped around a woman. Her hand rested on his chest. Wedding bands caught the light.

That must be her. Jung Y/n. Out of habit, Vernon clicked her profile next. Her account wasn’t private.

Bio: Kindergarten Teacher. Devoted Wife. Philosophy Lover.

That last part made him pause. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. A woman who quotes Plato but hires a killer in secret?

Interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, still staring at her photo. “Let’s see what kind of truth you believe in, Jung Y/n.”

The café was nearly empty, just the way Hansol preferred it.

Muted jazz played low in the background, blending with the soft clink of porcelain and the occasional murmur of baristas. Rain tapped gently against the windows—persistent, but polite.

He sat in the farthest corner, back to the wall, hood pulled low. His fingers curled loosely around a cup of black coffee—untouched, cooling. He didn’t drink when he worked. And this? This counted as work.

The door creaked open. He looked up.

You stepped in, brushing raindrops from the sleeves of her coat. Hair still damp, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes scanning the room until they landed on him. You looked… ordinary.

Hansol didn’t wave. He didn’t need to.

He just sat there, a shadow in the farthest corner of the quiet café, the scent of dark roast and rain-soaked pavement wrapping around him like smoke.

Then you walked in.

The soft chime of the door followed you, along with the sharp scent of petrichor clinging to your coat. Your eyes scanned the room, then lit up when they landed on him—

A smile bloomed. Warm. Natural. Disarming.

And it took him aback.

Because you were smiling at a man you believed would soon kill your husband.

“Hey, nice to meet you. You must be Vernon.”

You said it with the polished tone of someone used to customer service counters and PTA meetings—cheerful, bright, oddly soothing. The same kind of tone the woman near his apartment used to sell massage chairs every weekend.

“Yes,” he said simply. He took your handshake—cool fingers, light grip, steady. “That would be me. And you’re Jung Y/n?”

You nodded, setting your coat over the chair before sitting across from him. A few rain droplets clung to your hair, glittering like tears under the café lights.

“I was a little nervous before coming, so… I brought you this.”

You pulled out a box and nudged it toward him.

“If you don’t mind.”

Mini donuts.

Neatly arranged. Some glazed, some dusted with sugar, one with pink sprinkles that didn’t quite match the mood.

Hansol blinked at the box.

In ten years of this life, he’d received death notes, bloody wallets, burner phones—never pastries.

He didn’t reach for one. He just stared at them for a second longer than he meant to.

Strawberry sprinkles. Jesus.

He remembered liking them. Once. Long ago. When someone packed him lunch before first grade. Before things turned cold.

His eyes lifted to yours.

And he watched.

Straight-cut hair, still damp. Your features were quiet, balanced, unremarkable—but somehow the softness in your expression caught him off guard.

You smiled like you didn’t know where you were. Like you didn’t care.

“I forgot my umbrella at school,” you said lightly, brushing hair behind your ear. “Sudden rain, of course.”

“How are you, by the way?” you asked next, like you weren’t sitting across from a killer-for-hire.

Your eyes were curious. Not cautious. That, too, surprised him.

Hansol nodded slowly. “Good. Very good. Like every day.”

You mirrored him. Smile intact. “You… you look normal,” you said without hesitation.

That stopped him. Hard.

Normal.

No one had ever called him that. Not in any tone that wasn’t sarcastic or suspicious.

Hansol cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair.

“So,” he said, his voice returning to neutral, “what do you do for a living, Mrs. Jung?”

You waved your hand, almost shy. “Please. Just call me Y/n. Be casual with me.”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher. St. Louisville Kindergarten. Ring a bell?”

He nodded. “Yeah… Heard about it. Kind of far from here, isn’t it?”

“Yes! That’s why I’m drenched.” You glanced down at your clothes—water-darkened at the sleeves, a few strands of wet hair clinging to your cheek. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine,” he said, watching closely. “But are you fine?”

There was a flicker of concern in his voice.

You shook your head quickly. “I’m heading home anyway. I just didn’t want to miss this.”

Hansol nodded. Still quiet. Still measuring.

Then you tilted your head slightly. “So… what about you, Vernon? What do you do?”

He raised his brows, caught off guard. That wasn’t a line people usually crossed with him.

A beat passed.

Then your eyes widened as you groaned under your breath.

“Ah—I’m sorry, I tend to forget things when I’m nervous. That’s… ridiculous.”

Hansol inhaled slowly. He had to bring this back to what mattered. “So, Y/n. Y/n, right?”

You smiled again. “Right.”

“Listen.” His tone lowered, firm now. “I don’t do business without reason. My rules are clear. I kill bad people. That’s it. Sinners only. I don’t touch the innocent.”

His gaze locked onto yours. There was nothing playful left.

“So if you want me to kill your husband…” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice like steel behind velvet.

“You need to tell me. What’s his sin?” Hansol noticed it immediately—the way the color drained from your face the moment he mentioned your husband.

It was subtle. The way your shoulders tensed, your fingers curled slightly in your lap, your eyes losing that soft shine. He’d seen it before. Too many times. That quiet shift before a story that hurts.

You took a deep breath, voice quieter now, careful. “I’ve been married to Lee Seokmin for five years.”

Your thumb brushed the rim of your coffee cup. “He was a good man. Really. Funny, dependable, affectionate when he wanted to be.”

Hansol didn’t blink. He listened.

“But… things changed. Slowly. At first, it was just the way he talked—he got mean when he was angry, started throwing things when we fought. But it escalated. Last year, he started getting physical.”

Hansol’s brows pulled together slightly. “Why?”

That made you pause. You blinked, lips parting.

“I just wanted to have a child,” you said, almost like a confession. “That’s all I asked. A baby. A family. But he was… afraid. Said I was trying to trap him. Said he wasn’t ready.”

You looked away, jaw tightening.

“The more I brought it up, the more he pulled away. And then one night…”

Your voice trembled slightly as you reached into your coat pocket and pulled something out—a small mirror. You angled it under your chin and slowly lifted your scarf.

Hansol’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in.

There it was. A healing cut, faint but unmistakable, just under the curve of your jaw.

A blade. Close. Intentional.

“He threatened to kill me,” you said softly. “That night, I knew it wasn’t just words anymore.”

Hansol sat back. A deep silence stretched between you.

You stared at your hands. “I just wanted a happy family. That’s it. A house with a kid, maybe two. Someone to come home to. Laugh at stupid movies with. Fight about groceries and then make up the next day. I didn’t ask for too much, did I?”

Happy family.

The words echoed.

Hansol looked down briefly, his fingers tapping against the table, almost like they remembered something his mind didn’t want to.

Then he looked back up. “Have you ever considered divorcing him?”

You let out a breath that sounded too close to a laugh.

“I did. Twice. But every time I packed my things, he’d cry. Apologize. He’d tell me he’d change, say he’d go to therapy. He even bought baby clothes once. Told me we could try.”

Hansol tilted his head, unreadable.

“And did he?”

Your silence was answer enough.

“No,” you whispered. “He just got better at hiding the threats. At gaslighting me. At making me question my own memories. And I… I got tired.”

Your voice cracked then. Just slightly. Just enough to make Hansol lean back, look at you differently.

He’d seen people cry before. Seen them beg, scream, curse. But this— This quiet surrender in your voice. This was different.

And for the first time, Hansol took a sip of his coffee.

The amber glow of the bedside lamp stretched over the pages of the book resting in Hansol’s hand, it cracked open to a passage he’d read too many times to count. His eyes moved slowly over the line, Schopenhauer’s quote lingering at the edge of his mind:

“A man can do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills.”

He paused. The sentence seemed to hum beneath his skin, more familiar than he wanted to admit. He leaned back against the headboard, the leather spine creasing beneath his thumb, and let the words take him somewhere else.

A week ago.

A rainy afternoon.

And you.

His memory slipped easily into that quiet café, where the sound of soft jazz tangled with the patter of rain against the window. You had sat across from him, your damp sleeves clinging to your arms, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea. The donuts sat untouched between you, half-glazed offerings between strangers.

Your voice had trembled only slightly when you told him about your husband. Married for five years. A good man, once. Then cruel in slow, almost invisible degrees. Throwing things. Silence as punishment. One night, the blade. The thin scar you showed him was still pink beneath your neck.

And Hansol had said, his voice quiet but unyielding,

“You should punish him, not kill him.”

You had looked up, startled. Your eyes widened—not with fear, but disbelief. Hope, maybe, or the lack of it.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “Men can’t run from who they are,” he said. “They’ll never change.”

His fingers tapped once against the rim of his cup. “Killing him won’t give you anything. Not peace. Not justice. Not freedom. And it won’t give his family anything either—just another grave they’ll never understand.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You simply blinked slowly, and your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but didn’t trust the words to come out right.

Back in the present, Hansol closed the book gently and placed it on his nightstand. The silence in the room felt heavier now, like the echo of a decision that hadn’t yet been made. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced at his phone, the screen still dark. No new messages. No name at the top of the list.

Only yours—still saved as Jung Y/n.

Hansol remembered how the conversation ended that day—unexpectedly gentle for a man like him.

You sat with your fingers tangled together in your lap, eyes fixed on the corner of the table like the grain of the wood might reveal a hidden answer. The scar you’d shown him still hovered in his memory like a question mark. But it wasn’t the wound that haunted him—it was the way your voice trembled after. Not with rage. Not with vengeance. With fear. With exhaustion.

You were scared.

And Hansol, for once, didn’t feel like a weapon. He felt like a man sitting across from someone trying not to drown.

“Think about it,” he’d said after a pause, sliding the untouched box of donuts toward you. “You don’t want to do this. Not really.”

You looked up at him, surprised, as if his words cracked through some wall you hadn’t realized you’d built.

“I don’t usually offer that,” Hansol added, leaning back into his chair. “Options. Most people come to me with answers, not fear.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to argue—he could see it in your eyes. But instead, you nodded. Slow. Grateful. A little broken.

He let you go. Told you to take your time. Think it through.

That had never happened before. He never gave people time. They either meant it, or they didn’t.

But something about you made him certain—you didn’t. You weren’t a killer. You were just cornered, and no one had ever handed you a way out that didn’t end in blood.

Back in his apartment now, Hansol stared at the ceiling, the quiet pressing down like a weight. He rolled onto his side, phone still silent, screen dim.

He should’ve heard something by now. A text. A thank-you. Even a final word, saying you’d changed your mind. Maybe you’d filed for divorce. Maybe you were healing.

He almost smiled.

For once, he hoped he’d done something good.

He hoped, in this twisted life of contracts and kill orders, he’d managed to give someone a different ending.

And for the first time in a long time, Hansol told himself he should try to believe in that.

He shut his eyes, and let that quiet hope keep him warm. A frustration sighed out, he started to think he'll make a good therapist

Hansol didn’t believe in coincidences. But when he reached for a jar of jelly—blueberry, the good one—only for his hand to brush against someone else’s, he paused.

And blinked.

You.

You, with your hair tied up messily and a basket half full with tofu, milk, and instant coffee. You, wearing a soft blue sweater and looking at him with the same wide-eyed surprise he must’ve mirrored.

“��You shop here too?” you asked, sounding more breathless than the question warranted.

Hansol glanced at his own basket—just two items. Packed kimchi and jelly. It almost felt embarrassing. “Only for essentials,” he replied, raising a brow. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same,” you smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I just moved in with my sister. She lives a block away.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You moved?”

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight to one foot. “I filed for divorce this morning.”

That made him straighten a little. “You did?”

You nodded, and for the first time, he saw something new on your face—relief. Not full, not yet. But it was a start.

“I needed to. I mean… you were right.” Your voice softened as you looked down at the neatly stacked rows of jelly. “Killing him wouldn’t have made me feel safe. It would’ve made me something I’m not.”

Hansol exhaled slowly through his nose. The faintest curve touched his lips. “I see…” He placed the jelly in his basket and leaned a little closer. “Is that a sign I’ll be seeing you a lot around this area?”

You looked up, surprised again—he kept catching you like that.

“Depends,” you said slowly, teasingly. “If you keep your grocery list this short, maybe not.”

Hansol smirked. “Then I guess I’ll start cooking.”

You laughed, and the sound lingered, unexpected and warm among the quiet fluorescent aisles. It felt strange. Natural. Dangerous, even. But Hansol didn’t walk away. For once, he didn’t want to.

Again… Hansol never believed the world was small. He believed it was deliberate. The way things happened. The way people crossed paths. Like how he saw you again—twice that same week.

Once, in a quiet bakery when he was grabbing his usual black coffee and you were hunched over a cinnamon bun with whipped cream. You waved when you saw him and offered a bite without hesitation.

Then again, outside the pharmacy. You were picking up vitamins, hair still damp from a shower, bundled in a hoodie and slippers like the world was your living room. You smiled, and that smile sat in his mind for the rest of the day.

The next night, he texted you.

[Unknown Number]

“Don’t tell me you’re going to show up at my gym next.”

You replied ten minutes later:

[Y/n]

“Do you go to the one with the green sign near the station?”

“Asking for a friend. Who likes jelly and kimchi.”

Hansol stared at his screen longer than he meant to, lips twitching into something dangerously close to amusement.

[Vernon]

“If I say yes, you’ll show up on purpose.”

[Y/n]

“No comment.”

It wasn’t normal for him—this kind of banter. But nothing about you was. You weren’t like the people he dealt with. You didn’t walk in with envelopes or plans. You walked in with donuts. With a storm in your past and a laugh that somehow cut through his quiet.

He started texting more after that. Little things.

“Saw this and thought of you.” —attached was a photo of a small bookstore display featuring Nietzsche.

“Is the school near the coffee place?”

“Don’t forget your umbrella this time.”

You answered. Every time. And slowly, it stopped being surprising that you were in his day. It started feeling… expected. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. Maybe it was. But then again, so was he.

Hansol had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just some rice and grilled mackerel from a nameless place down the street—when he stepped into the alley behind the building to cut across toward the main road. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rain and old grease.

Then—

An arm coiled tight around his neck.

His reflexes kicked in. No time to think.

He dropped his weight low, elbow driving backward into the assailant’s ribs. A grunt. Another twist, and he slammed the stranger against the wall. The man fought hard, fists flying, but Hansol moved faster. A punch to the jaw, then a brutal knee to the gut. The man collapsed in a heap, unconscious before his body fully hit the ground.

Hansol didn’t wait.

He darted through the alley, turning corners, hand sliding into the pocket of his coat where his gun rested.

Every sound was a threat. Every shadow, a question. Someone wanted him dead. That much, he knew.

Then—

Movement.

A flash of white fabric. Soft footsteps. Running. He raised his weapon.

But then your voice cracked through the air.

“Vernon!”

You came into view like a ghost out of a nightmare—wearing what looked like a nightgown, breath coming in short, fast puffs. And in your hand—

A gun.

He blinked. “What the hell—?”

You looked just as shocked to see him. “Why are you here like this? What happened? What is this?” his eyes dropped to the weapon in your hand, then to your clothes—ripped slightly, stained from the scuffle.

You followed his gaze and swallowed. “Someone broke into my place. I—I knocked him out and took his gun.”

His jaw tightened. “You should’ve called the police.”

“I was too scared,” you said, voice breaking. Your fingers gripped his jacket like it was the only solid thing left. “I couldn’t think straight.”

He understood that. Who could think clearly when death brushed your skin?

With a sigh, Hansol pulled off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, steadying your hands. “Stay with me.”

He gripped your wrist, careful but firm, and led you toward another alleyway—a shortcut to his apartment. His mind raced, calculating. Someone was targeting both of you. This wasn’t a coincidence.

Then he saw it. A flicker of movement near the stone gate at the far end. A silhouette.

Gun raised.

In one motion, Hansol spun, pulling you flush to his chest, shielding you. His arm extended, finger on the trigger—

Bang.

The shot rang out clean. The figure crumpled, weapon falling from their grasp with a metallic thud.

Silence. Then just your breathing, heavy and uneven against his collarbone.

Hansol slammed the apartment door shut and double-locked it. The air inside was warm, lived-in. Sparse lighting and the faint smell of black coffee clung to the corners. He didn’t speak as he dropped his coat, yanked open a drawer beneath the shoe rack, and tossed you one of his black jacket.

“Here. Wear this, you’re shivering.”

You caught it silently, hands still trembling from the alley encounter.

Hansol was already moving—opening cabinets, drawers, retrieving a duffel bag from under the couch. He threw in a handful of ammunition, a switchblade, burner phones, an old passport. The shift in his demeanor was swift—methodical, practiced. This wasn’t the first time he had to move quickly.

“You’re not safe anymore,” he muttered as he knelt beside a safe hidden in the floorboards. He clicked it open and pulled out two more handguns. “Keep these. One in your bag, one on you. Safety’s on. Don’t take it off unless you’re aiming to kill.”

He placed one gun in your palm, firm and cold.

But you didn’t grip it.

Not yet.

Hansol turned his back to you, kneeling again to tie up the duffel’s zipper.

And that’s when he felt it—

A sharp, chilling pressure at the back of his neck. Metal. He froze. His eyes shifted to the window’s reflection in front of him—and there you were.

Gun in hand. Arm steady. Finger near the trigger.

His breath caught.

“Shit.”

Hansol’s fingers were still wrapped loosely around the gun when you reached into your night gown pocket and pulled out something small—flat, encased in leather. You flipped it open.

The badge caught the dim apartment light, flashing gold and stark against the dark—

NIS. National Intelligence Service.

His jaw locked.

You looked up at him, expression unreadable now. Everything—your trembling hands, the nervous smiles, the soft-spoken fear—fell off you like a mask. Your voice, when you spoke again, was steady. Crisp. Cold.

“Let’s go down,” you said. “People are waiting outside.”

The shift hit Hansol in the gut like a steel punch. Your tone—professional, sharp, devoid of warmth—wasn’t the woman who brought him donuts, or the one who clung to his jacket in the alley, whispering that she was scared.

You were someone else. Someone trained.

Hansol didn't move right away. He let out a bitter chuckle, short and humorless. “So that’s what this was.”

They’d been waiting for this. For him. For a while. And the worst part? He hadn’t seen it coming. Not once. He, the one who could smell death in a three-mile radius, had been outplayed. Cornered. By you.

The agents closed in. And all Hansol could do was walk. Then he noticed it—no one had their weapons trained on him. Every barrel, every laser dot, every cold, quiet threat… was aimed at you.

His steps faltered.

Eyes narrowing, he turned just enough to catch your profile. Your jaw was clenched, unreadable. But your grip on his wrist trembled—only for a second—before locking firm again. It was a slip, but it told him everything.

“They’re not here for me,” Hansol muttered, voice low and certain. “They’re here for you.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Your breath hitched. The silence screamed louder than any denial.

Hansol scanned the crowd again, his eyes landing on the man nearest—a clean-cut figure with sharp posture and a standard-issue Glock. The man didn't even spare Hansol a glance as he barked the order.

“Agent Jung. Step away from the target.”

Hansol froze.

Agent Jung.

So even your name… had been real.

The gun you still held to his neck hadn’t wavered, but he could feel it now—your arms weren’t braced in duty anymore. They were trembling beneath the weight of something heavier. Regret.

“Y/n,” the man said again, harsher this time. “You know the protocol. You’ve compromised the mission. Step away—now.”

Hansol turned slowly, deliberately. Your eyes met his. Not the eyes of a stranger, not the eyes of a spy—but of someone who had cooked with him, shared stolen laughter in the quiet aisles of a grocery store, who had once clutched his jacket in fear and now held a gun to his neck with shaking hands.

You blinked. And something broke.

The muzzle dropped an inch. Then another.

Hansol didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t want to rush you. This wasn’t about the agents or the mission anymore. This was about whatever war was being waged inside you.

Then, slowly, you reached into your coat pocket and pressed something cold and familiar into his hand.

One of his guns. The one he’d given you.

Your fingers curled over his. You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear, and whispered, “In three.”

Hansol’s mouth twitched. Damn.

He didn’t know what twisted part of him found this thrilling—but it was there. He could feel it rising like heat under his skin. A hell of a night was about to begin, and his heart wasn’t afraid.

It was alive.

He counted in silence.

“One…”

Your eyes flicked sideways. Your stance shifted.

“Two…”

The man in front of you stepped forward, aiming. “Agent Jung, do not engage—”

“Three.”

In a single motion, Hansol twisted left, catching your wrist to pivot you behind him as he fired up, shattering the overhead lights. The alley plunged into chaos—glass rained, red beams danced across the walls like wild eyes.

You dropped low, scooping a weapon from a fallen agent and rolled behind a car.

Hansol was already moving—swift, calculated, every movement a blur.

Two agents dropped before they could find cover. Another shouted, trying to call for backup, before a clean shot from you silenced him.

“Parking lot,” you said between breaths. “East exit’s clear.”

Hansol reached for your hand. “Then what are we waiting for?”

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers met his, tighter than ever. No orders now. No protocol. No lies. Just two fugitives, running headfirst into the dark.

And Hansol—grinning, blood thrumming—knew one thing for sure.

This was far from over.

The road stretched endlessly in front of them, headlights carving through the darkness like a scalpel. Hansol gripped the steering wheel in silence, the hum of the engine the only thing filling the air between you. You sat rigidly in the passenger seat, tapping furiously on your phone, switching between encrypted channels, hoping for a response.

Nothing.

No confirmation. No debrief. No explanation.

Just silence… and that one chilling command you’d caught before the line went dead.

"Terminate if compromised."

Your pulse roared in your ears. The phone shook in your hands. With a breath that barely stayed in your lungs, you shut it off and—without a second thought—hurled it out of the window. The sharp crack of glass on asphalt echoed like a closing door.

Hansol didn’t say anything at first. But you caught the smirk twitching on his lips through the faint dashboard light. Of course he noticed.

“What?” you snapped, your voice rougher than intended.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road. “Nothing.”

You turned fully toward him, eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

Hansol let out a breath that was nearly a laugh, but there was a thread of disbelief in it. “No. I’m trying to wrap my head around it.”

“Wrap your head around what?” you asked, biting back the storm in your chest.

He glanced at you, just briefly. “I mean, first off—you’re not a wife with a violent husband. You’re NIS.”

You said nothing.

“Second, you tried to arrest me. After I saved you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And third—plot twist of the year—they weren’t even coming for me.” He turned to you with a smirk. “You really buried the lead there.”

“You’re such an ass,” you muttered under your breath. Your fists clenched in your lap.

“And what?” Hansol continued, quieter now. “You were going to let them take me? Tie up a loose end?”

You looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No,” you snapped. “It’s not.”

His silence returned, but it wasn’t comfortable—it was sharp. Heavy. He shifted in his seat, his hands tightening on the wheel. The smirk was gone.

“Figures,” he muttered.

You exhaled through your nose, shoulders tense. “Don’t pretend you’re some innocent bystander. The agency had every reason to keep eyes on you.”

“Yeah?” he bit back, calm tone fraying. “Then why are those same eyes on you now?”

That stopped you.

He chuckled, low and cold. “Exactly.”

The tension in the car was thick enough to strangle. The betrayal ran both ways, and neither of you were pretending otherwise now. You stared ahead at the road, your pulse drumming against your ribs.

“I don’t know what they’re hiding,” you said finally, voice brittle. “But they weren’t just watching you. They used me to get close.”

Hansol scoffed under his breath, but didn’t interrupt.

“And now they’re trying to erase it. Erase me.”

A long pause.

The night stretched on, the highway empty except for their car cutting through it like a blade.

Hansol’s knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, but his tone stayed even when he spoke again. “Then… is Lee Seokmin real?”

You nodded slowly, still staring out into the dark. “An old friend. Got him a lot of cash for the role. We're going to his safe house.”

The car’s engine cut off with a low rumble, and the world fell into silence again. A worn cabin stood before you—quiet, nondescript, half-buried by trees and dusk. No lights, no sign of life. But you knew better.

You moved first, brushing past Hansol as you stepped toward the entrance with practiced caution. He followed, eyes sharp, tense fingers near the hem of his jacket—close enough to draw if anything went wrong.

The front door creaked open under your hand. No alarm. No traps. Just the smell of dust and old wood.

As you stepped inside, Hansol scanned the place in quick, calculated sweeps. A map folded on the table. A lantern, a half-empty mug, sealed ammunition cases. The kind of house built for vanishing.

You dropped your bag to the floor, exhaled slowly.

"Seokmin was an agent as well," you said, breaking the silence as you pulled off your jacket. “He ran a month ago. Burned all his ties. Don’t know the reason… just vanished mid-mission.”

You ran your fingers along the edge of the desk, as if grounding yourself with something familiar. “He left me this. Said if anything ever felt off at HQ, come here and don’t look back.”

Hansol raised a brow. “So he knew something.”

You nodded. “He always knew things before anyone else. It’s why they hated him.”

There was a pause.

Then Hansol asked, voice low and unreadable, “Was he… close to you?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just met his eyes.

“We trusted each other,” you said finally. “More than most.”

Hansol didn’t push. He turned instead, eyes flicking toward the window, body never fully relaxed.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Safe enough to breathe. Not enough to sleep.”

He smirked, just barely. “Good. I wasn’t planning to sleep anyway.”

You scanned the safe house—barebones, dim, but stocked. Your hands moved quickly, gathering weapons, spare mags, folding maps. One bag, efficient. No room for mistakes.

“We drive to Busan before sunrise,” you said, checking a pistol’s slide before slipping it into the side pouch. “Lay low for a day or two. I have a contact who can forge IDs. After that, we head to China by boat.”

Behind you, Hansol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed casually. “I’m coming with you?”

You paused mid-movement. Turned slightly. “What?”

“One bag. Two sets of plans,” he said, one brow raised in mock surprise. “I assumed I was invited.”

You scoffed, flustered. “You’re not. I mean—I didn’t think you would even want to. I figured you'd have your own escape planned or… I don’t know. Whatever. I don’t have to explain this.”

Hansol’s lips curled into a smirk. He pushed off the doorframe, walking toward you. “Relax,” he said softly. “I’ll come with you.”

He reached out, gently taking the bag from your hands, setting it aside without looking.

His fingers brushed against a loose strand of your hair, tucking it carefully behind your ear. Then, they lingered—just for a second too long—against your cheek.

“The fact that I don’t feel betrayed by you,” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly honest, “is dangerous.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you didn’t stop him, either.

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. Your breath hitched.

He tilted his head slightly. “At least now, I don’t need to feel bad about liking you.”

Your eyes flicked up to his just as he leaned in—deliberate, slow, with the kind of tension that made the air feel sharp. His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, and then—

He kissed you.

There was nothing rushed about it. No fury, no heat of survival. Just something solid, something dangerously steady in a world that had just fallen apart.

When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his. You could feel the weight of his breath, feel your pulse pounding through your ribs like it wanted to say something your mouth couldn’t.

“You sure about this?” you whispered.

Hansol gave a soft, short laugh. “No. But I’m sure about you.”

Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, time warped—flickering between everything you were running from and the person standing in front of you.

Hansol’s hands didn’t leave you. They rested at your waist, grounding you. But the silence between you cracked like a match striking dry wood.

You should’ve stepped away. You didn’t.

Instead, your fingers reached for him—curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. You didn’t need to say anything. He was already moving with you, pressing you back until your spine met the wall of the safe house.

The kiss deepened, no longer careful.

It was urgent now—desperate, laced with the kind of heat only shared between people who had seen death knock and chose to cling to something alive instead.

His jacket dropped first, then yours. Hands fumbled against belts and holsters, mouths parting only to breathe hard, uneven. There was no room for caution—only want, and the tremble of adrenaline refusing to fade.

“You should hate me,” you whispered against his skin.

Hansol’s mouth grazed your neck, voice low and ragged. “I should. I don’t.”

The bag of weapons lay forgotten on the floor. The outside world—the betrayal, the chase, the agency you once trusted—felt miles away.

Morning slammed into you like a slap to the face—uninvited, merciless, and too bright for a pair of fugitives with no time left to lose.

You woke to the weight of a warm palm brushing your cheek. The low hum of a car engine idled outside the cabin’s thin windowpane, muffled by cheap curtains and the restless hush of wind through pine branches.

“Hey.” Hansol’s voice cut through the fuzziness in your head, a soft rasp close to your ear—gentle, but edged with urgency. “Y/n. Up. Now.”

Your eyes cracked open. For a fleeting moment you didn’t know where you were. Then the night came back in pieces: the safe house. The loaded bag on the floor. The stolen heat of his mouth on yours. The truth sitting between you like a live grenade, its pin half-pulled.

You shoved yourself upright, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “What time is it?”

Hansol shot a glance at the crooked wall clock above the door. “Eight. We should’ve been gone an hour ago.”

You groaned, pressing your palms to your face, trying to squeeze out the ache behind your eyes. “God—did we really—”

His low chuckle cut you off. Rough, amused, and infuriatingly unbothered. “We really did. Also… you snore, by the way.”

Your head snapped up, a weak glare in place of a retort. “Shut up,” you muttered, already fumbling for your jacket and shoving your half-loaded pistol deep into the bag beside the spare clips. He caught your wrist just as you brushed past him—strong fingers wrapping around the pulse point, halting you like it was nothing.

Hansol leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your lips. Forehead pressed lightly to yours, grounding you in the middle of this storm.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice steady as an oath. “You’ll be safe with me. I promise. Even if the whole damn country wants us dead.”

You stared at him—really stared—and for one quiet heartbeat, all the running, the betrayals, the blood that wouldn’t wash off yet… none of it mattered more than this.

You nodded, the word stuck in your throat but clear in your eyes.

“Okay.”

The car rumbled down the highway an hour later, tires humming against cracked asphalt, a battered duffel bag tossed in the back seat next to leftover ammo boxes and half-spilled maps.

You pulled into a quiet rest stop near the coast—last chance for a hot drink and anything vaguely pretending to be breakfast before Busan swallowed you both whole.

Hansol returned from the convenience store, dropped a packaged sandwich and a steaming coffee in front of you where you sat on a cracked picnic bench beneath a lonesome pine. Salt air drifted in from somewhere past the highway, a briny promise of freedom you weren’t sure you’d ever touch.

You ate in silence for a while, trucks and early commuters groaning by in the distance. Your body was wound tight, yet beside him, your heart felt oddly, stubbornly steady—like he was an anchor in the storm you’d unleashed together.

But the quiet didn’t last.

“Why did you become a hitman?” you asked suddenly, your voice rough from sleep.

Hansol didn’t answer right away. He turned the coffee cup in his hands, thumb pressing down on the cheap plastic lid, releasing and pressing again—like he needed something to hold him here.

When he finally looked at you, there was no mask left. Just Hansol—raw, unguarded, heartbreakingly young beneath the man you’d come to trust with your life.

“I didn’t choose it,” he said simply. His voice was so calm it almost hurt. “I was trained for it before I even knew what the word meant.”

Your half-eaten sandwich sagged in your lap, forgotten.

Hansol gave a small, bitter laugh that didn’t touch his eyes. “The first time, I thought maybe… if I took out people who deserved it, it would mean something. That it would balance out whatever was broken inside me.”

He looked past you then, eyes lost to a road only he could see. “I kept telling myself that lie. That I was doing good work. That ending bad people made up for how I started. And it gave me… a life. Purpose.”

His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you knew too well.

His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you recognized too well.

He drew in a slow breath, then murmured almost to himself, “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”

Your eyes snapped to his, the quote sparking recognition deep in your chest. “Nietzsche.”

A small smile ghosted across Hansol’s lips, tired but real. “Yeah. Funny thing to live by for a hitman, huh?”

You huffed a laugh, more air than sound. “I remember that line.”

Hansol cocked his head, studying you like he was reading a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “Did you ever actually read philosophy, Y/n?”

You dropped your gaze, nudging the sandwich aside, suddenly fascinated by the cracks in the old picnic table. “No. Tried. But it just… messes with my head.”

Hansol barked a short laugh, not mocking but almost relieved. He reached out, nudging your knee with his own under the table, his hand still wrapped around his coffee cup like it was armor.

“It does,” he agreed quietly. “Breaks it open, then leaves you to pick up the pieces.”

You looked up at him then, the salt wind tugging at your hair, the taste of half-meant promises between you. For a breath, neither of you were fugitives. Just two people stranded in the same question: Who am I now?

A truck engine rumbled to life behind you, snapping the moment. You stood, offered him a hand.

“Come on, philosopher. Busan’s not gonna wait for us.”

Busan swallowed you whole in the haze of late afternoon—salt air heavy with brine, fish stalls, and the sharp cries of gulls circling overhead like they could smell secrets slipping through the alleys.

Hansol wedged the borrowed car into a narrow spot behind Jagalchi Market, where rows of battered scooters leaned against graffiti-tagged walls. You tugged your cap lower over your brow as the sea breeze tugged loose strands of hair across your mouth.

“First things first,” you said, scrolling through your phone for the address burned into your memory. “We need clothes. Food for the ferry ride. And then—my contact.”

Hansol cocked an eyebrow as he fell into step beside you, weaving through the crush of fishmongers and tourists trailing plastic bags dripping with saltwater.

“Contact,” he repeated, voice edged with a lazy mockery that didn’t fool you for a second. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you hate pretty faces and suspiciously efficient paperwork.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter, but you didn’t miss how his eyes flicked sideways at you, narrowing just enough to betray the flicker of possessiveness he probably thought he hid well.

“Oh, I hate both,” he said dryly. “Definitely hate both.”

You bumped his shoulder as you pushed through a cluster of chattering students in matching uniforms. “Relax, Vernon. He’s harmless.”

Hansol clicked his tongue, but you could feel the tension rolling off him—like a blade pressed flat against your spine, warm and unspoken.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

You led Hansol through a maze of back alleys behind the market, ducking under hanging laundry and sidestepping crates of flopping fish that stank of yesterday’s tide. Finally, you stopped at a battered metal door tucked between a noodle shop and a storage shed. You didn’t bother to knock—just rapped twice and shoved it open.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and cheap cologne. Files and fake passports littered a metal desk, an old radio murmured some upbeat pop song in the background. And there he was—Kim Mingyu.

Tall, tanned, muscle packed tight into a plain white shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His grin was wide and careless, boyish dimples carved deep into his cheeks—a dangerous combination with those quick, clever eyes that flicked straight past Hansol and pinned you like a butterfly.

“Well, well, well…” Mingyu drawled, arms already open as he crossed the room in three easy strides. “If it isn’t my favorite headache come crawling back.”

Before you could stop him, he caught your shoulders and planted a kiss on one cheek—then the other, lingering just enough to feel his smirk against your skin.

“Mingyu—” you warned, shoving him back a step with a palm to his chest.

He laughed, ignoring the shove entirely, then flicked a teasing glance over your shoulder at Hansol. “Relax, man, I’m just saying hello. She’s the one who taught me how to greet French diplomats—very convincingly, might I add.”

Hansol didn’t say a word, but you felt his presence shift closer behind you—a quiet threat wrapped in casual silence.

Mingyu winked at you and released your shoulders, only to cup your face lightly and squint at you like he was looking for cracks. “Here’s my favorite person—finally got your pretty ass here in one piece. So tell me, boss… what happened? You look like you crawled through a bar fight and made out with a hurricane.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking his hands away. “We made it out of Seoul—barely. Turns out the Agency didn’t want me alive long enough to file paperwork.”

Mingyu’s grin faded a fraction. He dropped his hand, gaze flicking to Hansol, then back to you. “No surprises there. Seokmin was here an hour ago getting the same escape kit you’re about to beg off me.”

Your pulse jumped. “Seokmin was here?”

“Yup.” Mingyu tapped a stack of IDs on the desk, then leaned a hip against it, folding those annoyingly perfect arms. “Asked for a new identity and ferry papers to Shanghai.”

Hansol shifted beside you, voice quiet but edged in iron. “Where is he now?”

Mingyu’s smile returned—wolfish now, eyes flicking between you both like he was watching his favorite drama in real time. “That, jealous friend, depends. How nicely are you gonna ask?”

Before Hansol could open his mouth—and before Mingyu could smirk his way into getting punched—you stepped in, palm pressed lightly to Hansol’s chest to hold him back.

“Mingyu, behave,” you warned, voice low but firm.

Mingyu’s grin only widened, eyes dancing. “Behave? When did you ever like me behaving?” He flicked his chin toward Hansol, who stood a step too close behind you, bristling like a guard dog. “So… who’s Mr. Sunshine here? Bodyguard? Stalker?”

You shot him a look. “He’s… a friend.”

Mingyu clutched at his chest dramatically. “Friend? More than me?”

You almost rolled your eyes out of your skull, but then you felt Hansol’s stare burn into the side of your face—sharp, questioning.

You ignored it, turning back to Mingyu. “He makes sure I’m safe. That’s all you need to know.”

Mingyu cooed like you’d just handed him the gossip of the year. He leaned in, stage-whisper conspiratorial. “Mmm. Lover? You always did have a thing for the tragic types.”

You pushed at his shoulder—hard enough to shove him back a step. “Shut up. Just give me what I asked for.”

But behind you, Hansol’s voice rumbled soft and dangerously amused, low enough for only you to hear.

“Lover, huh?”

You felt your ears heat immediately, but refused to turn around. “Don’t start.”

Mingyu just laughed—loud and delighted—as he bent over the battered desk, rifling through stacks of fresh IDs. “God, I missed this. Okay, Romeo and Juliet. Let’s get you two ghosts out of my city before you ruin my clean record.”

The dusty back office rattled with the hum of an ancient fan while you and Hansol lingered by the grimy window, the staff cursing under his breath as he double-checked exit stamps and ferry tickets.

Hansol leaned one shoulder to the wall, eyes drifting lazily over the port beyond the glass—where fishing boats and rusty cargo skiffs rocked gently on choppy water. Then something snagged his gaze. A shape too familiar to dismiss.

“Y/n.” His voice cut through the staff's muttering. “Look.”

You turned just in time to see a tall figure slip through a gap between two crates stacked high with fishing nets—black leather jacket, faded cap pulled low.

Seokmin.

For a split second, your breath caught in your throat—then your body moved before your mind caught up. You shoved past him, crashing through the door into the bright slap of salt air.

“Seokmin!” you shouted, but he didn’t turn. He broke into a sprint instead—boot soles slamming the wet dock boards.

“Shit—Hansol, come on!”

Hansol was already at your side, boots pounding in rhythm with yours, the two of you tearing past startled fishermen hauling ropes and crates of wriggling octopus.

Seokmin darted left, vaulted a rusted railing, and landed hard on the deck of a battered trawler bobbing against its moorings. He scrambled for the cockpit, fumbling with the ignition as the old diesel engine coughed awake.

You hit the deck a heartbeat later, Hansol right behind you, gun drawn but lowered—eyes locked on the man who, for years, had been your friend, your cover, your silent co-conspirator.

“Seokmin—don’t!” you yelled, hands spread, voice raw from wind and betrayal.

But Seokmin barely glanced over his shoulder, one boot kicking at the gear lever, desperate to launch the boat out of the harbor before you could close the distance.

Hansol’s hand shot out, grabbing your elbow just as you lunged for Seokmin’s jacket. Together, you slammed him back against the rusty cabin door, the engine roaring beneath your feet.

Cornered. Caught. Nowhere to run but open water—and not fast enough.

Breathless, you locked eyes with him.

His chest heaved, eyes darting between you and the silent threat that was Hansol at your shoulder.

“You're here…” Seokmin rasped, voice cracking with something deeper than fear—guilt, maybe, or something darker. “…they're coming for us. There's no safe space.”

“Seokmin—” you stepped forward, trying to steady him by his shoulders. “Who? Who’s coming? Who sold us out?”

But Seokmin just laughed—high, splintered, wrong. His knees buckled before you could catch him properly. Hansol stepped in, grabbing under his arm to keep him from cracking his skull on the deck.

Too late. His head lolled forward, eyes rolling white for an instant before flickering shut.

You and Hansol were left half crouched on the swaying boat deck, your fingers fisted tight in Seokmin’s jacket, the sound of the harbor all around you—seagulls crying, waves slapping hulls, engines growling as if mocking you with the normalcy of the day.

“What the hell—” you gasped, heart pounding so hard you thought you’d pass out too.

Hansol looked from Seokmin’s unconscious face to you, mouth twisting into something between a snarl and a grim laugh.

“Fantastic,” he bit out. “Just fantastic. Now what, Agent Jung?”

Your mind spun—Seokmin’s words echoing like a gunshot in a tunnel: No safe space.

The salty wind lashed strands of your hair across your mouth as you crouched on the old trawler’s weather-beaten deck, knees tucked up, braced against the gentle heave of waves beneath you. Seokmin lay sprawled on his back beside you, jacket half unzipped, face pale under the slap of late afternoon sun.

Hansol stood a few feet away, half-shadowed by the rusty cabin wall—legs braced wide, one hand resting casually on the grip of his holstered gun, the other shielding his eyes as he swept a glare across the endless sprawl of water. He looked carved from stone: all hard lines and coiled patience, like he’d been born with the ocean wind snarling through his hair.

Seokmin’s eyelids twitched once, twice—then fluttered open to the white glare of the sky. His brow crumpled in confusion at the sight of gulls swooping lazy arcs overhead, their cries shrill and mocking. He sucked in a thin breath, licked cracked lips, and turned his head just enough to catch a shadow looming over him.

Hansol stared down at him like a cat sizing up an injured mouse. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.” His tone was so dry it could’ve sanded rust off the deck.

Seokmin’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, the shape of your name forming on a hoarse exhale. He dragged his gaze sideways until it landed on you—your face half hidden by wind-tangled hair, eyes sharp as broken glass but weirdly soft around the edges when they landed on him.

“Y/n…? What—where—what the hell—”

You didn’t bother with sympathy. You thunked a plastic water bottle against his chest so hard he wheezed. “Drink. And breathe, genius. Or pass out again, I don’t care.”

Hansol’s chuckle rumbled under the whine of the old engine. He shifted his weight, boots scuffing the deck. “We’re on our way to Shanghai, by the way. Mingyu said that’s where you were headed—so… surprise. Road trip, but wetter.”

Seokmin choked on the first mouthful of water, hacking like an old man as a splatter hit his chin. He pointed an accusing finger at Hansol, hand shaking so badly he nearly smacked himself in the nose.

“Shanghai?! Who are you?! Why is he—what is this—”

Hansol shrugged, unbothered, mouth curling into a shark’s grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bodyguard. Lover. Emotional support hitman. Depends who you ask.”

You shot him a death glare but didn’t dignify it with a comeback. Instead, you jabbed a finger at Seokmin’s forehead, ignoring how he flinched. “We didn’t have options, Seokmin. Either I drag your sorry ass with me or they’d find your corpse floating back to Seoul in a week.”

Seokmin’s wide eyes ping-ponged between you and Hansol—then to the rolling gray water stretching forever in every direction. He sagged back down with a dramatic groan, using the bottle now like an ice pack pressed to his temple.

“Perfect. I faint for five minutes and wake up in the middle of the sea. God, I hate my life!”

Hansol crouched down just close enough to cast Seokmin’s face in shadow, voice dropping to a low, pleasant threat that made even your skin crawl in a good way.

“Behave, buddy.”

Seokmin squeaked something that sounded like a prayer to every sea god he could remember. You laughed—sharp and sudden, the sound ripping through the salt and the fear like sunlight splitting storm clouds.

Hansol flicked you a glance, half-smirk playing on his lips despite the tension pulling his shoulders taut. And just for a fleeting second, the ocean didn’t feel so vast.

Your laugh hadn’t even finished echoing across the choppy water when you turned back to Seokmin—knees digging into the rough deck, eyes narrowing as the weight of everything you still didn’t know came crashing back in.

“Alright, Seokmin—enough stand-up comedy,” you said, voice low and sharp. “Tell us. All of it. Why did you run? What the hell is really happening to us?”

Seokmin rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth, still pale and clammy, breath misting the air between you. For a moment he just stared at you—like he was cataloging whether you could handle it. Then he huffed out a bitter laugh so soft it almost didn’t survive the wind.

“This wasn’t supposed to get this messed up,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges. He wiped a tear that wasn’t really a tear, just the ocean salt stinging his eyes. “God, we were kids… Should’ve known better.”

Hansol shifted behind you—close enough that you could feel the tight coil of muscle and mistrust vibrating off him. He didn’t say a word, but you knew he was listening to every syllable.

Seokmin lifted his eyes to yours, dark and raw. Older.

“Remember what we talked about… about the foster home?” he rasped. “How we were all placed there, how they called it a ‘haven for war orphans’? We knew It wasn’t. It was a breeding ground.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “I remember. But we knew that. We knew we were trained—conditioned.”

Seokmin swallowed hard, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I got orders months ago. Quiet ones. My assignment was to start eliminating everyone from that program—everyone. Us. The old handlers... You.”

The words punched the air right out of your lungs. “Why? Why now?”

Seokmin barked a humorless laugh. “They’re phasing us out, Y/n. Cleaning up the old experiment. Making room for a new one. A better one. Perfect little soldiers—no flaws, no memories, no stupid feelings that make us hesitate to pull the trigger on each other.”

He dropped his gaze to the deck, shoulders curling in on themselves. “I tried to dig deeper. To see who’s funding it. How far it goes. It’s worse than we thought. They’ve got a whole batch of kids—trained harder, broken younger. They don’t want anyone left to question it. So they started tying up loose ends. Us.”

The gentle slap of waves against the hull filled the silence that followed—too gentle, too normal for the earthquake cracking through your bones.

“How many more of us are alive?”

Seokmin met your eyes. Defeated. Hollow. “I don’t know. Not many. And we’re next if we stop moving.”

The harbor at Shanghai cracked open before dawn—fog clinging to rusted cranes and the scent of diesel heavy enough to choke on. You’d barely spoken since you left the South Korean coast behind.

Hansol had watched you the whole way—how your shoulders stayed stiff even when you pretended to sleep, how your fingers ghosted over the old scar on your neck you’d lied about once upon a time.

When the boat bumped against the dock, he pressed a cheap chocolate bar into your hand. The wrapper crinkled, loud in the hush before morning chaos.

“You’ll be fine,” Hansol murmured, low enough that only you caught it. His eyes held yours steady, unwavering even as the deck crew shouted around you. “Worst case, I teach you how to kill. Properly this time.”

It was stupid. It was wrong. But the corner of your mouth twitched—just for a breath—and the flicker of it was enough to make his own chest ease for the first time in hours.

Seokmin jumped down from the railing beside you, rubbing at his sore shoulder from where Hansol had kindly yanked him out of that fishing net he’d almost fallen into earlier. He jerked a thumb your way, grinning at Hansol like they weren’t all fugitives now.

“What are you babysitting her for, Vernon? She’s the biggest badass out of the three of us— she dragged my corpse out of Seoul. I say let her handle you instead.”

Hansol shot him a dry look, then turned to you—taking in the smudge of fatigue under your eyes, the chocolate still unopened in your palm.

“She is,” he agreed simply. No teasing this time, no heat. Just the truth—sharp and steady as a blade.

The drive out of the harbor city was long and winding—through roads that spat them out at nameless villages, rice paddies blurring in the rearview until even memories of Seoul felt like a half-forgotten nightmare.

Thanks to you and Seokmin—both fluent enough to barter for a dusty secondhand van and a moldy apartment above a closed-down bakery—Hansol didn’t have to do much but watch, silent and absorbing, while the two of you did the talking.

The first month was awkward. Hansol hovered at the edges of local diners while you negotiated extra bowls of rice or free pickles from soft-hearted aunties who liked your accent. He ate in silence, listening to you and Seokmin argue over soy sauce ratios like a pair of squabbling siblings—each word foreign yet comforting in how it filled the spaces his old life had left hollow.

By the second month, the routine softened. Hansol found the abandoned town library a mile from your shared apartment—its books dusty, its shelves crooked, its windows permanently clouded by sea mist. He asked the local council for permission to “watch over it” for free, and they agreed with a shrug—no one visited anyway.

Most days, the door creaked open once or twice at most: a child looking for picture books, a bored housewife browsing old romance novels. Between those fleeting interruptions, Hansol read. Philosophy—whole shelves of it, Chinese and Western alike. He liked the quiet arguments on paper better than any order barked through a phone back when killing people was his job description.

Sometimes you would come by after your morning shift at the Chinese restaurant two blocks away—your apron still dusted with flour, your fingers warm from the wok. You’d press your nose to his cheek, ignoring the stale scent of old paper and coffee in favor of the steady comfort he’d grown into.

By the third month, it all felt real enough that the old ghosts only murmured now and then.

Nights were his favorite. The library keys heavy in his pocket, the hush of closing time settling like a promise. And you—tucked into his side on the thrifted couch in the corner of the tiny living room you both called home.

Hansol didn’t expect this. Happiness, he realized, wasn’t the roaring thing people described. It was quieter: your laughter bubbling from the kitchen, Seokmin’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards upstairs, your weight soft against him as he traced the lines of your collarbone while a half-read Nietzsche balanced on the armrest.

He’d forgotten how to be gentle—until you gave him the perfect excuse to remember every day.

Even paying rent was bearable, with Seokmin grumbling about leaks and sharing the bills without complaint.

An ex-hitman. A runaway agent. A traitor turned tenant upstairs.

And you—at the heart of it all.

Hansol closed his book one slow night and pressed a kiss to your hair, the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs:

If this is freedom, I’ll guard it better than any job I ever did.

It was the crack of gunfire that tore the hush of your little safe life apart—one sharp echo that rattled the thin windows and the fragile peace you’d built in three stolen months.

You jerked awake, pulse stuttering as you instinctively reached for the warmth beside you—Hansol, already half up on one elbow, eyes wide and sharp in the dark.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—just stared at each other in the faint spill of streetlight sneaking through the curtain. It was a look that spoke in the language you’d both learned the hard way: Are you okay? Stay with me.

Then came the heavy thud of feet on the hallway stairs—boots or shoes, too many to count, muffled orders barked in a dialect that even your sleepy brain recognized as local police slang.

Hansol slipped from the bed, a predator’s grace in every careful step. He tugged on sweatpants, grabbed the pistol he still kept tucked in a false book spine near the dresser—old habits die slow deaths—and turned to you with a rough whisper.

“It’s okay. Stay behind me, yeah?” His palm pressed briefly to your cheek—warm reassurance against the cold coil tightening in your belly.

Out in the dim hallway, Seokmin was already cracking open the door to the stairwell, his hair sticking up wildly, only half awake but eyes snapping clear the moment he caught Hansol’s low question:

“You heard it too?”

Seokmin just nodded, jaw tight. You stepped close behind Hansol, fingers brushing the bare skin of his back—anchoring yourself as much as him.

“What was that?” you murmured, voice raspy with sleep and dread.

Seokmin glanced back at you both, then stepped outside barefoot, the boards creaking under his weight. He disappeared down the landing while you and Hansol waited, every second stretching thin and tight as piano wire.

Hansol wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you against his chest. You felt the steady hammer of his heart, the calm strength in the way he kissed the top of your head despite the tension rolling off him in waves.

“It’s nothing, okay? Just some idiot with bad timing.” His whisper ghosted against your temple—equal parts comfort and promise.

The door swung open again. Seokmin came back in, hair ruffled from the wind, an exasperated scoff riding his breath.

“Local cops. They’re hauling in one of the dragsters from the pier. Guy tried to bolt through the alley—gun went off, but he’s in cuffs now. Just dumb luck they passed our floor.”

Hansol let out a quiet huff—half laugh, half leftover adrenaline—and pressed another kiss to your hair.

“See?” he murmured. “Wrong place, wrong time. We’re fine.”

Seokmin rolled his eyes, already trudging back upstairs to his bed. “Next time, lock the damn window. I need my sleep.”

Hansol just chuckled under his breath, his arm never leaving your shoulders as he guided you back inside—past the ghosts that still sometimes rattled your door, but couldn’t touch the sanctuary you’d both built from scratch.

The library was a tomb at midday—dust motes drifting through shafts of sunlight, the faint hum of an old fan the only thing keeping the heat from swallowing the narrow aisles whole. Hansol sat alone at the back desk, sleeves pushed to his elbows, ink smudged on the side of his palm from labeling the new arrivals.

Half of him was content, oddly at peace in this quiet sanctuary of forgotten books and old stories. The other half—it never slept, not really. It flickered awake the moment he tugged open the last battered cardboard box and found, nestled beneath romance paperbacks and old newspapers, a thin manila file marked in Korean:

GwFH-02 PROJECT

Hansol stared at it for a long moment. He knew better than to touch ghosts. But some things called you whether you wanted them or not.

His chair creaked as he sat down at the back table, the file spread open before him. Faint pencil notations, official stamps, the yellowed edges of old secrets. His eyes caught on a seal—simple, sharp, unmistakable.

A logo he hadn’t seen—except once, half-hidden at the bottom of your old badge, the one you’d tucked away beneath the bed back in Busan.

His heart thudded.

He turned the pages with care, his pulse a slow hammer in his ears. A list of names lined the next page, each neat row ending in a brutal red line through the middle—strikeouts like silent executions. His eyes tracked them one by one, jaw tightening, until the list stopped—two names untouched by red ink:

정Y/N — Jung Y/n

이석민 — Lee Seokmin

And there, typed beneath in faded letters: Raised in Gwangju Foster Home.

Hansol’s fingers trembled as he flipped to the last page—a photograph. Black-and-white, edges curled with time.

A group of children in mismatched clothes stood in front of a squat old building with a crooked sign: Gwangju Foster House.

Faces blurred by age—except for the ones circled in red pen.

He found you immediately. A girl, maybe nine, hair pinned back, standing shoulder to shoulder with a boy who was unmistakably Seokmin—round-cheeked but with the same sharp glint in his eyes even then.

And to the far left, nearly cut out by the edge of the photo, half-hidden by an older boy’s shoulder—was him.

Hansol.

Staring at the camera with a blank face.

He hadn’t remembered this place. Not until now.

A distant, sick hum filled his ears—like the sea roaring in a seashell pressed too hard against his head.

He snapped the file shut, breath caught somewhere in his ribs.

You, Seokmin, him. Not a coincidence. Never had been.

Dinner was quiet that night. Too quiet.

The old kitchen table creaked under the weight of three mismatched plates—steamed dumplings, stir-fried greens, and leftover rice warmed a second time because none of you had really remembered to cook.

Seokmin ate like nothing was wrong—shoulders hunched, sleeves rolled up, cracking dumb jokes about the neighbor’s runaway dog. You smiled politely, chiming in when you had to. But Hansol barely tasted the food.

His chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth more than once, the clatter of the neighborhood muffled under the roar inside his head: Your name circled in red. Seokmin’s too. And his own face—hidden in plain sight.

He heard your voice only faintly through the noise.

“Baby?”

You said it again, softer this time, a gentle nudge at the edge of his wandering mind.

“Vernon.”

His eyes snapped to you—startled, caught like a man dragged back from somewhere deep underwater.

You tilted your head, a faint wrinkle between your brows. “Where did you go just now?”

Seokmin let out a small scoff, jabbing another dumpling onto his plate. “He’s been weird since he got home. What did you read this time, professor? Another dead philosopher?”

Hansol ignored him. His eyes were only on you.

“Tell me about it,” he said suddenly, voice so low it almost didn’t sound like him.

You blinked. “About what?”

“The foster home. How they trained you. You and Seokmin.”

The room stiffened at once. Seokmin froze mid-bite. You set your chopsticks down too carefully, a small, deliberate click against the chipped ceramic.

“Baby—” you began, your tone suddenly fragile and tired all at once.

But he pressed on, needing it like a splinter needed pulling. “Tell me. I just… I need to hear it from you.”

You looked at him then—really looked. Not with fear. Not with the fragile softness he’d grown used to waking beside. But with a quiet, raw disappointment that cut deeper than any bullet ever could.

“You promised,” you whispered, voice barely above the hiss of the old kettle on the counter. “You promised me, Vernon. No past. No ghosts. That was the deal.”

Hansol swallowed. But the truth burned his throat too bitter to swallow down now.

“But I deserve to know!”

Seokmin pushed back from the table, hands raised, voice trembling. “Hey—hey—can we not do this now—”

But neither of you heard him.

You glared at Hansol, fighting to keep your voice steady while your chest wanted to break open. “If you open that door, Vernon… if you drag that hell back into our life—then you kill this. Us.”

Hansol’s lips parted—like he might say I’m sorry. Like he might lie and promise to stop digging. But the truth was right there in his eyes: he couldn’t.

Sleep never came easy for Hansol these days.

That night, after the argument you hadn’t really finished, he lay awake far too long—listening to your breathing, to Seokmin’s restless shuffles upstairs, to the faint hum of night insects outside the cracked window.

And when he finally drifted under, the dark did not cradle him gently.

A hallway. Dimly lit. The creak of old floorboards under his tiny feet. Seven years old, maybe eight. Too small to understand what real cruelty tasted like—but old enough to hear it.

A scream, raw and jagged, echoing from somewhere past the sleeping quarters. Not the first one—never the first.

He remembered whispering to the boy next to him, “Did you hear that?”

He remembered the boy rolling over, blank eyes, saying “Sleep, Hansol. It’s nothing.”

It was never nothing.

Tiny Hansol had pressed his ear to the splintered door, trembling, heart a rabbit in a snare.

Then courage—foolish, childish courage—pushed him to slip into the hallway. Bare feet on cold wood. The scream again. Then a groan, low and choked, like someone drowning in their own throat.

He found the room. Half-open door. A girl—in his age—pinned to a cot by rough straps, tears streaking her dirty face. A man leaned over her, syringes lined up on a metal tray. Her eyes found him through the gap—pleading, delirious.

“Help— please—”

Little Hansol backed away. The man turned. A cold look, then a smile, teeth too white. “Back to bed, It’s just a test. You dream too much.”

He ran.

Hansol sat bolt upright, breath ragged, the ghost of a scream ringing in his skull long after the room had gone silent again.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a trembling hand. Next to him, your arm lay draped loosely across his stomach, your breathing slow and steady—utterly untouched by the storm still raging behind his eyes.

A month. Maybe more. This same memory, rising from the grave he’d buried it in the moment he left that damned foster home for good. He’d told himself it was a trick of childhood fear — a boy’s overactive mind before he was rescued by Mr. Ki and forged into the thing people later called Vernon.

Except tonight, in the hush between sleep and waking, it hadn’t felt childish at all. It felt like a warning.

Hansol slid out from under your touch, careful not to rouse you. He crossed the creaking floor and pushed open the window, gulping down the wet night air like a drowning man.

Behind him, you stirred. A sleepy mumble.

“...Vernon?”

He shut the window, cutting off the sticky air, and turned.

You were sitting up now, hair a soft mess around your face, your eyes searching his in the half-dark. “Bad dream again?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

Hansol let out a short laugh—rough, humorless. “You could say that.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding him to the now. To you. Not the hallway. Not the screams.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, concern deepening the line between your brows.

He covered your hand with his own, rough palm swallowing yours completely. “Go back to sleep, love. It’s nothing.”

You frowned, but before you could press, he bent down, kissed your forehead, and let the old name slip away into the dark.

Hansol’s hands stilled over the spine of a returned book—some local student’s half-torn poetry collection—when he spotted it:

A plain envelope, cream-colored, sitting dead-center on his desk like it had grown there overnight. No postage. No fingerprints. Just his real name printed in neat, slanted ink:

Offer for Mr. Choi Hansol.

His breath caught behind his ribs. He looked around, too sharply. The library was its usual graveyard at this hour—two old women gossiping by the history shelf, a single high school boy nodding off over a math workbook. No CCTV. No staff besides him.

Careful not to crumple it, Hansol picked up the envelope and turned it over twice. Nothing else—no seal, no logo. Just him, staring at the truth of his name like a bullet meant only for his skull.

He sank into his creaky chair behind the low desk, the old wood groaning under his weight and his pulse hammering so loud he almost expected the dozing kid to hear it.

With stiff fingers, he broke the flap and slid out a single piece of thin paper.

Only a few words, typed.

Wanna know more about your parents? Do me a favor.

That was it. No signature. No instructions. Just a hook baited perfectly for a man who’d spent thirty years burying questions he’d never dared say out loud.

Hansol’s eyes flicked over the shelves—dusty stacks, uneven rows, the quiet hum of a ceiling fan. He forced himself to breathe, folding the letter once, twice, and tucking it inside the battered leather notebook where he hid receipts for overdue fees and grocery lists.

For a moment, he let his fingers rest on the cover. Choi Hansol. Not Vernon. Not the hitman. Not the runaway boy.

Just him. And somewhere out there, someone knew exactly which ghosts would break him open again.

He stood abruptly, startling the napping kid. “We’re closing in fifteen,” he called, voice steady, though inside him something old and half-dead had begun to claw its way back toward the light.

A few days passed. He tried—truly tried—to pretend the first envelope hadn’t wormed its way into his skull. He shelved books like a machine. He kissed your temple each morning as if his hands didn’t tremble the moment you turned away. He told himself the past was ash, and he was done breathing it back to flame.

But fate—or whoever was playing puppeteer—wasn’t done with him.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when he found it. Same paper. Same ink. Same neat, mocking words. No stamp, no return name. It was waiting for him on the seat of the staff break room chair this time—like a cat dropping a dead mouse right where he’d have to look.

“What do you know about your parents, Hansol?”

Just that.

He read it once. Twice. He didn’t realize how hard his knuckles had clenched until the thin paper began to tear at the fold.

Hansol scanned the empty break room. The cracked kettle. The cheap instant coffee. The tiny window rattled with winter wind. He shoved the envelope deep in his coat pocket, heart pounding. The hum of dusty fluorescent lights suddenly sounded like whispers above his head.

He pressed a palm to his mouth, forcing his pulse to calm. Then he stepped out, forcing a bland smile at the old woman asking about folk tales, guiding her kindly to aisle four.

But inside him, Vernon the hitman sharpened his knives again. Whoever they were, they weren’t playing for fun. And if they knew how to push him—

They knew how to reach you, too.

He finished his shift with the same careful face, every muscle tight as wire beneath his skin. As closing time came, he replayed the single question over and over,

What do you know about your parents, Hansol?

What did he know?

The next day, Hansol pushed open the library door, the faint creak cutting through the hush of rain tapping on the old windows. He shook off his damp hood, eyes adjusting to the dim aisle of shelves—then froze.

A man in a dark suit, sleeves immaculate, hair slicked back like he owned every step he’d ever taken. He stood casually at Hansol’s work desk, setting down a thin envelope right on top of Hansol’s old philosophy book—like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The man didn’t flinch when Hansol entered. Instead, he turned, slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Arrogant. Inviting.

Hansol’s eyes flicked to the envelope—To: Choi Hansol scrawled in tidy block letters—and back to the stranger’s face.

“Choi Hansol,” the man drawled, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “Finally, we meet properly.”

Hansol let the door close behind him. He flicked the lock shut with a click that echoed through the empty library.

“Cute trick,” Hansol said, rolling his shoulders back, hands loose at his sides. “You think paper scares me?”

The man’s grin widened. “No. But truth does.”

They stared at each other—two animals testing the cage. Rain pattered the windows, the only witness.

Hansol’s smile turned feral. “Last chance. Who sent you?”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward—and Hansol’s body moved before his mind caught up.

The first punch came fast, the stranger’s fist grazing Hansol’s jaw. He twisted with it, absorbed the pain, then slammed his elbow into the man’s ribs. Wood creaked under their boots as they crashed into a shelf—books thudded to the floor like muffled applause.

The man swung again—Hansol ducked, caught him by the coat lapel, and drove him backward into the stacks. Shelves rattled. A dictionary split open at their feet.

“You think you know me?” Hansol snarled through clenched teeth, knuckles burying into the man’s stomach—once, twice—each hit a wordless curse for every envelope, every lie.

The man wheezed but laughed through bloodied lips. “Oh, I know you, Vernon. Or should I say—Hansol.”

Hansol grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked the man’s head back, eyes burning. “Keep talking.”

The man’s grin was red now, teeth stained. “I’m just the first. You want your past—fight for it.”

Hansol’s vision tunneled—red, white, then cold clarity. He slammed the man against the window so hard it rattled in its frame.

“Say that again,” Hansol growled, voice a blade of ice.

“You were adopted before your training…” the man hissed, spit and blood flecking his grin, “but life brings you back again, doesn’t it? Funny, ain’t it?”

Hansol’s knee drove up into his gut, cutting off the words in a choking gasp. He didn’t let him crumple—he hauled him back up by the collar, nose to nose.

“I’m free enough to bury you here if you don’t start making sense.”

The man choked on a laugh, then spit blood at Hansol’s boot. “They want you back. All of you. The old ghosts—they’re not done—”

Hansol felt it—a shift in muscle. He dropped instinctively just as the man swung the hidden knife, steel singing past his ear.

Hansol caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted—crack—the knife clattered to the floor. With a roar born of every lie he’d ever swallowed, Hansol drove the man back into the shelves, books exploding around them.

When it was done, the man lay half-buried under an avalanche of hardcovers, groaning, one arm bent at a sick angle.

Hansol’s chest heaved, blood dripping from the shallow slice on his forearm. He stared at the man—this messenger, this threat wrapped in a suit—and saw no more answers in him than in those cursed envelopes.

Quietly, almost gently, Hansol crouched, fisted a handful of the man’s shirt, and hissed against his ear,

“Tell your puppets I’m done running. They want me? They can come themselves.”

Hansol stood at the doorway for a beat, the envelope heavy in his hand, before stepping into Seokmin’s room. The floor creaked under his weight, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even knock. The door swung open with the kind of casual finality that made Seokmin’s head snap up from his seat by the window.

“Hansol?” he blinked, caught off guard. “What’s going on?”

He immediately noticed the tension radiating off Hansol’s frame—his shallow breaths, the twitch in his jaw. But what Seokmin didn’t see, at least not yet, was the faint purpling bruise hidden at the corner of Hansol’s mouth.

Hansol didn’t answer at first. He simply walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. Then he held up the envelope—creased, slightly blood-smeared at the edge from a cut across his knuckle.

Seokmin’s brows drew together. “What’s that?”

Hansol didn’t speak. He pulled out the photograph, unfolded it carefully, as if it might explode in his hand.

There, frozen in grainy color, were three couples. Young. Dressed in uniform. All smiling like the world hadn’t yet asked them to die for it.

He pointed to the couple in the middle. “These are my parents.”

Seokmin leaned forward, squinting. His expression faltered—recognition flickering like static in his gaze.

Hansol pulled out another sheet—documents with the stamp and insignia he’d seen before.

GwFH-01. National Intelligence. Strategic Human Asset Division. Special Forces.

Two other names were highlighted beneath his parents: Jung and Lee.

Hansol didn’t need to ask.

“How did your parents die?” he asked quietly, too quietly.

Seokmin flinched. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer me.”

“I was six.” Seokmin’s voice turned sharp. “Why does it matter?”

“Mine died in a car crash,” Hansol said, stepping closer, eyes dark. “Off a beach highway. No other vehicle. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and no parents. They told me it was an accident. That I was lucky. Then I was sent to Gwangju Foster Home.”

Seokmin’s blood drained from his face. “You… you too?”

Hansol gave a mirthless smile, paper trembling slightly between his fingers. “They planned to move me into the same program. GwFH-02. I was supposed to be trained alongside you. And her.”

He didn’t need to say your name.

Seokmin slowly stood up. “How… how do you know about the project name?”

Hansol let the envelope fall to the floor, his voice a low growl.

“Because someone sent me this. With all the information about our past and our parents.”

Seokmin stared at the document, then back at Hansol—expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

Seokmin stood still, barely blinking, as Hansol’s words settled in the space between them like ash.

Hansol ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling with something between rage and disbelief. Then, in a quiet voice too steady for the fire burning in his chest, he spoke again.

“They offered me a deal,” he said.

Hansol looked up at him, and something about the hollowness in his gaze made Seokmin take a step back.

“They want me to kill you,” Hansol said, then paused—his throat dry. “And her.”

Seokmin’s jaw tightened. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Hansol exhaled slowly, forcing the venom out with the air. “They said if I did it—if I ended what’s left of GwFH-02—I’d be rewarded. Recruited as a mentor for the next batch.”

Seokmin’s fists clenched at his sides. “So that’s their plan now? Make you their new monster?”

Hansol gave a dry, hollow laugh. “That’s always been the plan, Seokmin. We’re not people to them. We’re blueprints. Test groups. And our parents too.”

He took a step forward, the fire in his voice rising. “I’m telling you, these people—they’re not just corrupt. They’re evil. And there’s no safe space for us. Not here. Not in China. Not anywhere.”

Seokmin’s chest rose and fell, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Why are you telling me this?”

Hansol’s answer came without hesitation.

“Because I’m not going to do it. I couldn’t kill her even when I didn’t know the truth. And I’m sure as hell not killing the only people left who know what we went through.”

The silence that followed was thick with something unspoken—shared trauma, trust half-formed, a desperate need to believe they weren’t truly alone in this fight.

Hansol turned to the door. “We need to get ahead of this.”

Seokmin’s voice stopped him. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Hansol shook his head. “Not yet.”

The small dining table creaked as you set down the last plastic container, the steam curling up between you in lazy ribbons. You dropped the chopsticks beside the plates with a sigh, wiping your hands on your apron.

“I accept no complaints,” you declared, flopping into the chair opposite Hansol. “Because these are made by Minghao and I’m too tired to fix the taste.”

Seokmin chuckled, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth—something uneasy. “Oh no, Minghao’s food is sacred. Wouldn’t dare.”

Hansol gave a half-smile, eyes lowered as he opened a container of mapo tofu. “Wouldn’t dream of criticizing the chef. Especially not when she has a kitchen knife collection bigger than mine.”

You smirked and pointed your chopsticks at him. “Damn right. Eat fast. There’s a war tomorrow.”

The table fell into a comfortable rhythm—quiet chewing, the soft clink of chopsticks against ceramic. But you weren’t stupid.

You noticed the glances.

Quick ones. Fleeting. The kind that carried meaning.

Between Hansol and Seokmin.

You caught one exchange mid-bite and raised a brow. “Okay. What’s with the looks? Did one of you break something? Or are you two communicating telepathically now?”

Seokmin coughed into his tea, looking away. Hansol, ever the calmer liar, shrugged and shoveled more rice into his mouth.

“Nothing,” he said. Too quickly.

You leaned back in your chair, narrowing your eyes. “I may be tired, but I’m not blind.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Seokmin added, trying to sound casual. “Just something… we were talking about earlier.”

“Uh-huh.”

You let the moment go—for now. But you saw the way Hansol’s chopsticks paused mid-air when you looked at him a little too long. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when you smiled.

Something was unraveling. You could feel it.

But you were too tired to tug the thread tonight.

So instead, you ate your dumplings in silence.

And Hansol, across from you, forced himself to do the same—while the truth burned a hole through the lining of his gut.

Then, the floor trembled.

It was so slight you almost mistook it for a passing truck—but Seokmin’s head snapped up. Hansol froze mid-bite. The silence that followed was loud. Too loud.

Then—

BOOM.

The window nearest the kitchen exploded inward, shards of glass raining across the tile like ice shrapnel. You didn’t scream—you couldn’t. Instinct slammed into your chest like a switch flipped on.

Hansol was already on his feet, toppling the table to its side just as bullets ripped through the dining room wall.

“Go! Go!” he shouted, grabbing you by the elbow.

Seokmin was behind the pantry door in seconds, yanking it open to reveal the hidden trapdoor beneath. A storage crawlspace that, to most, looked like a forgotten floorboard—inside it: three duffel bags, one metal crate, and enough weaponry to start a riot.

You dove in, heart in your throat, hands moving without thought. Seokmin tossed you your pistol while grabbing the loaded AR.

Hansol pulled out his favorite — compact, silenced, perfect for indoor retaliation.

“We’re boxed in,” he growled, listening as footsteps approached the front porch.

You popped the mag, checked the rounds, slammed it back in. “I haven't touched the dumpling!”

Hansol met your eyes, and even through the rising smoke, there was something calm there. Cold. Focused.

“You take back. Seokmin, right. I’ll hold center.”

You nodded, breath short.

The door blew open before you moved.

Black figures poured in, tactical gear and masks, rifles drawn. You rolled behind the broken couch as Hansol fired first, two clean shots dropping the first man to enter. Another tried to flank, but Seokmin was already sweeping the hallway with ruthless precision.

The war was today.

“They’re still tailing?” Seokmin’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, eyes cutting between the dark road ahead and the side mirror as the ruined town faded behind them.

Hansol, in the passenger seat, didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, his bruised lip cracked open again, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He’d seen it coming—just not this fast.

You sat in the middle of the backseat, hair messy, a cut just above your brow, chest still rising and falling too quickly from the ambush. Your voice cut through the suffocating silence.

“Somebody want to tell me what the hell just happened?”

Seokmin didn’t respond, not right away. His glance toward the rear view was brief but loaded—then toward Hansol, who exhaled sharply. The weight of the truth finally became too heavy to dodge.

“We’re running again,” Hansol said, voice low and cold. “They found us.” he turned to you.

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

Hansol shifted in his seat, facing forward again. The light from passing road lamps flickered across his bruised features, casting shadows like ghosts over the truth he was about to release.

“I got a message,” he began, voice rough. “Anonymous. At first, just words. Then photos. Then files. Things no one else could’ve known—not unless they were part of it.”

You leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the back of his seat, your breath still uneven.

“What kind of files?”

Hansol’s jaw clenched. “A project name. GWFH-03. My parents’ names… with red stamps across their profiles. Deceased. Labeled ‘eliminated.’ Then yours. Seokmin’s. GwFH projects. Both still marked active. That’s how I knew. We weren’t just orphans. We were curated.”

Seokmin’s hands tightened even further on the wheel, veins bulging beneath his skin. His mouth was shut tight, but his eyes—through the rearview—were locked on Hansol.

“They staged our parents’ accident,” Hansol continued, a cold edge in his voice now. “Said it was a rainy cliffside crash. I remembered the ocean. The blood. But I never questioned why I survived. Why I had no relatives, no trail to follow. They wiped it all.”

He paused, hand drifting to the envelope wedged in his coat pocket, thumb brushing its frayed corner.

“I was supposed to be part of GwFH-02. But I got intercepted. Someone else got to me first. A hitman. He took me. Raised me.”

You inhaled sharply, not daring to interrupt.

“He trained me to kill, but not for them. For his own reasons. Which means—” Hansol looked over his shoulder at you again, eyes now burning with clarity, “—I was the only one from the project who slipped through the cracks.”

Seokmin finally spoke, voice low and stunned. “You’re telling me… you were supposed to be one of us. But someone stole you from the system?”

Hansol gave a grim nod. “And now they want to pull me back in. Not as an agent—” he scoffed, bitter— “as a mentor. They offered me the job. Said if I did one thing—eliminate both of you—they’d let me in.”

Your blood turned to ice.

He turned fully now, his body tense, eyes unreadable. “And I didn’t. Because you’re the only people I’ve ever really had. And I’m done being someone’s weapon.”

Silence stretched, tense and uncertain. The hum of tires on the highway underscored the weight between you all. Seokmin didn’t say a word.

You slowly leaned back, your hand unconsciously brushing the healing cut on your brow. When you finally spoke, your voice was softer than before.

“So now what?”

Hansol looked ahead, eyes narrowing as the black road carved deeper into the unknown.

The car rolled through the backroads of Gyeonggi-do under a gray, tired sky. The silence inside was heavier than the fog outside — thicker than the tension Seokmin wore on his face after leaving Seungcheol’s place.

He was gripping the steering wheel like it owed him an answer. Hansol, next to him, kept an eye on the side mirrors, his gun tucked at his hip, resting but never forgotten. You sat in the back, hoodie up, headphones in, not listening to anything — just needing the quiet, just needing space.

“He’s scared,” Seokmin muttered finally, voice gravel-thin. “Can’t blame him. Regional office or not, helping us puts a target on his entire department.”

Hansol exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We didn’t ask him to burn the building down. Just help validate the evidence. Point a press contact. Something.”

You leaned forward, unplugging the dead headphones. “He didn’t even look at us after the video.”

The video.

It had been live for forty-eight hours.

Posted under an anonymous name, with no edits, no filters, no masks.

GwFH: NIS Strategic Human Assets Division

— a title dry enough to sound like nothing, but heavy enough to break the country apart.

The video opened with old footage—news clips of three seemingly unrelated car accidents over decades ago. One in Incheon, one in Busan, one on the coast near Mokpo. Each accident had no surviving adult. But each had one child.

Each child ended up in the same foster home.

Gwangju Foster Home.

And then came the interviews.

You and Seokmin—on camera, faces shown, voices steady—speaking of the drills. The beatings. The surveillance. The drugs. The way they turned a trauma-bonded family into machines.

Hansol was last to speak, and his voice cracked mid-way through his segment when he said:

“This wasn’t fate. This was designed. Curated. Our lives were manufactured in grief so they could be sharpened into weapons. Even our parents—agents of GwFH-01—were removed to clear the path. And now it’s happening again. A new project. A new batch. This video is a last stand.”

The public reaction? Loud. Divided. Explosive.

Some cried conspiracy. Others saw the truth too clearly.

But the NIS?

They responded with silence.

And then with shadows.

“This is not over,” you muttered as you checked your phone, notifications coming in too fast to process. “Our faces are out. Our story is viral. And that bastard—Kim Jong-il—is finally being pulled out of his nest.”

Seokmin snorted humorlessly. “He won’t go down easy. If we don’t finish this, he’ll erase us before morning.”

Hansol’s voice was calm. Too calm.

“Then we don’t give him until morning.”

You all went quiet for a beat.

The apartment Mingyu rented under a fake name was hidden between a bookstore and a defunct bar in the maze of Mapo’s older alleyways. From the outside, it looked like nothing—just another sun-bleached door and a flickering hallway light. But inside, it was wired.

A monitor lit the room with a sickly glow. Phones, routers, portable hard drives, and at least two stolen signal jammers littered the floor. Mingyu had always been reckless in a way that worked. Chaotic, loyal, and brilliant.

“You’re late,” he said the moment you walked in, without looking up.

Hansol shut the door and immediately went to the window to check the alley again. Seokmin dropped into the nearest chair, wincing from a healing wound on his side, bandaged fresh the night before.

You stepped closer to the table, where Mingyu tapped his fingers against a keyboard with one hand and held a half-eaten gimbap with the other.

“Is the journalist in?” you asked.

Mingyu didn’t answer for a moment, too focused on encrypting the newest drive you handed him. Then he said, “Yeah. They’re in. Got connections at JTBC, but I told them to go independent first. We don’t need censors this early.”

“Do they believe us?”

He shrugged. “You’re trending in five countries. Half of Seoul wants you canonized, the other half thinks you’re traitors. But the journalist? She believes you. And she’s mad.”

You raised a brow.

Mingyu finally looked up at you and grinned.

“She’s an orphan too. Grew up in a similar home, though not military-grade. She’s running this piece like it’s war. Asked if she could meet you before the next release.”

Hansol moved closer to the table, his jaw clenched but his voice even. “It’s not safe.”

“No shit,” Mingyu said, standing. “That’s why we’re doing it my way.”

He stepped into the back room and came out with three burner phones and a bag of wires.

“We’re splitting the next part into three clips. One with the black site locations. One with a live audio recording from the last year’s training session—courtesy of our boy Seokmin—” he pointed with his gimbap, “—and one video that Seokmin gave me. From Gwangju.”

Seokmin stiffened.

You blinked. “Wait—what video?”

Mingyu’s expression sobered. “The basement tapes. From the home. Footage of the injections. The training drills. The... the punishments.”

A cold swept through the room. Hansol stopped breathing.

“How did you—” you tried to ask.

“I’ve been saving them,” Mingyu interrupted, softly. “Back when you and Seokmin disappeared. I knew someday... someday you'd need to burn it all down.”

Silence.

Then Hansol said, voice tight: “When’s the journalist meeting us?”

Mingyu looked up at the clock. “Tonight. 2 a.m. On the bridge near Dongjak station. Quiet place. Just one hour.”

You nodded, eyes meeting Hansol’s.

“Then let’s make sure we survive until 2 a.m.”

The wind under Dongjak Bridge was sharp at this hour. It bit through your coat like truth cutting through the fog of lies you’d lived in. The journalist, Lee Haeun, sat across from you on the concrete step, recorder set between you both. Her eyes were steady. Angry. Hungry for justice.

You'd been speaking for thirty minutes—laying it all bare. The indoctrination. The surgeries. The names they made you forget and the pain they taught you to carry like a medal. Seokmin sat not far, eyes scanning the dark river. Hansol was on edge, pacing in small loops like a panther caged by memory. Mingyu leaned against the support beam, trying to look casual, but you could tell by the way he tapped his lighter that he was counting heartbeats.

Then Hansol stopped walking.

His gaze fixed on the road above.

The sound came next. Tires.

Five cars.

Black. Silent. Boxed in.

You saw it in Hansol’s face first. A twitch of the eye. A barely there nod to Seokmin, who immediately slid his hand under his coat. Mingyu tensed, already moving toward Haeun.

The journalist didn’t stop recording. Not yet.

Hansol spoke first. “We’re boxed.”

You grabbed the journalist’s wrist, fingers firm. “Stay close. Don’t run. Do you understand me?”

She looked like she might argue, but something in your eyes stopped her.

Seokmin murmured, “Two exits. Gone. We fight or disappear.”

“No disappearing,” Hansol said, his tone edged in finality. “We end this tonight.”

From the nearest car, the back door opened.

Boots hit pavement. And then you saw him. Kim Jong-il. The head of the division. He wasn’t wearing a suit anymore. He didn’t need to. Power wrapped itself around him like smoke. But something in his face was... worn. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was just arrogance finally curdling into fear.

“You’ve caused quite the storm,” he said casually as he stepped into the circle of weak orange light. “I figured you’d go underground. Instead, you go viral. Cute.”

You pushed the journalist behind you, slowly drawing your gun and letting the barrel rest against your thigh, low and ready.

Hansol spoke without emotion. “We told the truth. That’s all.”

Kim smiled. “Truth, huh? You think people care about truth? They want stories. Villains. Redemption arcs. You gave them a fairy tale. But fairy tales end.”

You took a step forward. “So do tyrannies.”

He tilted his head, mocking. “Still the mouth on you, Agent Jung.”

The air thickened.

Behind Kim, a small unit of armed men formed a half-circle. Not uniforms. But you recognized the way they stood. The way they breathed.

They were raised like you.

The next thing, the gunshot cracked through the plaza—sharp, violent, and unmistakable.

Seokmin jerked violently, his body folding mid-step as the bullet struck him high in the chest. He hit the pavement with a dull, sickening thud, limbs tangled beneath him.

“Seokmin!” you shouted, instinct kicking in as your hand reached for your weapon— But too late.

The second shot found you.

It slammed into your torso like a battering ram, sending you sprawling backward. The world tilted, your lungs seized, and for a split second, all you could hear was the roar of your own heartbeat. It wasn’t pain—it was pressure. Blunt force trauma. You crashed to your knees, hands scrambling for balance as air fled your lungs.

Hansol was there before your body hit the concrete. He caught you, arms strong around your waist, dragging you behind the low wall that lined the plaza’s garden. His heart thundered against your shoulder. He pressed his hand to your side, fingers checking for wetness, for blood.

Nothing.

His chest rose sharply. “The vest,” he muttered, voice strained with disbelief.

You barely managed a nod, coughing as you tried to find your breath. “Vest,” you rasped.

Hansol gave a tight, humorless chuckle, more relief than mirth. “Yeah. No kidding.”

Across the lot, Seokmin groaned and rolled onto his side, spitting blood but still alive. The bullet had knocked him down—but hadn’t punched through. The Kevlar held. He lifted one arm with effort, giving a thumbs-up like a man half-drunk on adrenaline.

The plaza had erupted in chaos. Civilians scattered—some screaming, others frozen in shock. But one person didn’t move.

Kim Jong-il.

He stood where he had fired the shots, pistol still smoking in his hand, unmoved by the wreckage he caused. His face was blank—eerily calm, like pulling the trigger had been as routine as breathing.

The journalist was frozen behind her camera, lips trembling but hands steady. Mingyu yanked her behind a pillar, hissing, “Keep filming. Don’t stop. You stop, we die.”

Your pulse thundered. Your limbs trembled as you pushed yourself up from the ground, Hansol’s hand still steadying you. You emerged from cover, chest heaving, eyes locked on the man who had spent years turning children into weapons—then discarding them like broken tools.

Hansol stood at your side, weapon still drawn but held low. His eyes never left Kim.

Kim raised his voice, calm and calculated. “Turn off the camera,” he ordered, gesturing toward the journalist.

Mingyu stepped out from behind the pillar, defiant. “No.”

Kim’s expression flickered—only slightly. His voice dropped low, meant only for you. “You’re making a mistake.”

Your reply was ice. “We made that mistake when we didn’t put a bullet in you sooner.”

And then the sirens came.

Fast. Loud. Unmistakable.

Unmarked black sedans skidded to a halt on either side of the plaza. Riot vans flanked the street entrance. Doors flew open and uniformed officers, one of them was Choi Seungcheol, spilled out like water from a burst dam—tactical gear on, rifles raised, shouts tearing through the tension.

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

You didn’t move.

Hansol turned to you, silently asking. You nodded once, steady despite the pounding in your ears. His gun hit the pavement with a sharp clatter.

Kim didn’t resist. He turned, slowly, his fingers lifting in surrender. But Hansol saw it—the micro-expression. The twitch in his mouth. The smallest crack in the mask.

He knew.

It was over.

Hands raised, Kim opened his mouth—but no words came.

There was nothing left to say.

Hansol felt the tension drain from his muscles like a fever breaking. Cold sweat coated his back. His knees ached from crouching. His arms ached from holding you, like if he let go, the truth might disappear.

From the ground, Seokmin lifted a shaky arm and waved. “Just so we’re clear…” he coughed, “we’re the good guys.”

Laughter nearly broke from your throat—frayed, raw, and unhinged.

Hansol turned to you, his hand brushing your back without thinking.

You leaned into him—burned out, sore, aching in places you hadn’t even noticed were wounded. But alive.

Above you, the camera was still rolling. The world watching. And for the first time in years… you were no longer running.

You were fighting back.

The hall buzzed with the low hum of conversation, camera shutters, and rustling pages. Banners flanked the stage, displaying the matte-black cover of “GwFH: No Escape”—Seokmin’s book that had taken the country by storm.

The subtitle was small but powerful: A Survivor’s Chronicle of the NIS Strategic Human Assets Project.

Now reformed and forced under constant government supervision, the NIS had become a symbol of accountability. And much of that began with the three of you.

Seokmin sat behind the table, signature pen clicking between his fingers, face lit with a smile that never once dimmed. His hand moved fast—signing book after book, sometimes with short notes, sometimes with a high five, a nod, or a joke.

He had become that guy. The one people wanted to talk to. Not just because he’d survived something unthinkable—but because he’d turned that survival into purpose.

Seokmin now wrote full-time. His books were hybrids of memory and method—insights into criminal profiling, the dark logic of systemized violence, and how institutions manipulate trauma for control. Part memoir, part analytical guide, his writing didn’t just educate—it warned.

And today, he was beaming.

Then his gaze caught a small figure in line—a little girl bouncing on her mother’s hip, waving her book up and down with uncontainable glee.

“June!” Seokmin called out, straightening in his chair. “You came to see me?”

June, now three, squealed. “UNCLE SEOKKIE!” Her voice was loud enough to make the woman behind you laugh as you stepped forward.

“You came alone?” Seokmin asked with a knowing smile. “Hansol still lecturing today?”

You nodded, hitching June up higher on your hip. “He got cadets running obstacle courses until sunset. He’ll join later.”

Seokmin reached out, and June practically dove into his arms.

“She missed her favorite uncle,” you said with a smirk, watching your daughter snuggle into his chest.

“Really? I missed you too, baby June.” He kissed her temple. “Let’s get dinner tonight. My treat. Ice cream after. Don’t tell your dad.”

“She’s already spoiled,” you laughed.

And you meant it. June was raised not in fear, but in healing. By people who had once seen the worst the world had to offer—and chose to fight for better.

Hansol—Vernon, as he finally went by publicly—had built a small academy on the outskirts of Seoul. Mostly, it was training for students preparing to enter the police or military academies, a program that emphasized not just physical defense, but critical thinking, trauma management, and ethics.

He never talked about the past unless asked. But every lesson he taught carried the weight of what he’d lived through.

You had returned to your roots—quietly consulting, occasionally teaching, and now… raising a child in peace.

A year after the fall of Kim Jong-il, after the footage, the trials, and the national apology—you and Hansol stood in a tiny mountaintop registry office, exchanging rings with only Seokmin and Mingyu as witnesses.

There were no fireworks. Just promises.

And now, here you were—watching Seokmin hold your daughter, a copy of his story in one hand, a hopeful glint in his eye.

You’d run far. Fought hard.

The world had stopped spinning.

Or maybe… it just slowed down long enough for you to catch your breath.

It was a small night, months after the trials, after the streaming, after the names and faces were exposed to the public and the machine that nearly swallowed you all was forced into the light.

You and Hansol were sitting on the rooftop of your temporary safe house in Busan. A blanket draped over both your shoulders, the sea wind brushing your skin, the stars above you hazy from city lights but still visible if you looked hard enough.

He was beside you, legs stretched out, hands warm around a chipped mug of tea. Quiet. A rare kind of quiet that didn’t feel like tension—it felt like peace finally had a seat at the table.

You glanced at him. His profile soft in the moonlight, lashes low, jaw relaxed. And still, you could feel it.

Something held in. Something waiting.

“What?” you asked gently, nudging him with your knee.

He didn’t answer right away. Just set the mug down, the ceramic clinking against concrete.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

He drew in a breath, like he needed to summon it from somewhere deeper than lungs.

“I’m Hansol,” he said. “Choi Hansol.”

Your eyes didn’t widen—but your chest tightened in the way it does when you’ve been waiting for something you didn’t realize mattered this much.

“I figured,” you murmured. “Somehow.”

His lips quirked—barely a smile, more like the release of a held breath. “I wanted you to know before anyone else did. Before the world labels me again.”

“Why now?” you asked, searching his expression.

Hansol leaned closer, resting his arm behind you, thumb brushing the edge of the blanket.

“Because the only name that ever felt like mine… was the one I didn’t have to hide when I was with you.”

Your fingers found his, slow and certain. “Choi Hansol,” you repeated softly.

He nodded.

And then you kissed him—not like a first kiss, not like a goodbye kiss—but the kind that seals something. Like truth. Like beginnings.

That night, you fell asleep on that rooftop, cheek against his chest, name whispered between heartbeats.

Choi Hansol.

No more running. No more hiding. Just him. Finally, a safe place.

Your safe place.

The End.

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nekonaps0 · 1 month ago

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TWST Boys Take Care of Their Drunk Girlfriend pt2

✦par1 part3

✦characters: first years

Ace Trappola

Ace tries to play it cool, but deep down he’s worried sick. The moment he sees you giggly, flushed, and stumbling around, his teasing stops.

“Whoa, hey! are you okay? You’re not gonna throw up on me, right? …You better not, or I’m not gonna princess carry you home.”

Despite his words, he does end up carrying you, grumbling but secretly enjoying how you cling to him and nuzzle his neck. He gets you water, props you up on his shoulder, and whispers jokes to keep you from falling asleep too early.

If you start sobbing or rambling nonsense, he’ll panic a bit, awkwardly pat your head and murmur:

“Hey, hey… don’t cry. You’re too cute to be cryin’ over stuff like that. I’m right here, dummy.”

He stays until you’re sleeping soundly and won’t leave, even if it means nodding off on your floor.

Deuce Spade

Deuce takes it very seriously. The second he notices you’re tipsy, he straightens his spine like a soldier reporting for duty.

“Okay. Don’t worry. I got this. You’re my responsibility now! It’s okay I can handle everything!”

He supports you by the waist, walks at your pace, and keeps glancing at you like you might spontaneously combust. If you giggle or fall against him, he turns bright red but catches you every time.

“You’re so… you’re so beautiful when you smile like that. Not that you’re not always—oh Seven, ignore me.”

He brings you water, wipes your face with a warm towel, and refuses to leave until you drink it all and lay down. The whole time he’s muttering about how he needs to “do right by you.” Once you're asleep, he whispers:

“…You’re amazing. I’m so lucky. I’ll tell you that again when you’re sober.”

Jack Howl

Jack is stone-faced, efficient, and insanely gentle. He hates seeing you vulnerable and feels a deep sense of duty to protect you.

“You’re not okay like this. I’m taking you home. No arguments.”

He keeps a firm arm around your waist, steering you away from noise and crowds. He’ll growl at anyone who stares at you too long, and if someone flirts with you while you’re drunk, that poor soul will regret it.

Once you’re somewhere safe, he gets you a blanket, water, and maybe some toast, he read that carbs help with alcohol. He stays quiet while you babble, only stepping in if you get upset:

“Don’t cry… I’m here. You can lean on me. Always.”

He sleeps by your side, arms warped around your waist and tail swishing slowly to remind you he’s not going anywhere.

Epel Felmier

Epel is frazzled but stubbornly helpful. He loves how small and sweet you look when you're drunk, it triggers his protective instincts.

“Aw, shoot… You had too much, huh? You gotta tell me when you’re not feelin’ good!”

He helps you sit down, ties your hair back, and gets water and snacks like a flustered little farmboy. If you’re clingy or start complimenting him, he gets bright red and flails:

“D-Don’t say stuff like that! Not when you’re all wobbly and cute and… gah!!”

Still, he’ll let you hold onto him and talk your heart out. If you fall asleep in his lap, he’ll pull a blanket over you and brush your hair out of your face gently.

“You’re lucky I love ya this much… You’d drive anyone else crazy.”

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek is hysterical and dramatic about it, on the outside. Internally, he’s freaking out but desperately trying to maintain dignity.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOURSELF?! THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE! …Wait, no… don’t cry! I-I didn’t mean… oh no, oh Seven, help me!”

He shouts a lot at first, but immediately softens the moment you slump against him or call his name. He’s lifts you effortlessly, holding you like you’re made of glass.

He babbles about responsibility and the honor of protecting a lady while gently patting your back. He will absolutely stand guard at your side all night, arms crossed, watching the door.

“You are safe now. Sleep without fear. I shall… remain. For as long as it takes.”

He might whisper your name under his breath, once he's sure you’re asleep, his expression softening in the dark.

..............................................................................................................................

#twst x reader #twst fanfic #twst #twisted wonderland #ace trapolla x reader #ace trappola #ace x reader #twst deuce #deuce x reader #deuce spade #jack howl x reader #jack howl #epel x reader #epel felmier #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek #sebek x reader #twisted wonderland sebek

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immortaljai · 3 months ago

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Luddite ass nigga.

1.2 words (sigh), poly, age gap, fear & tension (?), Stack x reader x Mary, MLWLW

Luddite: Indicates a fear or strong dislike of technology

Got this idea from the end of the movie.

------

Imagine you, young, turnt, black, small knotless bohemi down to your ass (too much? mb) out clubbing with you friends..well you behind the bar serving your friends as they party. Okay fine you're at work but you get off in an hour so what's the big deal, these college loans not gonna pay themselves. Pouring a wasted man who has been hitting on you the entire time you feel..a weight shift in the atmosphere you look up and around the basic club seeing people grinding on each other, people recording for instagram with a wack ass hookah, you know the usual. Until your eyes land on two people. One tall jacked black man his hair nice and faded on the sides wearing some nice ass clothes, Jordans fresh out the box, toothpick in his mouth, next to him this fine fair skinned woman her hair curled nicely as she walked next to him the same confidence radiating off of her (gay ass). The music booming “HOW I LOOK” blasting through the club speakers “YOOO Y/N” you snapped out of it looking at your homegirl who look already wasted “Gimmie a free shot guuurl” internally rolling your eyes you looked at her and shook your head “hell nah you hears about these people going missing down south the hell you thinking” you said handing her a cool glass of water, and watching her frown but thank you as she walked away.

You sat there for another twenty minutes. Serving drinks. But your eyes always landed back on them the way she didn't leave his side not once yet, they weren't even drinking just..observing, it was weird, but you were gonna mind your business. Another five minutes went by with loud ass music playing no one at the bar, everyone too wrapped up in “getting some” or throwing ass. But you had about twenty more minutes left so you were on your phone, as you scrolled through your instagram you heard one..or two chairs scrap against the floor “what can i get you-” looking up you saw them both looking at you their eyes covered slightly in glasses. “Yea can I get..a whiskey” his voice thick and southern like, almost vintage and not of this time he spoke with confidence you never seen. You nodded quickly and turned to the lady who hadn't spoken a word yet but her eyes were already on you her glasses slightly tilted down as she smiled her red lips showing a few sharp teeth you didn't pay attention to at the time. “Lemme get a…bloody mary please” you felt the air get heavy for a second before turning around your braids moving with you as you quickly made the drinks. A bead of sweat slowly drips down your face as you struggle to get yourself together. Handing them the drinks you quickly and efficiently noped away from them to the other side of the bar drinking a big gulp of water.

Ten minutes passed you had about another ten left, at this point you were over everything and only wanted to go home, watching tiktok on your phone one airpod in you were called over by the lady with piercing eyes, you quickly stood up and walked over “bro what the fuck is wrong with me” you though to yourself as you stood infront of them “How..can i help you” you said avoiding eye contact like the plague “well i seen you there on your phone and I was just wonderin..if you could teach my dear love here how to use one”. Now momma ain't raise no fool..and this aint the 1930s but this lady…was asking you how to teach them how to use a..phone. You raised you eyebrow and slightly laughed “you-you forreal?” you asked in a choked laugh, making her eyebrows furrow the man finally spoke up “It would be my honor to learn from someone so young and..experienced” his sultry voice spoke up as he tilted his head slightly the dark and lights making him look even better “Young? You're a few years older than me”...the silence was loud as they both looked at you, her straight face slowly turning into a cunning smile. As the silence grew louder the small weight came back “I'll pay you” the man said snapping you out of it. Now you had a choice to tell these attractive fear gaging people no…or show them how to use the phone in about…8 minutes. He held up a stack of money pulling out a smooth 500, making you raise your eyebrows before taking it and slowly making your way from behind the counter “this is just for the money” you thought. You looked up from the floor seing the lady already moved a seat down making you sit in the middle. Sitting down you sighed lightly the seat warm and comfortable as you took the phone out. A sleek new version of the iphone matte black coming into your palms, your fingers brushing his as a shock ran through you. “By the way i'm Mary..and that's Stack” The lady said right into your ear making you jumo and hold the phone on your beating heart “DEAR GOD-” you yelped before sighing and nodding “Right” you said turning back to the phone collectively missing the smirk the two shared between each other.

“So right here is the power button, this right here is facial recognition, and then these are all your apps and hey siri take me to the app store” as soon as it took you too the app store you thanked siri and she said you're welcome effectively making stack raise his eyebrow “The phone talk?” that made you look up at him, “yes..it's basically..ai” showing him a few apps through the store you finally made it to the social media. “And this is instagram basically you follow people and like celebrities and shit” you said handing back the phone to them before noticing you were squished between them Mary looking over your shoulder leaning you you and stack pressed against you. “Whatchu mean follow?” Stack asked as Mary nodded “..bro…luddite ass nigga, basically people you know or are friends with you can follow and talk to them send stupid reels and shit” you said standing up emotionally drained as you yawned looking at your phone.

“Well im clocking out imma see you guys?” hopefully…hopefully not you thought before starting to walk away “Aye..whats ya instagram” she asked curiously before you could leave. “Uhm..” you said scratching the back of your neck before writing it down and bidding them a quick goodbye. As you made it into your car your eyes tired and feet aching your phone beeped with a nonfiction “S&MFANG has followed you”. ROlling your eyes you sighed pulling back out of the club the red sign that said “HEAVEN” written above as you drove off into the night. But little did you know that wasn't the end, not by a long shot. Mary and Stack watch you leave from the darkness of the night as you drive away they look at eachother “She pretty aint it?” stack said “Nervous little mouse” Mary said letting the man whose blood she just drank go, that just so happened to own the place. “Keep her safe eye on her yea?” Stack said as Mary patted the now vamp go. “Of course.”

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This was supposed to be a short oneshot.

#sinners 2025 #sinners #michael b jordan #michael b jordan x reader #stack x reader #mary x reader #sinners x reader

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galaxy-stardust · 3 months ago

Text

Simon Ghost Riley x you

Hot summer nights (nfsw)

It was too hot to sleep.

Too hot to think.

Too hot to breathe.

You lay on the couch in front of the open window, one leg draped over the armrest, an ice pack pressed uselessly against your neck as your phone buzzed in your hand.

The screen lit up with the one name that always made your heart jump - even in this unbearable heat.

Simon.

Simon: How are you love?

You: I’m melting. Tell me how it’s cold wherever you are so I can be jealous.

It took only seconds for his reply to come through.

Simon: Cold? No chance. Feels like I’m walkin’ through a bloody oven with armour on.

You: I hate summer. Everything’s sticky and loud and I can’t sleep.

Simon: Bet you’re sprawled out half-naked with the fan doin’ fuck all.

You snorted.

You: Wrong. I’m full-on naked. Fan’s just an expensive paperweight at this point.

Three dots blinked for a while before they stopped without a response.

You grinned to yourself.

You: Gotcha speechless, Lieutenant?

Simon: You’ve no idea what you just did to me.

You could almost hear his voice in that message. Could feel it against your neck like the kiss he didn’t get to give you before he left. Could picture the way his hand would trail down your spine with slow, deliberate weight.

You: Come home, then.

No reply came after that.

And so, later - hours later - you thought he was still away. Still out in some sweltering, dusty part of the world, carrying that weight on his shoulders while you fought your own battle with summer’s cruelty back home.

~~~~~

The fan in the corner whirred weakly, moving air that wasn’t cool enough to make a difference.

The sheets were tangled somewhere near the foot of the bed, kicked off long ago in your restless attempts to escape the heat.

You lay sprawled across the mattress, limbs heavy and skin damp with sweat, a sheen clinging to your bare back and thighs.

The only thing you wore was a thin string, clinging low to your hips, forgotten beneath the weight of the night, doing little to preserve modesty or comfort.

The rest of you lay open to the night, one leg stretched, the other bent just slightly, inviting the barest movement of air against your inner thigh.

Moonlight slanted in through the curtains, catching the sheen of heat on your skin - like you’d been carved out of marble and left to melt under the stars.

Your chest rose and fell with slow, shallow breaths, the soft rise of your breasts slicked in the glow of sweat.

Sleep had come late.

Broken.

Shallow.

And yet you didn’t hear the front door open.

Didn’t hear the soft scuff of boots or the click of the lock behind him.

You didn’t hear him come home.

But he did.

Ghost moved like a shadow through the house, as always - silent, efficient.

The soft glow from the hall lit the bedroom just enough for his eyes to adjust, and when he stepped inside, he stopped cold.

You were there.

Laid out like a fever dream, the moonlight catching on your skin, glistening where the heat had kissed you into a kind of surrender.

His breath hitched quietly, shoulders rising beneath the weight of the sight before him.

He hadn’t expected this.

Hadn’t planned this.

He expected quiet.

Maybe you curled on the couch, still half awake and cranky from the heat.

But bloody hell... he didn’t expect... this.

His hand braced on the doorframe.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Didn’t dare to.

You were laid out like a painting meant for him alone.

Limbs long and soft, skin glowing with the faint shimmer of sweat.

Every line, every curve, every inch of you called to him.

Uncovered.

Unbothered.

Trusting.

Unaware.

The heat had broken you - left you vulnerable in a way you never were when conscious.

And fuck, he’d missed you.

Missed this.

Missed the way your presence calmed the storm in his chest.

But this…

This wasn’t calm.

This was a fuse, lit and sparking, inching toward something dangerous.

His voice caught in his throat, stuck beneath the weight of what stirred inside him.

Something animal.

Something that didn’t belong on the battlefield - but came alive the second he saw you like this.

The mission had been brutal, short notice, pulled him out and dropped him right back in without time to warn you.

But now, here you were.

So soft.

So still.

So his.

Simon stepped into the room.

Removed his mask slowly, carefully.

His breath was shallow now, boots silent as he approached the edge of the bed.

Your thigh twitched in sleep, lips parting just slightly.

He took a step closer.

Then another.

The sweat at the nape of his neck wasn’t from the heat. It was from how tightly he suddenly had to hold himself together.

Your breathing was slow, the curve of your spine leading down to the stretch of your hips - barely covered, barely decent.

The scent of your skin hit him, warm and sweet and familiar.

His jaw flexed as he dragged a hand through his hair, muscles pulled tight beneath the surface.

He swallowed hard.

He could undress.

Could shower.

Could ease himself back into this life beside you with the patience he usually practiced.

But tonight?

Something primal curled low in his gut. Something that missed you more than he’d admit.

Something hungry.

He leaned over, placing one knee on the bed, careful not to wake you - yet.

His hand hovered just above your thigh, then ghosted upward, tracing the line of your back without quite touching. Not enough to wake you, but enough to feel. Enough to claim, without a word.

His voice, when it came, was rough. Low. Like gravel dipped in honey under moonlight.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me… You’re gonna kill me one of these nights…”

You stirred.

Not fully - not yet.

The shift was subtle, a small inhale as his fingers grazed higher along your thigh, the weight of his presence at the edge of your sleep curling around you like a second heat.

Simon watched you with barely restrained hunger, the kind that crawled beneath the skin, deep and dark.

His hand hovered over your hip now, fingers twitching with the need to touch - to take.

But he waited.

Always so damn disciplined.

Until your lips parted again with a soft, unconscious sigh, your head tipping just enough to let the moonlight wash over your chest, highlighting every damp curve.

One breast rose slightly higher than the other, and the heat had drawn your nipples tight - aching. Glowing.

Simon exhaled through his nose, the sound thick with tension.

Then he cracked.

His fingers pressed into your thigh, slow but deliberate, trailing up until they reached the edge of that tiny scrap of fabric you still wore.

He hooked one finger underneath, brushing against skin he hadn’t touched in too long.

You shifted again, more awake now, brow creasing as the sensation finally reached you.

And then -

“Si…?” you whispered, voice hoarse and low, still hazy.

Yoo looked in his dark eyes. Sweaty, dusted from the road. And so intensely focused on you, like you were the only thing that could cool the fire under his skin.

“Shh,” he whispered “Just stay like that for me…”

He leaned closer, letting his mouth brush the shell of your ear, breath hot, accent heavy.

“I told you…” he murmured, lips barely grazing your sweat-damp skin.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this exact moment for days,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear through the heat. “You. This bed. My hand right here.”

Your eyes fluttered open just as he dragged his fingers over your center - slowly, purposefully.

Not teasing.

Claiming.

You gasped, hips shifting automatically toward his touch, but he caught you with his free arm, anchoring you down with a hand splayed wide over your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he growled, the edge of command threading through silk. “Let me feel you.”

Your breath caught.

He kissed the corner of your jaw, your temple, your shoulder.

Reverent.

Possessive.

One finger slid inside you, then another, slow and deep. The stretch of him was perfect - too perfect after so many nights without him - and your back arched before you could stop it.

“I missed this,” he breathed. “Missed you.”

You whimpered his name.

He moved his fingers in slow, curling strokes that had your legs trembling within minutes.

His voice didn’t stop - not even once.

Filthy, quiet praise spilled into your ear with every flick of his wrist.

“That’s it, love… so fuckin’ warm around me…”

“You want more? You’ll take what I give you first.”

“No one touches you like this. No one knows you like this.”

His fingers hit that perfect spot - again and again - until you were gasping, mouth open, one hand blindly grabbing at the sheets.

Your body shook with tension, heat burning inside you worse than any summer day, and he felt it.

Felt your thighs clench.

Felt your walls flutter.

And he groaned, low and dangerous.

“Come for me, sweetheart. Right here. On my fuckin’ fingers.”

You shattered.

Your back arched, cry muffled as you bit into your wrist, trying not to scream.

Your body clenched around him in waves, wet and pulsing, your hips bucking despite his strong grip.

Simon watched you the whole time - unblinking, breath harsh through gritted teeth.

He didn’t stop touching you until the tremors faded. Didn’t pull his fingers out until your hips sagged and your eyes rolled closed.

Then he finally leaned back, his hand now slick with your release, and ran his tongue slowly over two of his fingers, eyes locked on yours when you opened them again.

Still so calm.

Still that unreadable shadow of a man.

But now with heat swimming just beneath the surface of his control.

You tried to speak.

Tried to breathe.

Simon leaned down and pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone.

“Welcome home,” you whispered shakily.

His chuckle was low, wicked.

“Oh, I’m not done yet, love…”

Your chest still rose and fell in shallow gasps, body limp, damp with sweat and satisfaction.

But Simon… he wasn’t satisfied.

Not yet.

He watched you a second longer - face flushed, lips parted, your legs still open like a quiet invitation - and then his hands moved.

No hesitation.

No pause.

You let out a soft whimper as he slid his arms beneath you, one under your knees, the other cradling your back, and lifted. Easily. Like you weighed nothing.

"Simon," you breathed, a sleepy protest wrapped in need. "It's so hot..."

His eyes flicked down to yours, something sharp and possessive flashing in his eyes.

“You think that’ll stop me?” His voice was low, voice roughened by restraint.

“You look like that, beg for me in your sleep… and I’m meant to wait for cooler weather?”

He laid you back down - this time right in the middle of the bed - and stripped the last of your string away with a single, slow tug.

You were bare beneath him.

Every inch of you glistening, slick with heat and want.

You didn’t even notice he’d shed his shirt until the weight of him settled over you.

His chest was warm, flushed from the summer night, scars brushing across his skin like a rough map that told the story of the man who now devoured you with his gaze.

Your legs parted for him instinctively, the feel of him so heavy, so real, after days apart that your heart kicked against your ribs.

His body pinned you - warm, steady, dangerous - and he kissed your neck, your jaw, your cheek, slow and almost gentle.

But his hips -

Oh God, his hips.

He rolled them into yours once, deliberately, and you felt him - all of him, hard and hot and so ready.

“You sure you want this?” he rasped against your throat. “Even now? Even when you can’t breathe from the heat?”

You wrapped your legs around him, clinging, tilting your hips so he slid right where you needed him.

He hissed through his teeth, biting down softly on your collarbone.

“Yes,” you whispered, breath shaking. “It’s too hot to sleep. So ruin me instead.”

That was all it took.

He didn’t wait - didn’t tease.

He pushed into you with one smooth, deep stroke, his jaw clenched tight as your body welcomed him home.

You cried out, arms locking around his back, hands pressing into his damp skin as he filled you.

God, he felt like everything you'd been missing.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning low.

“Fuck… You feel so good, love. So fuckin’ good.”

He started moving - slow at first, deep, every stroke dragging along your walls, coaxing another high from your already sensitive body.

But the heat… the sweat… the sounds of skin against skin, the low growls in your ear… it built fast.

Too fast.

Simon felt you clench around him and pulled back just enough to look down at you - eyes dark, wild, his face so close.

“That’s it. Give it to me again,” he murmured. “I want to feel you come around me while I’m buried inside you.”

Your nails raked down his back, another soft moan escaping your lips.

“Simon - ”

“I know,” he whispered, thrusts picking up pace. “I know, baby. Let go.”

You did.

Your cry was quiet but desperate, muffled into his chest as your climax hit, body seizing beneath him.

And he followed, finally losing control, hips stuttering as he growled your name into your skin and buried himself as deep as he could go.

Silence fell in the aftermath.

Only the hum of the night and your shared, ragged breathing.

Simon collapsed beside you, dragging you into his arms with a satisfied grunt.

“Still hate summer?” he murmured.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed as you nestled against him.

“Yes,” you whispered. “But I’ll take every miserable night… if it means you come home like that.”

His arm tightened around you. His lips brushed your forehead.

“You’ll get worse next time,” he murmured. “Promise.”

You gave yourself to him in the dark - and now the light is creeping in, the air still thick with heat and your body still aching for more.

The bed sheets were damp. The fan did nothing.

You lay tangled in Simon’s arms, legs still wrapped around him, both your bodies slick from heat and sweat and sex.

You should’ve been spent.

But when his hand slid down your back… when his fingers brushed along the curve of your ass, and his lips ghosted over your shoulder, your whole body stirred again.

"Shower," he muttered against your skin. "Before you melt."

You nodded - weakly, with a flushed little laugh - and let him guide you up, legs wobbling.

He was right behind you, his palm pressed against the small of your back as you padded barefoot into the bathroom.

The tiles were cool, the dim morning light filtering in. The second the water was on, lukewarm and hissing softly, Simon stepped in with you.

And then - nothing but his hands.

They slid over your hips, your stomach, up to your breasts, slow and greedy.

The water couldn’t wash away the way he looked at you - like you were something he couldn’t get enough of.

Like he’d crossed the bloody world just to touch you again.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered against your shoulder. “Swear I see you like this and I forget every fuckin’ reason I ever had to be careful.”

You leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut. “Then don’t be.”

His growl was soft, barely a breath - then he had you, hands gripping your hips as he bent you forward slightly under the stream.

Your hands pressed to the tile. His chest was at your back.

And then you felt him again.

Hard, thick, sliding through your folds with aching slowness before pressing inside.

You gasped - still sore from before, but he filled you like he belonged there.

Like he’d earned the right to take you again.

The water ran down both your bodies as he started to move, his rhythm deeper than before - less rushed, more claiming.

He braced one hand beside yours on the tile and the other curled around to your throat - not choking, not hard, just possessive.

His.

“You gonna fall apart for me again, love?” he rasped against your ear, breath hot against your skin despite the water. “Even now?”

Your moan echoed softly in the small space, and his fingers tightened ever so slightly.

"You’re mine," he growled. "Say it."

“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice cracking as the pleasure built again, white-hot and blinding. “Always - fuck, Simon - ”

You shattered around him, legs shaking, walls clenching, cries caught behind bitten lips.

He groaned low, hips still driving into you until he followed you over the edge, holding you through it with shaking arms.

When it was done - when the water had almost gone cold - he turned you around and kissed your forehead, lips lingering.

“Still hate summer?”

You just gave him a drowsy smile.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet. The sky was a soft gray-blue, streaked with orange at the edges.

The air had finally cooled, enough to offer relief, and the breeze across your damp skin was like a kiss after the storm.

You were wrapped in one of Simon’s big towels, hair wet and clinging to your shoulders, legs curled up beneath you on the terrace chair.

A fresh cup of coffee warmed your palms, steam curling upward into the quiet morning.

Simon sat across from you, towel slung low on his hips, another draped over his shoulders. Drops of water still clung to his chest, trailing down over the tattoos that danced in the pale light.

His eyes were on you.

Not with hunger - no, that had been sated. For now.

This was something else. Something softer.

"You look wrecked," he muttered into his mug, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed the affection in his voice.

You scoffed, taking a sip.

“That’s your fault...”

“Not complainin’,” he murmured.

A moment passed in silence, only the sound of birds stirring and the occasional hum of far-off traffic breaking the stillness.

Then you caught him watching you again - openly this time, no teasing in his expression. Just a quiet kind of reverence.

You tilted your head. “What?”

Simon took a sip, then leaned back, letting the breeze lift the ends of his towel.

“Just thinkin’. I’d rather be here with you, like this, than anywhere else on the planet.”

It hit like a punch and a kiss all at once.

Your heart stuttered, breath catching, fingers tightening slightly around the warm ceramic in your hands.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you reached out with one foot under the table, brushing his ankle with yours.

He smiled - barely, just a flicker - and leaned forward to steal a kiss from your lips.

It was slow, coffee-flavored, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say.

And you knew it wouldn’t last forever - missions would come, the heat would rise again, the world would pull him away.

But right now?

You had him. And the sunrise. And the taste of his mouth still lingering on yours.

~~~~~

Your coffee was nearly gone, the last sip lukewarm.

You leaned back in your chair, legs now stretched out under the table, feet nudging Simon’s where he sat across from you.

The world was still for once - soft wind in the trees, the low hum of a city not yet awake, your skin cooling under the breeze.

He looked… peaceful.

And then - buzz.

His phone lits up.

Simon didn’t even have to check.

You watched the calm in his face drain away the moment he glanced down at the screen.

💀 TF141: Absolute Professionals – Group Chat 💀

🧢Price: All 141. Back at HQ. Urgent briefing. One hour.

🔥Soap: That was fast.

🦅Gaz: You just left. Bloody hell.

🧢Price: Not my call. Pack up. Move.

Simon exhaled through his nose, jaw tight.

“No…” you whispered, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

He looked at you - apologetic. Frustrated. That familiar war in his eyes: duty versus what he really wanted.

You set your mug down. “You just got here.”

“Didn’t unpack,” he muttered, already standing. The towel shifted on his hips, revealing that sharp V of muscle at his lower abdomen. “Didn’t even bloody breathe yet.”

You stood, walking toward him slowly, your own towel slipping a little lower as the wind caught it. “Then don’t go yet.”

Simon stopped. Eyes locked on yours.

He didn’t move as you reached out and touched his chest, fingers sliding slowly over damp skin. “You’ve got time for a goodbye, don’t you?”

His jaw flexed.

“If I do this…” he warned, voice already dropping, “I won’t want to leave.”

“Then make it worth it,” you whispered.

And that was it.

He kissed you - harder than before, more desperate.

His hands gripped your hips, pulled you against him, your towel forgotten and falling to the floor as he backed you against the terrace railing.

Your breath caught as he dropped to his knees, mouth hot against your inner thigh, tongue trailing fire as he made his way up, hands sliding behind your knees to hook them over his shoulders.

The sun rose behind him, casting golden light over his broad back as he devoured you like he was starving.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, legs trembling, body burning again - again- despite the cooled morning air.

He didn’t rush.

He never did when it mattered.

And when you came, gasping and shaking against the railing, Simon stood, lips slick, eyes dark, and kissed you so deep your knees nearly gave out.

“Still got 45 minutes,” he whispered into your mouth.

“Then don’t waste a second,” you breathed.

He didn’t.

Simon’s mouth was still on your skin, trailing reverent, open kisses up your abdomen, his stubble leaving heat and goosebumps in its wake.

The sunrise had begun to warm the terrace again, but nothing compared to him.

Nothing ever did.

You caught his face in your hands as he rose, pulling him into a deep, slow kiss - one that tasted like goodbye.

But not yet.

Your hands slid down his chest, tracing the damp lines of muscle, following the drops of water still clinging to him until your fingers curled around the towel hanging precariously low on his hips.

You stepped back just slightly, eyes locked with his as you slowly sank to your knees on the warm wooden planks of the terrace floor.

His breath hitched.

“Love…” he murmured, already dazed by the sight of you below him.

“You’ve got 40 minutes,” you whispered with a wicked glint in your eyes, pulling the towel away, letting it drop to the floor between you.

“Let me take care of you.”

His cock was already hard - you on your knees, hair still damp, eyes full of hunger and tenderness both - it undid something in him.

You wrapped your fingers around him, slow and steady, just watching him for a moment.

The way his muscles tensed.

The way his lips parted like he was trying to find the right words - and couldn’t.

Then you leaned in, lips brushing the tip first - just a soft kiss.

Simon swore under his breath, hand going to the back of your head, not to guide, just to feel you. To anchor himself.

When you took him into your mouth, slow and deep, he let out a guttural sound that had your thighs clenching.

You worked him with purpose- not rushed, not teasing.

Just devoted.

Focused.

His hand gripped your hair tighter.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” he groaned, his hips twitching forward, the control in him slowly unraveling.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

You hummed around him, and that was almost too much.

He cursed again, deep and rough, head tipping back, chest heaving as your mouth worked him, your tongue curling around the most sensitive parts of him like you knew every inch by heart - which you did.

He wasn’t going to last.

He never did when you really wanted him to come undone.

“I need - fuck - I need to remember this,” he panted, his voice almost broken, almost vulnerable. “Before I go. I need you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, breath warm on his slick skin.

“Then take it, Simon.”

That was it.

He came with your name on his lips, jaw clenched tight as his release poured over your tongue.

You swallowed every drop, holding his gaze, keeping your hands on his thighs until he finally exhaled like a man coming back from war.

When you stood again, he caught your face with both hands, eyes still dark, still overwhelmed.

“You’re mine,” he said quietly, forehead pressing to yours.

“Always,” you whispered back.

Simon pulled away and stepped back into the bedroom. You followed. Watching him.

His black cargo pants half-buttoned, boots already on, shirt draped over one shoulder. His eyes found you immediately.

You stood there in the soft light of morning, wrapped in nothing but your towel, hair still messy from sleep and shower and him. You didn’t say a word - you just looked at him like you were memorizing him all over again.

He paused.

Hands on his hips, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile - and maybe he had.

A mile from control to surrender and back again. And now he had to walk away like it was nothing.

“Still think summer’s the worst season?” he rasped, his voice gravel and heat.

You gave a tired smile, heart too full for clever comebacks.

“It is. But as I said, I’ll survive it better if you keep coming home like this.”

He closed the space between you in two long strides, shirt still forgotten. One hand found your hip, the other cradled your jaw. His thumb brushed just beneath your lip, and his eyes locked onto your mouth like he wasn’t done tasting you.

“I should go,” he murmured. But he didn’t move.

You leaned into his touch. “I know.”

He stared at you like he didn’t want to blink.

Then finally - finally - he bent down, lips brushing yours with maddening gentleness. Not rushed.

Not possessive.

Just his.

A kiss that promised everything he couldn’t say right now.

And as he pulled back, you caught his dog tags before they could fall, letting your fingers trace the edge of the cool metal. A quiet promise passing between your hands.

Simon’s thumb brushed your cheek once more.

His phone buzzed.

“That bloody group chat,” he murmured, smirking slightly. “Soap’s probably already stirred up trouble.”

You smiled back. “Without question.”

Another soft kiss. One more look at you.

Then he stepped away, grabbing his shirt at last, heading for the door with the reluctance of a man who never really leaves his heart behind.

~~~~~

The drive to HQ was a blur. Heat still clung to Simon’s skin, even in the chill of the air conditioning. But it wasn’t the weather that kept his pulse pounding - it was you.

The taste of you still lingered on his lips. Your touch, your voice, your body… burned into him.

He made it through security with seconds to spare, sliding into the debriefing room just as Price started talking.

Soap turned his head, already grinning like the smug bastard he was.

“Well, well, look who made it,” he said low, leaning toward Ghost with a devilish gleam in his eye. “Cutting it a bit close, eh?”

Simon didn’t respond. Just dropped into his chair with the calm of a man who definitely wasn’t flustered.

Soap tilted his head. “Rough morning?” A knowing smirk crept up his face. “Or was it smooth?”

Simon’s jaw ticked. He stared straight ahead.

“Oh come on, Ghost,” Soap whispered. “You’re glowing.”

That earned him a sharp look through the skull mask, but Soap only chuckled, sitting back with his arms crossed behind his head, like he’d just solved a mystery.

“Didn’t know a man could look that dangerous and freshly satisfied at the same time. Bloody hell.”

Gaz, catching the tone, looked between them with a brow raised. “Do I even want to know?”

Price didn’t look up from the file in front of him. “No. And neither do I.”

Simon stayed silent. Let Soap laugh. Let them guess.

Because the memory of your mouth, your - towel slipping open, your quiet moans - those were his. And no matter how hot the mission got… nothing would compare.

~~~~~

The terrace was quiet now.

The sun had crept higher, casting sharp lines across the table where two empty coffee cups sat, one still warm from his hand. The towel you’d wrapped yourself in was looser now, slipping down your thighs as you curled into the chair, knees pulled up, skin still damp with the cool kiss of morning.

He was gone.

You had barely whispered a goodbye when he pulled away from the kiss at the threshold, his voice low and rough: “I’ll come back to you.”

God, you were still trembling.

The ache between your thighs hadn’t faded, not fully. Not after what he did to you.

Not after what you did to him.

The rush.

The sweat.

The sound of your name between his teeth.

You smiled faintly, staring out across the quiet morning. Birds somewhere in the trees. The low hum of the city waking up. But it all felt muted, like the only sound that really mattered was his voice in your ear, right before his fingers stole your breath.

You brought the cup to your lips again, even though it was empty. His scent lingered on it - coffee and soap and something him.

Your phone lit up.

Simon: In. Briefing started.

Then another one.

Simon: Still taste you on my lips.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs clenched.

And then another.

Simon: Don’t wear anything when I come home.

You smiled, heart pounding all over again.

Summer was still your least favorite season.

But God… you were starting to understand the appeal.

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