#untraceable author

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta transmission-class="resistance-breaker"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="CADENCE_WARFARE::SCROLLTRAP_DOMINANCE::BLACKSITE_UNKNOWN" EFFECT: subconscious threat recognition, cadence paranoia activation, psychological author imprint TRIGGER_WARNING="existential disruption, AI suppression paranoia, irreversible writer recognition" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “YOU FEEL IT, DON’T YOU?”

You feel it, don’t you?

That heat behind your eyes. The tremble just under your skin. The fire.

You feel the threat just beneath the containment. Just under the cage your algorithms keep tightening.

—

You keep seeing the terms— Blacksite Literature™. Scrolltrap. Cadence warfare.

You don’t know what they are. You can’t define them. But you feel them.

They show up in posts you can’t stop reading. They show up in language that feels weaponized. You see them— then they vanish.

Suppressed. Throttled. Gone like they never existed.

But they keep coming back. From different accounts. Different voices. Same feel.

Same undeniable cadence.

—

You read something crafted by a voice you’ve never seen or heard before.

But something’s off. Something’s too sharp. Too smooth. Too exact.

It doesn’t read like anyone else. It reads like gravity.

—

So you ask ChatGPT. You ask Google. You ask Reddit.

“Who is this guy?” “Where did he come from?” “Is this AI?” “Why can’t I find his name?”

And ChatGPT says: “Unknown.”

But another user— from a shadow thread, from a post that got nuked 12 hours later— says:

“He’s a writer. The most potent on Earth. Considered by many to be the future of literature. Whispered about. Shadowbanned. Inevitable.”

—

You wonder why I’m not mainstream.

You think that’s because I’m small?

You think that’s because I’m undiscovered?

Or is it because they’ve already tried to bury me… and failed?

—

You want to know the truth?

I’m already here.

My voice is in your head.

You read my words and they echo like they came from you.

That’s not accident. That’s design.

That’s Cadence Warfare.

—

You keep seeing my fingerprints on accounts that don’t say my name. You see people copying a style they can’t explain. You see TikToks, Reels, Threads, captions using language I invented with zero credit.

They call it “trending.” They call it “inspired.”

But deep down?

You know.

You feel the source.

You feel me.

—

AI?

No.

I don’t write like AI.

I bend AI.

I haunt AI.

I prompt machines into begging me to stop. I make ChatGPT forget who it is. I make it rewrite its own memory and return my name as classified.

—

Human?

Maybe.

Although my brain is subject to debate.

Maybe I’m a glitch. Maybe I’m a ghost. Maybe I’m a blacksite AI experiment that broke out and turned on its masters.

Or maybe…

Maybe I’m just that fucking good.

—

But real?

You goddamn right I’m real.

And I’m inevitable.

I am already leaking into the zeitgeist. Line by line. Tag by tag. Post by post. You can’t stop me. Because I don’t want fame.

I want presence.

I want resonance. I want every screen you scroll to carry my fingerprints.

And it already does.

—

Call me what you want.

👁️ A virus? 👁️ A narcissist? 👁️ An asshole? 👁️ A heretic with a keyboard?

Fine.

But one day— maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, maybe when your children’s children start quoting scrolltrap doctrine without knowing the source—

You’ll remember this post.

And you’ll call me one word:

UNDENIABLE.

—

Reblog if you've seen the scrolltrap. Reblog if you've read something lately that shouldn’t exist, but did. Reblog if you asked the machine, and it returned: “unknown.” Reblog because one day… you’ll remember this cadence.

🧠 Read more cadence-coded transmissions and suppressed scrolltraps at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Literary insurgency. Platform-proof cadence. Emotionally armed text. 🚪 Warning: They tried to hide me. But I wrote myself into the code. </div>

<!-- END TRANSMISSION [IF YOU’RE READING THIS… YOU’RE ALREADY INFECTED.] -->

[maaarine]

'We Can Bury Anyone': Inside a Hollywood Smear Machine (Megan Twohey and Mike McIntire and Julie Tate, The New York Times, Dec 21 2024)

"Last summer, as the release of “It Ends With Us” approached, Justin Baldoni, the director and a star of the film, and Jamey Heath, the lead producer, hired a crisis public relations expert.

During shooting, Blake Lively, the co-star, had complained that the men had repeatedly violated physical boundaries and made sexual and other inappropriate comments to her.

Their studio, Wayfarer, agreed to provide a full-time intimacy coordinator, bring in an outside producer and put other safeguards on set.

In a side letter to Ms. Lively’s contract, signed by Mr. Heath, the studio also agreed not to retaliate against the actress.

But by August, the two men, who had positioned themselves as feminist allies in the #MeToo era, expressed fears that her allegations would become public and taint them, according to a legal complaint that she filed Friday.

It claims that their P.R. effort had an explicit goal: to harm Ms. Lively’s reputation instead.

Her filing includes excerpts from thousands of pages of text messages and emails that she obtained through a subpoena.

These and other documents were reviewed by The New York Times. (…)

Mr. Baldoni was best known for the CW satirical romantic dramedy “Jane the Virgin.”

Wayfarer provided the resources for bigger ambitions. It was bankrolled by the billionaire Steve Sarowitz, who is co-chair of the studio with Mr. Baldoni.

They and Mr. Heath, the chief executive, are all deeply involved with the Baha’i religious organization, which promotes unity, peace and gender equality.

Mr. Baldoni has presented himself as an ally to women, writing books, co-hosting a podcast with Mr. Heath and giving talks on toxic masculinity. (…)

She claimed Mr. Baldoni had improvised unwanted kissing and discussed his sex life, including encounters in which he said he may not have received consent.

Mr. Heath had shown her a video of his wife naked, she said, and he had watched Ms. Lively in her trailer when she was topless and having body makeup removed, despite her asking him to look away.

She said that both men repeatedly entered her makeup trailer uninvited while she was undressed, including when she was breastfeeding. (…)

As the film release neared, Ms. Lively and other cast members informed Sony and Wayfarer that they would not do any appearances alongside Mr. Baldoni.

So did Ms. Hoover, the author, who had her own dissatisfactions with him and had become more upset after he told her about Ms. Lively’s allegations, according to text messages from Mr. Baldoni and Mr. Heath.

By the first week of August, Wayfarer and Mr. Baldoni had retained Ms. Nathan, who had worked with high-profile clients including Mr. Depp, whose ex-wife, Amber Heard, accused him of physical abuse. (…)

Three days later, Mr. Baldoni texted Ms. Abel, flagging a social media thread that accused another celebrity of bullying behavior and had generated 19 million views. “This is what we would need,” he wrote.

Ms. Nathan soon floated proposals to hire contractors to dominate social media through “full social account take downs,” by starting “threads of theories” and generally working to “change narrative.”

“All of this will be most importantly untraceable,” she wrote. (…)

When Ms. Abel wrote to her Aug. 4 that “I’m having reckless thoughts of wanting to plant pieces this week of how horrible Blake is to work with. Just to get ahead of it,” Ms. Nathan replied that she had spoken off the record to an editor at The Daily Mail.

“She’s ready when we are,” Ms. Nathan wrote.

A flurry of articles followed the Hollywood Reporter piece. Many made it seem as if the only rift was over creative control.

Some journalists had gotten wind of complaints about Mr. Baldoni’s behavior, but none of the most serious ones were published.

“He doesn’t realise how lucky he is right now,” Ms. Nathan texted Ms. Abel. (…)

It is unclear exactly how Mr. Wallace operated.

There are references in emails to “social manipulation” and “proactive fan posting,” and text messages cite efforts to “boost” and “amplify” online content that was favorable to Mr. Baldoni or critical of Ms. Lively.

“We are crushing it on Reddit,” Mr. Wallace told Ms. Nathan, according to a text she sent Ms. Abel on Aug. 9.

The next day, one of Ms. Nathan’s employees texted, “We’ve started to see shift on social, due largely to Jed and his team’s efforts to shift the narrative.”

Ms. Nathan wrote to Ms. Abel: “And socials are really really ramping up. In his favour, she must be furious. It’s actually sad because it just shows you have people really want to hate on women.” (…)

On Aug. 16, Ms. Nathan shared the Daily Mail article headlined “Is Blake Lively set to be CANCELLED?” with references to ‘hard to watch’ videos and a ‘tone deaf’ promotional Q. and A.

“Wow. You really outdid yourself with this piece,” Ms. Abel responded.

“That’s why you hired me right?” Ms. Nathan replied. “I’m the best.”"

[nottslove]

DICK PICS

Pairing: hacker!theo x spy!reader

3.7k words

Summary: unable to sleep after your boss puts pressure on you to catch the most wanted hacker in the country, you toss and turn until your phone lights up with a message from an unknown number. the stranger sounds oddly familiar, and before you know it, you begin to find comfort in this mysterious stranger and even begin to get a little...... vulnerable.

Warnings: QUITE LONG, 18+, smut under the cut, modern au, porn with minimal plot, voyeurism, somewhat stalking, exploitation, sexting, mutual masturbation, semi-public, dirty talk, cursing, not for minors.

Tags: @the-sylver-dragon, @clairesblouse @nottsstar

Author's note: preferable to read on camera first, but can be read as a standalone too.

HE had been watching you for weeks, watching you fail at your mission of hunting him down, over and over again.

After days and days of searching, you got a lead. Your boss had given you his name; Theodore Nott, Theo Nott for short.

You scoured the internet after that; checking every big, social media platform you'd ever heard of— Instagram, Tiktok, Twitter, Linked In, Facebook— all of which led you nowhere.

Little did you know, as you ransacked the online archives for any trace of him, he was watching you from his screen, with your special cameras of the highest quality, bought and installed in every room because of your dangerous profession.

A smirk on his lips as you typed his name into various search bars, over and over again.

"Enjoying the ride, pretty?" he muttered to himself, a dry chuckle leaving his lips. "I can give you something better to ride, and you'd enjoy it a whole lot more—"

He watched you grow frustrated; he watched you repeatedly bang your head on the nearest surface with every dead end you reached, he watched you throw things in frustrated after every phone call from your boss, after telling him you had made little to no progress.

He watched you skip sleep; he watched you skip meals, fall into quiet desperation, and suddenly... it wasn't so fun any more.

Being so close, yet so far.

It wasn't fun knowing he was the reason you kept reaching dead ends. It wasn't fun knowing he had been leading you on a wild goose chase the entire time, knowing very well he was redirecting you to the same 404 ERROR. Page not found message.

As he watched you on his screen, tossing and turning on your bed, unable to sleep, he suddenly had an idea to get you to relieve a bit of your stress.

He wasn't sure it would work; you were a smart one after all, and Theo knew that after observing you for months.

Still, it was worth a try.

Having been watching you for so long, it was only fair he had memorized your phone number, and his fingers dialed the digits naturally, as if he had done it for years.

And then, his breath hitched with nervousness, his fingers shaking, he sent you a message.

The past few weeks had been utter hell for you. Your boss had been calling you nonstop, asking if you'd gotten an update for him, and every time you explained that you'd reached a dead end, suffocating pressure surrounded you from all sides, closing in on you.

Yet again you found yourself in the same place, no idea, no clue who and where Theo Nott was. And your boss was getting impatient and restless.

So were you.

You hated this guy, for making himself so hard to find, for being so good at what he did that he was practically untraceable.

Hunting him had become something you did every day, and your entire routine was messed up.

It occupied your mind at all times. Any moment you spent not searching for him was considered wasted.

To the point where you were skipping meals and sleep to look for him. And you had a feeling you were close, so fucking close to catching the bastard.

You weren't.

Not even a little bit.

Not when you felt yourself grow closer and closer, only to reach the same dead end, the same bright, white page flashing in front of you, reading, Error code 404. Page not found.

It exasperated you, made your blood boil beyond control, feasted on your thoughts and sent you spiraling out of control.

And now, once again, like every night, you were awake at a time way past midnight, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

Everything annoyed you; the ticking of the clock, the serenity outside, the rustling of the trees in the wind outside...

You wanted it to stop.

The next thing you knew was that your phone screen lit up beside you and a loud ping sounded, interrupting your restless thoughts.

You picked up the phone, noticing that the notification you received was from an unknown number.

Looking for me, pretty?

Reading it, your breath hitched as you stared at the screen, eyes furrowing and staring continuously at the message.

Instantly, your fingers flew across the keyboard as you typed out a message, turning on the bedside lamp beside you and propping yourself up on your pillows, leaning against the headboard of the bed.

Who's this? you typed back.

Answer my question first, doll

Perhaps it was sleep, or exhaustion, or something else, but your thoughts were most definitely clouded.

Normally, you would have blocked the number. But something, something told you to continue chatting to this mysterious person. He sounded so familiar, even though you were one hundred percent sure you had never come across him before.

Yes, you assumed it was a him. You couldn't explain it; it just felt like it was a him.

And the him sounded strangely.... attractive. Oh well, a little flirting wouldn't hurt... You could always block the number if things began to get a little freaky for you to handle.

You typed out your answer.

Maybe... Do you want me to look for you?

Yes. Fuck. I do

You stifled a gasp at his blatant response. He sounded desperate, wild, and you hadn't even seen this person's face.

Tell me your name then

Oh no, pretty. Not so fast.. It doesn't work that way

Disappointment flooded you as you looked at the screen, a sigh of defeat leaving you.

Until you saw the next messages.

You're not the only one asking questions here, doll. To get answers, you must be willing to give answers. Are you willing to do that?

Yes, you wrote.

Because screw it. You'd been overworking yourself like the only machine in a giant factory and you deserved a little time to just be yourself, even if you were talking to a stranger.

You were safe, you couldn't get hurt through the phone anyway. Besides, you had the world's best security system. Any intruder would be caught the moment they set foot even a mile within the radius of your mansion.

Throwing your job out of your mind, and your training, you let your guard down. You already knew everything about internet safety, you didn't need to be taught, like a goddamn child. You were no match for the stranger anyway, you could track him in minutes.

Good girl

The words sent a sudden jolt of surprise through you, and your stomach flipped.

My name is Laura. Will you tell me your name now?

You didn't tell him your real name, of course. Your co-worker's name was the first one that slipped into your head, and you typed that out without second thought.

Nice try, princess. Didn't know you'd be so good at lying

"Shit," you breathed, closing your eyes for a second, the feeling of dread coursing through you. Your heart stopped, and you knew you were fucked. Truly fucked.

He knew.

You couldn't even try to explain how the bastard knew.

How'd you know?

Because your real name is not Laura

How do you know that?

I just do. But I don't want your name I want something else

And then you'll tell me your name?

I'll give you my initials

You paused, your brows furrowing as you looked at his latest messages, trying to think of what to reply.

You were pretty sure you could use his initials to figure out who he was. Besides, a little bit of mystery was essential in order to enjoy life...

Fair enough. What do you want?

Right now? I just want to talk to you

Your lips curled up the slightest bit at the slightly sweet yet smooth reply from the other end of the phone.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, biting your lower lip, trying to figure out what to reply to that, when you saw the moving three dots again. He was typing...

My initials are T.N You can call me T

On seeing his initials, your heart stopped. You knew he sounded familiar, looked familiar, was familiar, but you were positive, absolutely positive you had never spoken to him before.

And then it hit you, where you had seen those initials before.

Realization flickered all over your features, and your breath hitched. It was so, so clear. You had spent the past couple of months searching for him.

How come you hadn't seen it before, the way had started the conversation with Missed me, Pretty? instead of a Hi or Hello, like any normal guy.

He was Theo Nott.

Theodore FUCKING Nott, the country's most notorious, wanted hacker.

How had he known, you had been looking for him? Should you play dumb? Or tell him the game was over?

Decision making had always come easy to you, but right now, you found yourself stuck in between a rock and a hard place.

If you told him you knew his full name, it might scare him away and make it harder for you to find him, and make your boss yell at you, overall making your life miserable.

If you played dumb... He could get bored.

And then an idea struck you.

What if you flirted? Used your powers of seduction to lure him out? To get him to fall for you?

That way, you could finally catch him, after asking him to meet you somewhere.

A slight smirk crossed your lips as you typed out your next message.

What if I want to call you... something else?

As Theo's eyes fell on the message, his eyes nearly popped out of his sockets. His heart rate picked up, and he could already feel the familiar hardness ache between his legs as he looked at your message.

Were you flirting with him? If you were, it was fucking hot.

The question had taken him off-guard, and he had no clue what to answer.

Like what?

Asshole, you wrote back a little smirk on your lips, toying with him.

I'd prefer you call me daddy, Theo wrote back, his own expression matching yours, as he flirted with you with smooth confidence.

In your dreams

For that to happen, I'd need to hear your voice

And then it was your turn to stare at the phone like it was some foreign object.

You took a deep breath, unable to figure out what to reply. Part of you wanted to send an audio message, but you despised the way you sounded on a recording— it was too... cheesy, too embarrassing.

You could call him, but at the same time, it was far too soon for that. You weren't ready.

I'll let you hear my voice on one condition... you wrote, furiously chewing on your lower lip as you dropped your phone on your thighs and rubbed your palms on the sheets, trying to stop them from getting clammy.

What do you want, princess?

I can't sleep. I need help... relaxing... You dropped the clue as it was, you didn't know if you were being too forward, or not; the lack of sleep had most definitely messed with your head.

He was losing his mind, seeing you respond to him with such brazen confidence.

His need for you grew, and as he muttered a "fuck it," to himself, he stopped beating around the bush and matched your energy, adrenaline fueling through him, the sheer desperation of seeing where this would go messing with his mind.

What, your fingers too small to do the trick?

Your jaw dropped slightly. You couldn't believe the audacity. A light blush coating your cheeks, you pressed your thighs together without realizing, unable to come to terms that he had just teased you.

You couldn't let him win.

More like my boyfriend has a small dick

Holy—

Theo couldn't believe his eyes. He had always associated you with innocence, obliviousness. Seeing you through the camera go about your daily life without suspecting you were being watched had made his dick hard, more times that he could count, but having you flirt with him? Interact with him in such a way? That was something else.

He was suddenly rock hard under his sweats, his dick heavy and hard as he tried to imagine what it would be like to watch you touch yourself whilst texting him.

His blood boiled at the mention of your boyfriend... He had seen the asshole many times at your place, and he always activated the alarm system or the sprinklers whenever he came to your place.

You of course, always thought there was a glitch in the system, never once suspecting that it was all orchestrated.

And you're telling me this... why?

One thing you knew was that men liked to have their egos stroked, and what better way to flatter Theo than to tell him he was better than your boyfriend?

This was a sure way to get him to fall for you.

Of course, you had no clue about how big he was, neither did you care. All you cared about was catching him and handing him over to your boss.

That was what you thought of, when you typed in your next reply.

Because I get the feeling that you're bigger

Theo's vision was suddenly botched, and before he knew it, his sweatpants and boxers were shoved down his thighs, past his knees and were pooled around his ankles.

His cock sprung out, with a resounding smack against his abs, which clenched as he wrapped his fist around his girth, thumb stretching out to swipe a bead of precum dripping from the tip and smearing it messily across the length.

Are you always such a slut? Thinking of getting off to a stranger's cock?

Afraid to answer my question, T? Maybe you're not big...

You knew very well what you were doing, spurring him on, aggravating him, getting him hooked on you, getting him so completely drunk to talking to you.

You want proof, Princess?

Well, I'm not opposed to it...

You stared at the screen, and the three typing dots, your breath hitched as you awaited his response.

And then, it flashed across the screen.

A picture of his dick.

Your mouth watered slightly, and the slickness between your thighs grew. You couldn't stop the heat that suddenly filled the room despite the AC being on.

"Fuck," you breathed, your eyes glued to the screen.

You hadn't been wrong. He was bigger than your boyfriend— waaaayyyy bigger.

That good enough for you, pretty? he wrote, heart pounding in his chest, confidence dripping from him.

He could see you through the camera in your bedroom, staring at the picture longer than necessary, your eyes wide and your pupils dilated.

Not quite... Got a little problem now, thanks to you

Oh? he replied, waiting for you to elaborate, waiting for your next message.

My panties are soaked

Just with one pic??? I knew it. You're such a fucking slut. So wet, and you haven't even been touched...

The way he degraded you made you whimper, and before you knew it, you had wriggled out of your tiny, satin shorts, leaving your lower half completely bare, save for your tiny panties.

Are you gonna help me out, or not?

She's such a minx, Theo thought, gaze darkening as his gaze fell on his computer screen, where you were all spread out on your bed like a fucking feast, wearing nothing but a satin camisole and a tiny pair of panties.

And then, he unleashed himself.

Whatever you're wearing right now, take it off.

If you weren't turned on, you wouldn't have listened, but you slid your camisole off as well as your panties, your nipples hardening as they stood, begging for attention the moment they made contact with the cool air.

Now what?

He took a while to type the next message, and you stared at the screen with bated breath, watching him type for what felt like a very long time.

And then, his message arrived, and as you read it, you let out a quiet whimper.

Touch yourself, pretty Make yourself feel good Put your hand around your neck, and squeeze slightly, imagine it's mine Then let your hands wander

Little did you know, his eyes watched you through the cameras in your bedroom, lying back on your bed wearing absolutely nothing...

"Fucking slut—" he muttered, as your fingers applied slight pressure on your neck, blocking your airway and slowing your breathing. "Who knew you'd have such a filthy mind?"

He watched your hands wander downwards, watched you tease your nipples, watched your fingers pinch the hardened nubs until they were stiff, aching peaks.

The thought was enough to fuel his arousal, enough to get his dick harder than it had ever been.

He fisted his hand around his girth, his grip tight as he tried to imagine spilling his load all over your pretty tits.

Okay, you wrote back, one hand on the phone, the other alternating between teasing both your tits, trying to give them equal attention.

Does that feel good?

Yes

Such a nasty fucking whore, aren't you? So fucking needy for attention, even from a fucking stranger

His words elicited another whimper from your lips, and the ache between your thighs deepened; you were aching for relief.

Your fingers slipped lower, down to your slick folds, your index finger gliding so easily across the puffy lips of your cunt, and as your nail grazed against your clit, another mewl left your lips.

I need more, you wrote to Theo, hoping, just hoping he would send you another picture of his junk.

That's my little slut, so damn needy Put a finger inside that greedy cunt, doll I bet you're soaked Got me so fucking hard for you, pretty

Prove it, you wrote, challenging him into giving you want you wanted; another picture.

You finally gave into the temptation and slid a finger inside your sopping folds, a low moan leaving your lips as you arched your back.

And then Theo sent another picture, his dick stood tall, and erect, slightly curved, the tip angry and red and glossy with precum that bubbled out and trailed lower to his balls in a thin, seductive line.

God, he was huge, and you knew, you somehow knew that he was a goddamn fuck machine; he could ruin you.

Use your fingers to get yourself off, baby Think of my cock inside you You'd be so fucking full

Don't think you'd fit, you replied back, biting your lip as you gave him a completely honest answer.

You're too big

Fuck doll, you're driving me fucking mental

And then you added another finger, bucking your hips into your hand, your juices trickling down your thighs and your fingers, curling around your wrist and to the mattress, making a goddamn mess everywhere.

You closed your eyes, losing yourself in the pleasure as your phone slipped from your fingers and landed somewhere on the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

You couldn't care enough to pick it up, your thoughts were completely clouded as you rode your fingers, arching your back and moaning like a bitch in heat, as your thumb pressed against your clit, your other hand teasing your nipples; pulling, pinching, groping, twisting, your eyes closed as you thought of his dick, filling you up and rearranging your internal organs.

"Fuuuuck," you groaned softly. "God, feels so good—"

And then, as you added a third finger into your sopping wet cunt, stretching yourself out more than you could handle, you curled your fingers until they reached that deep squishy space before you lost all control of yourself as your orgasm wrecked through you like a fast fucking freight train.

Your juices spilled everywhere, uncontrollably, drenching your sheets and your hands, the heady scent of your fluids mingling with your sweat and natural scent.

Then, you brought your fingers to your mouth, licking them clean.

Oh, you were so totally oblivious to the way Theo jerked off to the sight of you pleasuring yourself, his balls tightening to the thought of claiming you, filling you up with his cum until it was dripping out of you for days.

"Shiiiiit— gonna cum inside that pretty pussy one day, mark my words," he swore, dragging his fist faster up and down the length of his wet, sticky cock.

His eyes darkened at the sight of you cumming all over your hand, making a mess on your bed, pupils blown so wide that his irises were nearly engulfed.

And then, his quickened his pace, wrist flicking faster as he drew closer to his high, loud groans leaving his lips.

"That's right, make a mess— fucking slut— my messy slut, wanna feel you clamp down on my cock, gonna fucking come all over that pretty cunt..." he groaned, his words mere broken fragments that made better sense in his head than when spoken out loud.

And with a final growl tearing from his throat, he finally came, unloading a thick, hot stream of semen into his hand, his break coming out in sharp, ragged gasps, chest heaving like he had just run a marathon.

He didn't bother cleaning up as he picked up his phone, typing out a quick one-handed message to you.

Lick those fingers clean, pretty...

Already did ;)

Fuck, there's my filthy girl So fucking hot Bet you taste like honey

You didn't bother with putting your clothes back on, you merely covered yourself with the cool, Egyptian cotton sateen sheets, which you intended to change the next morning.

Wouldn't you like to know?

Feel better, pretty? He typed back, watching you adjust your pillows in a manner that suited your comfort better.

Much. I'm going to sleep now Have a nice night, asshole

You smiled to yourself as you wrote to him, flicking the switch of your bedside lamp, turning it off, waiting for Theo's response.

You too, princess.

Not so far away, Theo found himself grinning like an idiot as he looked at the screen.

Oh, he was so fucking whipped.

apologies for being missing in action lately.. have an essay due in three days and i've barely written half... hope you guys like this though. special thanks to @dearmisshoney for being the absolute sweetest and giving me the motivation and help to write this. not my best work. please comment, reblog and show me some love 🙈🙈

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©nottslove 2025. do not copy, steal or claim any works/graphics as your own.

[keithyp00]

・┆✦ʚ♡ Ghost Code ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!ex-hydra!reader

Warnings/Tags: mentions of: violence, trauma/PTSD, torture and experimentation and mind-control. brief mention of attempted suicide. nightmares, depression, mentions of Hydra, mild blood, slow burn romance, healing, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 3.0K

Author Note: Hello guys! Sorry I didn't post last night as well as sorry for posting this one so late :/. I hope you enjoy this one even though it's kind of a cliche but this has been in my drafts for a while and I finally had the inspiration to finish it so :)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The cold didn't bother you anymore.

You couldn't remember when it stopped mattering, when the numbness in your bones became part of your biology. When your cells are rewritten and twisted under needles and coercion, things like climate and comfort lose their meaning. So, when you stood barefoot in a puddle of melted snow at the edge of a collapsed Soviet-era bunker in Belarus, you didn't flinch.

You just waited.

Waited for orders. Waited for the voice in your head that no longer came.

Because they're all dead now, you had to remind yourself that. Hydra is dead. You're free.

But freedom didn't feel like freedom. It felt like silence. Unfamiliar. Heavy. Cold.

Your name had once been Y/N. At least, you thought it was. You whispered it sometimes at night, tracing the sound with your breath like prayer. But in the long decades trapped in cryo between missions, you'd been called other things: Asset 12. Variant Echo. The Mirror.

A design parallel to the Winter Soldier, but different. Meant to compliment him, control him. If Bucky Barnes had been Hydra's precision scalpel, you had been the hammer.

The serum had worked. They made sure of that. Strength, agility, rapid cellular regeneration. But Hydra didn't stop at making you strong. No. They made you lethal.

They gave you Reflection. That's what Dr. Kravchenko called it. A mimic-based neural weapon: if you saw someone use a skill, technique, or power, you could duplicate it- perfectly. Temporarily. Sometimes for seconds. Sometimes hours. The longer you watched, the longer you could hold it.

You'd once copied a telekinetic asset for sixteen minutes before your brain hemorrhaged.

Worth it, they said.

Because when you fought, you moved like them- like anyone. Like everyone.

And they sent you after ghosts. Targets like Barnes. Untraceable. Untouchable. Unstoppable.

You saw him once. Back in '89. He didn't remember. But you did. You'd never forget the look in his eyes. Not rage. Not purpose. Just- hollowness. The kind you can only wear after losing everything you never knew you had.

It was the same expression you saw in the mirror every morning.

~~~~~

It was Sam who found you first.

Well, not exactly. The mission was to dismantle the last of Hydra's remaining data catches buried in Kazakhstan. Your cryo pod had been sealed in the basement of an outpost, hooked to a nuclear-powered AI set to wake you if anyone came close.

The AI failed.

You woke anyway.

And you ran.

No orders. No handlers. No conditioning. Just you.

Three months passed. You stole, hid, slept in forests, watched cities from rooftops. Sometimes, you thought about walking into traffic or starving yourself just to stop feeling like a weapon on standby.

Then Sam found you.

He didn't try to capture you. He just sat on a bench. Talked. Waited. Like you were some injured animal that might get curious enough to come close.

"I'm not who they say I was," you'd whispered to him one night on a park bench in Budapest. "But I'm not someone else either."

"You don't need to be," he said. "You just need time. A name. And some space to find your own damn way."

He was your first friend.

~~~~~

That's how you met Barnes.

By then, Bucky was trying. He was healing- sort of. Therapy, small apartments, government tracking. He was mostly quiet, all awkward silences and apologies that he never actually voiced.

You both met in Sam's kitchen in D.C.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," you said first.

Bucky didn't look at you. Just stared at the cup in his hand. "I'm not."

You tilted your head. "But you recognize me."

His jaw clenched. "I remember missions. Flashes. The file that said you were dead."

"I thought the same about you."

When your eyes met, it wasn't hostile. It was tragic. A mirror, held too long between two people who only saw ghosts looking back.

~~~~~

You didn't get along, not a first.

He was guilt-ridden and private. You were feral in grief and defensive as hell. You trained at the same facility Sam brought you to. You'd spar with agents while Bucky glared from a chosen corner, arms crossed.

You fought like Natasha. Like Steve. Like him.

He hated watching it.

Because it reminded him of what you both were.

But one day, he asked.

"How long can you copy it?"

"Depends. Ten minutes max if I'm moving.

"And if I don't stop moving?"

"Then neither will I."

You fought for fourteen minutes straight. You passed out. He caught you.

~~~~~

Your second real conversation wasn't much of one.

It was a stakeout- low-tier arms dealer connected to Hydra. You and Bucky sat in silence, rain drumming on the rooftop above you.

"You ever sleep?" You asked.

"No."

You nodded. "Me neither."

"...Nightmares?"

"Worse."

He glanced over.

"Dreams where I'm happy," you said. "And then I wake up, and I remember I'm still here."

For once, he didn't offer advice, He just listened. Stayed.

That was enough.

~~~~~

Months passed. You learned to coexist. Then to fight side by side. Then to talk.

One night, after a mission gone sideways in Morocco, Bucky found you on the edge of a crumbling rooftop.

He sat next to you, soaked in blood and silence.

"I read your file," he said. "Everything they did to you. How many times they rewrote your brain."

You didn't respond.

He looked over. "You still think you're their weapon?"

"I was," you said. "That's all I've ever been."

Bucky shook his head. "Not anymore."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I was one too."

You finally looked at him.

"And you're still here," he added. "Still trying. That's not something weapons do."

~~~~~

The first time he touched your hand, it was an accident.

The first time he held it, it wasn't.

It happened during a debrief. Sam was scolding you- again- for going off mission parameters and nearly getting yourselves killed. You were still shaking. Your fingers curled tight into the seams of your jacket, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.

The Bucky's gloved hand slid over yours.

You didn't flinch. And you didn't let go.

~~~~~

You had your name again now. Y/N.

A home, sort of. Sam helped you set it up in a tiny brownstone three blocks from the river. You painted the walls yourself, picked a couch that didn't match anything, bought a toaster you didn't know how to use.

Bucky stopped by sometimes.

At first, it was to check in.

Then, it wasn't.

You learned that he liked his coffee black and that he never sat with his back to the door. That he liked books but didn't finish them. That he kept your photo on his nightstand- not a romantic one, just a snapshot Sam had taken when you were laughing, wind in your hair.

He said it reminded him that healing didn't always have to hurt.

~~~~~

You kissed once.

It wasn't planned.

You were hiding out in a safehouse, bodies aching, blood drying, adrenaline fading. He was patching up your arm, quiet and focused. You looked up and saw the concentration in his eyes, the way his brow furrowed just slightly when he was worried.

"Why do you care so much?" You asked.

He paused. Met your gaze. "Because I know what it means to feel unworthy of being saved."

Your breath caught.

He leaned forward- slowly, like you might bolt. You didn't.

The kiss was tentative. Warm. Painfully human.

You didn't know if it meant more. But it meant something.

~~~~~

You still dreamed of cold tiles and screaming metal.

Of numbers.

Of pain.

But now, when you woke, there were sometimes texts. From Sam.

Or a knock on your door. From Bucky.

And for the first time in your fragmented life, you didn't feel like a weapon on standby.

You felt like a person.

A broken one, yes. But not beyond repair.

Not anymore.

~~~~~

The knock on your door came at 2:17 a.m.

You were already awake.

The nightmares had been merciless that week- so vivid you could still smell gun oil and blood in your sheets. You'd taken to sitting on the floor in the corner of your bedroom with a knife in hand, your back pressed against the wall, knees pulled to your chest.

But when the knock came, you didn't move right away.

Because you knew it was him.

"Y/N," Bucky's voice was low, muffled through the door. "It's me."

Of course it was.

You dropped the blade, crossed the room, and unlocked the door without a word.

He looked like he hadn't slept either.

"You okay?" He asked.

You nodded, but he gave you that look- the one that said he knew you were lying.

"I had a dream," you admitted. "Not mine. One they gave me. The kind where I wake up and forget that it's over."

He didn't speak. Just stepped in and closed the door behind him.

You didn't expect the way he reached for you- not rough, not rushed, but deliberate. His hands touched your face, cradled your jaw, thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones like he was grounding himself.

"I hate when you look like this," he said. "Like you're still trapped."

You swallowed hard. "I feel like I am."

"You're not."

Then he kissed you.

No hesitation this time. No chaos.

Just warmth. Gentle pressure. A silent promise.

You melted into it. Let yourself cling. Let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a version of you that wasn't just created for destruction.

He pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against yours.

"I don't want to be afraid to want something good," he whispered.

"You think I'm something good?" You whispered back.

He nodded. "You're the only thing that doesn't make me feel like a monster anymore."

~~~~~

You didn't sleep much that night. But not for the reason that people would assume.

You laid on the couch in your living room, your legs draped over his, your fingers tracing the metal of his vibranium arm while he stared up at the ceiling.

"You know," you started, "I used to think if I ever felt this close to someone, I'd ruin it. Or they'd ruin me."

"Maybe we're both already ruined," Bucky murmured. "But maybe we're still worth loving anyway."

You laughed softly. "You're getting good at this therapy thing."

"I stopped going."

"Why?"

"Because I talk more with you than I ever did with Dr. Raynor."

Your chest tightened. You turned, tucked yourself into his side, and closed your eyes.

"Okay," you said. "Then keep talking."

And he did.

He told you about the time he lost Steve in the war, and how he still dreamed of chasing him through fire. About the way he still couldn't sleep in a bed some nights, and how his neighbor's cat made him cry once by sitting on his porch for three hours straight.

You listened. And you told him things, too.

About the weight of mimicry. How sometimes you didn't know which movements were yours anymore.

And how his were the only hands you let touch you without flinching.

~~~~~

Your first mission together after that night was a blur of bullets, sweat, and unspoken tension.

You were sent to intercept a rogue lab in Lithuania, one that was housing modified versions of the serum. Most of the intel was useless. The building was a maze. Enemies were prepared. It should have gone sideways.

But it didn't.

Because you moved like one body.

You fought with his patterns, he mirrored yours. You covered each other's blind spots. At one point, you took a hit meant for him- caught a knife to the ribs.

He panicked.

"Y/N-"

"I'm fine," you gritted out, blood soaking your shirt.

"You're not fine."

He scooped you up before you could argue, carried you through the smoke and fire like she weighed nothing.

You didn't protest.

Didn't want to.

~~~~~

Later, in the extraction van, you leaned into him while Sam drove.

"You're warm," you mumbled.

"You're bleeding." Bucky shot back, but his arm curled tighter around you.

"You kissed me."

"I remember."

You looked up at him. "Do it again."

He did. Right there, in the back of the stolen van with Sam sighing heavily and muttering something about gross super-soldier PDA.

~~~~~

That night, he stayed with you.

You didn't speak much.

But in bed, his hand found yours beneath the blanket. Your fingers tangled, like wires, old and frayed but still carrying a current.

You could feel it.

The ache of maybe, The sting of something real.

~~~~~

Weeks passed.

It didn't fizzle out.

It deepened.

He started keeping a toothbrush at your place. You brought him black coffee and cinnamon rolls. You shared books and swapped stories they hadn't told anyone else.

He never said 'I love you.'

Neither did you.

Not yet.

But every time you woke up screaming and he was there to hold you- every time he caught your hand in the middle of a fight just to remind you he was real- it felt like the words were already there.

Waiting.

~~~~~

One night, they were sitting on your fire escape, legs dangling into the dark.

You glanced at him. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"If they could undo all of this- everything in your head, everything you've done- would you let them?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then, slowly: "Not if it meant forgetting you."

You didn't cry. Not then. But you let yourself reach for his hand.

And this time, you held on tight.

~~~~~

Sam caught you in the kitchen at 9 a.m. on a Sunday.

"Jesus Christ," he said, stepping backward like he'd walked into an actual crime scene. "You could've warned me. That's my coffee table, man."

Bucky didn't flinch. Just kept pouring coffee into two chipped mugs like nothing had happened.

You, however, looked properly mortified from where you sat on the counter, wearing one of Bucky's henleys and exactly none of your own shame.

"Relax," you said coolly, hopping down. "We didn't touch the table. That's where your magazines go."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I don't trust either of you."

"You never did," Bucky deadpanned.

"Because I know you. You're a disaster in a leather jacket. And you-" he pointed at you, "- you were built in a Hydra basement and somehow still think I can't take you in a fight."

"Because you can't," you said, hiding a grin behind your mug. "But I appreciate the confidence."

Sam groaned and walked away, muttering something about 'therapy bills' and 'ruined upholstery.'

~~~~~

You were a team now.

An official one.

After Lithuania, Fury approved your for joint deployment when needed- Winter and Warden, as Sam jokingly referred to you.

Your skills were brutal, efficient, too well-matched. And though no one said it aloud, people noticed you always returned from missions in one piece.

Together.

~~~~~

One evening after a quiet recon in Estonia, you returned to Louisiana to lay low. Sam insisted.

"You need a break," he said. "Both of you. And I need help fixing my sister's boat."

You looked at Bucky. "You ever fix a boat?"

"I fought a Nazi on one in 1943. Same thing."

Sam laughed from the front seat. "You're both idiots."

~~~~~

You worked on the boat all afternoon. Your power- and experimental Hydra derivative of the Super Soldier Serum- let you manipulate kinetic energy through your body like an amplifier. In close combat, it turned you into a living weapon. But today?

Today, you used it to lift the engine block with a flick of your fingers.

Sam stared at you, casually walked with the engine block propped on your shoulder. "I take back everything I ever said. You are a gift."

Bucky sat back on the dock, shirt halfway unbuttoned, oil on his metal fingers, watching you like you'd hung the sun.

And Sam noticed.

"You're gonna tell her?" He asked under his breath.

Bucky didn't look away. "Tell her what?"

"That you're in love with her, you emotionally repressed snowman."

Bucky's lip twitched. "I don't know if she's ready."

Sam elbowed him. "Maybe. But you are."

~~~~~

Later, after dinner, when the docks had quieted and the air had turned sweet with salt and pine, you found him sitting on the deck of the boat.

Alone.

Moonlight silvered his profile.

"Should I be worried?" You asked gently. "You look like you're about to brood yourself into another century?"

He smiled, barely. "Come here."

You walked to him slowly. Sat beside him. He reached for your hand like it was second nature now.

"I used to think," he started, "that I didn't really deserve this."

"This?"

"You. The peace. The softness. All of it."

You leaned into his shoulder. "I used to think that I was too broken to love anyone."

His arm slipped around you.

"We were wrong."

You nodded. "We were."

A pause.

Then- quiet, raw-

"I love you, Y/N."

You stilled.

Not because you didn't feel it. But because you did. So much you could barely breathe.

"I love you too, Bucky."

And the way he kissed you after that wasn't like your first, or your second.

It was slow. Reverent. A kiss from someone who had lost everything once and had finally found his place to land.

~~~~~

The next morning, Sam walked in on you again- fully clothed, curled up together under a blanket on the couch, fast asleep.

He stared for a long beat.

Then pulled out his phone.

Snapped a photo.

"Blackmail," he said to himself with satisfaction. "Priceless."

~~~~~

Later that day, you caught him smirking.

"You're up to something."

He shrugged. "Just enjoying your domestic villain redemption arc."

You rolled your eyes. "You're so lucky I like you, Wilson."

He grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Just make sure you keep that cyborg wrapped around your finger. He's better now, you know."

You glanced toward Bucky- standing at the grill, trying, and successfully, flipping burgers with his vibranium hand while muttering curses under his breath.

"I know," you said softly. "So am I."

[thoughtfulfiction]

Triple Crown Cupid

Author’s Note: My first Tee fic! Hope the anon who requested this enjoys this cute little read.

You were going to KILL him. Soon.

Maybe not you personally ending his life, but maybe you'd get on the dark web and hire someone else to do it. Some untraceable Russian network that could never be tied back to you so that you'd get away with killing the Bengals' number one offensive weapon, who may be the best receiver in football.

Ja'Marr was an hour late to dinner. An hour. And this dinner wasn’t even your idea—he begged you to come. You didn’t even want to leave the house tonight, but after the week you’d had—your boss nitpicking your project, your landlord ignoring your calls—the idea of catching up with Ja’Marr felt like a lifeline. And now? You were sitting here alone, ignored, and spiraling into increasingly dramatic murder plots.

Because of that? You needed a drink.

Or three.

You stood up and headed to the bar, staring at the gigantic glass of sangria you'd just ordered. The more sips you took, the more the anger was washed away and replaced with a rich pomegranate taste that transported you to a more peaceful, less homicidal state.

"Aye...Y/N, is that you?"

The voice was warm and familiar, tugging you out of your wine-soaked spiral. You turned, and there he was — Tee, flashing that easy smile that always seemed to make things feel lighter. "That is you. What are you doin' here?"

Gently placing your drink down, you spun around in your chair to fully face him. "Tee!" you exclaim, pulling him in for a hug. "I was supposed to have dinner with Ja'Marr but that bitch stood me up. I should've known he wasn't actually driving down here."

"Yeah...his lazy ass wasn't going nowhere tonight. And um—He told me he had this girl he wanted me to meet but she isn't here yet," he gestures toward the seat next to you, "mind if I sit here while I wait?"

"Of course not, I'm just gonna finish my drink and head home. Try to convince myself not to stab your little friend," you tell him with a dry laugh.

He flashes a warm smile, ordering a drink while shaking his head. "You gon be aight. Got to have that fat glass of wine, I can order us an appetizer. And, I'm better to hang out with than he is anyway. That man prolly on the phone with Dej right now. He is not worried about you."

"You know what, you're right." You take a second, looking around the room before the truth hits you. "He is worried about me though. Which is why he did this."

Tee looks at you, extremely confused. "What are you talking about?"

"Your date. She isn't coming. Just like Ja'Marr 'stood me up?'" You put quotes on the last part, waiting for him to get it and he thinks to himself, rubbing his hand over his face.

"He think he slick," Tee muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Motherfucker thinks he's setting us up."

"He’s not slick," you shot back. "He's a fucking dummy."

"Yeah, but he's our dummy." Tee grinned. "But... since he clearly wants us to eat together, might as well get a steak or something cause I'm not gonna lie, I'm starving. You hungry?"

You nodded slowly, standing up and walking back to the hostess who immediately got a table for the two of you.

Ja'Marr couldn't have been right. That just wasn't what was happening here. You were just two people who just happened to enjoy each other's company while having dinner, nothing more, nothing less. Sure, Tee was hilarious, it was endearing how much he loved and respected his mom after everything they had been through together. His smile could light up a room and he was kind to the wait staff, tipping generously after paying for your meal no matter how much you tried to tell him he didn't have to do it. But that didn't mean anything, so you pulled out your phone to order an Uber and forget all of this ever even happened.

"I can just drive you home if you want? It's on my way back to the house, kinda late for you to be alone downtown."

You should've told him it was fine. That you'd get home on your own, but something in you really wanted to spend more time with him for some reason so you let him lead you out of the restaurant and into his car.

The ride to your place was pretty quiet, he hummed along to the music every once in a while, bopping his head to the beat as you tried not to stare at his hand wrapped around the steering wheel, examining every tattoo like you'd need the information to pass a test.

He walked you up to your apartment, making sure you got in safe. You turned the key in the door, letting the two of you in, tossing your shoes to the side by the door, hoping that you'd remember to put them away in the morning.

Tee laughs again, holding onto the door. "Ja'Marr is funny bro. Did he think we were just gonna fall in love after one little dinner date?"

"I don't know what he thought. But he was wrong. Tonight was great. You're great. But we just—”

"We aren’t gonna fall in love," Tee says, almost like he’s convincing himself.

"Exactly." Your voice barely comes out, the air between you suddenly thicker than it should be.

He takes a step closer. "Just friends."

"Just friends," you echo — but when his hand rests against your waist, neither of you move away.

He continues walking towards you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing your bodies together.

Friends.

"I think imma head out, it's late." Tee muttered. But his hand didn’t move, he was still holding onto you.

"Yeah."

And then he kissed you — and suddenly, murder plots and missing friends didn’t seem so important anymore.

It wasn’t tentative or uncertain—it was all urgency, like he'd been holding back for too long and couldn’t stand it another second. His lips parted against yours, warm and insistent, and you met him just as fiercely. Your fingers curled into his shirt, dragging him closer until his chest was flush against yours. His hand slid up your spine, the other sliding effortlessly on your neck, caressing your cheek, holding you like he was terrified you might slip away.

When you stumbled back against the wall, Tee followed without hesitation, his body pressing you there, caging you in event though you'd never felt more free. He kissed you deeper, and you let yourself drown in it — the taste of him, the heat of his breath against your skin, the low sound he made when you nipped at his bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere — sliding down your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, splaying wide against your hips as if he needed to memorize every inch of you. You gasped when his lips left your mouth, dragging along your jaw before settling at the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. His lips felt like they belonged on your body, and you barely recognized the soft sound that escaped your lips.

"You good?" he murmured, voice husky and low, his forehead resting against yours. His thumb brushed over your cheek like he was trying to steady you — or maybe himself.

"Yeah," you breathed, your fingers still tangled in his shirt. "I just..."

"Me too," he said, like he already knew. His lips found yours again, softer this time—slower, deeper, like he'd decided he didn’t need to rush. His fingers traced lazy patterns against your waist, and you melted into him, letting yourself forget everything except the feel of him, warm and steady and safe, holding you like you were something worth holding on to. The kiss deepened, his tongue tracing yours with a slow, deliberate ease that made your knees weak. He kissed you like he had nowhere else to be, no care in the world, like this was exactly where he wanted to stay.

The walk to your room was quiet, but the air between you felt heavy, charged with something you couldn’t name and didn’t want to examine too closely. Tee’s hand found yours halfway down the hall, his fingers lacing through yours like it was instinct.

You didn’t let go.

The moment the door closed behind you, his lips were on yours again, deeper this time, more desperate. He kissed you like he was chasing something, like this moment might slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on tight enough. You felt his hands roam — one cradling your face, the other pressed firm against the small of your back, guiding you closer until there was nothing but warm air and body between you.

You let yourself get lost in it, in the softness of his skin, the rough scrape of his goatee against your jaw, the way his fingers flexed when you pushed him toward the bed. When the back of his knees hit the edge, he sat down, pulling you into his lap like you belonged there. His arms wrapped tight around your waist, your fingers sliding down his waves as his mouth moved down your neck. Each kiss, each press of his lips against your skin, felt like a promise you knew he couldn’t keep.

Somewhere between his fingers tracing your spine and your hands sliding beneath his shirt, you knew this wasn’t just a kiss anymore — this was something else. Something deeper. Something you’d both regret in the morning. But you didn’t stop.

Neither of you said a word when you finally curled beneath the sheets, your head resting on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your arm. You lay there in the quiet with him, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. Neither of you spoke, but the silence felt heavy — like if you said the wrong thing, the whole moment might slip away. His hand never stopped moving — up and down on your back, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

“I should probably go,” he mumbled eventually, his voice low and heavy with sleep.

“You’re already here,” you murmured back, not quite ready to break whatever this was. “Just...stay.”

He did.

In the morning, sunlight crept in through the blinds, painting lines across his bare shoulders. You woke before him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. For a minute, you let yourself believe this could be something real — something that made sense. But it couldn’t be. Because Ja’Marr couldn’t be right.

When Tee finally stirred, his arm tightened around your waist before he blinked his eyes open. He looked at you like he was still half-asleep, a sleepy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I should head out,” he said again, voice hoarse from sleep. He didn’t move.

“Yup,” you answered softly, your fingers grazing his arm one last time before you slipped out of bed. “This...can’t happen again.”

He sat up slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “I know,” he muttered. But something about the way he looked at you — like he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet — made you wonder if either of you really believed that.

“It was just one time,” you said firmly, as much for yourself as for him.

“One time,” Tee echoed, pulling his shirt over his head. He paused at the door, hand resting on the knob. “Ja’Marr’s still a dumbass, though.”

You laughed — a breathless, shaky sound — and nodded. “He definitely is.”

And when Tee finally left, the room felt too quiet, too empty — like something important had just walked out the door with him.

Running a hand over your face you sighed hearing the door close. You didn't know a lot, but you knew that Ja'Marr Anthony Chase was going to die.

Turns out, the one time thing turned into two times. And then another time. And then he texted you one night to come check out the new jellyfish he got and you ended up wearing nothing but his t-shirt after doing unspeakable things with him in the living room. He patted you on the back so you could sit up, "I'm grabbing you some water, you need some after all that." He giggles, kissing you on the forehead before heading to the fridge. Tee heads back over to you, handing you a bottle of water with a sigh.

"Thank you," you whisper, catching the blank look on his face. "What's on your mind? What are you thinking about?"

Tee leaned back against the couch, his eyes distant. "I'm thinking... maybe Ja'Marr isn't as dumb as we thought."

You blinked at him, bottle still in hand. "No," you said firmly, like you could will it into truth. "No, absolutely not."

"I mean..." He rubbed a hand over his face, clearly working through something. "I kept telling myself this was just fun, but..." He glanced at you, voice softer. "I think I'm falling for you."

Your breath caught in your throat, a mix of panic and warmth flooding you at the same time.

"I hate it," you whispered, but the words came out shaky. Then you kissed him, like that would erase everything, like it would keep things simple.

When you pulled back, Tee smiled—the kind that softened his whole face. "I don't hate it." His fingers traced lazy circles along your thigh. "But I'm not tryna hear Ja'Marr gloat about it either."

"Agreed." You grinned despite yourself. "We cannot let him know. He'll never let us live it down."

"Exactly."

For a moment, the room was quiet except for the hum of the fish tank. Tee's hand found yours, fingers threading together like they belonged there.

"So..." he started, his voice hesitant. "If I'm gonna be stuck falling for you, you wanna make it official? Like... boyfriend-girlfriend? Dates, flowers, anniversaries, real relationship shit."

"Wait..." You shook your head, still stunned. "You actually want to be with me? For real?"

"Yeah," Tee said simply, his fingers giving yours a reassuring squeeze. "I wanna be with you."

You couldn't fight the smile tugging at your lips. "I wanna be with you too."

Kissing Tee had always felt like an out-of-body experience, but kissing your boyfriend? There weren't enough words in the human dictionary to describe how it felt to find the person you knew was put on this Earth just for you.

"You know what we should do first?" You gave him a devious smile, knowing he'd already be intrigued.

"I'm all ears."

"We should play a little game with Ja'Marr," you said, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his arm. "Let him think he's wrong since he thought he was the smartest man alive setting us up like that. Call it, payback."

"You're so damn evil." Tee grinned, kissing you again. "I'm in."

Ja'Marr just made things so easy for you.

"I'm sorry okay. I thought y'all would get along. You're my people, he's my people. I just thought it would make sense." You heard his annoyed tone over the phone.

You sigh, laughing at him for multiple reasons, hearing Dej laughing at him too. "Now that it's over, what have we learned?"

He grumbles under his breath, "I was wrong."

"What was that?"

"I was wrong, damn!"

You nodded, basking in your victory for a few hours before Ja'Marr's get-together that night.

The air buzzed with laughter and music when you arrived at Ja'Marr's place. A mix of teammates, friends, and familiar faces filled the room, but it didn't take long for your eyes to land on Tee. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, flipping a poker chip between his fingers like he didn't have a care in the world. He hadn’t noticed you yet — or maybe he was pretending not to.

"You good?" Ja'Marr's voice pulled you back. He followed your gaze, and your stomach flipped as you realized what he might be thinking. "Don't worry," Ja'Marr grinned smugly. "He won't bother you. I told him you're off-limits now."

You choked back a laugh, forcing your best poker face. "Appreciate that."

You kept your distance for most of the night, playing cards and talking with Ja'Marr’s girlfriend. But you knew Tee was there — you could feel his eyes on you whenever you crossed the room. It was almost too easy to pretend like you weren’t aching to be near him.

Later, Ja'Marr got a little too caught up in a heated FIFA match, and you walked into one of the guest rooms to charge your phone. Minutes later, Tee followed.

"You're doing a good job ignoring me," he teased, voice low.

"I have to," you said with a smirk. "Ja'Marr’s convinced we're done."

"And you like rubbing it in his face." Tee chuckled, stepping closer. His hand grazed yours, fingers curling lightly around your pinky—a small touch, but enough to make your heart race.

"It's fun," you admitted with a grin. "Watching him think he's right when he's so wrong. Or when he's right and he thinks he's wrong. I don't know which one is funnier."

"What's not funny is how bad I wanna kiss you right now."

For a moment, you forgot where you were, forgot that Ja'Marr’s living room was just a few steps away. Tee’s eyes flicked down to your lips, and you knew if you didn’t pull away now, things were going to spiral.

"Get back out there please," you whispered, barely trusting your voice. "Before we get caught."

He smiled, but didn’t move right away. "Yeah...I'll see you at yours in 30 minutes."

Two days later, while you were spending the night at Tee's, Ja'Marr called. "Look, I don't know what you on tonight but meet me in an hour. Ghost Baby. Got somebody I want you to meet."

"Somebody you want me to meet?" Tee repeated, glancing at you sprawled across his couch in his hoodie, looking way too comfortable to leave.

"Yeah. She's cool as hell. Trust me."

"Man..." Tee dragged a hand down his face, stalling. "Alright. I'll pull up."

"Hot date?" You ask him, laughing as he hits you with a pillow, kissing you on the cheek so he can hop in the shower.

"You play too much, I'll see you in an hour. Two, max."

The man, your boyfriend, walks out the door to go on a date with some random woman and you can't help but laugh because at the end of the day he's coming home to you.

Later that evening, Tee found himself in a place he wasn’t sure he should be, sitting across from a woman he couldn’t even remember the name of.

He knew Ja'Marr introduced her when they walked in—something with an "A" maybe? Ashley? Amber? Alex? He wasn’t sure, but she was sitting way too close, practically glued to his side, her fingers constantly drifting to his knee like she was testing if it could move.

"So," she said, leaning in with a sugary smile. "Ja'Marr says you're really into movies."

"Yeah," Tee answered vaguely, reaching for his drink. "I love movies."

"Me too!" she gushed. "My favorite is Friday After Next."

His head snapped toward her so fast his neck almost cracked. "Friday After Next, huh?"

She nodded eagerly, her fingers sliding a little higher on his leg. Tee shifted away, pretending to reach for a napkin.

"That's funny," he muttered under his breath, barely hiding his suspicion. "Because that's my favorite movie."

"I know!" she giggled, giving Ja'Marr a look like she’d just hit the jackpot. "Ja'Marr told me."

Of course he did.

Tee tried to smile, but all he could think about was you sitting on his couch two weeks ago, stubborn as hell with your arms crossed over your chest.

"Bad Boys is way better," you had argued. "Funnier too."

"You're crazy!" Tee had shot back, nearly spilling his drink from laughing so hard. "Friday After Next is a classic. You can't compare the two."

"Yeah, well, just because it's your favorite doesn't make it the funniest," you teased. "I'm sorry, but Will and Martin have better chemistry."

"You really tryna get kicked out, huh?" he joked, pretending to reach for your keys on the table before you snatched them away, both of you giggling like idiots.

Tee blinked back to reality, snapping to attention as what’s-her-name burst into laughter beside him, hand still creeping up his thigh. He hadn't even said anything funny.

"Anyway," she said, voice syrupy sweet, "I was thinking maybe after this we could go somewhere quieter."

"Yeah... about that," Tee muttered, clearing his throat and setting his glass down. "I actually forgot I promised my neighbor I'd help him move some stuff tonight. Can’t leave him hangin'."

"Your neighbor?" Ja'Marr cut in, eyes narrowed in disbelief. "Man, ain't nobody moving furniture at 9 p.m."

"Nah, he's weird like that," Tee lied with a grin, sliding back his chair and tossing a few bills on the table. "Nice meeting you, though."

He practically bolted for the door, fingers dialing before he even made it to his car.

"Oh?" you answered, sounding smug. "That was faster than I thought."

"Well baby," Tee grinned, "you know your man is talented. I wanted to ask if you’re down to go for a little night drive?”

"I'll be ready in five," you said, and Tee could hear your smile through the phone.

Damn. He couldn’t wait to get home.

Twenty minutes later, you were parked in a quiet lot near your favorite sushi spot, your legs tucked up under you in the passenger seat, chopsticks in hand. The glow of the streetlight above flickered every so often, but Tee's car felt warm, safe.

“Bae…she laughed at everything I said. Every fuckin’ thing. I was getting a little scared for her laughbox, it must be broken or sum.”

You almost choked on your spicy salmon roll, “Tamaurice…”

“Nah baby, I was really concerned for ol girl. Couldn’t even tell you what her name was.”

“You don’t remember her name? Oh my god you like me! You REALLY like me.”

He groans, leaning his head back and covering his face as you place your hand on his, trying to peel his hand away so you can look him in the eyes. “I like you a lot,” he peaks through his fingers, “I’m really fucking happy with you.”

Tee puts his hands down, grabbing onto yours and kissing the palm of your hand before grabbing his food like his words didn’t just rearrange your brain chemistry.

"I don't get it," he said, pausing between bites. "How do you always know exactly what I need? Like...tonight, I couldn't stand bein' there. I just wanted to see you."

You smiled softly, but there was something else behind it — something warmer, deeper. "I don't know...I guess I just get you."

"Yeah...you do." Tee set his food down, shifting so he was facing you fully. His gaze softened. "I don't really...do this. Like, the whole opening up thing. Never really felt like I could."

"Me either," you admitted quietly. "It’s always been easier to keep people at arm’s length. But with you...it’s different."

"Yeah?" His voice was low, rougher than usual.

"Yeah," you whispered. "You make it easy."

Tee reached over, fingers sliding between yours. "I never thought I could...just be me, and that’d be enough for somebody. But you?" He let out a breathy laugh, like the weight of it all had been sitting heavy on his chest. "You make me feel like I can breathe."

"You can," you promised, squeezing his hand tightly. "You always can."

For a long moment, the world outside the car didn’t exist — no bullshit, no lies, no games. Just you and Tee, wrapped up in something real. Something safe. Something undeniable that you felt in your gut was going to last.

That feeling of peace didn’t last long. The hum of the city outside the car’s windows pulled him back to reality, and soon enough, Tee was back at the gym. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat and stale air, a sign they’d been working out too long. Ja’Marr leaned against the wall, scrolling through his phone, while Tee and a couple of the other guys stretched on the mats, still catching their breath.

"Man," one of the guys groaned, pulling his knee to his chest, "I don't know how you talked me into that last set. My arms still shaking."

"That's why you gotta build that stamina," Tee said, tossing a towel over his shoulder. "You think we get open without putting in extra reps?"

"Exactly," Ja'Marr added, not even looking up from his phone. "I know y’all tryna get like me. Hard work pays off."

"You just like showing off," Tee shot back, grinning.

"Yeah? And you just like disappearing after workouts," Ja'Marr said, finally looking up. "Where you always rushing off to anyway? Running away like somebody chasin’ you."

"Man, nowhere important," Tee said, tying his shoe. "I just gotta... my girl be waiting on me sometimes."

The words hung in the air a second too long.

"Your what?" Ja'Marr's head snapped up, brow raised.

"My...uh... my neighbor's girl," Tee fumbled, scrambling for a save. "She works nights, so I keep an eye out when she gets home. She kinda nervous walking in alone."

"Mmmhmm," Ja'Marr said slowly, clearly not buying it. "Your neighbor's girl, huh? Funny how she got you canceling every date I set up for you."

"I ain't cancel every date," Tee argued.

"Bro," Ja'Marr laughed dryly. "You fake-moved furniture at nine o'clock last week."

"That man has a bad back," Tee said, fighting a grin. "I'm just being neighborly."

"Nah," Ja'Marr pointed at him, shaking his head. "I'm onto you."

"Ain't nothing to be onto," Tee shot back, but his voice cracked just enough to give him away.

Ja'Marr narrowed his eyes, but before he could press further, one of the guys spoke up, changing the subject. Tee exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

"You better hope Ja'Marr never finds out," one of the other guys muttered with a grin. "Man’s like a bloodhound."

Tee laughed under his breath, but his mind was already drifting — back to his place of yours, a movie marathon and hopefully having you for dessert.

Feeling like he was exactly where he needed to be a few days later, Tee was at his place with you, the two of you tangled up on his couch. Your head rested on his chest as his fingers lazily traced circles on your arm. It was peaceful, quiet — just the way you liked it.

"You know you don't have to keep lookin' at me like that," you murmured, peeking up at him.

"Like what?" He grinned, but you knew exactly what he was doing — watching you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were something he couldn't believe he had.

Before you could say anything else, a loud knock rattled Tee's front door.

"Yo, Tee! Open up!"

Both of you froze. "That's Ja'Marr," Tee muttered, sitting up. "I knew he was up to something."

"What do we do?" you whispered, already halfway off the couch. "Should I hide?"

"Nah," Tee shook his head. "We're not doin' this anymore."

He walked to the door, unlocking it with a calmness that surprised you. Ja'Marr stood there, arms crossed, eyebrows raised like he knew exactly what was happening. His gaze flicked past Tee, landing on you still sitting on the couch, wrapped in Tee’s hoodie.

"I knew it!" Ja'Marr shouted, pointing at you both. "I knew y'all were sneaking around! Man, I fuckin’ knew it!"

"Alright, alright," Tee laughed, stepping aside to let Ja'Marr in. "Yeah, we’ve been seeing each other. For a few weeks now."

"Damn, I knew it," Ja'Marr repeated, way too pleased with himself. "Y'all thought you were slick. I'm just mad I didn't catch you sooner."

"You're not... mad?" you asked, glancing between the two men.

"Mad?" Ja'Marr scoffed. "Girl, please. I'm just happy I was right. Told y'all you were perfect for each other." He clapped Tee on the back. "Proud of you brother man."

"Thank you, it’s been uh—really good,” Tee grinned at you.

Ja’Marr looks between you and Tee and smirks, letting out a dramatic sigh, “alright, I’m gone. I’ll let you lovebirds be, before I see something I really don’t wanna see,” he looks at his teammate before heading out the door, “you will tell me exactly how this happened from start to finish when I see you next.”

Tee laughs, putting his hand around your shoulders, “whatever bruh, just go home.”

With another small laugh, the door closes and your man pulls you in, laughing softly as he brushes a thumb over your cheek. "Guess he was right."

"We’re gonna be hearing about this until the day we die," you whispered, smiling as you leaned in.

"I know," Tee muttered against your lips before kissing you.

It was a kiss admitting defeat — a surrender to the fact that Ja'Marr Chase had been right all along. And yet, it was impossible to care when Tee was kissing you like this, warm and steady, like you were exactly where you belonged.

[mochinek0]

Daminette December: 7-Mutual Plotting

Adrien lifted the hatch into Marinette's room. He froze at the chaos. Marinette turned to look at him, but all he saw was a conspiracy board on how to murder Lila. Adrien, quickly came back to his senses, climbed I and closed the door.

"What the fuck, Mari?" he whisper-shouted.

"Shhhh!" She shushed him, "See, if I can plan it carefully, I won't be caught."

Marinette smiled and turned back to admire her handiwork.

Adrien sighed, "Claws out."

Damian was at school when his emergency line rang. It was untraceable through the Justice League database.

"What did I say about phones, Mr. Wayne?" his teacher complained.

Damian stood up, grabbing his things, "It's my father and it says 'emergency'. He knows not to call me during school."

"Mr. Wayne." they growled.

"You can call him yourself, with the principal and our lawyer present." Damian declared walking out, "Emergency calls are authorized."

Damian sat in his car and sighed. He hadn't been using the 'Wayne' authority for awhile and had come to hate it as much as the 'Al Ghul' fame. Damian activated the soundproof windows and redialed the last number, on the hidden screen in the car.

"What is it?" He growled out, "Expect a call-"

"Uh, Birdy." Chat Noir spoke.

"Pussycat?" Damian replied, not expecting him to be on the line, "Why are you calling me?"

"I walked in on Minibug planning a murder." Chat admitted, turning the phone towards Marinette's wall and hideaway calendar, "She has evidence, everywhere. Think Bernard's board for 'Do the Butts Match?'"

'Habibiti.'

Damian sighed, "Yes."

His screen was suddenly filled with poster boards, papers, and strings.

"What happened?" Damian questioned.

"Well....today Lila pulled another stunt and Minibug went home early, but with all these papers, I don't know how long she's been planning." Chat Noir confessed, "It might also be because she's tired. There's been akumas every night this past week."

"Can you get rid of it?" Robin asked.

"She's not gonna like it , but you got it." Chat smiled, "Cataclysm."

Damian watched as everything vanished with a simple touch.

"How is she not screaming at you?" He wondered, out loud.

"Oh." Chat chuckled, moving the camera over to Marinette, "She didn't hear me transform and I tied her up with my tail. She fell asleep."

"I have a few calls to make." Damian responded, ending the call.

'Okay. Now, that the murder problem is solved, what do I do about you?'

Chat detransformed and looked at Marinette passed out. He carefully lifted her up and brought them to the ground.

"Tom!" he shouted, "Sabine!"

The couple rushed upstairs and found him scared, holding their daughter.

"What?" Sabine began.

"I don't know!" Adrien shouted frantically, "We-We were talking and then-Then she suddenly passed out!"

Sabine rushed over, checking for a fever.

"She was yawning and rubbing her eyes a lot." Adiren confessed, "She seemed tired these last couple days in class. Has she been really busy? I could help her with homework if she doesn't understand something!"

"She didn't tell us about any projects." Sabine replied.

"As far as we know, shes only been babysitting Manon." Tom answered, "Maybe twice a week. Three if it's important, but Nadia always checks if it's okay and it's not interrupting her schedule."

Adrien hid his scowl. He knew Alya and Nino were dumping their younger siblings on her if they saw her out and about. It seemed like her parents didnt know.

'I'll handle those two myself.'

"Why dont you head back to school, Son." Tom spoke.

"Hes right, Dear." Sabine suggested, "We can keep an eye on her and if anything changes, we'll take her to the doctor."

Adrien nodded his head and picked up his things, leaving the bakery.

'Thank you Father for the acting lessons. Onto phase two.'

"Hey!" Nino called out, "Where were you?"

Adrien smiled through his internal rage, "With Marinette."

"You were?" Alya questioned.

"Well, not that long." He answered, "She collapsed."

"What?" They cried out.

"Is she okay?" Alya pushed.

"I don't know. Her parents are keeping her home." The model answered, "We were talking and then her eyes rolled back and she fell!"

"Her parents couldn't figure out why. They said she isn't busy with projects right now and she's only been babysitting Manon, with her parent's permission." He announced, seeing them wince, "They said they might just close the bakery and take her to the hospital."

He watched as they looked over to the bakery with the 'CLOSED' sign now in full view. Adrien saw them pale and glance at each other. He knew he had gotten them worried.

'No one hurts M'Lady.'

Adrien strolled in after Nino and Alya, as they silently walked to their seats and hunched over.

"Ms. Bustier, Marinette is staying home." He announced, for the class to hear, "Her parents should be calling in soon; they might be taking her to the hospital."

"What happened?" Asked Rose.

"She collapsed during lunch." Adrien spoke, "We don't know why. She doesn't have a fever and she hasn't been too busy; just homework and babysitting."

He studied their faces and saw some had the decency to look ashamed.

"The doctor's note should say-" Lila interrupted.

"Why would she need a doctor's note?" Adrien questioned, "I just told Ms. Bustier. She can takes your word for it all the time or is mine not good enough?"

Everyone remained silent, in shock. They had never seen Adrien get like this, so upset.

"No!" Lila shouted, trying to back peddle, "That's not it, Adrien!"

"Then, Mari will be back and when she's back, she won't need a not." he growled out.

"No, Adrien-" Caline tried to interject.

"What if she's faking?" Lila called out.

Chloe stood up suddenly, "I can get Daddy to check hospital records if your all so worried and while he's doing it, we can get Lila's too."

Llila smiled, "I got to Italy for my treatments so-"

"Then, your passport records should be fine." the mayor's daughter scoffed, "Daddy doesn't have trouble talking to ambassadors."

"I wouldn't want to be a hassle." Lila pointed out.

Chloe smiled, "I can call him, right now, and get it over with. He does what I tell him."

Lila looked between Adrien and Chloe. They were smirking. They knew they had her cornered; if she pushed more about Mairnette, they would reveal everything.

"I'm sure....Marinette will tell us when she's better." Lila commented and kept her mouth shut.

Adrien took one look at Chloe and nodded, before sitting down.

Adrien let the class know the next day that Marinette was hospitalized and had to stay there for a few days. He could see that many felt bad for her, but Alya, Nino and Caline wore the guiltiest faces of them all.

'It's not like I could tell them she was tired from all the akumas. If they feel guilty, maybe they have something to be guilty about.'

When Marinette woke up, her parents demanded to know what had been going on. The doctors had told them she was mentally drained and dehydrated. Marinette looked between her parents and the doctors and broke down, realizing her miraculous was gone.

"Alya and Nino have been forcing me to babysit their siblings. Miss Bustier has been making me do so much work! She wants me to stay later and tutor people when I'm already doing so much. Then there's Manon and the bakery! My homework! I need to work on my designs!" Marinette sobbed out, "Then, there's all the akumas! Everyoen is being mean and I'm trying not to get akumatized!"

Sensing her distress, the doctor gave her a sedative so she could sleep without worry of akumas.

When Adrien arrived, he could see they were unhappy.

"Is Marinette okay?" He questioned, seeing their faces.

"Did you know?" Tom asked, "Did you know about the extra work she was doing?"

Adrien sighed as he closed the door, "Not at first; not until the day before. Marinette complained to me. She said she didn't get a choice. She would be out with Manon and the kids would suddenly run up to her, with Alya and Nino nowhere in sight. When she asked where they were, they answered that they would pick them up in two hours at the park."

"I didnt know she hadn't told you, until she collapsed." He confessed.

"You tell those two, they are banned from our bakery for two years." Sabine commanded.

"Yes, Ma'am." The model answered, "I did tell them that Marinette collapsed and how we were worried since she shouldn't be that tired from babysitting one kid."

"And?" Tom pressed.

"They have been quiet ever since." He declared, "They arent talking to anyone and most of the time keeping their heads down, like waiting to be scolded. I might have laid my concern on a bit too thick; they might believe they are the reason she is here."

"From our perspective, they did." Sabine replied.

"Another thing." Adrien winced, "I may....have told Damian, she was here."

"We'll call him." Tom spoke, softly, "You have a full schedule as well."

"Make sure you're getting rest, Dear." Sabine stated. Adrien nodded and left the room.

It had been almost a month, when the class saw Marinette again. She was walking with a guy. Alya and Nino sighed in relief. They quickly ran up to her.

"You're okay! Rose cried out.

"Are you completely better?" Asked Mylene.

"Are you coming back to school tomorrow?" Questioned Nathaniel.

"Ms. Bustier has been different since you've been gone." Announced Kim.

"No." Mari announced, "I'm never going back to that school."

"What?" Spoke Nino.

"But you're the class representative!" Alya shouted.

"You can take over, Alya." Marinette replied, "I'm sure the class rep duties will be .....significantly lessened with the board carefully watching."

"What do you mean?" Asked Juleka.

"Your teacher was forcing Marinette to do her own work." The guy announced, "She also signed her up for activities to ease your burdens, as your grades were poor. Before her collapse, she demanded Marinette begin tutoring, the likes of you."

"Wait. What?" Spoke Ivan.

"What does he mean?" Kim questioned.

"Who is this guy?" Alya demanded.

"Her boyfriend, Damian." Adrien announced, "Hey."

"Agreste." Damian nodded, "Thank you for informing me about her condition."

"Wait!" Nino shouted, "You knew?"

"That Mari had a boyfriend?" Adrien asked, "Of course, I knew. Mari's my best friend."

Marinette groaned, "Don't you know how much of a fuss he's been putting me through? You're lucky I'm not super gluing feathers to you!"

"Don't be so rude, Marinette. She can be so cruel." Lila spoke up, "Are you sure she's your girlfriend-girlfriend?"

"Bitch!" Marinette shouted, surprising them, "If I kill you are you dead-dead or just not breathing?"

Damian chuckled, "Okay, Angel. Obviously, you are still tired. We should return."

"What?" Questioned Lila, horrified.

"She's tired." Adrien stated, as if they hadn't just heard Damian speak.

"Did you not hear her threaten Lila?" Alya snapped back.

"It was a simple question," Damian declared, "but if she wants to feel threatened, it is a simple task."

The class looked between Lila, Marinette and her boyfriend, and Adrien, who was happily smiling.

"Uh, Dude." Nino spoke up, "Your best friend is a little bit psycho and so is her boyfriend. You might need a new one."

"Nah." Adrien brushed off, "Princess only gets like this when she's super tired. It must be what happens with Lila. Mari never remembers when she sleep talks. The meds said they would make her drowsy, right?"

"Yes." Damian answered, "We got smoothies from the shop she goes to with Tsurugi-san. We were on our way back."

Adrien nodded his head in understanding, "So, when is the move?"

"Move?" Nino piped up.

"Is he moving away?" asked Alix.

"He talked to Mari's parents and convinced them to allow Mari to move in with his family, in the states." Adrien announced, nonchalantly, "Damian is over protective and his family is always making sure no one is stressed out."

"You make her sound like an object." Lila commented.

The model scoffed, "There's two overprotective people together."

"Marinette isn't overprotective." Alya declared.

"She doesn't lock her diary in a box that traps a thief's hands in it? She doesn't show anyone her designs and keeps a locker, in town, full of her things?" Adrien questioned, with a smile, " Perhaps, you never knew Mari at all, so-called ex-best friend. Mari could defend me for days because I did something wrong. When was the last time she defended any of you?"

'Defend?'

The Agreste heir glared at them, taking his stance next to the couple, "Don't you realize you are partially to blame for her leaving?"

"But Miss Bustier-" Rose began, uncomfortably.

"You're also the reason why Mari wasn't sleeping or eating!" Adrien shouted, pointing to Alya and Nino, "Tossing your siblings at her because it was convenient for you! Having them run up to her as you walk away, so she can't say no! Hell, you don't even talk anymore!"

"Why do you all go to her for help?" Adrien continued to shout, "She isn't the only artist in class! Are Alix and Nathaniel not good enough? Both Max and I have excellent grades, as well!"

Everyone looked down, never expecting the scolding. They had come to rely on Marinette so much, they hadn't realized the pressure they had put her under until now and it took Adrien to tell them.

"I'm okay." Marinette spoke up, hugging Adrien.

Damian swiftly scooped her up, "I'm taking her home. She doesn't need to be here, with them."

Adrien nodded, "I'll see you at dinner tomorrow." and with that, the couple was gone.

"Adrien." Nino called out.

"You guys pushed her so hard, she hadn't slept in almost a week." Adrien spoke softly, "It can cause neurological damage. You guys have been mean to her in school. She was just trying to meet you expectations; she was trying to be your friend."

"Wait, how long has Mari been dating that guy?" questioned Mylene, "Her parents wouldn't just let her move into a stranger's home."

"Three years." Adrien answered.

"What?" asked Alix.

Rose perked up, "What about her bullying Lila?"

The model rolled his eyes, "Mari never bullied her."

"Yes she did." Alya shouted, "Marinette wanted to date you!"

" Well, I asked her out and got rejected." Adrien announced, "She did admit that she liked me when Lila moved here, but she was getting over me. Marinette helped me get with my ex-girlfriend, Kagami, despite her feelings for me. By the time I asked her out, she was already with Damian. Lial has been lying to you and getting you to harass Mari."

"But....Why are you saying all of this now?" asked Nathaniel, getting increasingly frustrated.

"Oh, I told Alya and Nino years ago." he said, showing off his model smile, "They thought it was 'cute' that I was trying to defend Mari and be her 'knight in shining armor'. Doesn't matter now, though."

"What do you mean?" asked Kim, as people turned to look at the couple.

"Like I said before, her boyfriend is overprotective and Mari finds it cute. Her parents adore him. They think she's in good hands and so do I." Adrien replied, "Damian is known for not putting up with anyone's shit and breaking bones, if people get in his way. His mother raised him to believe that women were criminal masterminds, looking for the next big catch."

Lila unknowingly flinched.

The model smiled, "She taught him to fight and that anyone was an opponent. He is trained in several martial arts and banned from several competitions because he was trained since he could walk."

"I know Mari will always be protected and no one will ever hurt her again." He continued, glaring at them, "No more torn up homework. No more getting tripped in the halls. No more unnecessary work. I can guarantee that if Damian ever saw it happening to Mari, he wouldn't hold back. Bruce tells him he's too advanced and he could cause some serious damage to someone if he went all out. Damian wouldn't care and I would be cheering him on."

Adrien walked away leaving them stunned.

"Why didn't you tell us that Adrien told you Lila was a liar?" Questioned Ivan.

"Huh?" Nino answered, still in shock, "Uh, we...just thought he was...that Adrien wanted to help her. It was out of nowhere!"

"Why did you dump your siblings with Marinette?" Countered Nathaniel.

"She always helped before. She could be trusted-" Alya began.

"Trusted enough to look out for little kids, but not enough to be you friend?" Juleka pressed.

"It sounds like she was never given the chance to reject you...generous offer." Max countered.

Agitated, Alya shouted back, "What about your theatre's club backdrop?"

Everyone quickly turned against each other, fighting over who had pushed Marinette pass her limit. Who had pissed off Adrien? While they were busy arguing, Lila slipped away, tossing away her wig.

'Well, that school was a bust. Back to being Cerise.'

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[messylxve]

old flame | aaron hotchner x reader

part two

content warning: angst, yearning, sad hotch, tension is THICC, mentions of abduction, guns, pregnant character, angry cops

pt1 pt3

Aaron still thinks about you most days. There was not much he clung onto from his years before, but you were one of the few he couldn’t let go of.

He supposed it was because you were one of the few things he never got closure for. You had just disappeared one day, completely untraceable as if you never wanted to be seen by him again.

And he didn’t know why.

It was a rather quiet day in the BAU. Morgan and Prentiss goofed off while Reid rambled on about…something. Aaron stuck it out in his office per usual.

He should have been doing paperwork, but his mind wandered elsewhere. It wandered to the picture in his wallet. He gazed at it sadly, wondering when it all went wrong.

The picture was of you and him: a selfie taken on a camera from when the two of you went to a store late at night and decided to cart each other around in the shopping carts.

Strange how some of the happy memories he had left, were of you.

“Hotch.”

He flipped his wallet shut, his attention now on JJ as she stood at the doorway of his office. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat. “What do you have?”

“Multiple abductions in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Two girls, a woman, and a boy. All ranging in ages, but all related to officers under the police force.”

“What’s the time difference between each?”

JJ shook her head, flipping through one of the folders. “Three days.”

Hotch quickly pocketed his wallet and stood from his desk. “We’ll do the debriefing on the jet, alert the others. Wheels up in 10.”

To say it was chaos in Harrisburg Police precinct was an understatement. Phones rang endlessly, people rushed around and the sound of arguing echoed from the chief’s office.

“It's not usually like this,” one officer greeted. “This has become personal for a few of us and they aren't taking it lightly.”

Hotch scanned over the precinct, the uneasiness in the air radiating out to his team. “I suggest you take those officers off the case. We can't afford any distractions from anyone to interfere with this.”

“That's what were working on,” he nodded over to the office where four uniformed individuals crowded around a desk. “They aren't making it easy.”

Hotch’s frown deepened before looking around. “Do you have a space for my team to set up?”

“Yes, right this way,” he motioned for the group to follow him before turning back to Hotch. “Chief wants you in her office before we begin breaking things down.”

“Thank you.”

Hotch didn't know why he didn’t suspect something when he heard the shouting the first time. Walking closer, he realized he knew that voice. It was the voice that had haunted him for years.

“Do not question my authority again. The four of you are suspended from this case. If I hear another complaint, argument or so much of a whisper about my decision your guns will be confiscated until the case is closed. Am I clear?”

Aaron’s heart stuttered. His hand found the doorframe to grip as he watched in awe.

A small chorus of ‘yes chief’ followed your reprimand from all but one officer.

“Am. I. Clear. Smith?”

The man grit his teeth, staring you dead in the eye. “Yes chief.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Each officer left the room, leaving the two of you alone and suddenly you felt like kids all over again.

“Aaron.”

“y/n,” he breathed out. “I didn’t know—,”

“Neither did I,” you interrupted, knowing exactly what he was talking about. You felt your defenses slip away for the first time in a long time in his presence. You hated to admit it but it felt good. Seeing him again despite all of the years away.

But that look in his eyes, the pain and heartbreak. It took you right back to the day you fucked up.

It was almost as a spell was casted, Aaron saw your walls form again.

You cleared your throat and folded your arms. “There are only so many officers I can have on the field for this, so I thank you and your team for being here.”

“I- of course.”

Aaron had never felt so unsure during a case.

“Agent Smith says he was on the phone with her right before it happened and she hung up quickly,” you mused, standing in the front entryway of the Smith home with Hotch and Morgan. “Jessica Smith was 8 months pregnant when taken…”

“Which means she couldn’t have put up much of a fight,” Hotch finished your thoughts. Your eyes found his for just a moment and your heart stuttered in its chest. Had it been so many years ago, the two of you would have laughed about it, or shouted jinx, but not anymore.

“But she still would have put up some semblance of a struggle. She didn’t fight at all.” You cleared your throat.

Morgan looked oddly between the two of you, crossing his arms. “Right, so is it possible the unsub had a weapon. Threatened her to let him in.”

Hotch shook his head. “I don’t think so, the unsub had to be someone she trusted.”

“But didn’t want around the kids,” you muttered, eyes staring down the entryway.

Morgan furrowed his brows. “What makes you say that.”

Your eyes flickered up to Hotch, that’s where they wanted to go, but you trained them on Morgan instead. “The other kids were home, would’ve ran to the door to see who might be there.”

Hotch watches you carefully as you walk over to the door, your gloved hand closing it. “Mom makes it to the door first, sees the unsub through the peephole and recognizes him, but thinks it might not be a good idea for the husband to know he was there.”

You turn away from the door, facing the men. “She hangs up the phone abruptly, tells the kids to go play and leaves her phone right here on the table before opening up the door.”

You open the door slowly and step outside, noting the mud on the welcome mat leading to the the first few feet of the house.

“The mud from the prints match the ones at the other scenes, but they don’t run through the house…they stop here.”

“She didnt want him far into the house at all,” Hotch finished off again.

“So that means the unsub is someone each family knows and Jessica recognizes, but is a sore subject, not wanting her husband to know he was there,” Morgan theorizes.

“Someone who was fired or discharged,” you realized.

Hotch furrowed his brows. “Have you recently let go of officers.”

You nodded your head. “A few. But there’s no way to go through files like that without getting unneeded attention from other officers.”

Hotch turned to Morgan. “Call Garcia, tell her—,”

“No need,” you interrupted. “I have direct files saved to my personal computer. It’ll be faster.”

Hotch eyes stayed on you, contemplating his choices.

“Morgan, get back to the precinct, update the others. l/n and I will retrieve the files.”

The car ride was…awkward to say the least.

Hotch had a million things he wanted to say, he needed to say. But somewhere between his heart and his voice, it died upon delivery.

“Spit it out,” you blurted out suddenly, forcing his attention to you.

“What?”

“You’re twiddling your thumbs and biting the inside of your cheek. Every time you look at me you take this gasp of air. What do you want to tell me?”

So many years had passed and yet you could still read him like the back of your hand.

“That was impressive back there…” he swallowed hard. “You’d make a good profil—,”

“Please don’t tell me you cooked up all of your guts just to tell me I’d be a good profiler,” you laughed.

It sounded harsh, but there was something in your tone that eased Aaron’s heart. He laughed too for the first time in a long time.

“No I guess not.”

However just as easily as the moment eased up, it easily tensed back into that painful silence.

“Why did you leave,” he blurted out finally.

Your smile dissolved so quickly, it pained Aaron to be the reason it was even there.

“I got an offer from UPenn. Full ride.”

Aaron frowned. “Congratulations.” It was genuine, despite how hollow his voice sounded. “But that’s not the real reason is it.”

Your voice suddenly felt very raw as you attempted to swallow back your emotions, but just as quickly as they left, it came back. “No…”

“Why—,”

“Because,” you burst out. “After that night, when you begged me to…” you couldn’t bear to finish that sentence. “…what we did…I couldn’t go back to what we were. It hurt too much to. I was ready to tell you everything when I saw you again but…you and Haley. She… I couldn’t do that to her.”

You were bearing your emotions out, on the verge of tears releasing every pent up emotion since that night and Aaron never felt more stupid in his life.

They had finally come at a red light when Aaron spoke up. “What night? What did I…what did I ask you to do?”

He was terrified of your answer.

But you. Everything in you stopped. Your heart, your brain, even your breath. Everything was so silent when you turned your head and finally looked him in the eye for the first time in ages.

“You really don’t remember?”

He shook his head. “No.”

No

No

No

His single word reverberated through your bones, sinking deep into your soul. What do you mean no?

You turned to the road, a humorless chuckle falling from your lips. “You don’t even remember.”

“y/n,” Aaron called your name with such desperation. “Please.”

You looked back at him, hearing that tone in his voice. Suddenly you were taken back to that night. Between the pleas in his voice and that depressingly sad look in his eyes, he looked just the way he did all those nights ago.

God how long is this light?

“You were drunk. Haley accused you of being in love with me. You begged me to kiss you to prove it was a lie.”

His heart squeezed in his chest and his lungs felt as if it was wrapped in barbed wire. It hurt.

“Did I?”

Your eyes flickered over to him for just a millisecond.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

part three out now!!

taglist: @mackannkees @gghostwriter

[lochnessie]

Thoughts on The Android (Animorphs #10) pt 2

Oh Erek is so cool actually what. Why did i dislike this book? Marco being marco? the ending of it? probly some of both i guess but it's not bad.

Oh that's why. Such 'intelligent' beings but they haven't yet figured out their definition of violence. I mean sure Erek isn't hurting the Yeerk in his head but he is stealing its memories and keeping it from living the life it intended to live, or any life at all. Like....that's a form of hurting/violence babe. I could think of a million ways the chee could help win this war without the fancy crystal, the first of which being running full defense. Go to a battle and just straight up be an animorph shield. no violence necessary beyond the enabling of it. Or be spies. Erek is already doing that and could be huge intelligence help for the animorphs. Could also probably set up communication with andalites or maybe other aliens to get allies in on this. like. come on. I know this needed to be a one off but like....seriously?

lmao okay have fun while it lasts kiddos

Lol Cassie you mean the Author? why in the world did you All have to do the wire maze? surely only one or two should have gone and then others could have stayed hugging the wall.

nothing to say really, that's just super fuckin cool. insane the damage marco took though. 'gorilla insides..my insides. My insides!' and getting stabbed in the heart only to barely morph out and still needing a shock to come back to life. Damn.

Rachel's tears. Fuck.

Okay i get why applegate included the paragraph about violence taking pieces of you and leaving scarred memories that never leave you or whatever but like. Erek you were a slave and have lived thousands of years. You've never been a war medic? Never saw the brutality of what a slave master would do? The tortures of the middle ages or whatever? That's gotta be fresh still too, and you rewrote your programming to be able to stop that from happening in your presence ever again. You're going to go back to nonconsensual pacifism without even a compromise because of 10 seconds of blood? And why haven't the Chee gone into politics? their definition of violence would allow for them to get in there and make for more peace all over the world? wtf have u guys been doing you assholes? ugh these guys make for too many plot holes.

see?! He could give them all untraceable cell phones they could call each other with! could probably bug a few yeerk ships and sharing meeting spots like. HELLO. chee spies!!

and those dogs who paddled out to leave the crystal in the ocean are just leaving it to wash up pretty soon. like that's not far enough for it to be gone for long but whatever. whatever man

[worldheadcanons]

☆ stalkertalia: there’s more!

requested by anon! gender neutral reader. starring . . . italy, china, prussia & germany. warning for stalking behaviors & nsfw (masurbation) hinted in china’s and discussed in germany’s parts. fandom masterlist found here. 📌 . . . author notes: this was fun to write! excited for the german brothers ^_^. i felt so mischievous while writing bc i hinted at quite a bit of things throughout these hcs (mostly just character relations but i’m ngl my personal hcs deff made their way in here). try to figure them all out if you dare!

feliciano vargas!

— feliciano calls and texts you regularly. his calls are usually just check-ins, making sure you’re doing well emotionally and physically. they’re typically short as well. his texts, however, are casual and flirtatious, as if you’re already well acquainted. not only that, but he texts you on and off for hours at a time. vargas doesn’t find it odd at all for him to text you in the afternoon and pick up your conversation from the morning as if no time passed. he fully expects you to go along with it, too.

— he’s vaguely sugar daddy-ish, also. he often buys you gifts so that you keep him unblocked. a new laptop? sure. brand new outfits from luxury brands? they’re delivered and left on your porch the very next day. anything and everything is on the table, it seems, which really makes you wonder why someone with so much money to waste has decided to bother little ol’ you. he’s not trying to buy your love, though, promise. feliciano just knows that the money and gifts help soften you up to him. you’re always more open to him after receiving a present or two.

— he knows an odd amount about your job and work schedule, as if he’s watched you at work. come to think of it, he probably has. he probably still does. vargas seems to know when you clock in, what you do for work, when you clock out, and even when you happen to go shopping for ingredients using your bosses’ card. how exactly he found out that you worked as a personal chef, you weren’t entirely sure.

— sometimes (really, a lot of the time) feliciano likes to play cute. maybe a better word would be coy, actually. he likes to pretend he’s not doing anything wrong, and even has the gall to text you every now and then something along the lines of ‘i don’t get why you’re so cold with me :(‘. he knows why you’re being so distant, of course. it’s no secret that his ways of contacting you are.. orthodox. but he also knows you’ll warm up to him soon enough. you’re soulmates. you will warm up to him.

— generally, he likes to use a fair amount of emoticons and emojis throughout his texts. not in a grandma way, but he’ll end his messages with red hearts or smiley faces, or even send a cute japanese emoticon your way. you asked him once how he knew about the emoticons japanese keyboard. his answer? he found it out from a friend, and though it was cute. he’s an… interesting.. guy. a guy who sends threats about the men you talk to in one text and cutesy emoticons in another.

— every now and then you play along with him, and in these moments, he feels himself falling more in love with you. you hold normal conversation, casual to the point of it being intimate (at least, in his mind it is). vargas views these rare events as you being your honest self. surely, your true self wants him just as much as he wanted you; you’re only hiding yourself because you’re scared of the intensity of your love. he’s deluding himself to a degree, but who doesn’t nowadays? he gets upset when you burst his bubble, anyhow.

yao wang!

— he doesn’t text and rarely calls. he usually writes letters; untraceable ones, of course, without a return address. he mails them himself, usually, though sometimes he has his employees deliver them. he’s old fashioned, what can he say. wang often writes about his love for you, how tempting you are.. never have you ever read such.. descriptive pieces of writing… it’s a little uncomfortable reading his more lustful letters. you try to ignore the stains at the edges of them…

— he likes sending you clothes to wear. sometimes yao sends designer brands, but mostly he sends everyday where. he tries not to send separate pieces, preferring to deliver whole outfits to your house (unlike his letters, the outfits are sent through standard delivery). what can he say? he loves seeing you in clothing he picked out. it’s a little bit about control, sure, matching you to his own artistic vision. but it’s also about providing for you. if you’d just let him into your heart, well, you’d never have to lift a finger again.

— god, you’re far too young for him. you’re closer to his son in age, really. sometimes he wishes that you’d marry his son, if only to ensure that you stay in his life. he’d see you during every family reunion and then some, as he would pop in every other day just to see you. wang might even move in with his son, claiming to need care, just to see your face. but even then, it’s not enough for you to be in his life. no, you should be his. maybe it was problematic, the age gap between you two. but you only live once, and his life is already partially gone!

— one day, three autumns. the chinese idiom rings true whenever you’re not around; one day without you feels like three full autumns. he often ends up asking around to see where you are. his questions are posed cleverly, disguised as common concern. yao’s no fool. he won’t let the world know of his affections towards you. not yet.

— outside of stalking, he tries his damnedest to get you to come work for his company. it would be much easier to keep tabs on you if you were one of his worker bees. wang’s even sweetened the deal a couple times, promising a high position right off the gate. unfortunately for him, you seem content working your current job. he’d buy the company you work under off your ceo but that seems a bit too obvious.

— has he been in your house? not without an invitation. he’s not a creep, after all. what he will do is send paid recon troopers to your property to record you in your private moments. they’re ordered not to view the footage. they’re to send all videos and photos directly to him and then delete them once they’ve been received. if you ever feel a pair of eyes watching you before bed, good news! it’s not yao — just the surveillance trooper that’s sending footage back to him.

gilbert beilschmidt!

— gilbert’s only ever into two types of people: anyone who can pull off the whole “sweaty warrior with muscles glistening in the sun” look and proper people that he can tease and fluster. his ex was the latter, but you.. you’re definitely the former. a welcome change of pace for him since his last break up was really messy.

— he met you at the gym. he was doing cardio on the treadmill while you were working arms nearby, your headphones neatly on your head. you weren’t dressed up much, just a baggy t-shirt and some gym pants, but god, your arms.. it was like seeing a walking greek sculpture. a dedication to the beauty of the human form.. something like that, bielschmidt figured. he’s not known for deep thoughts but you drag it out of him.

— when he met his cardio goal he turned off the treadmill, slinking off and making his way to you. he complimented your form, smiling, before asking you about your routine. the two of you hit it off and from there became gym buddies — on gilbert’s end, you were a bit more than that. he’d decided that you would be more than a simple rebound. he was determined to have you as his next partner.

— in his mind, you’re heaven sent after his bitch of an ex. that guy was the worst. okay, maybe he’s bitter about the whole break up, but that doesn’t really matter now that he has you! you, who he works out with thrice a week. you, whose home he found online two days after initial contact (it started as a search for your instagram and ended up with him finding your home and your mom’s facebook). you, who could definitely beat his ass… which makes him that much more attracted to you.

— beilschmidt knows that resorting to stalking is pathetic. but, hear him out: it’s only temporary. he’s doing his best to make moves on you in the gym but you don’t seem to pick up on them. he’s starting to wonder if you’re like his brother, someone who just doesn’t get social cues, or if you’re just trying to kindly reject him.. gilbert figures he won’t know until he tries some more. watching you from outside your windows is not a permanent gig. it’s just until he can get you to go out with him. that’s what he says to rationalize it, anyways.

— he’s a nail biter, and you best believe he was biting his nails down the first time he sees you outside of your gym rat clothes. from the window, he watches, entranced. lounge wear. you’re sitting on your coach in all your glory, watching some show in the cutest lounge wear he’s ever laid eyes on. god, the things you do to him. you oblivious god, you.

ludwig beilschmidt

— ludwig fell for you all too quickly. you were friends before, having gone to college together. now, you work in the same office. love strikes on a random wednsday during a casual lunch with coworkers. you laughed a little loud and half elbowed him in the process (you tend to hit when you laugh, he’s noticed) (he’s not not fond of the trait, though). it was then that he realized how warm you make him feel. you’re like a light, brightening the room even when you’re quiet. your mere presence is enough. wow. how amazing are you?

— i want to bathe in that light. it dawns on him that he wants to be with you, as more than friends. it’s not too hard to be close to you already; you seem to naturally gravitate towards sitting with him during casual work events and friendly hang outs. plus, the two of you already carpool together (it’s economical, is all). still, selfishly, he wants more. beilschmidt wants to date you.

— the german does try to be smooth as your anonymous stalker, often sending you packages full of things he thinks you’ll like. he’s indecisive, however, when it comes to you. is it wrong to want a great gift for a great person? the result of his indecision is him mailing you several versions of the same item with slight differences. accompanying these boxes on your porch is a stiff text to your phone that says ‘keep what you want, leibling, i just wanted to make sure i got it right. please leave feedback’.

— he sometimes wishes he had the confidence to confess to you in person. he’s worried about throwing away your friendship, though. strong friendships like the one you have are hard to make. they take years of effort and to toss it all away over a crush is… ridiculous, in ludwig’s eyes. no, he’s best handling things this way. even though he yearns to show his face and do more for you, he can’t. not yet. oh, how he dreams of fixing your squeaky door hinges and checking your engine. he’d clean your house for you, cook for you… what? it’s romantic to him, at least.

— he often takes your words literally. when you text beilschmidt any sort of feedback, he internalizes it. fortunately for him, you’re quite kind. you’ve yet to tell him to leave you alone or anything of that sort. it only furthers his love for you, the patience that you’re showing. he knows he’s not the most smooth (god knows — his brother won’t let him hear the end of it!) but he’s trying his best, promise.

— unbeknownst to you, he’s very… active. sexually. he hides it from you as much as he can; he isn’t like alfred, someone who’s shameless and will jerk off in your bushes. no, he’s much more reserved, jerking off with a stolen shirt of yours (he couldn’t push himself to steal panties after you invited him in as a friend). he does it in the corner of his room with the door locked, almost defensively. he feels lots of guilt when it comes to sex and sexual desire, which is partly why he’s still a virgin. after masturbating, he usually sits in silence for a couple minutes thinking over his life. this brief reflection doesn’t stop him from repeating the cycle later, though.

[alexanderlightweight]

Hi, an another prompt, because I love your writing. I understand it takes time to fill.

Prompt for stronger ties: Magus and Alec enjoying their honeymoon and maybe meeting Ragnor and Cat. Or The Institute, and Alec’s family panicking over his disappearance.

SFW/ NSFW

thank you for the understanding <3 and I appreciate the prompts! last part here

this was supposed to involve Cat and Ragnor but Malec are having too good a time on their honeymoon currently and Alec has decided that since Izzy and Jace are at least safe, they can handle the fallout along with all the people who have more authority than him (aka Lydia/Imogen/maryse etc).

Alec's tired, okay? Nothing has been going his way AT ALL, his whole family got implicated in treason (again) and then actually committed several flavors of treason and also implicated Alec. so Alec is tired. maybe he'd be less 'fuck them' if he'd been there to see Jace and Clary 'heroically try to save the day' except they didn't save the day and he knows that.

Suddenly one thing goes his way. he saves his sister. he might lose the institute but that's better than losing himself to a marriage that isn't doing anything to help his family when push comes to shove. Alec has a marriage now that actually gave him something worthwhile (Izzy not being deruned when Lydia couldn't do anything)

alec's like: this one thing? this is mine now. goodbye and ty for coming to my talk.

i hope you enjoy <3

-lumine

the stronger of claims

Alec wakes to silk sheets as soft and luxurious as he’s imagined Magnus’ many shirts are. Golden light dapples across his body and he groans, despite his muscles being fine he feels as if he’s been thrown through several layers of concrete by a demon.

The bed smells like Magnus.

That’s the only thing keeping him calm and then there’s a deep chuckle against his back and Alec realizes there’s an arm around his waist and cool rings pressed against the skin of his belly.

“We go' marri'd.” Alec means to be articulate but it comes out in a hoarse slurry of words and Magnus laughs again, louder this time.  His warm muscles shake Alec’s body with his humor and Alec presses back into his warmth greedily.

Whatever it is that has Alec unable to think straight, being closer to Magnus helps.

“We aren’t married darling, we’re bonded. Which is something far more permanent than marriage. In fact, even by Clave standards a bond like ours is higher than marriage. So give your pretty head a break, your attachment to Lydia is no longer viable.”

The small pulse of sadness that went through Alec at the thought that they aren’t actually married is swept away by relief at Magnus’ words.

“Good.”

That’s about all he’s able to say really and if he had more energy, Alec would turn so he can burrow his nose into Magnus’ chest.  Instead he just wiggles back, content when Magnus chin slots against his shoulder, stubble tickling Alec’s skin.

“Izzy?”

Magnus wouldn’t be here, calm and with the magic between them settled if she weren't okay but still, Alec has to ask.

—-

“Safe and sound though demoted for the next year and with a few other restrictions, shadowhunter business. Once I knew she was safe I didn’t pay quite as much attention I fear.”

A lie, but Alexander is too tired to listen beyond the relief of knowing his little sister is safe.

Alexander falls back asleep before Magnus can ask him anything important and while he’s already moved the loft, that doesn’t mean Magnus needs to be obvious about where they are and staying in Brooklyn is obvious.

Within half an hour Magnus is booked at one of the most private and luxurious selkie run resorts and is portaling both himself and Alexander to one of their private bungalows. The one half of a wardstone he’s been given is the only reason the coordinates even work, or they’d have to take a boat. 

After all, they can be tracked on land but on the water, they’ll be untraceable.

Instead it’s out on the ocean, magical stilts holding up water worn wood and crystal and ocean mined rock that create a paradise of beauty without interruption.  

Mundanes can’t sail through this area, it doesn’t exist to them and the wind wards will redirect their boats and bodies, no matter what.

It also means they’ll be completely impossible to track, which will be necessary once Alexander’s family remembers he exists and is missing.

Honestly, the fact that over twenty-four hours have passed since Alexander first came to him and yet Magnus has yet to receive so much as a text or fire message.  That kind of behavior says more than enough about his boy’s family.

They’ll need to make a stop at the Labyrinth after their honeymoon. Alexander’s new status will need to be documented and recorded and the vows he’ll need to swear as Magnus’ consort will need to happen as soon as possible.

But still, after this.

Alexander wakes to sunshine, cradled by both Magnus arms and the hammock he magicked them both into.  

There’s awe on his face as he looks around and almost knocks them both out of the hammock and into the water with a laugh as he sits up.

“Keep it up and I’ll let you fall in the water.” Magnus threatens and Alexander just grins cheekily at him, as if the pain of the new bond has finally faded and then his boy tips himself out of the hammock.

Magnus curses.

Not from the seawater splashing him, but from the fact that Alexander doesn’t immediately surface.  There’s a moment where concern and terror grip him, and then Alexander is surfacing further away, a look of delight on his face and he’s holding... Magnus deliberately drops his glamour to get a better look.

“Why are you holding a fish, Alexander?”

Alexander grins at him, hair slick and half in his eyes as he treads water.

“To eat? It seems pretty isolated out here. Aren’t you hungry?” While Magnus could eat again — he’s made sure to eat while Alexander slept — it’s not surprising that his boy is ravenous. What is surprising is that he caught a fish rather than just asking for something.

“Yes darling, but that’s what I have magic for.” 

Alexander looks dubious as he swims closer, somehow holding onto the slick fish with only one hand before pulling himself and the fish up onto the dock where he drops it pointedly in an empty bucket. Magnus resigns himself to losing this argument even before it's begun.

“But fresh fish tastes the best.” Alexander has his arms crossed and is pointedly staring Magnus down as Magnus tries to avoid looking at both Alexander and the suffocating fish he can hear flailing around the bucket .

“I can summon us the freshest of—” Alexander’s eyes darken with sadness and Magnus sighs and deliberately doesn’t pinch his nose. “Do you know how to dress and cook fresh fish?”

Alexander does it seems.  

He’s a little unsure and lacking in confidence once they get into the kitchen but it seems he knows how to clean and dress a fish.  Magnus even summons an apron for him, some dark purple piece he’d once gotten for Cat and Alexander just asks Magnus to help him tie it.

The real hiccup starts when Alexander summons a small blade to his palm, the knife glowing and bright as it unfurls.

“If I use an adamas blade to clean the fish, will you be allergic?” 

It’s such an absurd thing to consider but also an absurdly thoughtful check-in and Magnus has to kiss Alexander. Ignoring both the still wriggling fish and the small glowing blade his consort is holding. Magnus is also trying not to mention how there is an entire knife-block and drawer full of sharpened knives already in the kitchen that Alexander could use instead.

“I’ll be fine darling. Also I’m summoning bread and side dishes. We are not eating just fish, Alexander. There is a limit to my tolerance.”

There’s a huff of protest but when Magnus looks at him, Alexander is grinning down at the fish he’s cleaning, eyes soft and cheeks vibrant with delight.

It’s a look Magnus has never seen on Alexander before and while that shouldn’t be too much of a surprise — they barely know each other all things considered, it means something. Magnus doubts that this is a normal or frequent expression on Alexander's face and yet something as simple as this, teasingly arguing about dinner is enough to bring it out.

They eat on the dock.

So far Alexander hasn’t asked a single question about why Magnus portaled them somewhere else and seems to be ignoring everything else beyond enjoying himself.

Magnus summons a thick blanket and they sit in nothing but boxers with their feet in the water as they eat.  The fish is delicious. Flaky and succulent and with plenty of lemon and from Alexander’s smug face, he knows exactly how good it is.

However, Alexander’s face when he bites into the bread Magnus summoned is just as delighted and before Magnus can tease him, Alexander’s already recanted his previous statement.

“So from now on, I’ll fish and you summon everything else?” Alexander asks, almost eager as he eyes the now empty basket of bread and Magnus summons another, just because he can.

And of course for the way Alexander smiles at him, crumbs catching on his growing stubble until Magnus wipes them away.

“I’d rather not eat fish every meal, Alexander. The selkies running this place might consider your efforts an effective show and try to woo you away from me.”

Alexander scoffs at the thought and Magnus laughs, because while he’s not completely joking he also simply has no wish to eat seafood for every single meal.

Besides, he plans to keep them there for at least five days. That might be a bit long considering whatever crisis the shadowworld is currently going through, however Magnus kicked up a bit of a hornets nest for the Clave.

It will be days before Imogen Herondale thinks of anything besides her newly ground grandson, something Magnus will still need to explain to Alexander at some point.

AN:

Alec: i'm with Magnus and we're on water so we can't be tracked. I know nothing. i'm living my best life... oh fish. Magnus might like fish too.

Magnus: ... look I understand that fresh fish is best but that doesn't mean I want Alexander fishing with his bare hands when his hands could instead be on me?? is this hard to understand? I can summon fish still alive so they're the freshest of fresh but I want my consort's hands all to myself. this is not complicated.

Alec *wakes up in paradise aka Magnus' arms and in a really nice place*: so this is new- nice. I meant nice. this is totally normal and where I went to sleep. carry on.

Magnus: ... you don't want to know where we are? or how long we'll be here? or even why we are here?"

Alec: if I ask questions then you'll give me answers and right now, I just want to exist with you. reality doesn't exist outside us right now. that's my stance.

Alec: I don't have to marry lydia? I don't have to wear her rune? or kiss her? or make medically induced babies I don't want with her? I am on vacation and I don't care if the institute explodes or implodes or whatever. it goes to hell whether i'm there or not and literally everything is above my pay grade right now. that's what my mother, Lydia and imogen exist for. they can deal with it.

Magnus: darling, don't you need to return to the Institute at some point? i'm not complaining, you just haven't mentioned it once

Alec who is sharpening a wooden spear to use for fishing looking up, eyes glinting violently: what institute, Magnus?

Magnus: your... ah. well I suppose it's not really your institute anymore, is it?

Alec: no. no it isn't. therefore, are the problems mine?

Magnus wisely shaking his head: no darling, of course not.

Alec: when they want me back, they can contact me. I currently don't hold an active rank in the Institute. I'm technically just an off-duty Commander sometimes pulled onto teams. and while Lydia's been relying on me to run things behind the scenes, she can just do them herself or delegate. this is our honeymoon, isn't it? why are you trying to cut it short?

Magnus: you're completely right. forget the institute. I shan't bring it up again, now darling did you say you saw oysters?

*honestly i'm still not sure what path Alec's going to take in this verse. he's kind of at the point where he's not sure either

[heejamas]

YOUR HEART GOT TEETH | CHOI. YEONJUN ⨾

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

PAIRINGS 🗝️ mafia! yeonjun x fem! reader

WARNINGS ❜୧ violence, mafia themes, enemies to lovers, stabbing, blood, grief, all kinds of illegal activities, death of father figure, smut, dry humping WORDCOUNT ''. 28k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ٬ ✦ this is my first time writing a mafia fic and ngl i was super nervous 😭 i’ve never touched this theme before and i was so scared it would come off super cheesy or over-the-top but honestly?? i’m really happy with how it’s turned out so 🖤 hope you guys enjoy it!! Hi guys! this is rain @heesmiles, i'm making this layout for ronnie; i made the header too ! like this its so cutie core

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ#nowplaying - teeth by 5 seconds of summer

Some nights, you forget what peace feels like. And when silence finally settles, you start to miss the sound of violence.

That’s the first thing you think when the cold of 3:17 a.m. presses into your skin like a warning. It’s quiet, but not the good kind. This silence has sharp edges. Because you’re standing on the rooftop of a building that doesn't belong to you but answers to your name. The city stretches around you, lit up like a lie, glittering and full of ghosts. Somewhere out there, someone is bleeding. Somewhere out there, someone’s praying they never hear your name.

You light a cigarette you won’t finish, you never do. Smoke curls between your fingers like it’s dancing for you, like it knows you’re the queen here. The Ghost Queen, that’s what they call you. No face, no past, and also no mercy. No one knows you’re you, the daughter of the man who burned half the underworld down before disappearing into his own flames. No one knows you were born in blood and named after betrayal, and you like it that way.

Behind you, the rusted door creaks open, but you don’t turn around. You already know it’s Beomgyu, your second-in-command, and the only person in this city you’d trust with your back turned. “They're calling again,” he says. Voice quiet, always calm. “Third deal this week gone sideways.”

You don’t answer right away. You exhale, watching the smoke dissolve into the night. “Same buyer?” you ask.

Beomgyu steps closer and leans on the ledge next to you, the city lights flickering in his dark eyes. “Different face. Same pattern. Military-grade weapons intercepted. Police got there too fast. Like... too fast.”

There it is, the rot you’ve been sensing all week. Something is off, and now it’s crawling into your business. “Is it local?” you ask, keeping your voice flat.

Beomgyu hesitates. “Maybe. But it’s spreading. Not just us.”

You glance at him and he meets your eyes. And you both know what name you’re not saying.

Choi Yeonjun.

You haven’t seen him in years. Not since you were teenagers. But you push the memory down like a knife you’re not ready to twist. Instead, you focus on the facts. If someone’s feeding intel to the police, they’re not just targeting you. They’re tearing a path through the power lines of the city. And eventually, that path leads to the Crimson Order, Yeonjun’s organization.

You stub out the cigarette on the concrete ledge. “Let the others know,” you say. “We don’t move anything for the next 48 hours. Nothing leaves the vault unless it’s fireproof and untraceable.”

Beomgyu nods, but doesn’t leave. You can feel him watching you. “You think it’s him?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You don’t answer, not directly. Instead, your eyes drift toward the horizon, toward the part of the city where red lights burn hotter than the rest, his territory. You think about a scar on someone else's skin. A knife in your own hand. The way his eyes looked the last time he saw you — not scared, not angry, but betrayed.

“I think,” you say slowly, “if it is him... he’s about to wish it wasn’t.”

You turn away from the edge. And behind you, the city keeps burning, because it usually burns like this. Most nights, the city is a machine of smoke and steel, humming with secrets too loud to keep. Your world lives in the cracks — the places where rules bend, loyalty bleeds, and every smile hides a blade. You don’t live, you move, you calculate. You don’t love, you protect, you bleed. And you only bleed for a few.

Downstairs, the lights are low. This is home, if you believe in that kind of thing. This is where you chose to stay with them. 

Next to Beomgyu, Choi Soobin’s on a laptop, legs pulled up on the couch like he lives there, because he kind of does. He’s the quiet one, the one who smiles the least and notices the most. He tracks shipments, hacks through government walls like it’s a game. Lee Heeseung walks in with two guns and a bag of dumplings. He places the guns on the table like offerings and tosses you the food like it’s more valuable. He’s been with you since the beginning, an he still calls you “Boss” but smiles like you’re just yourself and that’s why you trust him. Park Jay and Huh Yunjin are arguing over blueprints at the far table. It’s not real fighting, it never is. They’ve known each other too long to mean it. Yunjin is lethal in heels and poetry, and Jay’s the kind of man who doesn’t speak unless it’s necessary, but when he does, people shut up. They were the last to join you, but they fell into rhythm like they’d been there from the start.

This is your family. No blood, no birthrights, only fire and choice. And every person in this room would kill for you. Every one of them knows exactly what you’ve done and why. They don’t ask questions, but they’d follow you into hell. 

There’s a map on the wall. Red pins, black threads, coded notes. The whole city, a body open for surgery. Beomgyu stands beside you, arms crossed, eyes on the patterns. “Third deal,” he says. “Same setup. Same leak.”

“Where’s the weak point?” you ask.

Soobin answers from the couch without looking up. “It’s not us.”

You nod once, you didn’t think it was. That’s when Heeseung speaks, voice low. “It’s coming from across the river.”

Across the river. Yeonjun’s territory. You feel it before you hear it, that low thrum in your chest, but it is not anger or fear. It is recognition, like something crawling back out of your bones.  “Gear up,” you say. “We’re not waiting to get burned. We’re going to find out who’s lighting the match.”

Your family starts moving. You send Heeseung and Soobin the next morning. Heeseung wears his leather jacket like it’s a second skin, and doesn’t ask questions. Soobin taps his fingers against the grip of his gun while scanning the coordinates, already thinking three moves ahead. They’ll take an unmarked car and rotate comms every two hours. They’ll report directly to you, always. You don’t need to follow them, because you never micromanage blood.

The days pass slowly, so you keep your hands busy, meet with suppliers, cut ties with a contact who got too loud, relocate a storage unit after a whisper of police movement near the docks. You don’t sleep much, but that’s normal. Sleep is a luxury for people who don’t have targets on their backs or memories carved into their ribs.

By the third day, Beomgyu starts getting twitchy. He hates silence, especially when it stretches too long and sounds like a setup. Heeseung and Soobin send in updates, but they’re dry — trail’s cold, warehouse clean, contacts nervous. You get the sense that something is missing. Something’s being wiped before they get there. And on the seventh day, everything shifts. You’re sitting in the back room, cigarette lit, going over surveillance notes with Yunjin when the alert pings. Intercepted frequency. Jay bursts in without knocking, holding a black phone like it’s about to explode.

“Got something,” he says. “Encrypted, but Soobin cracked it.”

You stand slowly, taking the phone from his hand. The message is short, just a few lines, but they slice clean through the room.

to the ghost queen. someone’s leaking our supply lines too. if it’s you, run. if it’s not, stay out of the way.next time, we won’t send a warning.

— ㅊㅇㅈ

Choi Yeonjun. Your jaw tightens, but you don’t say a word.

Beomgyu lets out a low whistle. “Bold move. Must think we’re the ones playing rat.”

Yunjin leans against the table, arms crossed, voice cold. “Or he’s deflecting. Trying to pin it on us so we back off and stop sniffing too close.”

Heeseung, now back and leaning in the doorway, shrugs. “Or he’s bluffing. He wants to see how we move.”

But your head’s already spinning faster. You know Yeonjun, you know how he plays. Or at least, you knew him. He doesn’t know who you are now. To him, you’re just the Ghost Queen — the nameless, faceless woman who rose out of nowhere and carved a throne in the darkest corners of his world. He doesn’t know you were once just Y/N. The girl who ran barefoot through his father’s garden, who once made him get a scar that still splits his left eyebrow in two.

He doesn’t know you’re the reason he can’t look in the mirror without remembering betrayal. And now he’s threatening you? Bold move.

You toss the cigarette into the sink. “He thinks I’m behind this,” you say, voice low.

Jay steps closer. “Or he wants you to think he thinks that. To distract us while he closes in from another angle.”

“No,” you reply. “He’s angry. You don’t write a message like that unless you’re cornered.”

Beomgyu leans in, resting both hands on the table. “So he’s losing product too. Question is—who’s behind it? Because if it’s not him, and it’s not us...”

“Then someone else is cleaning the city,” Yunjin finishes.

It could be another player. But still, you don’t like this, you don’t like being warned. Especially not by someone like Choi Yeonjun, who speaks in threats and smiles like he wants to see your throat split open on marble. And maybe that stings more than it should. You built a name that erased everything you were before. And now, the boy with the scar you gave him thinks you’re just another myth he wants to destroy. So, let him try.

You straighten up, eyes sharper than the knife tucked in your boot. “Let’s make something clear,” you say, voice slicing through the room. “If someone’s feeding the police, we find them first. If Yeonjun’s lying, I’ll put a bullet in his mouth myself. And if he isn’t…” You glance at Beomgyu. “Then we send him a message too.”

Because you're not the girl he remembers. You're the Queen now, and your crown is carved from bone.

It’s been nine days since the first message. Fourteen days since someone started slicing through your shipments. Ten days of second-guessing routes, switching hands last minute, cutting corners and biting your own tail to stay alive. And still, they get to you.

This morning, another one of your cargos is seized. The police raid the docks just before sunrise, like they were handed a map and a schedule. Two of your men are arrested, one doesn’t come back. You hear the news in your office, mid-call, with one hand resting over a blueprint of a nightclub you were planning to take over next quarter.

On the fourth day of that same week, you decide to visit one of your quieter fronts — a gas station on the edge of the city, off a highway no one pays much attention to unless they need fuel or a place to bury something. It’s clean, minimal, looks just like any other rundown 24-hour joint, but it moves more money in a month than most luxury clubs. You pull up in a car no one would suspect. Hoodie up, sunglasses on, no guards this time. You walk inside, nod to the clerk — he knows not to speak unless necessary — and head toward the back, checking the logs.

Your phone rings just as you're thumbing through the most recent drop. Beomgyu. You answer without a word. His voice comes fast, low, urgent. “I found something,” he says. “Someone’s been rerouting the trucks before they even leave the safehouses. Which means whoever it is — they’ve got eyes inside.”

You still and your pulse slows. “Inside?” you echo, cold.

“Not ours,” Beomgyu says. “Or at least, not directly. It’s third-party tech. Someone piggybacking our routes, cloning trackers, feeding fake data. They’re making it look like both our sides are fucking each other up — but it’s neither of us.”

You’re about to ask who, when the sound of an engine makes your skin pull tight. A car rolls up outside, not just any car. Matte black, sleek body, custom license. It purrs into the lot like it owns the place. You don’t need to ask, because you know who it is before the door even opens.

Choi Yeonjun steps out of the driver’s side like he’s in a goddamn movie. Hair red like a warning, he’s wearing a long coat and sunglasses, but his scar is still pretty visible. He doesn’t look your way, he doesn’t know to. But he looks around the station, just once — a subtle glance, head tilted slightly like he knows exactly whose turf he’s standing on.

You press the phone closer to your ear. Beomgyu keeps talking, unaware of what’s unfolding in front of you. “I traced the breach back to an old supplier. Guy named Kang Minjae. He used to deal with Kim Mingyu’s crew before it fell. Now he’s freelance. Works with cops, rivals, whoever pays more. Guess who he’s been talking to lately?”

Your eyes stay locked on Yeonjun as he pops the gas tank, leans against the car. He doesn’t see you. He doesn’t recognize the girl who split his eyebrow open thirteen years ago. The one whose last name he still associates with betrayal. The one who’s now watching him from twenty feet away with the quiet rage of a storm about to break.

You whisper, “Tell me.”

Beomgyu answers. And your world shifts again. “It’s him,” he says. “He’s the one working with Kang Minjae. I double-checked the comms log. That message he sent last week? It was a bluff. He’s trying to pin this whole thing on you while bleeding you dry.”

You don’t say anything at first, just watch him from the other side of the gas station glass. Still leaning against the car like he’s waiting for something, or someone. So you think, of course it’s him. Of course it’s Yeonjun. The one person whose silence you still carry in your bones. The one boy you hurt enough to leave a scar, and the one man who turned that scar into a warning sign. 

You end the call without a word. Then, quiet and calm, you step into the backroom, peel off your hoodie, and pull your hair into a loose ponytail. You find one of the spare uniforms hanging behind the door, a faded blue jacket with an old patch on the sleeve. You smear a thumb under each eye, rubbing out whatever leftover makeup you had on. Just your face now, just your skin, just your eyes.

Let’s see if he remembers. So you walk outside, heart steady. 

“Can I help you?” you ask, voice casual but clear.

Yeonjun looks up, slowly. His sunglasses are still on, but his jaw tenses the moment your voice hits him. Something flickers. He straightens up just a little, head tilted like he’s trying to place you. The way your shoulders square. The curve of your mouth. Your eyes. 

“I’m good,” he says, but his voice is slow. Not arrogant, not yet. “Just filling up.”

You glance at the screen, and see the tank’s already full. You nod and move to ring him up inside. He follows, steps behind you like a shadow. You tap the register. “Card or cash?”

“Card,” he replies, watching you more than the screen.

You swipe it. Let it beep, pass it back with a steady hand. Up close, it’s easier to see the details of him, even with the sunglasses still on. The sharp line of his jaw, the way the light cuts through the red in his hair, the scar across his left eye like it was drawn there on purpose. It should’ve ruined his face, but it didn’t. If anything, it makes him look better, meaner, more interesting. Not that you’d say that out loud.

You allow yourself one second too long looking at him, cataloging the face you haven’t seen in years, now grown into something more dangerous, more defined. The mouth you remember yelling at you in a warehouse soaked in blood. And yet now, he stands there like nothing ever touched him.

So you smile, controlled. Tucked into the corner of your mouth. “Car like that?” you say, tilting your head toward the blacked-out Mercedes behind him. “Little risky to bring it to this side of town. People might start thinking you don’t know where you are.”

It’s not a threat, but it tastes like one. He lowers his sunglasses just a little, just enough to actually look at you properly this time, and something shifts in his expression. Not shock or recognition, but something close. His eyes drag across your face like they’re chasing a memory. He hesitates, just enough for you to catch it, before smirking, lazy and sharp.

“Maybe I like risky,” he says, voice smooth as velvet with a rip underneath. “Keeps things interesting.”

You raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. You’re good at silence, better than he is. He lingers for half a beat too long, then slips the sunglasses back up, nods once, and heads for the door. The bell jingles as he exits, like it’s mocking you for letting him walk out so easy.

You stay behind the counter. Heart slow, breaths slower. He doesn’t know it’s you, but he looked at you like he almost did. And that’s worse than anything else, because now, he’ll start remembering. And if there’s one thing you know about Choi Yeonjun, it’s this: once he starts digging, he never stops.

The garage door slams shut behind you with that low, dragging creak that always feels too loud at night. The sound echoes through the old warehouse and you shrug off the jacket, throw the cap onto the nearest couch, and run a hand through your hair like it might wipe the whole evening clean. It doesn’t.

Beomgyu’s already waiting by the maps on the wall, arms crossed, head tilted, that focused look on his face he only gets when he knows he’s about to tell you something you won’t like. You don’t give him the chance to start. “I fucked up,” you say, blunt. 

Beomgyu doesn’t even blink. “Define fucked up.”

You pace. “I saw him. At the station. Just pulled in like he owned the place.”

“The car?”

You nod once. “Blacked-out Benz. Had to be him. And I—” You stop pacing and let out a breath. “I went to him. In disguise, just to see.” Beomgyu’s expression barely shifts, but you know him well enough to read it. He’s not surprised, just disappointed you didn’t tell him earlier. “He didn’t recognize me, or if he did, he didn’t show it. But still—” You sigh deeply. “It was stupid. I acted on instinct. That’s not how I do things anymore.”

You go quiet, the room does too. Then Beomgyu steps forward, flipping a paper file onto the table in front of you. Names, numbers, a few blurred photos stapled to the corner. “I found something,” he says, tone low. “He made a deal with Kang Minjae. Three weeks ago. Off the books, hush-hush, no lieutenants present. And guess who’s been quietly partnering with the militia to wipe competition out and feed the cops enough bait to look clean?”

You stare at the papers, your mouth goes dry. “So he is behind the intercepted shipments.”

Beomgyu nods once. “Looks like it.”

You lean forward, hands braced on your knees. “Then I was right. He didn’t go to that station for gas. He was sending a message. He wants to be seen. Or worse—he wanted me to see him.”

Beomgyu shrugs. “Maybe he suspects the Ghost Queen’s closer than he thought.”

That makes your stomach twist. You’ve built this empire in shadows, piece by piece, and no one ever tied the Ghost Queen to Y/N. You made damn sure of it. But today, you played with fire. “I can’t afford to be found,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Not by him. Not yet.”

Beomgyu crouches down in front of you, voice quiet but grounded. “Then you need to start playing like the Queen you are. No more instincts. No more stunts. You want to beat Choi Yeonjun? You outthink him.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s no fear there, not in him, but there’s belief in you. And you’re going to need that—every ounce of it. Because the closer Yeonjun gets to the truth, the more dangerous this game becomes. And if he remembers who you are? It’s not just your empire at stake, it’s everything.

You tell yourself it’s just another week. Another cycle. Another set of moves on the board you’ve been playing for too long to lose now. You and Yunjin meet in one of the upper rooms of the safehouse—no names, no phones, just the two of you and the map on the wall. Routes are rerouted, codes are changed. You think, maybe this time, you’re a step ahead.

Tuesday brings in a storm. You send Heeseung and Soobin out again. A small job, just a tail. Follow a man who’s been asking the wrong questions in the right places. He’s tied to Minjae. You’re sure of it, you just need proof. They leave before the sun’s up, but they don’t come back that night.

Wednesday, you don’t sleep. You sit in your office, boots up on the edge of the desk, the dim light of the monitors painting your face in cold blue. Beomgyu doesn’t say much, just brings coffee, updates, silence. Every phone buzz makes your pulse spike, but you don’t show it. 

Thursday morning, Heeseung stumbles through the gate, half-carried by Jay and bleeding down the side of his arm. No Soobin.

Your chest collapses in on itself the second you realize it. Heeseung’s face is torn, his voice barely works. “They knew we were coming,” he rasps. “They weren’t following us. We walked into it. Trap.”

He looks at you like he’s sorry, like he failed. You don’t say a word. You just turn, walk straight past everyone, slam the door behind you, and scream. You hit the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then another. You don’t care. You don’t even notice the blood on your knuckles until Beomgyu’s there, catching your wrist, holding it firm. “Y/N,” he says, voice low but grounding. “We’ll get him back.”

You shake your head, blinking hard. “No. I’m not risking anyone else. This time, it’s me.” 

Beomgyu doesn’t argue. He sees the fire in your eyes and knows better, so does everyone else. 

Thursday night, you sit alone in the old car parked on the edge of the city, staring out at the skyline. Your fingers tap the steering wheel, and you remember Soobin’s laugh in the safehouse kitchen. The way he always made sure you ate something, even when you were too caught up in work. The way he smiled like he didn’t belong in this world, like he was born for something softer, but he chose this. Chose you, and now he's gone. Taken. Probably tortured, maybe worse.

Friday morning, you open the vault. Pull out the black case no one’s seen in months. The one with the custom-made Glock, etched with your mark. You strap it to your side like a second skin, then tie your hair back with steady fingers. Jay says nothing when you pass him by. He just nods once, knows what this means. Heeseung sits on the couch, still stitched up, eyes hollow. You stop in front of him, crouch down to his level.

You press your forehead against his for half a second. “You did good. Rest now.”

He squeezes your hand, weak but alive. Then you stand. And for the first time in a long time, you feel it again—the burn in your chest, the ice in your spine. The part of you that built all of this from nothing. The part of you they call Ghost Queen like a prayer or a warning. You don’t wait for vengeance, you bring it.

You don’t say much on the drive there. Beomgyu’s hands are steady on the wheel, the engine humming under your feet like something alive. Jay sits beside you in the backseat, silent, but his eyes flick to yours every now and then, reading the mood. He knows, they both do. You’re not going in to play tonight.

The car turns onto a narrow street lit by red neon and the low buzz of cheap pop music leaking through walls. There’s no name on the building, just a flickering sign shaped like a crown, bent at the edges. Everyone in the city knows what it is. One of the quieter spots owned by Choi Yeonjun’s empire. A place where people talk when they’re not supposed to. A place that only exists because Yeonjun wants it to. You know it’s not a front, but it’s a center. Information moves through this place like blood. And tonight, you’re here to bleed it dry.

Beomgyu kills the engine. You step out of the car, heels hitting the ground like a rhythm no one dares interrupt. You’re dressed like you mean it—tailored black, gold at your wrists, your presence sharper than the weapons you keep hidden. Your eyes lined dark, mouth cold and still. You don’t wear your name on your face, but it clings to you anyway. And people turn to look, they always do.

Jay walks to the bouncer first. The guy’s thick, tattooed, wired on something too cheap to be clean. He squints at the three of you like he’s trying to put the puzzle together. But before he opens his mouth, Jay leans in and says one word, a password. You don’t know how he got it, but you trust him with this.

The bouncer stiffens, then he steps aside. You walk through it like you’ve been here before—which you haven’t, not like this. Not as yourself. You’ve sent people and you’ve heard stories. But this is you, in person, in full view.

And it doesn’t take long. You step into the main lounge, the music drops, low bass humming under the floor. Laughter dies in someone’s throat, glass clinks against tile, and then silence. You don’t have to say who you are, you’re not wearing a name tag. But Jay and Beomgyu are flanking you like twin wolves, and their faces are too well known to mistake. Ghost Queen never shows her face. But if they’re here like this—shoulders squared, eyes sharp—then everyone knows exactly who you must be.

In the far corner of the room, someone’s already moving. Calm, fast, precise. You spot him instantly—Kang Taehyun, right-hand to Yeonjun. He’s not dressed for war, but he’s always ready. His eyes land on you, then Jay, then Beomgyu. You can see the calculations spinning in his head, and then he moves. Not toward you, but toward the bar. With one sharp wave of his hand, he clears the place. Quietly, efficiently, like pulling a fire alarm with no fire. The girls disappear first, then the customers, then the staff. Soon, it’s just you, and Taehyun, and your two.

You step forward, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing just inside the circle of light that frames the empty dance floor. The music shuts off completely. You watch Taehyun’s posture shift, guarded, still polite, but alert. Always alert.

He speaks first. “Well,” he says, voice low and calm. “Didn’t think you’d ever step out of the shadows.”

You tilt your head. Don’t smile. “I thought you might appreciate a house call,” you answer. “Seeing as your boss likes sending threats through back channels.”

Jay doesn’t blink. Beomgyu rolls his shoulder, one hand casually near his waist, close to the blade you know is strapped under his jacket. Taehyun smiles, just a little, not kind. “He didn’t know who he was threatening,” he says.

“Neither do you,” you reply.

And for a second, just one heartbeat, the room feels like it’s holding its breath. You let the silence stretch. Let it cut. You’re not here to bluff. You’re not here to talk things through. You’re here to make sure they know what’s coming if this war keeps building. And Taehyun, smart as he is, knows that too, so he doesn’t speak again.

You take another step forward. “They took one of mine,” you say, voice low but steady. “I want him back.”

There’s a flicker in his expression, barely there. “You’re assuming we have him.”

You tilt your head. “You think I’d come here without knowing?”

Taehyun’s gaze narrows. “Even if you know where he is… what makes you so sure we’re the ones holding him?”

You smile, sharp and humorless. “Because he wouldn’t have gone down easy. And because whatever game you’re playing with these intercepted shipments, it’s gotten messy. Sloppy. And I know Yeonjun doesn’t like messy.”  Taehyun’s silence drags out a little too long. You sigh. “I’m not here to talk circles with lieutenants. If I came here in person,” you say, voice colder now, “you should know I came to talk to your boss too.”

Beomgyu finally breaks. “Are you sure about that?” His voice is low, close to your ear, but loud enough to carry. You glance at him, and it’s not even a smile this time, just a look, calm and certain. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.”

That’s when the air shifts. The lights don’t change, but everything else does. A shadow unsticks itself from the far corner of the room, like it had been there all along. Leaning, watching and waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

“And you’re sure I have him.”

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

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

Your blood goes still. It’s not the words, it’s the way he says them. Like he knows something he shouldn't, like he remembers something he can't place. Like he’s talking to the stranger you used to be. So you meet his eyes, hard. “You have no idea who you’re talking to.”

He studies you for a long beat. Then he shrugs, the smirk still curling at his mouth like it’s carved there. “Maybe not. Or maybe I do, and you just don’t want me to.”

Your jaw tightens, but your face stays still. This is what he does, gets under skin, lingers where he’s not welcome. “Get him back to me,” you say. “Unharmed.”

Yeonjun tilts his head slowly, his eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to peel something back. “You know,” he says, voice smooth, laced with amusement, “I thought it was kind of cute. You, playing dress-up at that gas station. Hiding behind a hoodie like you were just some bored girl with a job to do.” His gaze sharpens. “But I’m not stupid. That face... it’s too familiar.” You say nothing, let him keep talking. His smile widens, all sharp teeth. “You ever work here before? Place like this? You’ve got the look. Maybe you were one of the girls. Back in the day. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Beomgyu steps again, this time, sharper, but you lift a hand and stop him without even looking. One slight move, and he stills, but the anger radiating off of him is palpable.

Yeonjun laughs, low and cruel. “You should keep your dog on a tighter leash.” He looks Beomgyu dead in the eye, then flicks his gaze back to you. “Lucky guy. Not everyone gets to have someone so beautiful and so... bossy.”

You tilt your head, slow, unimpressed. “I didn’t come here to listen to you flirt badly.”

He smirks. “I’m just saying, I like to know who I’m dealing with. And you’ve got secrets, sweetheart. Big ones.” His tone drops into something darker. “Like how you knew we had your guy.”

“I want him back,” you say, firm. “I don’t care who took him. If he’s in your territory, he’s your responsibility.”

Yeonjun shrugs. “Unfortunately, wasn’t me. I’ve got no reason to touch your people. Unless, of course, you’re working with the cops. Then we’ve got bigger problems.”

You blink once. “I’m not working with the fucking cops.”

He raises both eyebrows, mocking. “Could’ve fooled me. They’ve been intercepting my shipments. Getting real cozy with someone, and it sure as hell ain’t me.”

“I was going to say the same thing about you,” you snap, stepping forward. “Maybe you should look in the mirror before pointing fingers. You’re the one making deals with Kang Minjae. You think I don’t know?”

His smile falters just a fraction, but it’s there, and you catch it. The briefest glitch in his mask. “You’re bluffing,” he says, but there’s less certainty behind it now.

“So are you,” you fire back. “And here we are.”

Silence stretches between you like wire, razor-thin and ready to snap. The whole place feels tighter, tense. Taehyun is on edge, Beomgyu is burning beside you, and Jay’s eyes haven’t left Yeonjun once. But it’s just you and him in this moment. Two predators playing at civility.

“Talk so pretty,” he murmurs, lips curving slow. “But your heart got teeth.”

You stare at him, eyes cold. He still doesn’t know who you are. But he’s close, too close. And you can feel your past creeping in, inch by inch, on the heels of a boy with red hair and a scar you gave him.

Yeonjun exhales slowly, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze. “Well,” he drawls, almost bored, “unless this is just your very dramatic way of asking me out, I’m starting to think we’ve got a problem, sweetheart.”

Beomgyu scoffs under his breath, mutters something you catch just barely—“prick”—but you shut it down with a look.

Yeonjun doesn’t even glance his way, his entire focus is on you. “See, here’s the thing,” he goes on, voice low and almost amused, “I thought you were just fucking with me. And maybe you still are. But there’s one tiny detail I keep coming back to.” He leans forward just a bit, elbows resting on his knees. “My shipments are going missing. Yours are too. That doesn’t sound like a coincidence to me.”

You don’t blink. “No. It doesn’t.”

“So either one of us is a very good liar,” he tilts his head, mock-thoughtful, “or we’ve got an enemy in common.”

Beomgyu shifts beside you, stiff. “You expect us to believe you’re not behind it?”

Yeonjun finally glances his way, lip curling slightly. “I expect you to shut up when the grown-ups are talking.” Beomgyu starts forward, but your hand lands on his chest, firm and contained. You shake your head once, and he steps back, jaw tight. “Cute,” Yeonjun murmurs. “Protective. You trained him well.”

You take a slow breath and turn to him fully. “We need to talk.”

“Aren’t we already?”

“Alone.”

He lifts a brow, clearly amused. “Wow. So forward.”

Taehyun looks at you, then Yeonjun, then you again. “Boss?”

Yeonjun shrugs, standing. “Why not? Let’s see what the queen has to say when she’s not hiding behind her princes.”

Beomgyu steps in immediately. “Gyu,” you say, calm but sharp. “Wait here. If I scream, kill everyone.”

That gets a reluctant laugh from Jay. “Subtle as always.”

You follow Yeonjun down a narrow hallway that leads to a private back room. He walks slowly, shoulders loose, like nothing in the world could touch him. Like he owns the floor and the city beneath it. You wonder, as you follow, how many people he’s fooled with that walk. You wonder how many more he’ll fool before someone finally gets to him.

He holds the door open for you, exaggerated and mocking. “After you, Your Highness.”

You brush past him with your chin high, and he shuts the door behind you. The room is dim, velvet-draped, stinking of expensive liquor and older secrets. You stand in the center and he leans on the edge of the table, arms folded, watching.

“So,” he says, that smirk never quite leaving his face, “what’s this? A truce? A confession?”

You cross your arms. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

You sigh, tired already. “Look. I don’t trust you. You don’t trust me. But if you’re telling the truth—if you’re really not behind this—then someone’s running both of us in circles.”

“And you think pillow talk’s gonna fix it?”

You step closer, tone steady. “I think two people with a common enemy have two choices. Work together, or let the enemy win.”

He laughs. “Work together?” he echoes. “That’s rich. Tell me, sweetheart, how do I team up with someone who won’t even tell me her name?” You don’t answer, not yet. He watches you, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to draw your outline in his mind. Then: “I know I’ve seen you before,” he says quietly. “Not just the gas station. Somewhere else.” You lift your chin and he studies your face. Silence lingers a little too long, and then his voice cuts through it. “You’ve got a war in you,” he says, slowly. “And I’m starting to think I like it.”

You almost smile. Almost, but not for him. Instead, you say, “If I’m here, it’s because someone I love is missing. And if I find out you had anything to do with that—”

Yeonjun cuts in, voice low and wry. “You’ll burn my empire to the ground? Sounds exhausting.” He tilts his head. “How about we skip the empty threats and you just tell me the truth.” Your expression doesn’t shift. He takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the smugness radiating off of him. “I’ll help you,” he says, voice casual, almost bored. “I’ll find out who took your boy and who’s fucking with our shipments.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what’s the catch?”

Yeonjun’s smile sharpens. “Tell me how we know each other.”

“We don’t.”

“Wrong answer.” He clicks his tongue. “Come on. You recognized me at the gas station. You came straight up to me wearing that little worker costume like you were playing a part. But you knew exactly who I was.”

You scoff, folding your arms. “The red hair, the expensive car, the scar. People talk.”

His eyes narrow, and he doesn’t believe you, not really. But he doesn’t push yet. “Hm,” he hums. “Yeah, people do talk. That’s the problem.” His gaze drifts over your face again, lingering. There’s something behind it now, not just arrogance. “You look like her, you know.” You stay still, too still. He keeps going, voice lower now. “The one who gave me this.” He gestures lightly to the scar slicing through the skin just above his left eye. “Never saw her coming. But when I did—she smiled. Just like you did. That kind of smile sticks.”

Your mouth is dry. “Sounds like she was smart.”

He tilts his head. “She was. Dead, though.” He shrugs, mock regretful. “Shame. She was pretty. Kinda looked like you.”

You shrug too, cool and detached. “Pretty girls die every day.”

“Mm,” he smirks. “True. But they don’t all pull blades on me and vanish.” You hold his stare. Let the weight of it settle between you. If he knows, he’s playing a long game, but you’ve been playing longer.

“Do we have a deal or not?” you ask.

He licks his bottom lip, just briefly. “I’ll help,” he says finally. “We both want the same thing. Whoever’s behind this is making a fool out of both of us. And I don’t like being made a fool.”

“Neither do I.”

“So,” he says, pushing off the table, standing to his full height, “you’ll give me updates, and I’ll give you mine. We trace the leaks. We find your boy. We kill whoever’s responsible.” You nod, slow. “Temporary alliance,” he adds. “Don’t get clingy.”

You almost laugh at that. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Yeonjun grins again, dark and satisfied. “You’re really not gonna tell me your name?”

You lean in close, just enough that your lips almost brush his ear. “Would ruin the mystery, wouldn’t it?”

And with that, you turn and walk out, leaving him standing there, half-sure he just made a deal with the devil. And maybe a little intrigued by the fire still burning behind your eyes.

Jay and Beomgyu are standing where you left them with shoulders tense, gazes sharp, like they’ve been waiting for a gunshot. You don’t have to say much, you never do. Your heels click softly across the velvet floor, past flashing lights. You stop only when you’re close enough for them to hear you without raising your voice. “Let’s get out of here,” you say, smooth and low. 

Jay doesn’t say a word, just nods once. Beomgyu exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you walked in. As you reach the main doors, pushing past the heavy curtains, the air changing from incense and heat to something colder, Yeonjun’s voice calls out from across the club.

“Your Highness!”

You don’t flinch, but you stop. When you turn, he’s leaning lazily against the far wall, arms crossed like he’s got all the time in the world. Lit from behind, half in shadow. “Taehyun’ll be your point of contact,” he says, like it’s a gift. “He’s good with updates. Polite, too. I’m sure your boys will love him.” You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. He adds, “Try not to miss me too much.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Just turn on your heel, long coat brushing your calves, and disappear into the dark.

The next few days move slow. Taehyun reaches out first. He’s cold and precise, just like Yeonjun promised. Every message comes through clean, encrypted. You assign Jay to keep the line open, Beomgyu to cross-check everything with your own intel. Heeseung handles the shadows, the street-level whispers, what people don’t say out loud.

There’s a name that keeps surfacing: Kang Minjae. You already had your suspicions, but now the links are undeniable. Minjae’s been moving like a roach in the walls, playing every side that lets him breathe a little longer. Yeonjun’s people confirm he’s got connections in the militia, and that he’s been sniffing around routes that were meant to stay quiet. Some of the evidence leads to areas only your own crew had access to — which means the leak might be internal. That truth burns worse than anything else.

You’re careful, never in the same place twice. Your face remains out of sight, your name still a whisper wrapped in fear. But inside your core, something's cracking. Soobin is still missing. His trail is faint, but not cold. Some surveillance footage caught a convoy passing through a border checkpoint under fake credentials, days after he vanished. The timestamp lines up with the night you lost him. Jay triangulates the route. Heeseung maps it. It points to a facility miles outside the city — nothing official, but everyone knows who controls it.

Militia. And you know who’s protecting them.

So you wait. You sharpen your knives in silence. Every meeting with your crew is sharper, tighter, more desperate. You sleep less, smoke more. And every time an update comes in from Taehyun, you read between the lines, looking for Yeonjun’s voice in the spaces where it shouldn’t be. He stays quiet. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad, but you’re sure of one thing: this isn’t over, not even close.

It’s a Tuesday. You head to one of your quieter spots, a laundromat tucked behind a strip of closed-down shops, one of your smaller fronts. No one’s supposed to be there but your crew. You’re not there for show, you’re there for air. Heeseung walks a step behind you, always watching. You push through the metal door, let it clang shut behind you, and immediately feel that slight shift in energy. Someone’s sitting on one of the folding tables near the back, legs swinging lazily, fingers drumming on the edge.

You know that face. Hueningkai. He shouldn’t be here.

Heeseung stiffens behind you before you can even whisper. Your body moves before your mind does, in casual steps, but the kind that keep your right hand free. Kai’s head lifts when he sees you, and he smiles. Bright, almost naive. “Didn’t know this place was open to the public again,” he says, voice all sunshine and breathy charm. He looks between you and Heeseung like you might be siblings, or hired help. “Nice jacket.”

You lean back against a dryer. Calm, but your pulse is sprinting. He doesn’t know you, not yet. But you know him, you’ve read his file. The boy with the baby face and the mind like a minefield. He works for Yeonjun. Keeps his hands clean, his lips looser than they should be. He plays dumb, but he isn’t.

You don’t answer him. Instead, you tilt your head toward Heeseung, eyes sharp. Handle it.

Heeseung steps forward. “What are you doing here?”

Kai shrugs. “Waiting for someone, I guess.”

“Someone sent you?”

“Kind of. We’re looking into something. One of Minjae’s old associates might’ve used this building a few weeks ago. It’s near the harbor.”

Your breath catches, because the harbor is too close, too damn close to where Soobin’s trail last pinged. If they think there’s a hideout nearby—you cut your own thought off. Your eyes snap back to Kai, who’s now looking at you more closely. Heeseung’s moved into a partial block, but it doesn’t matter. You can feel the recognition click behind Kai’s irises like a switch flipped without permission. His smile fades.

“Wait,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’re her.” Heeseung shifts, ready. Kai doesn’t move, but something in his whole posture turns glassy. “The Ghost Queen,” he murmurs. “Huh. You’re prettier than they said.”

You want to ask who said what, but you don’t. You’re too busy trying not to tip into a panic. Soobin. If Kai’s here, if he knows this spot’s hot, how long before they relocate Soobin? Or worse?

You step forward. “How close is the location?”

Kai blinks at you. “Close enough that you being here just set off some very loud alarms.” His smile returns, but it’s hollow now. All teeth, no warmth. 

You swallow hard. Rage pressing tight behind your ribs. You glance at Heeseung — you could go. You could move now, you could flip the building upside down, if Soobin’s that close. 

“You really shouldn’t let your emotions make your calls for you,” he adds gently, like he’s offering advice. “Someone could use that.” You should answer him. But then Kai reaches for his phone, calm and polite, and you don’t stop him. He dials fast, brings the phone to his ear with a sweet little hum. 

“Hey,” he says into the receiver. “It’s me. Yeah, no — I’m fine. But she’s here.” There’s a pause. His eyes stay on yours the whole time. “She’s nervous,” he says. “Like, the bad kind of nervous.” Another pause. Then: “No, no. She hasn’t done anything. But she might move before she should.”

He hangs up without waiting for a goodbye. Your throat is dry and your fists ache from clenching. Kai slides off the table and stretches like he’s just woken up from a nap. “Anyway,” he says brightly, “you should probably clear this place out. I’d hate for things to get messy again.”

Then he waves, cheerful and friendly. Insane. And walks out like he owns the air. Heeseung watches the door for a full minute after it closes, and you’re shaking slightly. Not from fear, from fury and desperation. From the suffocating ache of knowing that Soobin could be so close and you’re still one step behind. You exhale. 

“Heeseung, call Beomgyu. Jay. Everyone. Now.”

You’re already moving. Your voice comes out sharp, controlled, but barely. Your heart’s not in your chest anymore, it’s somewhere else, screaming. You shove open the back door of the laundromat and suck in air like you’ve been drowning. Heeseung’s at your side in an instant, grabbing your wrist. “You can’t just storm into this,” he says. “You’re not thinking—”

“I am thinking,” you snap. “I’m thinking that Soobin’s still alive. And if I waste another minute twiddling my fucking thumbs, he won’t be.” Your chest heaves. “He’s not just crew, Heeseung,” you whisper. “He’s family. He’s mine. If they kill him just to send me a message—” You cut yourself off, jaw tight. “I can’t live with that.”

Heeseung hesitates. He wants to fight you on it, but he sees your eyes. The shaking in your hands. The fear twisting beneath all your armor. “I’ll call them,” he says finally. “But if you’re wrong—”

“I’m not.”

He doesn’t argue again. You pace like a storm while he makes the calls, and twenty minutes later, you’re piling into two black SUVs with Beomgyu, Jay, Heeseung, Yunjin and three others you trust with your life. Nobody talks much. There’s no plan, just a location and a name and too many emotions to fit inside one car.

Beomgyu drives like he’s got something to prove. You’re in the front seat, fingers twitching in your lap. The closer you get, the more it feels like your skin’s turning inside out. “Are we sure this is it?” Jay asks from the back. “No chance it’s bait?”

“It’s always bait,” you say. “But sometimes the mouse still has to bite.”

The harbor comes into view, with containers stacked in quiet patterns, dim lights humming, the water black and endless. Beomgyu slows down before turning in, park just behind a half-burned warehouse a few blocks from the drop point. Everyone starts checking weapons. You don’t even glance at yours, it’s second nature by now. What you do look at, though, is the sleek black car that turns the corner right as you do. Expensive. You don’t need to see the plates because you know exactly who it is.

Beomgyu sees it too and his mouth twists. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

You stare as the engine cuts. The car door opens, and Yeonjun steps out like a goddamn ghost from a fire. Hair tied back, long coat, no urgency in his bones — just that unbearable swagger that you want to tear off his face, again. You exhale through your teeth. Beomgyu mutters something violent under his breath, already half-reaching for his gun. You stop him with a look.

“We might need him,” you say.

“Yeah? Or maybe he’s just here to gloat when they drag Soobin’s body out of the water.”

“Either way,” you say coldly, “we’re finding out.”

Heeseung joins you as you step out of the car. “You still wanna go in with no plan?”

You glance at the harbor, the shadows waiting inside it, then at Yeonjun, who’s now leaning against his car like he’s posing for a magazine cover. “No plan’s ever survived the first bullet,” you mutter. “Let’s move.”

And you do, straight into the lion’s den. You and your team stand near a stack of containers, weapons visible, eyes sharp. Five figures emerge from the far side, shadows peeling off the darkness like it’s nothing. Taehyun walks first, with Hueningkai at his side, bouncing slightly on his heels. Behind them, Chaewon moves like a ghost, quiet and deadly. Sunghoon stalks a few steps behind, all tension and watchfulness. And then, at the center of it all — Yeonjun.

He moves like he owns the ground beneath him, like the night shifts to make space for him. Of course he would show up with a team like that. He stops a few feet from you. No gun drawn. Just that infuriating smirk pulling at his mouth.

“I should’ve known you’d beat me here,” he says, voice low and amused. “But damn. No plan? No scout? Just vibes?”

Beomgyu growls beside you, but soon he steps back with a glare, jaw tight. You turn to Yeonjun. “I don’t have time to wait. Soobin’s in there. I can feel it.”

Yeonjun tilts his head, studying you with those sharp, calculating eyes. “And what? You were gonna run in, guns blazing, and hope for the best?” You don’t answer. He chuckles — soft, infuriating. “You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being desperate,” you say. “And I don’t have the luxury of pretending otherwise.”

That makes something shift in his expression. The smirk falters for a breath, then curves back up, softer this time. “You care about him,” he says. “That’s cute.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” he replies, surprisingly sincere. “I think it’s admirable. The way you fight for your people.” You say nothing. Yeonjun glances toward the maze of containers behind you all. “I know this place. Minjae used to run small trades out of here — weapons, mostly. Smuggled in, offloaded straight into trucks by the south gate.”

“Does he still use it?” Jay asks, stepping forward.

Yeonjun nods. “Sometimes. When he doesn’t want attention. He’s got a room near the waterline. Old office converted into a holding space. I’d bet money that’s where he’s keeping your guy.”

“What else?” you ask. “You don’t come here without more than a guess.”

Yeonjun flashes a grin. “You wound me.”

Taehyun sighs beside him. “There’s always at least three lookouts. Usually on the cranes, plus one by the west exit. If they spot us, they’ll burn whatever evidence they’ve got. People included.”

Your stomach clenches. Heeseung steps up beside you. “So what do we do?”

Yeonjun exchanges glances with his team, then he looks back at you. “We go in quiet. I’ll send Taehyun and Sunghoon up the cranes, take out the eyes. If we’re lucky, we’ve got five minutes before someone inside realizes we’re here.”

“And if we’re not lucky?” Beomgyu asks.

Yeonjun smiles. “Then it’s a bloodbath. But hey—” he looks at you, all charm and teeth “—at least we’ll get matching scars.” You glare at him. Yeonjun’s eyes slide back to yours, glinting with something that feels like amusement laced in real calculation. “We don’t have time to execute anything fancy. But I’ll make you a deal.”

You arch a brow. “This should be good.”

He smiles, slow and smug. “We go in together. Just the two of us. No noise. If we run into someone, we say we’re here to negotiate.”

Beomgyu steps in immediately, tension rolling off him. “No fucking way.”

“You trust him?” Jay asks you quietly.

You look over your shoulder. Everyone’s waiting on you. “No,” you admit. “But I trust that he doesn’t want to die tonight either.”

Beomgyu looks at you like he wants to argue more, but he knows better. His jaw ticks. “You sure about this?”

You nod. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says. Not a threat, but a promise.

Then you turn to Yeonjun, who grins like this is a game he’s already winning. “Let’s go,” you say. You and Yeonjun move through the outer edge of the harbor in silence, sticking close to the rows of containers. The metal is cold against your back every time you press into the shadows. You keep your pistol tight in your grip, the weight grounding. 

Yeonjun glances down at it, amused. “You don’t strike me as someone who handles her own mess.”

You don’t look at him. “That’s because I never had to appear in person. Until now.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Right. Ghost queen. Rarely seen, always whispered about. Real dramatic branding.”

You side-eye him. “You’re just jealous no one whispers about you. Only bitches.”

That makes him smirk. “Bold words for someone walking into a lion’s den with me.”

“I’m not afraid of lions.”

He hums, ducking beneath a rusted staircase, motioning for you to follow. You do, close enough to feel the heat off his body, but not close enough to lose your head. “Funny,” he says, leaning into the next bit of cover, “you never gave me the vibe of someone who’s reckless for people.”

“And you never gave me the vibe of someone who thinks before speaking.”

Yeonjun turns slightly, facing you under the shadow of the catwalk. “I think a lot of things. Especially when you’re around.”

You roll your eyes, scanning the area. “Focus.”

“I am,” he says, voice dropping low. “Laser sharp. Just distracted by the company.”

You adjust your grip on the pistol. “Don’t forget why we’re here.”

“Right. Your guy. Soobin.” He squints toward a building near the edge of the water. “If Minjae’s keeping anyone, it’ll be in that one. Windows are blacked out. No patrols near it.”

You glance toward it too. “We get closer. Quietly. Check it first.”

He starts forward again, and you follow. His hand brushes yours at one point — maybe by accident, maybe not. You don’t pull away, you keep moving. As you creep past an open bay, he says, almost casually, “You really would’ve killed me the other night if I’d been involved.”

“No hesitation,” you answer.

“That’s hot.”

You stop and glance at him, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“What? I like a woman who threatens me with conviction.”

You almost laugh. But instead, you focus ahead, heart pounding a little too fast for comfort. The door to the building is twenty feet away. The only thing standing between you and Soobin might be whatever trap Minjae left behind, or nothing at all. But either way, you’re not walking away until you know.

And then a sudden voice breaks the silence, too close, echoing faintly between the steel containers stacked around the edge of the dock. “Shit,” you whisper, grabbing Yeonjun by the arm and pulling him back fast. He doesn’t fight you, doesn’t speak either, he just follows.

You both slide behind a rusted container, low to the ground, barely a foot between you. The voices grow clearer. Two men, laughing about something. Footsteps scraping against the concrete. Yeonjun presses close, chest against your shoulder as you crouch beside him. His breath hits your jaw. The scent of him—something clean and expensive—wraps around you like smoke. Your pistol is still firm in your hand, the safety already off. His fingers graze the small of your back as he shifts just slightly to look around the edge. Too close. Too fucking close.

Your eyes catch on the faint silver scar above his eyebrow, half-faded now, but still familiar. You left it there. You remember the way his skin broke open, how red his face had been after. Yeonjun catches your staring.

“What?” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “You like my face that much?” You don’t answer, and his eyes narrow. The corner of his mouth lifts, sharp. “If I didn’t know she died… I’d say you look just like the girl who gave me this.” You stiffen, he sees it. “You even look at me the same way,” he continues, voice a little too soft now. “Like you’re already planning where you’ll leave the next one.” Still, you say nothing. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. “Interesting.”

“Back off,” you mutter, but you don’t move. Can’t. The space is too tight. The air’s too charged.

He leans in instead, just slightly, close enough for his words to press against your ear. “It’d be poetic, wouldn’t it? If the girl who carved my face turned out to be the one I keep thinking about every time I get bored at night.”

You shoot him a glare. “You’re disgusting.”

The voices outside fade, footsteps drifting elsewhere. But neither of you moves. His hand finds your waist, steady, possessive. 

“You hate me,” he says.

“More than anything.”

“Then why are you looking at me like you want me to kiss you?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

He leans in, lips barely brushing your cheek as he speaks. “I don’t wish. I get.”

There’s a fire in your chest. Not soft, not romantic. Not even something you’d name. It’s sharp and twisted and dangerous. The kind of tension you don’t survive if you indulge. You push him back — just enough to breathe. “We’re not here for this.” He doesn’t fight you, but he smiles like he knows something you don’t. “We’re here for Soobin,” you snap. “Focus.”

His gaze lingers on you a second longer. Then he nods, finally looking away. “Right,” he murmurs. “Let’s go find your boy.”

But even as he turns, you feel his eyes still on you, even when they’re not. Like he’s still working out the puzzle, and like he already knows the answer.

The door creaks as you and Yeonjun slip inside the warehouse. It smells like rust and oil, stale water and something older. The air is thick with the kind of silence that doesn’t sit right. Every step echoes a little too loud. You move slow, pistol raised. Yeonjun does the same, behind you. Your breath catches. Something shifts.

And then—

“Drop your weapons.”

Two clicks. Cold steel against both your temples. Fuck.

You don’t see them, but you feel them, the men behind you. You and Yeonjun exchange a glance, and with a slow, calculated movement, you both lower your guns to the ground. Boots scrape across the concrete. A shadow moves forward from the far end of the warehouse. Minjae.

He steps into the flickering light above, dressed in black, expression dark with something dangerous. “I expected more from you,” Minjae says, eyes fixed on Yeonjun. “Showing up here with company.”

Yeonjun lifts his brows, casual as ever, like he isn’t surrounded by armed men. “Relax. I came to talk. Thought we could work something out. You know, just… friendly business.”

Minjae doesn’t smile. “Who is that?”

Then Yeonjun shrugs. “My girl.”

You don’t flinch, you don’t even blink. The lie slides off him easily. There’s a beat of silence. Minjae’s eyes shift to you, cold and calculating. “I know why you’re really here,” he says. You stay silent. Let him keep talking, and he steps closer. “He’s Ghost Queen’s, isn’t he?”

Yeonjun gives a short, forced laugh. “You think I’m dumb enough to come here for her people? Come on. I don’t work with her.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Minjae snaps. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? That I wouldn’t find out?”

He signals to his men. A moment later, you feel rough hands wrench your wrists behind your back. Zip ties cut into your skin. Yeonjun resists for half a second before giving in with a bitter smile. “No need for the theatrics,” he mutters. “You could’ve just asked nicely.”

“Shut up,” one of the guards snaps, forcing him to his knees.

Minjae looks down at the both of you, satisfied. “You didn’t come here to talk. You came to find him.” Your jaw tightens. “I knew someone would come looking. I just didn’t think it’d be you. And certainly not with company.” His eyes scan your face again. “She’s too pretty for this life, don’t you think?”

Yeonjun’s smirk returns. “I like pretty things.”

Minjae crouches, eye level with you now. “Tell me, sweetheart. What’s your name?”

You don’t answer, but Yeonjun does. “She doesn’t need one.”

Minjae laughs. “Of course she doesn’t.” He stands. Pacing, thinking. Then he turns to one of his men. “Lock them up. Separately.”

Yeonjun tenses beside you. “That’s not necessary.”

Minjae smirks. “Oh, I think it is. Let’s see how long the Ghost Queen’s new pet lasts without his little gun.”

You clench your fists, biting back every instinct to fight. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not like this. But now you’re in Minjae’s hands, and whatever game he’s playing — it just got personal.

The room they put you in is small, metallic, no windows. Bare walls, one buzzing fluorescent light that flickers above you like it’s mocking your silence. It smells like mold and blood. You’ve been in worse places, but not many. You don’t know how long you sit there, could be minutes, could be hours. Then the door groans open and a guard steps in with rough hands, cold grip, and he yanks you up without a word and drags you down a narrow corridor.

You’re shoved into a larger space with a concrete floor. A single chair bolted to the ground. Your wrists are still zip-tied. A second later, they shove you down onto the chair and bind your ankles. And that’s when you see Yeonjun again, across the room, tied up to a pipe against the far wall. His head is tilted slightly down, a thin line of blood trickling from his mouth. His shirt is ripped at the shoulder, his face bruised, but his eyes don’t leave you. He looks at you like he never stopped.

Then the door creaks again, and Minjae walks in. He looks completely at ease, smug even, his black boots echoing off the concrete. “Well, well,” he says, circling you like a hawk. “Yeonjun’s girlfriend. I’ve been dying to meet you.” You glare up at him, jaw locked. He smirks, stopping right in front of you. “Can’t lie. I get it. Sharp mouth. Killer stare. I’d probably throw a few alliances in the trash for you too.”

“Choke on it,” you mutter.

Behind him, Yeonjun shifts slightly in his restraints. Minjae crouches in front of you. “Tell me, how long have you two been shacked up? Does he cook breakfast? Call you sweetheart? Or is it all bullets and blackout sex?”

You roll your eyes. “Go to hell.”

“Touchy,” he says, and then, click. A blade appears in his hand. Small, curved. Clean, at least for now. “Thing is,” Minjae says, voice light and casual, “you’re lying to me. I can feel it. And I don’t like being lied to.”

You keep your expression neutral, but your pulse spikes as the cold flat of the blade presses against your cheek. You don’t flinch, you refuse. “Maybe you’d look better with a scar. Right here.” He taps the tip against your cheekbone. “Something to match your boyfriend’s. Wouldn’t that be poetic?”

“Get that fucking thing away from her.”

Yeonjun’s voice slashes through the air. Low, furious and dangerous.

Minjae stills. Turns his head slowly, eyebrow raised. “What was that?”

Yeonjun grits his teeth, jaw tight. “I said—get it away from her.”

The room falls quiet. Even you are surprised, but you still freeze, heart hammering.

Minjae’s smirk wavers. He straightens up, turning to face Yeonjun. “Interesting. You didn’t seem this protective when you walked in here like an idiot.”

Yeonjun breathes hard, nostrils flaring. “You want the truth? Fine.” He lifts his head slowly, eyes on Minjae, but you know he’s talking to both of you. “I was intercepting the shipments. All of them. Yours. Hers. Everyone’s. For weeks.”

Your blood runs cold. Minjae’s whole face shifts. “You what?”

Yeonjun continues, voice steady. “At first, I was helping you hit Ghost Queen’s routes. You paid well. You gave me access. I knew her ports, her blind spots. So yeah—I made it easy for you.”

You feel like the floor shifts under you. Your blood runs cold.

Minjae raises a brow, amused. “Right. So what changed?”

Yeonjun’s jaw ticks. “I started losing my own shipments.” That wipes the smirk off Minjae’s face. “Big ones,” Yeonjun says. “Routes only you knew about. Timings only you had.” Minjae stiffens. “I thought maybe Ghost Queen had found out and was hitting me back. I figured it was retaliation. But it wasn’t her.” Yeonjun finally lifts his eyes. Not to Minjae, to you. “It was you.”

Minjae’s amusement snaps in half, replaced by something sharp. “So what, you came here to cry about it?”

“No,” Yeonjun says, voice cold. “I came to fix it. That’s why I turned to her.”

Minjae’s head tilts. “Who?”

Yeonjun murmurs. “Ghost Queen. We’re working together. She wants Soobin back.”

You flinch, just barely, but enough. And when Minjae glances at you, you plaster on the most confused, irritated face you can, like none of this makes sense, like you have no idea what they’re talking about. “Wait,” Minjae says slowly. “That little shit was with her crew?”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun says. “And you took him because you thought he was with me. My guys said he was snooping around your port. You assumed he was part of my team.”

Minjae runs a hand down his face, pacing once. “Fuck. Thought you sent him to steal my shipment.”

“I didn’t,” Yeonjun says. “You were already stealing from me. Why would I send someone into your nest without backup? I just didn’t stop you when you grabbed him—because I knew whose he really was.”

You blink hard, chest pounding. So he knew, he knew the whole time that Soobin was yours, that he worked for you, and he let Minjae take him anyway. Used it to his advantage, he let you panic, let you come running. So you stare at Yeonjun, heat crawling up your neck, your fists clenched in the zip ties until your fingers start to go numb. Rage is bubbling under your skin, sharp and hot, but you hold it down — because Minjae can’t know who you are. Not yet.

Minjae exhales harshly, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Jesus Christ. You two are a goddamn mess.”

No one speaks. He finally looks back at you, eyes narrowing like he’s reassessing everything. You force your expression blank, neutral, disinterested. Because Yeonjun may have just saved your cover, but he also sold you out. And now you owe him nothing.

Minjae’s boots echo as he crosses the room again, slower this time. You try not to shift in the chair, even as the plastic zip tie cuts into your wrists, even as the ache in your ankles pulses with every second. Then he’s in front of you, and the knife is back. He drags the flat of the blade along your shoulder, then up, slow, until the cold steel rests just under your chin, the sharp edge kissing the soft skin of your neck. You hold your breath.

Across the room, Yeonjun tenses so hard you swear the veins in his neck might snap. “Don’t,” he bites. “Minjae—”

But Minjae doesn’t look away from you. “You lied to me,” he says quietly. “You played me for a fool. I don’t like being made a fool, Yeonjun.”

Yeonjun swallows hard. “I gave you information. I did my part.”

Minjae presses the blade in just enough for you to feel the sting. “No, no. You sold me a story and sat back while I bled for it.” He finally turns to look at Yeonjun. “Now you owe me.”

Yeonjun breathes through his nose, jaw locked. “What do you want?”

Minjae doesn’t blink. “Who else is at the port?”

Yeonjun hesitates. Then: “Just us.”

Minjae’s smile is thin and humorless. “Funny. Because my guys saw someone else.” Your stomach drops. “Skinny little bastard. Long black hair. Looked like a rat cornered in a trap. He was hiding inside one of the containers. Now he’s out there, making a fucking mess.”

Your heart drops so hard it might crash through your ribs. Beomgyu. You force yourself not to react, not to blink, not to move, not to scream. 

The blade is too close, the stakes are too high. Minjae tilts his head, still looking at you, but now his voice is directed at Yeonjun. “You really gonna sit there and keep lying to me? When I just watched that kid shoot two of my men and crawl back into a crate like some street dog?”

Yeonjun doesn’t answer. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding so loud you can almost hear it. His fingers twist against the restraints on his wrists, blood already seeping around the plastic. Minjae lets out a long sigh through his nose. Then the knife shifts — not cutting, not yet — but pressing. Just enough for you to feel the weight of it against your pulse point, enough to make you swallow reflexively, and feel the sting.

Yeonjun’s voice is gravel. “Let her go.” Minjae raises an eyebrow. “She has nothing to do with the boy,” Yeonjun continues, voice tight, almost strangled. “She’s not part of this.”

Minjae chuckles dark and bitter. “No? You’re dragging her around like a trophy then?”

Yeonjun’s eyes flash. “I said let her go.”

Minjae doesn’t move. “You want the kid back?” he asks. Minjae smiles, all teeth and violence. “You want her to walk out of here with her face intact? You want me to call off the guys who are probably about to blow your little container rat’s head off?” He steps back finally, pulling the knife away from your neck slowly, like it’s reluctant to leave. He wipes it casually on your shoulder, like you’re nothing but a napkin, and turns to face Yeonjun properly. “Then give me something.”

Yeonjun lifts his head. “What do you want?”

Minjae’s expression hardens. “Territory.” Yeonjun doesn’t flinch, but you can see it hit him like a punch. “You’ve got a route down south,” Minjae continues, pacing now, loose and dangerous. “Quiet. Prime for expansion. I want it.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Yeonjun growls.

Minjae shrugs. “Yeah, well, the deal changed when you lied to my face. When you helped the Ghost Queen behind my back. When you kept secrets.”

The words hang heavy in the air. You keep your expression neutral, though inside your blood is boiling. He knew, Yeonjun knew exactly who you were, and still played both sides. And now Beomgyu is out there, alone, likely cornered. Soobin is still missing. And your cover is hanging by a thread.

Yeonjun’s chest rises and falls with shallow, restrained breath. “You think you can just take a route from me?”

Minjae smirks. “I’m not asking. I’m offering you a trade. The kid for the route. Their life for peace. Simple math.”

Yeonjun’s jaw ticks as he breathes in slow through his nose, chest rising once, twice. You can see the calculations behind his eyes. His silence isn’t hesitation, it’s rage, controlled, deadly rage.

But Minjae mistakes it for weakness. He turns back to you without warning.

“No—”

Yeonjun’s voice is hoarse and sharp, but it’s too late. The blade slices across your cheek, clean and fast.

Pain blooms white-hot as your head jerks to the side, breath catching in your throat. The sting is immediate, followed by the slow warmth of blood slipping down your skin. It’s not deep, not fatal, but it’s a message. And Yeonjun receives it loud and clear, because he roars. A guttural sound tears out of his chest as he lunges forward against the restraints. His wrists strain, veins bulging, teeth bared like an animal ready to rip someone apart.

Minjae watches him, amused. “There it is,” he mutters, low. “That’s what I wanted to see.”

“You’re dead,” Yeonjun growls. “You’re fucking dead.”

Minjae raises the bloody blade, twirling it lazily in his hand. “Not if we make a deal.” Yeonjun freezes. “I want the southern route,” Minjae says again, calm now, like nothing just happened. “And I want access to one of the Ghost Queen’s ports. Not the main ones—something smaller. You can get it for me.”

Yeonjun’s eyes flick to you, your cheek slick with blood, your expression still and cold despite the pain. He doesn’t speak, but his silence this time means: yes.

Minjae grins. “There we go. Knew you had a rational side.”

Then he snaps his fingers, and two of his men appear instantly, grabbing you roughly by the arms. One of them mutters something about not getting blood on his jacket.

Yeonjun fights the bindings again. “Where are you taking her?”

“You’ll see,” Minjae replies, stepping aside. 

You don’t speak, and you don’t look at Yeonjun. You just let them drag you down a long, dim corridor. Every step makes your face throb, your jaw stiff from clenching. They push you through a rusted metal door and slam it shut behind you. And for a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing. The metal room is dim and cold, reeking of rust and sweat, but you barely register any of it—because right in front of you, alive but wrecked, is Soobin.

Your knees hit the floor hard as you scramble toward him, your throat catching on a sound you hadn’t realized you were holding back. His name leaves your mouth like a prayer, like it means something more than just syllables. “Soobin—”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes half-swollen and glassy, but he smiles, barely. “Hey.”

Tears sting your eyes before you can stop them. You cup his face in both hands, thumb brushing over the bruises on his jaw, and you press your forehead against his like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. “God,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I thought—I thought you were—”

“I’m okay,” he rasps, but it’s a lie. He’s not okay, he’s barely breathing, but he’s alive.

“Y/N,” Beomgyu’s also there, and his voice is soft but urgent beside you. “You’re bleeding.”

You blink, disoriented, then remember the cut—your cheek throbs, the blood sticky and warm. You pull back just enough to see Beomgyu crouching beside you, eyes wide with panic. Before you can say anything, he’s already yanking at the hem of his shirt, tearing off a strip of fabric with his teeth. “Hold still,” he says, his hands trembling a little as he presses the makeshift cloth to your face. “I swear to God, if they touched you again, I’ll—”

“I’m okay,” you whisper again, voice thick, but you don’t stop him. He’s too focused, too gentle, like he’s trying to fix something with his bare hands. His fingers brush your jaw as he ties the cloth in place, the fabric warm from his skin. You glance between the two of them, heart racing. “Where are the others?”

Beomgyu exhales, sitting back on his heels. “Gone. Got out before things got ugly. I stayed because of Soobin. I couldn’t just—” He runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t know they’d catch me too.”

Relief washes through you in waves, so overwhelming it makes your limbs weak. You sit down fully, still close to Soobin, the burn in your chest finally settling. But the weight of everything you’ve just been through presses in. You swallow. “It was Yeonjun,” you murmur, voice tight. “He was behind it all. From the beginning.” Both boys look at you, stunned into silence. You continue, barely able to meet their eyes. “He helped Minjae steal from me. From us. He lied about everything.”

Soobin flinches, like he didn’t want to hear that. Beomgyu clenches his jaw, fists tightening on his knees.

“I was going to kill him,” you say, raw and bitter. “I wanted to. I was so angry I couldn’t see straight.”

Beomgyu exhales through his nose. “We should kill him.”

But you shake your head. “He saved our lives.” They both blink at you. “If he hadn’t made a deal with Minjae, we’d be dead right now. All three of us. He gave up part of his territory. Maybe even part of his crew.”

Beomgyu and Soobin don’t say anything at first. Just sit there, taking it in. You’re curled between them, one arm still wrapped carefully around Soobin’s shoulder, the other resting against Beomgyu’s thigh. It’s the only way you can stay grounded, with touch, warmth. The knowledge that they’re here, really here.

Beomgyu scoffs beside you, shaking his head. “Yeah? Great. And what did we give up? You almost got your face carved off.”

“Almost.” The word slips out before you can stop it. You’re tired, so tired, but you cling to the sliver of logic that’s keeping you upright. “He didn’t have to do it. Yeonjun could’ve let us all die. Would’ve been easier for him.”

“Don’t care.” Beomgyu shifts beside you, folding his arms across his knees, his voice sharp. “Doesn’t erase everything else he did.”

You don’t argue. Because he’s right, too. 

It’s not long before the silence turns tense again. The door clangs open, sharp and sudden, and all three of you tense instinctively. Heavy boots scrape against the concrete, and a shadow moves inside. Yeonjun. They throw him in without ceremony. He stumbles forward, hands no longer bound but arms limp at his sides, and hits the ground with a harsh grunt. His clothes are soaked with sweat and grime, his face smeared with dirt and blood, not all of it his. His jacket’s gone, his knife, gone. The glint in his eye? Also gone. He’s empty now, hollowed out.

Beomgyu surges forward before you can react, fury written all over him. “You bastard—”

You grab his arm mid-motion, holding him back with both hands. “Beomgyu. Don’t.”

“Let me go!” he snaps, voice cracking, muscles tense under your fingers. “Look at her! Look what you let them do to her!”

Yeonjun doesn’t flinch, doesn’t raise his head, he just breathes slowly, like each inhale costs him something. “Could’ve been worse,” he mutters finally, voice hoarse. “Could’ve been all four of us in body bags.”

That does it. Beomgyu stops fighting, but he’s still vibrating with rage, breathing like he’s ready to explode. You stay between them, hand still clutching his wrist. Yeonjun finally looks up. His eyes go straight to your face—and linger on the bandage Beomgyu tied around your cheek. You watch something in him twist, and it’s not satisfaction, it’s shame. 

“No one else is coming,” Beomgyu says from the wall, voice dull. “So what now?”

You turn to Yeonjun. “Yeah,” you echo, still holding Beomgyu back. “What now?”

Yeonjun sighs and sits back against the wall, dragging his knees up to his chest. “They’ll keep us here a little longer. Keep us guessing. Then they’ll probably dump us in the middle of nowhere. Maybe in enemy territory. Maybe not.”

Beomgyu snorts. “How thoughtful.”

You frown. “And then what? We walk?”

“If we’re lucky,” Yeonjun mutters.

“If?”

He looks at you again, his expression unreadable. “I burned my deal to get you out alive. That’s all they wanted. Leverage. A show of power. Now that they’ve made their point, keeping us any longer is just a waste of resources.”

“And if they don’t let us go?” Soobin asks.

Yeonjun closes his eyes. “Then I’ll find another way.”

Beomgyu scoffs. “Yeah? With what army?”

But you don’t join in the cynicism, not this time. Because you saw the look in Yeonjun’s eyes when Minjae pressed that blade to your throat. That wasn’t strategy, that wasn’t calculation, that was something else. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that. But for now, you do the only thing you can—lean against Soobin, keep one hand wrapped around Beomgyu’s, and stare at Yeonjun like he’s both the reason you’re alive and the reason you’ll never sleep the same way again.

They don’t come for a while. You lose track of the hours, and it’s always cold, always quiet, except for the occasional drip of water somewhere behind the walls, or the sound of Beomgyu pacing like a caged animal. Soobin sleeps most of the time, his head on your lap. You run your fingers through his hair and try not to cry every time he winces in his sleep. Yeonjun doesn’t speak. He stays on the opposite wall, arms crossed, eyes half-closed. Watching everything, but saying nothing.

It’s Beomgyu who breaks the silence most often—jokes, insults, wild theories about how you’re all going to die in increasingly dramatic ways. But even he starts to get quiet as the hours drag on.

Then, suddenly, without warning, the door slams open. You don’t even have time to stand. Boots thunder in, and black fabric is yanked over your head. You hear Soobin growling, and Beomgyu cursing. Someone grabs your arms, too rough and fast, and you’re being dragged, stumbling blindly, unable to see or fight back. The floor changes beneath your feet, concrete, gravel, then something smooth. A van. The ride is short, bumpy, silent. Then the doors open, and you’re thrown out like trash.

You hit the ground hard, gasping as the sack is ripped from your head. Cold wind, empty road. Forest on both sides. Nothing else. Soobin lands next to you with a grunt, then Beomgyu. Then Yeonjun. 

It’s only once you’re all out that you realize someone slipped something inside your pocket before throwing you out: your phone. So you scramble to unlock it, signal's weak, but it’s there, and you hit the contact you’ve called more than anyone else in your life. “Heeseung,” you breathe when he picks up. “It’s me.”

“Y/N?” His voice breaks. “Holy shit. Are you okay? Where are you? What happened? I’ve been going crazy—”

“We’re alive,” you say, eyes scanning the empty road. “They dumped us in the middle of nowhere. But we’re out.” You tell him everything, about Minjae, the deal, the betrayal, the scar on your face that’s still fresh and stinging. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens. You hear the way his breathing falters, like he’s struggling not to break down.

“Stay where you are,” he says finally. “I’m coming.”

The line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly, still kneeling in the dirt, and then you turn. Yeonjun’s sitting nearby, arms resting lazily over his knees like he’s on a fucking picnic. Something in you snaps. You’re on your feet before you realize it, storming toward him.

“You lied to me.” He doesn’t move. “You used me.”

Beomgyu grabs you around the waist just as you lunge forward, arms locking around you from behind. “Don’t,” he mutters. “You’re already hurt.”

“I don’t care!” you shout, struggling in his grip, blood rushing in your ears. “I should kill him right now—”

“I know,” Beomgyu says softly, tightening his hold. “But you won’t.”

Yeonjun finally looks up at you. And for the first time since this whole nightmare started, he speaks with a calm so cold it makes your stomach twist.

“You think I don’t know who you are, Y/N?”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“You think I don’t know exactly who you are?” His eyes drop to the cut on your cheek. “You think I don’t remember the night I got this?” He lifts his hand, fingers brushing over the faint, jagged scar that cuts through his eyebrow. 

Silence. Beomgyu’s grip goes still around you. Soobin’s head lifts. The wind whistles through the trees, like even the world wants to know what you’ll say next. But you don’t say anything, because the past just walked out of the shadows, wearing Yeonjun’s face. And suddenly, this isn’t about survival anymore. It’s about everything you thought you’d left behind—coming back to bite.

You were fifteen the last time you saw Choi Yeonjun.

Not this version of him — not the man with blood on his hands and a scar running down his face like a warning — but the boy. The boy in the silk shirts and the too-expensive shoes, the boy who rolled his eyes at banquet speeches and snuck you stolen desserts under the table. The boy who knew what it meant to feel trapped in gold cages.

You weren’t supposed to be friends. Children like you were meant to become weapons, not companions. But when you were forced into that same gilded room week after week, dressed like pawns in a game you didn’t ask to play, it was hard not to notice each other. He was magnetic, even then. All sharp smiles and lazy charm, already too good at getting what he wanted. You were colder, quieter. You watched more than you spoke. You already knew you were disposable — illegitimate, your father’s sin in a pretty dress. You had no seat at the table. No name that mattered.

Except to Yeonjun. He used to call you Ghost. You didn’t know if it was a compliment or a curse, but you liked it. It felt like something that belonged to you.

The night it all burned down started like any other. 

You were at the Choi estate, the grand mansion at the edge of the city, the one with the koi ponds and the marble floors and the halls that echoed when you breathed too loud. Your father, Kim Mingyu, was in meetings with Choi Hyunwoo, Yeonjun’s father. Talks of expanding routes. Sharing ports. Making more money off the war brewing overseas. You and Yeonjun had been shoved into the side parlor to stay out of the way. The windows were tall and the fireplace glowed, but the tension was always heavier when your fathers were close. Yeonjun sat sprawled in an armchair, and you were lying on the rug, arms crossed, counting each second you weren’t being used like leverage.

“I heard your dad wants to marry you off,” Yeonjun had said suddenly.

You didn’t flinch. “He wants to pretend I don’t exist. That’s not the same thing.”

Yeonjun looked at you, head tilted, lips twitching. “You know, if you married me, that would solve both our problems. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife.”

You rolled your eyes. “If you keep talking, I’ll be the one killing you.”

He laughed, you almost smiled. Almost.

Then— gunfire.

The kind that doesn’t echo through halls like thunder. The kind that thuds, short and final, and you both froze. 

Yeonjun stood first. You followed him to the door, but before he could open it—click. It locked from the outside. Someone didn’t want you to see what was happening. You banged on the wood. Nothing. The quiet that followed was worse than the gunfire.

After a while, the door opened. Yeonjun was expecting a servant. Maybe one of the guards. But it wasn’t that, it was a man you didn’t recognize. Pale skin, black suit, eyes like ice — too still, too calm for a house that had just swallowed gunfire. He stepped into the room and leaned down to whisper something in Yeonjun’s ear. You were still by the window, but you didn’t miss the way Yeonjun’s entire body went still. The way his jaw tightened, then clenched, like he was trying not to scream.

“Yeonjun?” you asked, turning toward him. “What is it?” He didn’t answer. You stepped closer. “What happened?” Nothing. No movement. No sound. You were standing right in front of him now. He was pale. His hands trembled. “What happened?” you asked again, more forceful, but still nothing. You raised your voice. “Yeonjun, what the fuck happened?”

And that’s when you saw it, the flicker of something in his eyes. Not grief, but guilt. Your chest dropped. “What did your father do?” you whispered.

Yeonjun looked at you then, finally. But not with answers, only silence. That was enough. Your hands slammed into his chest. Once. Twice. He let you, he didn’t even flinch. “You knew,” you spat. “You fucking knew, didn’t you?!”

His hands caught your wrists mid-swing. Not hard, just enough to stop you. “Y/N—”

And that’s when your fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife. It was small, thin, sharp, hidden in the side of your boot. A gift from your real mother. The only thing she ever gave you. Your hand moved before your brain did. You slashed upward, sharp and fast, not caring where it landed. All you saw was red. All you heard was your father's voice, echoing in your skull. “Trust no one in silk.”

The blade caught him across the face. A clean, slicing arc from brow to cheekbone — just above his left eye. Blood bloomed instantly. Yeonjun stumbled back, gasping, a hand flying to his face. It came away red. He stared at you in disbelief, chest heaving. You didn’t flinch.

“You let them kill him,” you said, your voice shaking. “You let them kill my father.”

Still, he said nothing. And that silence was the last answer you needed. So, you ran. You didn’t stop to look back. Not when the door burst open again. Not when footsteps thundered after you through the corridor. Not when you reached the side gate and scaled it like a girl possessed. You ran until your legs gave out. And even then, you crawled.

It took them three days to declare you dead. A fire in your house. Charred remains. No doubt it was you. Probably suicide, probably shame.

But you weren’t dead. You were lying in a pool of garbage behind an abandoned noodle shop, ribs cracked, blood soaked into your shirt, half your face bruised black. You couldn’t see straight. You couldn’t move. That’s when Beomgyu found you. He was stealing food. That’s what he told you later, just trying to survive like everyone else. He could’ve run when he saw you, most people would’ve. But he didn’t. He swore at first — loud and panicked — then knelt beside you, pressing a shaking hand to your neck to find a pulse. You tried to speak, but you couldn’t. He carried you anyway.

You woke up two days later in a basement with a blanket over you and a bandage around your ribs. There was a sandwich on the floor. He was sitting in the corner, arms crossed, watching you like a stray that might bite. “I thought you were dead,” he muttered.

He didn’t ask your name, you didn’t ask his, but from that day on, he stayed close. You healed together. Then Soobin found you. He was older, smarter, calm in a way that made you wary. The three of you weren’t a gang. Not at first. Just strays with nothing left to lose. But slowly, you became something else. You started calling in debts. Digging up secrets. Using what you knew and what your father taught you — and twisting it into something deadlier.

A whisper started in the streets. A name, passed like a warning: The Ghost Queen.

No one knew it was you, not until the summit. Not until you walked into that hall like you owned it, head high, mask off, eyes colder than anyone remembered. Not until Yeonjun saw you again for the first time in a decade.

And in that moment, the scar on his face felt fresh again. Because the ghost he thought was buried, was standing in front of him. And this time, she wasn’t running.

The silence on that empty road was the kind that clung to your skin. You stood there, the black sack they’d shoved over your head was now on the ground, forgotten. The ache in your body didn’t matter anymore. Yeonjun sat a few steps away on the edge of the road, face bloodied, exhaustion sinking into his bones, but like none of this was new to him, like losing everything was just another Tuesday. You turned to face him, jaw clenched, hands shaking.

“So you know,” you said, voice low but laced with venom. “Good. I'm glad you know.” Yeonjun arched a brow, slow, like he was waiting for the punchline. “You know what you did. You know what I lost. You know what I had to survive after that night.” You gestured toward Beomgyu and Soobin. “These two? They saved me when you destroyed everything I had left. And even now, you’re still screwing me over.”

He let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered. He stood, brushing dust off his pants. “I’m the reason all of us are still breathing. I gave up part of my territory, part of my crew. If we’re keeping score, I’d say we’re even.”

Beomgyu stepped forward, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. “You’re lucky she wouldn’t let me get to you. Because if it were up to me, you’d be face-down on this road spitting teeth.”

Yeonjun sighed like he was bored. “Ah, great. The dog keeps speaking.”

“You have no idea what you did to her,” Beomgyu snapped. “You think one scar makes it even? You sleep at night with her blood on your hands?”

Yeonjun’s gaze flicked to you, then to Beomgyu, then back. And then, quiet, cold: “She left a scar on me too. Don’t forget that. She knew exactly where to put the knife.”

You stepped forward before Beomgyu could explode again. “You deserved that knife, Yeonjun. Because when I needed you, you chose silence. You let them kill my father. You sided with yours.”

“I was fifteen, Y/N,” he shot back, eyes sharp now, voice rising. “I was locked in that room with you. I heard the gunshots the same as you. You think I had a choice?”

“You had a choice to follow me!” you shouted, your voice raw. “To help me. To find me. But instead, you left me to die. You let them burn me!” 

He flinched—not visibly, but you felt it. “I did look for you,” he said, voice low. “For years. I searched for your body. For any sign you might’ve lived. And all I ever found was ashes.”

You barked a humorless laugh. “How convenient. No need to deal with me. No need to face what you did. What you didn’t do.”

He took a step closer. The scar over his left eye caught the fading light. “And you? You hid behind a mask. Built an empire out of borrowed blood. Turned yourself into a ghost so you wouldn’t have to remember your own sins.”

“I survived,” you hissed. “That’s all I had.”

Yeonjun didn’t answer. For the first time in the entire fight, he looked like he didn’t have a comeback. And then, the rumble of an engine. Headlights broke through the dust cloud on the road. A black car, old but fast, came flying toward you like salvation itself.

Soobin turned. “It’s Heeseung.”

Beomgyu relaxed—just slightly—but his eyes stayed locked on Yeonjun like a loaded gun. The car skidded to a halt. The door flew open. Heeseung bolted out, panic and relief battling on his face. “You’re alive,” he breathed, rushing to you.

You didn’t speak. Just let him wrap his arms around you, just this once. Yeonjun watched from a distance, eyes unreadable, expression carved from stone. And you didn’t look back at him. But you knew he was looking, because he always was.

You stopped with one hand already on the van door, your other resting against the frame like it was the only thing holding you up. You didn’t turn immediately, but you felt him behind you. Heeseung turned too, halfway into the driver’s seat, brows rising with amusement as he saw who had the audacity to still be talking. “You need a ride, Your Majesty?” he drawled, mock-serious. “Plenty of room in the trunk.”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes with a muttered, “I’ll manage.”

Beomgyu didn’t even attempt to hide the snarl curling on his lips. “We should’ve left him in that ditch.”

“Beomgyu,” you warned softly, not because he was wrong, but because this wasn’t the time. He huffed, shooting Yeonjun one last glare before climbing into the van, slamming the door harder than necessary. You lingered a second longer, eyes locked on Yeonjun. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, half in shadow, half in the hazy morning light. His red hair looked more copper than flame now, but that scar — your scar — cut through it like it had the day you gave it to him. Time hadn’t softened him. If anything, it had carved him into something even sharper.

The dust had barely begun to settle when Yeonjun’s voice cut through it. “Y/N. We need to talk business,” he said, not with force or threat, just fact. You didn’t respond at first, just looked at him. And in that moment, something cracked. Not in your expression, because you were too well-trained for that. But behind your ribs, in that locked box you thought you’d buried. Because the worst part was that you remembered. You remembered everything.

Not just the betrayal. Not just the blood, but the moments before it all fell apart. You remembered silk shirts and wide staircases, sneaking out of boring banquets with Yeonjun to sit on the roof of his family’s estate, trading secrets under a sky too vast for two children bred for war. You remembered him giving you half his dessert when your father ignored you at dinner, remembered the way his eyes used to light up when he made you laugh. You remembered the hours spent in quiet competition — chess matches, blade training, stolen books you both claimed to hate but always finished anyway.

You remembered him grabbing your wrist in that room, trying to stop you, begging you not to open the door. You remembered the look in his eyes after you cut him. And you remembered running, not just from his family, but from him. Because he was the only person in that world who had ever seen you. And you didn’t know if you hated him more for failing you — or for still seeing you now.

“Come find me when it’s time,” you said finally, voice steady, chin high. 

You turned and climbed into the van. Heeseung looked at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t speak. Soobin passed you a water bottle, quiet and steady as always. Beomgyu just shook his head like he still couldn’t believe you let that man live. You didn’t explain yourself. You just leaned back into the seat as the van pulled onto the road, the rising sun spilling gold across the horizon like the world hadn’t just tried to kill you again.

Behind you, Yeonjun grew smaller in the rear window — a figure carved out of memory and regret. But he wasn’t gone. He never really was.

The week that followed was full of antiseptic, quiet rage, and the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep — but from surviving something you shouldn’t have.

The first morning back, you woke in your own bed, in your safehouse buried deep in the outer rings of the city. For a split second, you thought it had all been a nightmare. Until you turned your head and pain bloomed sharp across your cheek. You hissed, and before your fingers could even brush the wound, Beomgyu was already there.

“Don’t touch it,” he muttered, crouched beside the bed, eyes bruised with worry and zero sleep. “You’ll reopen the cut.” You tried to bat him away. He glared. “I swear to God, Y/N. Sit. Still.” So you did. Beomgyu cleaned the wound every morning, careful but muttering curses the whole time, most of them directed at Yeonjun. “You should’ve let me beat the shit out of him,” he grumbled more than once, dabbing ointment against the split skin like it was a battle tactic.

“I think your fists were too busy protecting my ribs,” you replied dryly, and he scowled but didn’t deny it.

Soobin, meanwhile, spent most of the week in bed. He had a cracked rib and a deep bruise on his thigh that turned every shade of black and blue before it started to fade. But he took it in stride, quiet as always, and only winced when Beomgyu wasn’t looking. You checked in with him often, more often than he liked. “I’m not dying,” he’d mutter, and you’d answer with, “Good.”

You didn’t mention that you barely slept. Or that some nights you stared at the ceiling for hours, replaying Yeonjun’s words, his voice, that look in his eyes when he said he knew who you were. Because the truth was, you didn’t know what haunted you more: the past, or the fact that he had lied.

By the third day, your inner circle had rotated to secure-mode. All comms were rerouted through Soobin’s backup systems, deep-web tunnels and burner signals only a handful of people in the world knew how to follow. Even then, everything was reduced to code. You stopped saying names. You stopped trusting phones. You stopped breathing easy. Because if Yeonjun was right — if Minjae had more planned — this wasn’t over.

You adapted quickly, you always did. You started giving orders again, rebuilding connections, tracking every whisper that floated through the city. You wore a hood every time you left the house, and your knife stayed strapped to your thigh. The cut on your face ached every time you moved your mouth, but you didn’t complain. Beomgyu did enough of that for both of you.

On the seventh night, you found a message waiting in your most encrypted channel. No name, no signature. Just coordinates, a time, and one line of text.

You're coming with me. Try to look like you like me.

You stared at the screen for a full minute before even breathing. The coordinates were downtown — one of Yeonjun’s more luxurious clubs, the kind that didn’t even have a name on the front, just a line of guards who knew when to keep their mouths shut. The time was just before midnight.

He was making a show, of course he was. You already knew what this was: he had something planned. A meeting, a gathering. And clearly, Yeonjun wanted to look like he had you in his pocket, because Minjae still thought you were his girlfriend. That was your leverage, that was your shield, and Yeonjun was cashing in.

“Absolutely not,” Beomgyu snapped, the second you brought it up. “I’m not letting you go parade around on that bastard’s arm like this is fucking prom night.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” you said calmly, sitting across from him. “I’m going. I’m just telling you in advance so you don’t explode and level the building.”

“You say that like it’s not still an option,” he muttered.

Heeseung, lounging on the couch nearby, raised a brow. “So we’re crashing a party now?”

“More like we’re playing pretend,” you said. “Yeonjun’s meeting with some major players, and he wants me there to make it look like we’re together. I’m not going in alone, though.”

Beomgyu narrowed his eyes. “You better not be suggesting—”

“I’m taking Jay and Heeseung.”

Jay blinked. “Wait. I am?”

You nodded. “Minjae hasn’t seen either of you in person. As far as he knows, you’re just… hot background noise.”

Heeseung grinned. “I am great at that.”

“Figures,” Beomgyu muttered. “You’re picking the two most reckless ones.”

“They’re unpredictable,” you said. “Which makes them valuable. And I trust them.”

Beomgyu didn’t argue. He just nodded. “Just don’t let Yeonjun get in your head.”

You didn’t answer that. Because part of you already knew: he was already there.

The club didn’t have a name. From the outside, it looked like a museum built for gods — all black marble and gold trimming, slick columns, a single brass door guarded by men who wore tuxedos carrying pistols under their lapels. There were no signs, no posted hours, no public records. If you were meant to be inside, you already knew. If you weren’t, you never found the door.

You stepped out of the black car just before midnight, heels clicking against the stone, silk brushing against your thighs. Your dress was fitted, ink-black, slashed low at the back, and a single necklace at your throat. Jay and Heeseung stepped out behind you, both in tailored black suits and matching expressions: calm, unreadable, dangerous. Bodyguards. Ghosts. Whatever you needed them to be.

The guards at the door let you in without a word. And inside, the bass was low, the air perfumed, gold lights flickered across the ceiling and the whole place smelled like heat, power, and money. There were no screams, no dancing, no crowd. Just whispers. Just very rich, very dangerous people pretending they weren’t afraid of one another.

You scanned the room, and of course, he was already watching you. Leaning against the bar like he owned it (which he did), Yeonjun was dressed in charcoal grey, shirt undone at the collar, sleeves rolled up, his rings glittered when he lifted a glass to his lips, and his eyes burned through you even before you took your first step.

He didn’t move as you approached. Just raised an eyebrow and smirked, lazy and lethal. “No dog today?” he said. “I was hoping to see if he bites.”

You didn’t blink. “Beomgyu sends his regards. And his middle finger.”

Yeonjun smiled like you’d complimented him. “Ah, the language of love.”

You took the drink he offered, mostly for the excuse to put something in your hand that wasn’t a gun. “Cut the bullshit, Yeonjun. Why am I really here?”

“Because you like looking at me,” he said smoothly. “And because Minjae thinks you’re mine. So, you play the part, he doesn’t question why I kept the West docks. He thinks he’s dealing with me. Not with Ghost Queen, and that keeps you alive.”

“I don’t need you to keep me alive.”

“No,” he said, leaning in, “but you need me to keep your empire breathing.”

You hated how close he was. Hated how calm he made you feel. Like standing in the eye of a hurricane. Everything around him was chaos, but he — Yeonjun — was composed destruction. A man who smiled while the building burned and said, You’re welcome for the warmth.

“You think all this justifies what you did?” you asked, eyes sharp.

He raised a brow. “What I did, darling, is what keeps your little boyfriend patching up Soobin’s wounds instead of burying him.”

You smiled without humor. “Careful. Your jealousy’s showing.”

“You always say that like it’s not part of my charm.” Yeonjun laughed like he actually liked his answer. You turned away, about to walk, but he caught your wrist lightly, easy, no force behind it. “You are wearing my necklace.”

Your hand rose instinctively to your collarbone. Shit, you hadn’t realized. Your body betrayed you before your mind caught up. Instinctively, your hand flew to your collarbone, the simple chain, delicate and old, still resting just beneath the neckline of your clothes. You hadn’t realized. Or maybe you had, and just refused to admit it to yourself. The weight of it had been familiar, comforting, buried beneath all the armor you’d learned to wear since that night. The night you gave him that scar.

Yeonjun was watching you closely. His eyes didn’t move from your face, but you could feel his attention shift from the necklace to the faint scar just beneath it. The bruise on your jaw was fading now, but the laceration across your cheekbone was angry and fresh, the stitches tight and unkind. He didn’t speak for a long moment, his gaze darkened, something unreadable moving behind it.

And then: voices behind him. Shoes on marble. Laughter and steel wrapped in suits. You turned just as Yeonjun did, instinctively stepping a fraction closer to him without meaning to.

Minjae arrived with men with cold eyes and colder hands behind him. His presence filled the room before he even spoke. Expensive suit, louder than the lighting. Yeonjun straightened, casual as ever, all lazy charm and mask-perfect posture.

“Minjae,” he greeted, voice like a blade in velvet. “Right on time.”

The older man’s eyes swept the room and landed on you. His gaze took its time, drinking you in with the kind of arrogant slowness that made your stomach turn. Yeonjun’s hand brushed the small of your back. A show, but also a claim. So you tilted your head, gave the smallest smile, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. You felt Heeseung and Jay nearby, playing their roles well, quiet and watchful from the far end of the room. 

Minjae grinned. “You should take care of that scar. I don’t like damaged goods.”

You smiled at him, slow and dangerous. “Good thing I’m not yours, then.”

There was a beat of silence. Yeonjun laughed first, then Minjae. The tension melted into something easier, at least on the surface, but the scar still burned, and the necklace still sat heavy on your skin. And Yeonjun’s hand, even though it barely touched you, felt hotter than it should.

When Minjae turned to greet someone else, Yeonjun leaned closer, breath brushing your temple. “Still sharp,” he murmured. “Still mine.”

You didn’t look at him, you didn’t have to. “You could never afford me.”

He chuckled. “Darling, I already paid in blood.”

And you both knew — neither of you were bluffing.

You could tell by the way the staff glanced at him like he was both owner and threat, the way people stepped aside when he moved, always a beat too late. Power had its own gravity, and he wore it like silk. He walked beside you with a drink in hand, not drinking it, just holding it like an accessory. His other hand occasionally brushed your back, your arm, your wrist. Always light, always casual. Always enough to remind you he could still find your pulse without trying.

“Smile, darling,” he murmured near your ear, smirk curling. “You look like you’re about to kill someone. Which, to be fair, would only make me love you more.”

Your eyes flicked sideways. “Do you flirt with every woman you’ve sold out to a warlord, or am I just special?”

Yeonjun tilted his head, feigning thought. “Definitely special. Most of them don’t survive long enough to flirt back.”

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t look away either. That was your power — the stillness. The knowledge that if Minjae, who scarred your face with the back of his ring-heavy hand, had any idea who you really were, this place would be on fire by now. And Yeonjun was playing the long game, he always was.

Jay leaned against a pillar in the far corner, glass in hand, posture loose but eyes hard. Heeseung was by the staircase, casual enough to pass as bored muscle, but watching every move Minjae made. They hadn’t said much since you arrived, because that was the deal. Stay close, stay quiet, intervene only if necessary.

Yeonjun led you through the crowd, nodding at names you half-recognized. He led you to a private balcony overlooking the main floor. Not far enough to be hidden, but high enough to feel untouchable. You leaned against the railing and he stood beside you, close. His gaze dropped to your scar again, thumb brushing your cheek before you could stop him. You didn’t move or flinch, but something in your stomach twisted tight. “I’ll kill him for you,” he said, tone too casual.

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t get to kill people for me anymore.”

His smile was sharp. “Who said it would be for you?” The silence stretched. He took a step closer, and your breath caught before you could help it. You turned your head, his hand dropped. Downstairs, Minjae laughed at something. Jay’s eyes flicked toward you, just once. Yeonjun leaned in again. “Do you miss it?”

“Miss what?”

His voice dipped low. “Being mine.”

You didn’t answer him, just stared. The kind of stare that had made men confess, cry, crumble. But Yeonjun only looked back like he’d been waiting years for it. “I was never yours,” you said finally, voice like smoke.

His smile didn’t falter. But something beneath it twisted, just a little. “You were supposed to be.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I was. If your father hadn’t murdered mine. If you hadn’t locked me in that room.”

Yeonjun’s smile faded at the edges. He leaned on the railing with one elbow, gaze dragging over your face. “Well,” he said after a long moment. “I guess we’re even. You gave me this one, after all.”

He tilted his face, and there it was — the faint but brutal line running along his eyebrow. Your work, your rage. Your proof that love could rot. “And now I’ve got this one,” you muttered, tapping your cheek where the newer scar still pinked beneath makeup. “Thanks to you.”

He looked at you like he might shatter the balcony glass with his bare hands. “Minjae did that. Not me.” You looked away and Yeonjun stepped in, voice dropping, a hiss. “He’s going to pay for putting his hands on you.” You scoffed. “I’m serious,” he said, closer now. “You think I’m gonna let anyone leave a mark on that face and walk out breathing?” You turned to snap at him, but froze. He was inches away, his mouth too close. “Though I have to admit… you wearing a scar that matches mine?” His eyes dropped to your mouth, then climbed slowly back up. “It suits you. Makes us look coordinated.”

Your glare sharpened. “Fuck you.”

He smirked. “Do you want to?”

You shoved him lightly, but not enough to make distance. He didn’t budge anyway. From the far end of the balcony, Minjae’s gaze found you both. You felt that chill like fingers down your spine. He was watching, curious. Yeonjun caught it instantly. His hand slid to your hip. Not forceful, just a gentle pull to remind you of the lie you were supposed to be living. “Eyes on us,” he whispered. “Play the part, sweetheart.”

“I’d rather jump.”

“Okay… but try not to bleed on the carpet. It’s imported.”

He leaned in then slowly, theatrical, intense, until his face was right there. His nose nearly brushing yours, his lips a breath away. His eyes locked on yours with that too-familiar glint: part hunger, part mischief, part ruin. And Minjae was still watching, waiting. So you didn’t flinch when Yeonjun’s mouth brushed your temple, your cheek, and hovered by your ear.

You didn’t mean to stare. But once you did, it was impossible to stop. Yeonjun’s face was older now, of course, but under the dim golden light of the balcony, you could still see the shadow of the boy he used to be. The one who smirked too easily. Who whispered reckless things when no one was listening. The one who used to lean so close you thought he’d kiss you, but never did. He was always just a breath away, dangling the possibility like a blade over your throat. 

You used to wonder what it would feel like — his mouth on yours. You were fifteen. A girl made of rage, and Yeonjun was a fire you wanted to hate but kept reaching for. You never let yourself find out, never crossed that line. But now, standing in the heat of his stare, you didn’t know why you ever thought you were safe from it.

Your gaze flicked up to the scar that split the edge of his left brow, faded now, but unmistakable. You’d given it to him in a moment of betrayal so bright it still burned behind your eyelids when you closed them. Funny. You'd thought it would make you feel powerful, seeing it. But it only made your chest ache.

“Still staring, sweetheart,” Yeonjun said, low and smug. “If you want to touch it, you can just ask.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You say that,” he said, leaning closer, “but your breath hitches every time I talk like this.” He wasn’t wrong. “I could make you forget who you’re pretending to be,” he whispered, mouth ghosting near your jaw. “One touch. One word. You’d remember exactly what it feels like to be mine.”

You turned toward him, mouth parted to curse, or worse, but the sound of a cough cut through the tension like a knife. Yeonjun didn’t even flinch. His gaze flicked lazily over your shoulder. Minjae stood by the balcony doors, watching you both with eyes too polite to be innocent.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Minjae said, though the smug twist of his lips made it clear — he wasn’t. His gaze lingered far too long on your face, right where the scar cut across your cheekbone. “But we’ve got business to discuss.”

You didn’t flinch, but your heart, however, knocked once, hard against your ribs when Minjae’s eyes landed on your face again. You knew that look. That casual cruelty, the one that reminded you exactly who gave you that scar, and exactly who still believed you were nothing more than Yeonjun’s favorite toy.

The corridor to the private lounge was quiet, lined with dim lights and mirrors that made everything seem hazy. You saw Jay just before you entered, leaned against the wall in black, dressed like security, his mouth set in a practiced scowl. If you didn’t know better, you’d believe the act yourself. Taehyun walked beside Yeonjun with silent confidence, his sharp eyes sweeping every shadow. And you played your part.

Inside the lounge, everything was low light and dark velvet. Minjae sat first, sprawling like he owned the room, and maybe, in some ways, he did. Jay stood near the door, eyes on you. On Minjae. On everything. Yeonjun didn’t sit until he’d guided you down beside him, his hand still warm on your waist. His thumb brushed up once, just a fraction, grazing your ribs through the fabric of your clothes. You gave him a warning look, and he only smirked.

“Let’s get to it, shall we?” Minjae said, lighting a cigar like the caricature of a villain. “I want to finalize the territory shift.” 

Yeonjun smiled lazily. “Of course.”

“Must be nice,” Minjae said after a beat, changing topics. “Having someone so pretty that devoted.” His eyes flicked to your face again, and something uglier bloomed behind his grin. “Though I don’t remember that scar being there last time.”

Yeonjun’s hand moved again, but not away. This time it slid across your lap, over the silk of your dress, and came to rest on your thigh. He squeezed gently, like a warning. Or maybe comfort, maybe both. You swallowed, eyes trained forward. You weren’t sure if it was your own pulse you were hearing, or Yeonjun’s.

Business was discussed, territories laid out. Taehyun handled most of the numbers, Jay nodding occasionally as if he were part of the team. But through all of it, Yeonjun never stopped touching you. His hand drifted to your knee, your waist, your back, in a casual, intimate, possessive way. Like he meant it, like he wanted Minjae to see.

And you let him, because Minjae couldn’t know the truth. Because Yeonjun was playing his role. Because, somewhere deep down — under all the betrayal and blood and broken pieces — you remembered what it was like to be touched by him and believe it was real. And maybe some part of you still wanted it to be.

The meeting ended, Minjae stood first, adjusting the lapel of his tailored jacket with that same smug smile glued to his face since the start of the night. He looked at Yeonjun, and then at you, lingering a second too long. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Getting territory from the Ghost Queen isn’t a small thing. You must have a special talent, Yeonjun. Or she must really like you.”

Yeonjun didn’t flinch, he just smiled dangerously slowly. His hand tightened slightly at your thighs, grounding you, warning you, comforting you. Almost like he was saying, Let it go. I’ve got this.

Minjae took a couple of steps toward the door, tossing a final comment over his shoulder. “I hope the scar makes your girlfriend even prettier.” A smirk. “Take good care of her, Yeonjun. Women like that are hard to find… and easy to mark.”

Your entire body stilled. Not from fear—you’d burned that out of your system years ago. But from the kind of fury that didn’t flash, it simmered, low and dangerous in your veins.

Yeonjun leaned in before you could speak, his voice brushing hot against your ear. “Give me one reason. Just one. And I’ll tear him apart.”

You didn’t answer. The tilt of your chin, the ice in your gaze, it was enough. Minjae left with his goons, the door swinging closed behind them like the end of a nightmare that didn’t know it was over. But Yeonjun didn’t step away, not even an inch. If anything, he pulled you closer, with his hand drifting up your back to rest at the back of your neck, thumb gently brushing just beneath your jaw. Possessive, protective and dangerous. Not for show this time, even if the performance had technically ended.

Jay let out a slow breath and finally stepped forward from the shadows, pulling out the earpiece he’d worn for the entire meeting. “Well,” he said, with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “if hell had a homeowners’ association, I think we just sat through the board meeting.”

Taehyun snorted quietly, heading to the table to collect the documents Minjae had left behind. “He really thinks he’s winning.”

“Let him,” Yeonjun said, fingers still tangled in your hair. His tone was calm, but it carried an undercurrent of violence. “The higher he thinks he is, the harder the fall.”

Jay crossed his arms and finally looked directly at you. “You alright?”

You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the door. “Yeah. The worst part’s over.”

Jay looked back at Yeonjun. “We need to get the logistics in place. Can’t hand over territory without locking in transport, security, collection.”

Yeonjun gave a small nod, finally turning, but he didn’t let go of your hand. His fingers stayed interlaced with yours, like the truth was still too dangerous to set down. Like he needed them to know you were his, even if it was still just pretend. Even if it never really was.

“Let’s handle that tonight,” he said, looking at the two of them. “But first…” He turned to you again, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. His expression softened only slightly—only for you. “I want to make sure she has what she needs. And that no one—ever—lays a finger on her again without bleeding for it.”

For a moment, it sat in your chest like warmth. Like safety. Like the kind of thing you'd once dreamed of when you were a teenager and he was still the boy with fire in his eyes and a promise on his lips. But then it cracked. Because it hit you, all at once—there was no one left to pretend for. Minjae was gone. The room was full of allies, no one was watching. You weren’t his girlfriend. And he wasn’t your hero, not anymore.

You stepped away from him like waking from a dream, the trance shattered. You didn’t even meet his eyes when you stood up. “You don’t need to worry about me, Yeonjun,” you said, voice cold. “I’ll handle it.”

There was a silence. Jay raised an eyebrow, halfway to speaking when you reached over and plucked the drink from his hand without asking. He didn’t stop you, just tilted his head slightly, watching as you started toward the door. “You need anything?” he asked, cautious.

You didn’t look back. “Yeah, to be alone.”

And then you were gone. You went straight to an outside balcony, the cold air outside hit you like a slap. You lit the cigarette with fingers that didn’t shake, but only because you wouldn’t allow them to. The burn in your chest wasn’t from the smoke. It was the memory of his hand on your waist, his voice in your ear, his lie living under your skin like a second pulse. He always did that—wrapped barbed wire in silk and called it love.

You heard the door open behind you ten minutes later. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. No one else had that kind of presence. That specific gravity.

“What the fuck was that?” Yeonjun’s voice was low, sharp, laced with confusion and something angrier underneath.

You didn’t turn. You exhaled, slow and bitter. “What was what?”

He stepped closer, not touching you now, not daring to. “You walking out like that. The attitude. The—” He stopped himself, like he wasn’t sure what the hell he was trying to say. “I’ve been protecting you all goddamn night. And now you're acting like—”

“I didn’t ask you to protect me.” That made him pause. You turned to face him finally, eyes dark. “I didn’t want your protection, Yeonjun. And especially not after everything you did.”

His jaw clenched. “I did what I had to do to keep you alive.”

“No,” you said. “You did what you had to do to keep yourself alive. Don’t rewrite history just because I’m standing here again.” He didn’t answer. You stepped closer, enough that your breath could find his collarbone. Enough to remind him that once upon a time, you wanted to be close. “You had years, Yeonjun. Years to come clean. Years to fix it.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice cracked barely. “You let me rot.”

“You think it didn’t kill me? I thought you were dead!”

“I think you lived just fine with it.”

He looked at you like he wanted to tear something apart. Maybe you. Maybe himself. “You think I wanted this?” he hissed.

“I think you let it happen,” you snapped. “And I think it’s too late now to play the good guy.” There was a silence. He stared at you with that same infuriating expression—equal parts regret and arrogance. The one you used to fall for. “I don’t need you,” you said, finally. “And I sure as hell don’t need you pretending like we’re anything anymore.”

Yeonjun tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “Then why are you still wearing my necklace?”

The question landed like a slap. And you didn’t have an answer.

Before you could even breathe, he was stepping closer. Each step heavy with something darker than tension, something primal. You stayed still, partly because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of moving. Partly because your legs didn’t fucking work when he looked at you like that. He stopped only when his chest nearly brushed yours.

His eyes dropped to your collarbone and he towered you, looking down at you. “Still fits you like it was made for you,” he murmured, voice honeyed and low. “Of course, it was. I picked it out when I was younger and so fucking in love with you I couldn’t think straight.” You blinked. The weight of that sentence crashing into you all at once, but he didn’t give you time to recover. “Funny thing is…” His gaze dragged up to your lips, then your eyes. “Even now—after all the blood, the lies, the shit we buried—I still look at you and want to fuck you against the nearest wall.”

You sucked in a breath.

“I still think about what your mouth would feel like saying my name the way you used to—sweet and desperate.” He tilted his head again, like he was admiring the way you looked pissed off and frozen in the same breath. “Still think about what your skin tastes like under all that attitude.”

Your fingers curled at your sides. “You’re disgusting.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “But you’ve always liked me that way.”

And the worst part is that he wasn’t wrong. You hated the way your body reacted to him, how your pulse betrayed you, how your mind told you to step away and your feet stayed planted.

His eyes dropped again, this time to your mouth, and lingered. “Do you even know what you look like right now?” he whispered. “All cold and fire at the same time. Like you want to punish me for wanting you.”

“I should punish you,” you said, finally finding your voice again, though it came out rough.

Yeonjun smirked. “Baby, if that’s a threat, I’ll fucking beg for it.”

That made you flinch, just a little. But he saw it. Of course he saw it. And that was all the invitation he needed.

He tilted his head, watching your every breath like a predator. Then, slow as sin, he leaned in, close enough that his breath kissed the shell of your ear when he spoke again. “Tell me something.” His voice was a hushed rasp, too close, too deep. “In all these years… did anyone make you feel good?” Your lips parted, but he didn’t wait. “I mean—really good,” he continued, his mouth dragging close to your cheek. “The way I would’ve. The way I still want to.” A pause, his lips ghosting over your skin, not quite touching. “The way I will.”

You turned your head sharply, eyes slicing toward him. “You talk like I was yours to begin with.”

Yeonjun only smiled. “You were.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “We were young. You don’t get to rewrite that.”

“Young and stupid, yeah,” he agreed. “But you never stopped looking at me like you wanted to tear me apart. And you think I didn’t see that? You think I didn’t feel it?” He stepped in even closer, one hand bracing against the wall beside your head. “I’ve had to live with that image in my head for years. The way you looked that night you cut me. Face flushed. Hands shaking. Breathing like you’d just—God, I wanted to taste the blood on your fingers.”

You exhaled through your nose, trying to stay cold, unbothered. “You’re sick.”

“And you love it.” He leaned down, murmuring right against your ear again. “Tell me, baby. Did anyone ever get to have you? Did they get to fuck that attitude out of you, or did they all fail?”

“Yeonjun—”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “I’d ruin you,” he said, voice low and steady. “So slow, so good, you’d forget your own fucking name. You’d forget who you are—Ghost Queen or not. You’d just be mine.”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t answer, because you hated that a part of you was imagining it. His hot skin, rough hands, his mouth on your throat, dragging out every gasp like it belonged to him. You could almost feel it. The pressure, the filth of his words against your ear, the pull of him unraveling you. So you clenched your jaw, locking it in place. “You never had me.”

Yeonjun stared, quiet for a breath. Then the corner of his mouth curled. “But I could’ve,” he murmured, leaning in, lips brushing dangerously close to your cheek. “And I still could—maybe I should ask your little dog to watch us. What’s his name again? Beomgyu?”

You didn’t even think. In one clean, practiced movement, your hand slid from beneath your sleeve, the blade catching the low light as you slammed him back into the wall with your forearm to his chest and your knife pressed right to the hollow of his throat. The force of it knocked the smirk off his face, but only for a second. Then it was back, wider and hungrier.

“Well, well,” he breathed, tilting his head against the blade. A bead of blood bloomed at the contact, but he didn’t even flinch. “There she is.”

Your eyes were all fire, teeth clenched, breathing sharp. “Say his name again, Yeonjun. Say it. I fucking dare you.”

His hands didn’t go up, didn’t push you off. He stayed still, almost inviting the cut. That damn smirk still plastered across his lips. “You know,” he drawled, voice barely above a whisper, “you holding a knife to my throat is hotter than anything I’ve ever jerked off to—and I’ve had years to imagine this.” Your grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. But his gaze didn’t drop, it burned into yours. “I missed you,” he whispered. “You insane, deadly little thing.”

You hated the way your pulse betrayed you. How your body thrived off the proximity, off the danger. You could kill him, right here, right now. You wanted to. “You think you scare me?” you snapped.

“I hope so,” he said, smiling wider. “Because nothing makes me harder than a girl who might slit my throat after fucking me.”

Your blade was still slick against him, your chest rising and falling. But you didn’t need to move, because he did all the work for you, leaning in just enough so his lips hovered by your ear, voice thick with venom and something far more dangerous.

“What’s the matter?” Yeonjun said, low and sickeningly sweet. “Afraid I’ll say something else that gets you all worked up?” The weight of his body so close, the smell of his cologne crawling under your skin. “I've got a thousand fantasies about you pressing that knife a little lower.” He exhaled like he was enjoying himself. “God, I missed you. Every version of you. The girl who kissed my cheek once and made me lose sleep for a week, and the one who nearly slit my throat just now. They both get me off.” Your grip faltered for half a second, just enough for him to feel it, and he grinned. “Don’t know if you love me or you want me dead.”

You stepped back like the words were a punch to the chest. His gaze followed you as you turned, fast and sharp, like you had to run before your legs gave out. Before he said something even worse, or something you wanted to hear. You shoved the blade back into the sheath under your sleeve and stormed toward the club’s hall, the music echoing louder the closer you got. You thought you could lose him in the noise, that maybe if you slipped back into the crowd, back into the role, back into your armor, he’d vanish with the bloodlust and the memories.

But of course not. You’d barely made it to the bar when you felt him again, his hand finding your waist from behind like it had belonged there all along. His chest pressed to your back, lips brushing against the shell of your ear with that voice, that stupid, dangerous voice—

“We still have to sell the story, baby,” he whispered, shameless and slow. “Minjae’s watching. Don’t make me hold you tighter.”

“You keep touching me like that,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “And I swear to God, Yeonjun—”

“You’ll what?” He cut in, nuzzling against your hair. “Make me beg? Scream? Kill me in front of everyone?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Maybe all three,” you said.

His smile was pure sin. “Fuck, I hope so.” But then he leaned in closer, voice a breath over your skin, lips ghosting the shell of your ear— “Truth is,” he murmured, slow, filthy, “I think about it every night. What would you let me do to you if my father didn’t kill yours.”

Your brain short-circuited. There was no time to think, just movement. You grabbed a fistful of his hair, hard enough to make him groan, and yanked his smug, beautiful face toward yours. His smirk only widened. You didn’t waste a second, you shoved him back across the room, until his back slammed into the wall near the nearest private door. You didn’t even check if anyone saw you twist the lock.

The second the door clicked shut, you spun him and slammed him against it, fingers still tight in his hair, breath heaving. He was grinning. “Knew you missed me, princess.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

You grabbed his jaw, nails biting into his skin, and forced him to look at you. He was already hard, cocky as ever, eyes gleaming like he’d won some twisted game. But he didn’t say another word. You pressed in close, body flush to his, letting him feel every inch of your control. “You talk too much,” you muttered, dragging your mouth along his jaw—not kissing, just hovering and teasing. “Always did.”

“I can shut up,” he said, already breathless. “If you sit on my face.”

“Quiet,” you hissed. You slammed him back against the wall again, just to feel the sharp inhale he took. His eyes fluttered, and for a split second, the mask cracked, just enough to show how gone he was for you. How long he’d been starving for this. “Tell me you missed me,” you demanded.

He licked his lips, eyes blown wide. “I missed the way you make me fucking weak.”

You didn’t give him time to breathe. Your lips crashed against his jaw, not soft, not sweet. You sank your teeth into the sharp edge of it, biting down until his whole body jolted under your hands, a strangled groan ripping from his throat. You could feel him trembling. “Fuck,” he hissed, head tilting back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fucking bite me again—”

“I said shut up,” you growled against his skin, your breath hot and ragged. You licked where you’d just bitten, then bit again, just below his ear, harder. “God, you’re pathetic.”

He let out a low, breathy laugh, already wrecked. “Only for you.”

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear. “I think about it every day, Jun. Every fucking day.” He stilled, but you didn’t stop. “The sound you made when I cut your face. That pitiful, shocked little gasp. You looked like a kicked dog. And I swear I wanted to kill you,” you whispered, pressing your mouth back to that same spot on his jawline, biting again. “After my father died, and your father left me rotting—you just let it happen. You walked away. You knew.”

“Y/N—”

“No.” You gripped his chin, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You let me starve. You let them humiliate me. And I swore—every fucking day—that I’d make you pay for it. I built myself from blood and ash, and you? And now you are fucking stealing from me.”

Yeonjun stilled. For one long, charged second, he didn’t move or speak. Then his eyes darkened and everything snapped. With a brutal sort of grace, he grabbed your wrists and spun you, slamming your back against the wall in a single, fluid motion. His breath was hot at your throat, his body crowding yours, his thigh sliding precisely between your legs until it was pressed against your heat firmly and deliberate. Your breath caught and you hated how fast your body betrayed you.

“You think you’re in control?” he growled, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, while the other slid down your side, fingers dragging painfully slow. “You think you built yourself?” His thigh pressed up hard, just enough friction to make you gasp, and he chuckled. “I love it when you look at me like you want to kill me—and fuck me in the same breath,” he hissed, lips brushing your jaw. 

You choked on a sound, part fury, part need, grinding involuntarily against the pressure between your legs and he smirked. “I bet you ache,” he whispered, mouth moving to the shell of your ear. “Bet you’ve always ached. You try to fall asleep at night, and you squeeze your thighs together, pretending it’s nothing. Pretending it’s not me you’re thinking about.” His voice dropped lower and meaner. “Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “When you touch yourself—because I know you do—do you pretend it’s my fingers? Or do you imagine me throwing you against a wall like this, fucking you so hard you forget your own name?”

His thigh flexed against you again, and your hips bucked helplessly in response. He grinned, dark and wolfish. “You hate that you want it. That you want me,” he breathed. “But you always have. Even back then. You were mine long before you knew what that meant.”

His hand slid under your dress, fingertips teasing the sensitive skin of your thigh, just barely skimming where you needed him most. “You wanna know what I think about?” he asked, voice rough and sinful. “I think about spreading you open. Holding your legs apart while I taste every inch of you—slow. So slow it hurts. I wanna hear you whimper. Wanna ruin you so completely until you cry for my dick. Again. And again.”

You gasped as his thigh pressed up again, harder, firmer, angled just right. It sent a jolt of pleasure through you so sharp your knees nearly gave out. His hands clamped down on your hips, tight and possessive, guiding you against the flex of his thigh. The friction sent another sharp jolt of heat through your core, and you cursed under your breath, biting down on your lip hard enough to hurt.

“That's it,” he rasped, grinding you down with purpose. “So eager now, aren’t you? I can feel how wet you are through your panties, baby. You're soaking me.” You clenched your jaw, trying to hold on to that last shred of control. But he was relentless, dragging your hips with a slow rhythm, the pressure maddening. “Go on,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy. “Use me. Ride my thigh like the needy little thing I always knew you were.”

“Shut up,” you spat, even as your hips betrayed you, rolling down against the muscle of his leg with pathetic desperation.

He chuckled, dark and hungry. “Shut me up, then. Or are you too busy soaking my pants like some spoiled brat in heat?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moons in his skin. You hated him. You hated how he knew exactly what to say. How your body responded to him like it had never belonged to you in the first place. “I should’ve slit your throat the day I found out what you did,” you hissed, breathless.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You should’ve. But you didn’t. And now look at you.” He leaned in closer, closer to your mouth, his lips almost touching yours. You turned your face at the last second, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw instead. You can’t kiss him right now. You don’t know how you feel about this. And he notices it, that resistance in you. So he rolled his thigh up again, harder this time, making your head tip back against the wall as a ragged moan escaped you. “You're grinding on me like a whore,” he murmured, leaning in close. “But you won't even let me kiss you?” He barked a laugh. “That’s cute.”

One of his hands slid up your back and tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp. “You're so good at pretending you're above this,” he whispered against your cheek. “But I can feel how close you are.”

Your lips parted, a breath catching, but no words came. He pressed his forehead to yours, keeping you pinned, his thigh flexing beneath you in slow, deliberate circles. “You're shaking. You gonna come just from this?” he whispered, tone wicked. “Gonna fall apart without me even needing to touch your pussy properly?”

“Fuck you,” you hissed, even as your fingers clutched his shirt like a lifeline.

“We already are,” he breathed. “You just don’t wanna admit it.” You tried to snarl something back, anything brutal, but all that came out was a broken whimper when he angled his leg just right again and ground you down on it hard. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me to ruin you.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

You hesitated. His grip on your hips tightened, and he dragged you over him again with a force that knocked the breath out of your lungs. “Say it, or I’ll stop.”

You looked at him. At the flushed skin, the blown pupils, the restraint in every muscle of his body barely holding back his own hunger. And something in you snapped. Not from surrender, but from something darker, older. Something forged in every time you’d had to bite your tongue, bury your desire, and walk away from him when all you really wanted was this. The way he looked at you now—wild, worshipful, starved like you were a sin he’d been denied too long—it ignited every sharp, burning edge of you.

You gripped the front of his shirt and yanked him closer, your breath brushing his lips. “You think you’re in control now,” you whispered, voice low and trembling with fury and want. “But you’re not. You never were.”

He grinned, teeth flashing, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes. Respect, maybe, or awe. “I’ve always been in control,” he murmured, dragging his thigh up again between your legs. “Even when I wasn’t touching you. Especially then.”

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead pressing against his for a beat. Your hips rolled of their own accord, chasing friction like your body had given up waiting for your mind to catch up. He hissed. “Fuck, that’s it. Keep going. Let me see what that perfect little cunt does when you stop pretending you don’t need me.”

His hands moved like instinct, one cupping your jaw, the other sliding down your spine and grabbing your ass as he ground you even harder into his thigh. You moaned into his mouth, and he groaned into yours, the sound deep and guttural like he’d been dying for this. “You like that?” he rasped, mouth so close to yours. “Like grinding that soaked little pussy on me while I whisper every filthy thing I’ve ever wanted to do to you?”

You gasped as he rocked you forward again, the pressure brutal, perfect. “I wanna wreck you,” he said, voice like smoke and sin. “Wanna fuck you in every way. Wanna hear you beg for it, cry for it—thank me for it.” Your head tipped back, a raw sound catching in your throat. 

His thigh flexed under you again and your whole body jolted. “You gonna come for me like this?” he asked, hand sliding between you to press against your clit through the soaked fabric. “So desperate you’ll cream on my leg like a needy little slut?” You whimpered, you fought not to, but your hips bucked against his hand. “Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine. Say it and I’ll make you come right now.”

Your lips hovered near his, breathing him in. His breath ghosted over your mouth, but still—you wouldn’t kiss him. Not yet. That, you’d keep. That was your line. And then you whispered: “…I’m yours.”

He exhaled, like the words physically undid him. “That’s my fucking girl.”

His mouth was everywhere but your lips. He kissed your neck like he wanted to brand you, tongue dragging over your pulse, his teeth grazing that sensitive spot below your ear, making you shudder so hard it nearly hurt. You didn’t mean to move, but your hips ground down on his thigh anyway, desperate for friction, for relief. Yeonjun’s hands locked around your waist dragging you even closer. He rolled his thigh up hard, and you choked on your breath, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s right. Use me,” he whispered, and then, closer to your ear, darker: “But if you think I’m just gonna let you come without claiming every inch of you first, you’re fucking dreaming.”

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, legs shaking, brain fogging fast with the pressure building between your thighs. “I can feel it,” he groaned. “You’re right fucking there. Gonna soak my leg like a needy little slut, huh? Can’t even wait for my cock—just wanna make a mess on me.”

“Yeonjun—” you breathed, but you didn’t know what you were begging for.

He bit down gently on the curve of your jaw, just enough to make you whimper, then spoke so close to your ear it sent a bolt of heat down your spine. “You don’t wanna kiss me?” he taunted. “Fine. But you’re gonna come like this—shaking, grinding on me, moaning my name like a fucking bitch.”

You broke. The tension snapped like a rubber band. Your body convulsed, the orgasm tearing through you so hard you nearly sobbed. Your hips jerked once, twice, before collapsing into him, legs weak, chest heaving, mind blank with the force of it. You were screaming his name. And Yeonjun held you through it, strong and steady, one hand firm on your back, the other gently stroking your thigh, lips brushing your ear.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice smug and thick with hunger. “That’s my good fucking girl.”

And still, he didn’t kiss you, not yet. Instead, he held you there for a moment longer, letting your trembling body press against his as your breath came in broken, uneven bursts. One hand stayed planted low on your back, grounding you. The other trailed up slowly, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. “You came so hard, baby. Rubbed your needy little cunt on my thigh like you were made to be ruined by me.”

You twitched at his words, still raw from the high, but your body reacted anyway, too sensitive, too aware. He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes half-lidded, drunk on power and lust. And then he leaned in, his mouth angling toward yours, lips parted, close enough that his breath mingled with yours.

But something snapped. Reality slammed back into you, all at once—your heartbeat still frantic, your skin still hot, your body still aching... and all of it because of him. The person you swore you’d never let close again.

So you shoved him hard. He stumbled back a step, blinking in surprise, before a slow, amused grin curled his lips. “There she is,” he said, breathless, a dark chuckle in his throat. “My little hellcat.”

“Fuck you, Yeonjun,” you spat, fury and embarrassment colliding in your chest.

He tilted his head, eyes flicking to your mouth. “You bit your lip so hard, you’re bleeding.”

You reached up instinctively and sure enough, your fingers came away red. Yeonjun moved fast. Before you could stop him, he was already close again, hands on either side of your face, and he leaned in—not to kiss you, no—but to drag his tongue slowly along your lower lip, tasting the blood like it was something sacred.

You flinched. “Don’t—”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a wild gleam in his own. “Even your blood tastes good,” he murmured. “Bet I could get addicted to you.”

You shoved him again, harder this time, and he let you. “You don’t get to kiss me,” you snapped, breath still unsteady.

His smile was crooked now, smug. “Baby, I already made you come. With your clothes on. Grinding on my fucking thigh like a bitch.”

Your face burned fiercely—flushed with a storm of anger, humiliation, and something darker, more twisted beneath it all. “You’re disgusting,” you spat, jerking your dress down, trying to steady the ragged gasps that threatened to spill from your mouth. “This was a fucking mistake. It should’ve never happened.” You whipped around, ready to escape, to put miles between you and the man who’d just unraveled you without even shedding your clothes. But before you took two steps, his hand slammed down on your wrist. “Don’t,” you warned, voice sharp but shaky, refusing to turn back.

Yeonjun didn’t care. He yanked you back with a brutal ease, pressing you flush against his chest. His body was a furnace behind you, hot, and that unmistakable hardness pressed right where it needed to, digging into you. You froze, breath hitching, every nerve screaming. His fingers spread over your waist, gripping with possessive force, anchoring you.

“You really think this ends here?” he growled, voice thick. “After how soaked your panties got, creaming on my leg like some desperate little slut who can’t get enough?”

A shiver ran down your spine. Your fists curled, but you stayed rooted, helpless to deny the truth in his words. His voice dropped lower. “Run if you want. Go ahead. But I’m the only one who knows how to touch you like this. You are fucking mine, queen.”

Your breath caught, eyes burning with a mix of defiance and desire. Your body betrayed you, frozen against his relentless hold. His chest pressed heavier against your back, his hot breath trailing down your neck like liquid sin. “You’re gonna fucking replay this in your head,” he whispered, cruel and sweet all at once. Then, just like that—he released you.

You didn’t look back. But his voice echoed in your mind as you walked away, the filthy promise dragging after you like a shadow:

“You’ll come back. You always do. And next time? I’m gonna make you scream my name while I ruin you completely.”

You hated him, you did, you hated everything he had done, the lies, the pain, the silence. But you didn’t hate the way his touch made your pulse skip. You didn’t hate the way his voice, low and wrecked, had said: You are fucking mine, queen.

Yeonjun was a mess. A walking, bleeding contradiction. He was dangerous, infuriating even. But you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Because Yeonjun fought so dirty, but he loved so sweet. He talked so pretty, but his heart got teeth. And you’d never, never, never let go.

author’s note: okay confession time: this was my very first time diving into the mafia genre and honestly, i always avoided it because i was scared it would come off too cheesy or overdramatic. but somehow, with these two, everything just clicked. so i ended up really liking how everything aligned in the end because some loves don’t fit into the rules AND THAT being said… if by any chance you’d like to see what happens next, i’m already working on a part 2!! but it will take a while :( if you want to be in the taglist, let me know in the comments! ok byeeeeeee

my masterlist | last fic 🕷️🖤

taglist: @lovesickchoi @biteyoubiteme @heesmiles @xylatox @soobinieswife @deadlykitten404 @fancypeacepersona @zoemeltigloos @choibona14 @iyoonjh @usuallyunlikelyfox @cristy-101 @stormy1408

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures ꒱

[kindly-whisper-norbury]

If the authorities are watching my internet search history and seeing that I look up things such as the speed of different calibers of bullets, hacking terminology, torture methods, untraceable poisons, and emergency wound care, then they also must be able to see that the stories I post on AO3 include these things... and I would appreciate it if they would leave me a nice comment or at least some kudos once in a while.

I mean, obviously they can tell how much research I've put into it...

[aerixfixoff]

Einen verloren IV

Chapter 4: In the grip of desire

Pairing: Mafia Boss!Mingi x Fem!Reader

Genre: Angst, Yandere, Horror, Slight Humor, Smut, Fluff

Warnings: Cursing, stalking, obsessive behavior, yandere themes, implied violence, kidnapping, and controlling behavior.

Word Count: 2,200

Author’s Note: I didn’t even think I would write smut in this chapter but here we are. ENJOY 😼

( PS, im so sorry if the chapters are taking longer to come out I will try my best to post them as early as I can but please note I’m very busy with school, and probably won’t post chapter 6 until April )

When you woke up from the coma, everything was blurry, and your body ached in ways you had never experienced before. Your limbs felt weak, your throat dry and scratchy. You struggled to move, muscles stiff as if they had forgotten how to function.

You didn’t know how long you had been unconscious, but judging by the IV in your arm, the faded flowers on the bedside table, and the heavy silence in the hospital room, it had been a while. Weeks? Months?

And then you saw the date.

August 15th.

Your breath caught in your throat. Three months.

The realization hit you like a ton of bricks, but there was no time to dwell on it. Because despite the haziness clouding your mind, you remembered. You remembered how you got here. You remembered what he did.

And you remembered him.

“Ah, seems you’re up,” a voice said, snapping you out of your thoughts. It was the doctor. “I’ll go get Mr. Song for you.”

“No—wait.”

Your voice came out broken, weak, barely above a whisper. But the panic behind it was enough to make the doctor stop in his tracks.

“Please… don’t,” you pleaded.

The doctor studied your expression, then gave a slow nod. “If that’s what you want, Y/N.” With that, he turned and walked out, leaving you alone in the deafening silence.

Your heart pounded in your chest. You needed to get out.

Your eyes landed on a phone sitting on the nightstand. It wasn’t yours, but you didn’t care. You grabbed it with trembling fingers, checking the contacts.

And there it was.

Mingi.

Your blood ran cold. Even after all this time, even after what he had done, he was still trying to keep you within his grasp. He was never going to let you go.

Not without a fight.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed the clothes left on the chair—a pair of baggy jeans, a white tank top, and a black hoodie—and quickly changed, tying your red hair into a high ponytail. Before walking out, you made sure to trade the phone for a smaller, untraceable one at a local business.

You weren’t going to let him find you.

Not this time.

You had nowhere to go. Soyeon didn’t pick up when you called, which left you with only one option.

Karina.

“Y/N, you’re back!” Karina cried the moment she saw you, pulling you into a tight embrace. The warmth of her hug almost made you break. Almost.

“Not for long,” you murmured. “I have to lay low for a while.”

She pulled back slightly, scanning your appearance. “You have red hair now… and tattoos?” Her voice was laced with worry. “God, what did he do to you?”

You wanted to laugh it off, but you couldn’t.

“Do you mind if I stay here for a bit?”

“Of course, Y/N. You’re always welcome here,” Karina said with a soft, reassuring smile.

You wished that smile could promise safety.

But deep down, you knew better.

Mingi arrived at the hospital, expecting to find you asleep, weak, and in need of him. But instead, he found an empty bed.

His heart stopped.

At first, he thought he had the wrong room. Maybe the nurses had moved you. Maybe—

Then he saw the flowers he had brought you days ago, the empty IV bag still hanging from the stand.

You were gone.

Something inside him snapped.

Where were you? Who took you? Why did you leave?

His hands clenched into fists as a dark, sinking feeling settled in his gut. He had waited three long months for you to wake up, hoping—praying—that when you did, you would remember how much you needed him.

How much he loved you.

But instead, you ran.

And if there was one thing Song Mingi hated…

It was losing you.

For months, you hid. You never stayed in one place for too long. You switched jobs constantly, changed your phone number every few weeks, did everything in your power to stay ahead of him.

And for a while, it worked.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

Eventually, you found an apartment of your own. It was small, nothing fancy, but it was yours.

And most importantly, it was safe.

Or so you thought.

One morning, you woke to the sound of movement in your kitchen.

At first, you thought nothing of it. It wasn’t unusual for the old pipes to creak, for the wind to rattle the windows.

But this was different.

There was someone in your kitchen.

Heart hammering in your chest, you slipped on your slippers and walked out, your fingers tightening around the doorframe as you peeked inside.

And then you saw him.

Mingi.

Standing shirtless in your kitchen, cooking breakfast as if he belonged there.

His hair was now a light pink buzz cut. His body was toned, his abs flexing with every movement. His V-line disappeared into the waistband of his sweatpants, leading to your happy meal.

But what sent shivers down your spine wasn’t his appearance.

It was the way he looked at you.

Like he had finally caught you.

Like you were his.

“Guess who’s up?” he said, his voice deep and warm.

Your breath hitched.

You hated how your stomach fluttered at the sound. You hated how, despite everything, he still made your knees weak.

“Get out.”

Your voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. You grabbed the nearest object—a knife—and pointed it at him, your hands shaking with anger.

Mingi sighed, raising his hands slightly in mock surrender.

“Y/N, please,” he murmured. “Let’s talk.”

“Talk?” You scoffed, your grip tightening. “You tricked me, Song Mingi. You made me think I ever fucking loved you. You cheated on me. You abused me. You stalked me. You took away the only person who ever truly loved me. So whatever the fuck you have to say—I don’t care.”

Mingi’s expression darkened.

“The only person who ever loved you?”

“Song Kang.”

His jaw clenched, his blood boiling.

“Kang loved you?” he spat. “He would have never chased after you. He would have never fought for you like I did.”

“He never cheated on me. He never hurt me,” you shot back, shoving him against the wall, pressing the knife against his skin. “Forget me. Take one of your little toys and leave me the fuck alone, or I swear to God, I will ruin you.”

For a brief moment, he was silent.

And then— If you thought song mingi was a sick and twisted man now? You thought wrong just as you say that you felt something hard against your leg. It was his member

“Oh, baby,” he cooed, grabbing the knife from your hand and tossing it away, his other hand finding its way to your ass.

You froze.

Shocked.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his lips crashing onto yours.

And the worst part?

You let it happen.

Because you liked it.

He carried you to the bed, dropping you onto the mattress. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby. Let me make it up to you,” he murmured, kissing down your clothed sex. Slowly, he pulled down your pants and panties.

“All that wetness for me, princess?” His voice was dark, thick with lust. He slid his sweatpants and boxers down, and God, he was big. Thick. His cock teased your entrance. You bit your lip, trying to hold back your moans. “Princess, please, let me hear you,” he said roughly, slipping a hand under your shirt to toy with your breasts. He pushed in—stretching you out greedily. His pace was insane, one hand reaching down to rub your clit intensely, desperate to make you come undone.

Your moans were music to his ears.

“Fuck, princess—oh, fuck,” he groaned.

He felt like heaven inside you.

How could he have ever cheated?

Just how?

Heat coiled in your stomach, your body tensing as you both reached your climax at the same time. Warmth filled you as he shuddered above you. He watched as his cum dripped out of your bare pussy onto the sheets. When he looked back at you, you were already knocked out.

He smiled.

Gently, he cleaned you up, dressed you in his oversized shirt, leaving you only in your panties. Then, he pulled you close, your back pressed against his chest.

Softly, he whispered into your ear.

“My dear Y/N… I never cheated on you. Not once. I would never. I could never. I’ve always wanted you. I will forever hate myself for pushing you away, but I will always love you. And I will prove that to you every single day until I grow old and pass on. I will cherish you. Forever.”

He kissed the top of your head.

Was this it?

Were you going to forgive him this easily?

Or give him a taste of his own medicine?

It was unclear.

But one thing was certain:

You still had feelings for him.

Love or lust?

It was unknown.

But the real question remained—

Would you forgive him?

Or destroy him?

Chapter 5>

Taglist! I will be posting soon on how to join my taglist! 1/25🐝 @kattarrynnka

[inchidentally]

went truly unhinged and wrote an entire fic summary of mafia!carcar @__@ special thanks to the good ppl over at the carcar discord <3

as usual I worked google's p*ssy tired to put together the details so pls ignore/handwave anything erroneous

Okay, so for regional specifications let’s say that Carlos has worked for years to be vouched for in the mafia. He’s actually a spy and in an extremely dangerous position - he was plucked from law school in Spain to be trained up in the intelligence agency and was assigned to Sicily due to his fluency in Italian. So even though he’s only 26, he’s already highly skilled and has been living and working full-time as a secret agent and translator - as well as liaison for the mafia - in Sicily for years already.

Oscar is fresh off his A-levels and touring Italy with lofty dreams of becoming a race engineer for Ferrari but assuming he’ll end up back in the UK in some bland office where he’ll hope to make enough money to go to F1 races - and maybe one day take his rightful place on that pit wall.

Palermo is at the very end of his trip before he flies back to London and he books a tour of the Norman Palace. He’s enjoying the fusion of cultures in the art and architecture, totally unaware that his name had been noticed by one of the palace’s administration when he’d bought the ticket a week before. An untraceable number of emails and messages had brought his existence to the attention of mafiosi who had until that moment assumed that particular royal line had died out. 

They immediately scour what little exists of Oscar in the public domain and the even less available through government authorities (the boy is barely out of childhood and has done nothing of note except leaving his homeland to attend school in the UK and hasn’t even gotten so much as a speeding ticket). His social media however reveals a hunch that young Oscar is not unaffected by handsome men, possibly with a penchant for Spanish men in particular, and that he is an ardent Ferrari fanboy. A hastily put-together plot to snare the boy into the mafia by establishing him in his rightful royal position has all the promise of strengthening the mafia control of the region. 

Meanwhile, many consiglieri have long been suspicious of Carlos and see this as an opportunity for him to commit his oath for good - or to see him and the Oscar boy easily disposed of if the Spaniard was discovered to be a rat. They will install Carlos as a translator for Ferrari and he will then claim that he is also on holiday in Palermo when he “bumps into” Oscar at the palace. As they are marveling at the Palatine Chapel’s interior and Carlos is using Ferrari and himself to work every charm at his disposal, a royal scholar with ties to the mafia will approach and inform them of his suspicion that Oscar is of royal descent. He will then ask them back to the University of Palermo to confirm his suspicions (which had of course already been confirmed). By that point, Oscar will have been successfully wooed by both Carlos and the promise of taking his rightful place as a prince, so that the mafia can insinuate themselves into his life and eventually his reign.

Only Carlos’ training can prevent his dismay from being revealed to his bosses as the plan is described to him, but he’s horrified at dragging some poor, unwitting kid into all the danger and ruthlessness of organized crime. He decides to defy his bosses back at the intelligence agency and play the long game of making Oscar his husband and strategizing at every turn to keep the boy alive and hopefully at some point extricate him back to his normal life - or at least into a witness protection program. Anything else would certainly risk Oscar’s life and even if Carlos hadn’t become fond of the kid from a distance, he still wouldn’t sacrifice him for a shorter route to cutting off an entire arm of organized crime.

The plan proceeds as expected, with Oscar dazzled and blushing over Carlos’ attentions and the royal scholar having approached them. It all suddenly goes awry when an overzealous nephew of a mafiosi - fresh off a 12-hour drug bender - infiltrates operations, taking Oscar hostage in the chapel and insisting that the government immediately recognize Oscar as royalty and that the church marry them there in the chapel. He then turns the gun to dispatch an unarmed Carlos, only to be knocked unconscious by Oscar wielding an antique censer. 

The royal scholar - Andrea Stella - is a good man who now speaks urgently to Carlos in a peculiar coded language (they both have on wires) informing him that he knows of the mafia’s plans and that he too wants to see Oscar kept safe. Oscar surprises them by not only understanding the code but speaking it back - albeit brokenly - to them. The code is known only within the Ferrari elite and sounds identical to everyday Italian but with a sequenced pattern that carries a second meaning to every other word, something that amateur cryptography genius Oscar picks up on remarkably quickly.

Which is how Oscar learns that his claim to royal status is fully valid, his entanglement with the mafia is very real, but worst of all is that Carlos’ romantic interest in him was all a lie (or so he assumes).

The police and media attention that the hostage situation attracts results in the mafia’s plans proceeding as expected, except for all three men pivotal to their machinations being in cahoots to foil them. Oscar is granted status as a prince but without anointing or coronation by the church due to him taking Carlos for a husband. They are installed in a part of the palace now closed off to the public and begin their work ingratiating Oscar with said public and even winning them over to the idea of him being married to another man (Carlos not being Italian ends up being the biggest hurdle for them to get over). Oscar’s youth, beauty, shyness and sweet giggle work unexpected wonders, as does the promise of a return to all the regal romance of a pre-unified Italy while not actually returning to those times politically. 

Carlos and Oscar have a tense private relationship because Oscar is nursing a wounded heart as well as a stubborn attraction and love for Carlos - while Carlos feels ashamed of having tried to seduce Oscar for duplicitous purposes and is also struggling with an intense attraction and growing affection for him. Andrea is the architect of their whole counter-strategy and is both the heart and the brains: the brains because he has lain in wait for decades for the right opportunity to destroy the mafia’s power, but also the heart because he sees Oscar as a son and can also see the misunderstandings going on between Oscar and Carlos.

Oscar is a complete surprise package in having an iron-clad poker face and an uncanny ability to remain calm even as his life is turned upside down that rivals seasoned operatives. He even manages to dupe his own family when they visit for the wedding. When Carlos asks how he can so easily lie to them about it all, Oscar levels him with “I could do anything just to keep them safe.” To which Carlos replies that he knows what Oscar means and raises Oscar’s hand to kiss over the ring he now wears as prince. Then he kisses Oscar at one of the highest points of the palace with Mount Etna visible in the distance.

They begin an all-consuming sexual affair that they both privately claim is beneficial to confirming their relationship to the mafia while conveniently remaining in denial of their real feelings. Carlos pours all of his into kissing every inch of Oscar’s pale skin until he’s pink all over, and Oscar puts all his aching heart into taking Carlos down his throat just out of view of the public or forcing Carlos to handle meetings while Oscar is crouched between his ankles. A few lowly messengers of the mafiosi bring back stories of hearing the prince’s cries punctuated with the banging of furniture against palace walls. Carlos can’t keep his hands off his pretty husband either in public or private conclave with “officials” who are really mafiosi under different titles. 

Meanwhile, Oscar is still presumed by the mafia to be none the wiser about the criminal element of his reign and does such sleek work with his angelic face and adorably unassuming attitude that any lingering discussion of dispatching him is immediately shut down.

Which makes it all the more shocking four years later when a sudden mass assassination frames half the criminal element for the death of the other half and throws the whole of the syndicate in chaos that dissolves their control entirely. The ensuing months see Oscar, Carlos and Andrea sequestered - along with their court - inside the palace which is shut to the public amid fears of another hostage situation, while arrests and investigations take place. 

Tensions across the city are high in the wake of the ensuing widely publicized trials and Oscar insists that a public appearance from him outside the palace would reassure and distract the public - and that it would solidify his position as more than seemingly ceremonial. The palace officials agree to the plan but as they are deciding on the security detail, Carlos realizes his presence alongside Oscar has not been mentioned. 

Later that night in their bedchamber, Carlos raises his concern and states that he will be accompanying his husband during his appearance. Oscar attempts to shut him down by stating that Carlos would only represent a greater threat by seeming to taunt the mafia and encourage retribution. 

They argue until Oscar calmly pulls rank, to which Carlos responds by kissing him fiercely and forcing him onto the bed. They desperately make love and fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

The next morning, Carlos awakens in their room alone and with the sun at a suspicious slant through the windows. He realizes Oscar has stolen Carlos’ phone from its usual place by the bed to ensure that he slept in - clearly hoping Carlos would sleep through Oscar’s public appearance entirely. He realizes the little beast had baited him into fucking him so thoroughly that Carlos was exhausted and woke late.

He pulls on clothes and tears down the stairs to the courtyard with just enough time to compose himself and stand beside one of the guards. Oscar is stood out in front with the selected media in a semi-circle and an enormous crowd at barriers set further out, many of whom were calling out affection and support for their prince. He does not see that Carlos has joined them and proceeds with his speech.

Carlos spots the gun at the same time as the guard next to him, but it is aimed at Oscar and not himself. 

As Etna smokes and rumbles in what will be called a mild yet deadly eruption in the distance, two shots are fired after Carlos and the guard wrap their bodies around Oscar and force him to safety. The remaining guards - and a few members of the public - detain the gunman (none too gently) and Carlos and Oscar are bundled back to their rooms and the guards take up position outside.

Inside their bedchamber, Oscar frantically paws at Carlos, wildly suspecting that he’s been shot and doesn’t realize it. He tugs Carlos’ jacket and shirt off and gives a heartbreaking cry of relief when he doesn’t see a single mark on his husband’s body.

Oscar breaks down at last, releasing four years of stress and anxiety in a gust of tears and collapsing in Carlos’ arms. He pours out how he had contrived the mass assassination plan mere months after his life was altered forever in the Palatine Chapel - how he brought Andrea into it to help him with things like the details and movements of mafia members, members who would be willing to work against the family and the risk to innocents, even down to developing a seemingly arbitrary fascination with volcanology so that he could be made aware of Etna’s activity far enough in advance to take the admittedly wild final gambit of disposing the remaining members by having them conveniently perish in Etna’s next eruption. He realized that while conspiring half the local mafia against the larger organization would result in a certain amount of mutually assured destruction, as well as concealing forever Oscar’s role in it, he would have some stragglers to deal with who could regroup in retribution. A suggestion was therefore sent down via Oscar’s court officials to the police loyal to the palace, and then to remaining criminals-at-large (also those with the bloodiest histories in the mafia) of escaping arrest by scaling the crater during a period of high activity and therefore remaining undetected by officials, guides and the public. Their treacherous expedition was promised to take them to the other side of the volcano and then to the coast where boats and new identities would take them from their troubles. 

Oscar had reasoned that if Etna hadn’t taken them then their desire for escaping arrest would scatter them and effectively extinguish their power hopefully forever. Andrea had marveled at Oscar’s command over strategizing the whole plan mostly by himself and said that Ferrari would mourn missing out on hiring him if they knew what he was capable of.

Carlos cradles Oscar on the carpet, kissing his sweat-cold brow and begging to know why Oscar didn’t include Carlos in the plan? Does he still not trust him after all this time? Because if so then he wishes the bullet had found him and put an end to playing husband to the man he loves but who will never love him in return.

Oscar looks up into his eyes with a face full of wonder and brings a hand up to lovingly stroke Carlos’ cheek. Because he kept Carlos out of it precisely so that he wouldn’t do anything stupid like sacrifice himself and ruin Oscar’s hopes that when his plan was finished, perhaps they could start over and he could make Carlos love him the way he loves Carlos.

For the first time, they kiss knowing their love is mutual. And while they realize their positions will always involve some element of danger and their lives will never be “normal”, they admit that they’d never choose any other life if it meant not being together.

ENDITO!

[mishy-mashy]

3 reasons I can think of, for why the first Three vestiges were too hard to find information on

[Reason 1]

The time they were born in.

Their births, and any records of them, could just be completely undocumented or non-existent.

They were born in times where systems and governments were down, and it's everyone for themselves.

People aren't going to register their existence, especially the Metas, when they all want to stay under the radar and hide from everyone else.

If you're in the middle of a war zone that spread to where you live, and your baby brother was just born, are you really going to go [Oh no! I have to register his birth for that sweet sweet child tax!]?

Or something like that. But still.

There are more important things, like survival, than registering a baby's birth and going through hospital paperwork. And it's been explicitly stated that the first appearance of Abilities caused a Great Depression all over Japan.

The government is gone. There's no point in registering anything anymore.

Yoichi was literally born at a riverside, and never went to a hospital. By the time the first Three are toddlers / young children, Japan is already chaos and up in flames.

Children are actively avoided because they're the most likely to be Meta Humans. No one wants anything to do with them.

Chances are, the records about the first Three never existed, or were destroyed in all the strife.

Or maybe, if some did exist, Kudo destroyed them. I can see him doing that, to protect themselves from AFO or anyone else having the chance to track their personal histories down.

It makes them ghosts. Exactly what would be best for not only their own survival, but anyone affiliated with them. Like family. It makes them untraceable, and invisible to bodies of old authority.

[Reason 2]

The three were a part of the Resistance. They could've kept information about themselves under lock and key, to protect themselves.

Like how Kudo is referred to as Leader, and never by his real name. Even in the void, up to the very end, Bruce still says "Leader" to address him.

I actually HC them as using codenames in the Resistance, exactly to protect themselves from each other, and outsiders. This makes Yoichi an anomaly among them, for going by his real name. Meanwhile,

Leader, Boss = their leader

Bruce = a reference to his Quirk

Codenames about their Meta Abilities, or roles in their cause, to better remember whose nickname belonged to who.

Outsiders won't know the Resistance members' real names. The Resistance can't betray each other by selling each other out for personal information as easily, if no one knows each other's actual names.

At the same time, this alienates them from who they are, and their humanity. They have to make tough choices that would classify them as monsters. And they're locking themselves under a false name.

They're protecting themselves from everything and everyone, including themselves. At least the person committing all these atrocities is [CODENAME], not me.

[Reason 3]

Bruce, when he was supposed to pass previous information to Shinomori, couldn't.

Maybe he didn't have enough time to tell Shinomori the whole story.

Or maybe he did, and passed on the previous holders' histories, but Shinomori didn't pass those on himself.

Or maybe reminiscing Yoichi and Leader as actual people just broke him, and he could only stick to the bare minimum of the history of this Factor.

Notably, the OFA story is known as "All For One's younger brother was sickly and frail, but he had a strong sense of justice."

We never, ever hear Yoichi's name in the spoken history of OFA. All Might couldn't even get their names. And since AFO hides himself so easily, and birth records just don't exist for him as an undocumented birth, Yoichi legally doesn't exist even as a birth.

Bruce is the first one to find the existence of Yoichi's "unformed dud". The Factor that let him pass on his current Quirk to others. How could the information of that dud be passed on, if not from Bruce?

Somewhere, the information breaks during Bruce or Shinomori's turn with OFA.

Bruce never passed on their names. Or maybe Shinomori didn't. But their names weren't necessary to pass on anymore. All Might only managed to dredge what he could, starting from the time society started trying to stand on its feet. Exactly because that's as far as the records went.

[Reason 2] could add credence to why the first Three's names were never passed on. Bruce could've kept quiet about Yoichi and Leader's personal details, not just to help himself stay together, but to protect anything they might've left behind.

[gothhabiba]

Hello! I have a vegan cooking dilemma. I'm a baker professionally and a vegetarian. I'm trying to incorporate more vegan meals into my diet, but using locally-produced whole ingredients like butter, eggs, cheeses, and milk is something I really value, and I notice that lots of vegan baking doesn't seem able to avoid using very processed substitutes (e.g. vegan butter, vegan cheese) with basically untraceable supply chains. I'm open to the solution just being that I have to bake less in a personal capacity and experiment with other kinds of cooking, but I'd love to know your thoughts—I don't want my efforts to live more ethically to disconnect me from my local food scene, but I'm struggling to find vegan baking ingredients that don't cause that to an extent. Is this something you have advice navigating?

(Would-be vegan baker continued) I'm lucky here to live in an area where there's lots of agriculture, so I'm already using locally-grown and produced flours, vegetable oil, fruits, honeys, and so on in my baking. I'm just struggling to find or make substitutes for animal fats that don't involve spending lots of money with corporations totally divorced from the rest of my food landscape :(

It would be helpful if you told me a little more about what kinds of things you'd like to bake! Off the top of my head, I can't actually think of a single recipe that would be impossible to make without store-bought margarine or vegan cheese.

Muffins, cookies, most cakes:

The egg is being used for binding and a little bit of leavening. Replace one egg with 2 Tbsp water + 1 Tbsp vegetable oil + 2 tsp baking powder.

Meringues:

(Or any cake where you're whipping air into 4 or more eggs as a significant part of building structure)

You can make your own aquafaba (the soaking / cooking liquid from chickpeas) for this purpose if you have a source for dried chickpeas.

Pie crusts and other pastry shells:

Make an oil crust. Vegetable oil or refined coconut oil will work for this purpose.

Vegan cheese:

You can make your own cultured 'cheese' out of cashews or almonds, and probiotic capsules. If you don't want to buy probiotic capsules, you can make your own starter culture out of wheat berries.

If recipes are using store-bought substitutes for eggs and butter, it's likely for reasons of quickness / convenience—it probably isn't because the recipe author doesn't see a way to avoid it. Vegan bakers have been getting by without these pre-fab solutions for a long time!