#Structure from Motion

[orcelito]

The drive for chapter 12 has not abated

As soon as I am able I'm gonna be finishing that shit TODAY. So long as nothing truly catastrophic happens, then I should be able to post tonight

[parasitoidism]

look my opinion on persona 1 is that it definitley suffers from being the first game in a series and also being from 1996 but not in a way that makes it like, a bad game. it's really good i love the cast and the story and MAKI and its just like so tragic to me that it gets dismissed out of hand by a lot of ppl just for its 90s clunk which I didn't even find to be that bad personally... but that being said i think p1 is definitley a game that would benefit from some kind of remake just to add like. more dialogue and scenes and stuff.. thats the main thing is that after playing p2 i'm like i wish persona 1 had this much like connective tissue to give you more time to really enjoy the party members and stuff. but the issue is that my vision here is just like persona 1 but in the style of persona 2 which will never happen in this day and age

[tronform]

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[redvanillabee]

finally have enough free time that i can enjoy a good whiskey highball

[iris-qt]

The Boy Who Stares

Theodore Nott is staring at you again.

You don’t know why. You're not even doing anything particularly interesting. Just sitting in the third row of Ancient Runes, dutifully highlighting a passage about something very old and very cursed, as one does at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday.

But there it is. That intense, brooding stare from two seats to the left. Again.

You risk a glance. Yep. Still happening. His quill is poised mid-air like he forgot how to write. His mouth is slightly parted.

You blink. He blinks. You look away. He doesn’t.

Okay.

Maybe you have ink on your face. Or a troll horn growing out of your forehead. Or maybe he’s plotting your murder, slowly deciding which corridor would be least suspicious to lure you down. Totally fine.

You swipe your thumb across your cheek, just in case. Nope. No ink. Still cute, still confused, still alive. Probably.

Why is he looking at me like that? you think to yourself, nose back in your book.

What you don’t know is this:

Theodore Nott: stoic, unflappable, academically terrifying, hasn’t heard a word Professor Babbling has said in thirteen minutes and twenty-two seconds because he’s been trying to figure out how you manage to tuck your quill behind your ear without it falling out.

That, and how you’re the only person in class who managed to finish the Ancient Runes translation without using a single cross-reference guide. And how you chew on your bottom lip when you’re focused, and how your handwriting slants slightly to the left, and how—

You glance up again, catching him mid-gaze.

He immediately jerks his head away so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t snap in half.

You squint. He suddenly finds his parchment very interesting. His ears, traitorous things, go a bit pink.

You blink again.

Nope. Still a murder plot. Definitely.

...

Class ends with the soft clack of textbooks shutting and chairs scraping across the floor. You take your time gathering your things, mostly because your bookmark has disappeared into a void of loose parchment.

Okay. That’s a problem for later.

Theodore Nott is still sitting there. Not moving. Not packing up.

You glance his way again. He pretends to yawn, which would be normal if it weren’t so obviously staged. Like, hand-to-chest, slow-motion, opera-singer yawn. No one yawns like that. You watch in real time as his brain short-circuits trying to look casual.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and head toward the door. And then:

“Wait.”

You stop. Turn. Blink.

Theodore Nott is standing. This feels promising.

“You, um—” he begins, voice low and uncertain. “You left your—uh…” He looks over at your desk. There is nothing there. Not even a scrap of parchment.

He stares at the empty space like it might help him. It does not.

“I left my…?” you say slowly, eyebrows lifted.

He panics. “Presence.”

Your brain takes a full three seconds to process that.

“My what?”

“Your—you left your—pencil sharpener,” he blurts. “Quill sharpener. Yes. That.”

You do not own a quill sharpener. Is that even a thing?

“Oh,” you say, smiling like you’re talking to a slightly confused, very pretty ghost. “Do you…have it?”

“No.”

Silence.

Then he blinks, visibly resets, and tries again. “Sorry. I meant—Hi. I’m Theodore. I mean, you know that. Obviously. We’ve had class together for like six years, I just—well.” He gestures vaguely toward your general existence. “Hi.”

You blink again. You’re doing a lot of blinking lately. “Hi…?”

“I like the way you annotate,” he says.

You stare.

“What?”

“I mean, not in a weird way. Just in a—your notes. Your margins. The way you organize them. It’s very…” He swallows. “…structured. Efficient. There’s a system. You color-code.”

You keep staring.

His voice lowers slightly, like he’s confessing to a crime. “I think about them sometimes.”

This might be the most unhinged flirtation you’ve ever witnessed.

“…Thanks?” you manage, because what else does one say when a gorgeous Slytherin boy admits to daydreaming about your annotated footnotes?

“Anyway,” he says, suddenly flustered again. “I’m going to leave now. With my dignity. Or…what’s left of it.”

He turns, walks directly into the doorframe, mutters “brilliant” under his breath, and disappears.

You stand there blinking at the empty doorway.

And then you laugh. Like, properly laugh.

You’re still laughing when you find your missing bookmark sticking out of Theodore’s textbook.

A/N: missed writing for theo -> pt. ⅠⅠ - The Boy Who Folded First

[kateschi]

second helpings

synopsis: he owns the kitchen—until you quietly claim a corner of it, and he is enjoying it more than he lets on.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: been gone a while. had ran out of ideas but here we go

you don’t cook often.

not because you can’t, but because he always beats you to it.

katsuki treats his kitchen like a battlefield—controlled, efficient, and his.

he moves like he’s been doing it his whole life, sleeves pushed up, jaw set in focus, the faint smell of spices clinging to his shirt even after he’s done.

it’s something he enjoys, something he’s good at, and he rarely lets you lift a finger when it comes to meals.

so when you tell him, “i made something for you,” you expect a scoff, a teasing remark, maybe even a lecture about how he should be the one cooking for you.

what you don’t expect is for him to hesitate.

it’s barely noticeable, but you catch it—the slight pause, the flicker in his expression before his arms cross over his chest.

“you what?”

you huff, nudging the bowl toward him, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “i cooked something for you.”

his red eyes flick down, scanning the dish like he’s assessing its structural integrity.

it’s nothing fancy—just something simple you put together while he was out. but his fingers twitch slightly, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for it immediately.

“…what’s the occasion?”

you blink at him. “nothing. just wanted to.”

his brows furrow slightly, like he doesn’t quite understand the concept of someone cooking for him just because they felt like it.

but after a moment, he exhales through his nose, jaw shifting as he grabs the chopsticks.

“you didn’t have to, y’know.”

you smile, resting your chin on your hand. “I know.”

he doesn’t say anything else before taking a bite.

the first one is quick—just a taste.

then the second comes almost immediately after, slower this time, more thoughtful. his chewing slows just a fraction—contemplative. his brows furrow, but not in a bad way.

he’s thinking.

then, without a word, he goes for a third bite.

you watch him, amusement curling at your lips. “well?”

he chews, swallows, and sets his chopsticks down with a casual motion.

“…it’s good.”

you stare.

then squint.

“just good?”

his ears tint the faintest shade of pink, and he scowls, looking at anything but you. “what, you want a damn trophy?”

you snort, shaking your head. “a simple ‘thanks’ would work.”

his mouth presses into a tight line, and for a second, you think he might just grumble his way out of this. but then, just barely above a mutter—

“thanks.”

your grin widens, warmth blooming in your chest as he goes back to eating, and even though he doesn’t say anything else, you don’t miss the way he finishes every last bite.

it happens again.

not immediately, but enough that it starts to become a habit.

one night, you make an extra portion without thinking, setting it aside without a second thought.

another night, you leave something for him when you know he’s coming home late, the dish waiting on the counter like a quiet reassurance that he isn’t alone.

you don’t always expect a reaction, but you always get one—even if it’s just a muttered “’preciate it” or the way his shoulders shift ever so slightly when he sees what you’ve left for him.

and then, one evening, you catch him sneaking extra bites.

you’re pretending not to watch, seated at the kitchen counter with a drink in hand, your body angled just enough to keep him in your peripheral vision.

katsuki eats like he always does—quick but deliberate, each motion efficient, no wasted movements.

his back is straight, his expression unreadable as he makes his way through the plate of curry you set in front of him.

then, the second you turn your head—

a blur of movement. a quiet clink.

your eyes snap back to him.

katsuki freezes, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, a second helping clearly stolen from the pot sitting on the stove.

his jaw tightens as he chews, his expression carefully neutral, but you don’t miss the way his fingers tighten slightly around his chopsticks.

your brows lift. “did you just steal extra?”

a beat of silence.

then, his red eyes flick up to yours, his chewing slowing slightly as he glares, unimpressed. “what?”

your gaze drops to the now slightly emptier pot.

a slow grin spreads across your face.

“you did.”

he scowls, shoving another bite into his mouth like it’ll somehow erase the evidence. “it’s good. so what?”

you rest your chin on your palm, amusement flickering in your eyes. “you could just ask for more, you know.”

he clicks his tongue, gaze flicking to the side, suddenly finding the tiled floor far more interesting. “dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

after that, you start paying more attention.

to the things he likes, the things he doesn’t say outright but that you pick up on anyway.

you learn that he prefers meals fresh off the stove, that he eats fast but never wastes a single bite. that he loves spice—but sometimes, just sometimes, it even gets to him.

you catch the way he drinks more water when it does, the slight furrow of his brows when the heat creeps up on him.

“you good?” you ask once, watching as he takes another gulp of water.

he clicks his tongue, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. “’course I’m good.”

you just shake your head, amused.

even when he’s exhausted, dragging himself through the door after a long shift, he still eats whatever you make. no complaints, no hesitations.

just a quiet moment where his shoulders loosen and he sits down without a word.

and no matter how much he huffs and grumbles, no matter how much he acts like it’s nothing—

he never says no to your cooking.

one night, he comes home later than usual.

you’re already half-asleep on the couch, curled under a blanket, when you hear the door open.

heavy boots thud against the floor, the familiar sound of him kicking them off near the entrance. there’s a rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his hero jacket, the soft clink of his gear being set aside.

then—

a pause.

you blink groggily, rubbing your eyes as you push yourself upright. “katsuki?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stands there, his gaze fixed on the covered dish waiting on the counter.

his shoulders loosen slightly, the exhaustion still clinging to him, but there’s something softer in the way he moves now, like the sight of the meal has pulled some of the weight off his shoulders.

“…you made somethin’?”

you yawn, stretching your arms above your head. “yeah. thought you might be hungry.”

he doesn’t say anything at first. just strides toward you, stopping in front of the couch, and before you can react—warm lips press against the top of your head.

it’s quick, fleeting, but it lingers in the way his breath ruffles your hair right after.

his voice is quieter this time. “thanks.”

your chest feels light, a soft warmth settling beneath your ribs, but before you can process it, he’s already moving again. he grabs the plate, lifts the lid, and takes in the meal.

then, he makes his way back to you, dropping onto the couch beside you.

his thigh presses against yours, his body radiating warmth, and then an arm drapes over your shoulders, pulling you in.

you blink, a little surprised, but you don’t resist, sinking into him as he picks up his spoon.

he eats in steady bites, quiet, comfortable. then, without a word, he scoops up another bite and holds the spoon out to you.

you hesitate for half a second. “you don’t have to—”

“just eat.”

you huff, but open your mouth anyway, letting him feed you.

the flavors settle on your tongue, familiar and warm, but you barely notice because katsuki’s watching you now, eyes flicking over your face like he’s waiting for your reaction.

you chew, swallow, then smile a little. “tastes good.”

his mouth twitches, and he clicks his tongue, looking away. “’course it does. you made it.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

✨ HOW TO ACTUALLY START A BOOK

(no ✨vibes✨, just structure, stakes, and first-sentence sweat)

hello writer friends 💌 so you opened a doc. you sat down. you cracked your knuckles. maybe you even made a playlist or moodboard. and then… you stared at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your entire bloodline.

here’s your intervention. this post is for when you want to write chapter one, but all you have is aesthetic, maybe a plot bunny, maybe a world idea, maybe nothing at all. here’s how to actually start a book, from structure to sentence one.

—

🌶️ STEP 1: THE SPICE BASE ~ “WHAT’S CHANGING?”

start with this question:

what changes in the protagonist’s life in the first 5–10 pages?

doesn’t have to be earth-shattering. they could get a letter, lose a job, run late, break a rule, wake up hungover in the wrong house. what matters is disruption. the opening of your book should mark a shift. if their day starts normal, it shouldn’t end that way.

🏁 opening chapters are about motion. forward movement. tension. momentum. if nothing is changing, your story isn’t starting, you’re just doing a prequel.

—

⚙️ STEP 2: THE CRUNCHY BITS - CHOOSE AN ENTRY POINT

there are 3 classic places to start a novel. each one works if you’re intentional:

The Day Everything Changes most popular. you drop us in right before or during the inciting incident. clean, fast, efficient.

pro: immediate stakes con: harder to sneak in worldbuilding or character grounding

The Calm Before the Storm starts slightly earlier. show the character’s “normal” life, then break it. useful if the change won’t make sense without context.

pro: space to introduce your character’s routine/flaws con: risky if it drags or feels like setup

The Aftermath drop us in after the big event and fill in gaps as we go. works well for thrillers, mysteries, or emotionally heavy plots.

pro: instant drama con: requires precision to avoid confusion

📝 pick one. commit. don’t blend them or you’ll write three intros at once and cry.

—

🧠 STEP 3: CHARACTER FIRST, ALWAYS

readers don’t care about your setting, your magic system, or your cool mafia politics unless they’re anchored in someone.

in the first scene, we need to know:

what this person wants

what’s bothering them (externally or internally)

one trait they lead with (bold, anxious, calculating, naive, etc.)

that’s it. just one want, one tension, one vibe. no bios. no monologues. no “they weren’t like other girls” essays. put them in a situation and show how they act.

—

⛓️ STEP 4: OPEN WITH FRICTION

first scenes should create questions, not answer them.

there should be tension between:

what the character wants vs. what they’re getting

what’s happening vs. what they expected

what’s being said vs. what’s being felt

you don’t need a gunshot or a car crash (unless you want one). you need conflict. tension = momentum = readers keep reading.

—

✏️ STEP 5: WRITE THE FIRST SENTENCE - THEN IGNORE IT

okay. now you write it.

no pressure. you’re not tattooing it on your soul. this isn’t the final line on the final page. you just need something.

tricks that work:

start in the middle of an action

start with a contradiction

start with something unexpected, funny, or sharp

start with a small lie or a weird detail

💬 examples:

“The body was exactly where she’d left it - rude.” “He was already two hours late to his own kidnapping.” “There was blood on the welcome mat. Again.” “They said don’t open the door. She opened it anyway.”

once you’ve got it? keep going. don’t revise yet. don’t edit. just build momentum.

you can come back and make it ✨iconic✨ later.

—

📦 BONUS: WHAT NOT TO DO IN YOUR OPENING

don’t start with a dream

don’t info-dump lore in paragraph one

don’t give me three pages of your OC making toast

don’t try to sound like a Victorian cryptid unless it’s on purpose

don’t introduce 7 named characters in one scene

don’t start with a quote unless you are 800% sure it slaps

be weird. be sharp. be specific. aim for interest, not perfection.

—

🏁 TL;DR (but make it ✨useful✨)

something in your MC’s life should change immediately

pick a structural entry point and stick to it

give us a person, not a setting

friction = good

first lines are disposable, just make them interesting

and if you needed a sign to just start the damn book, this is it.

💌 love, -rin t.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

[radio-4-is-static]

EVERGREEN feat.kZm | Yojiro Noda

神がかって光る まるで花火 あとになってわかる 俺ら奇跡 使い切って終わる この現世に すべて置いていこう あとは永遠に

風に舞って光る 君の魂 有り余って腐る ことないように 明日、明後日じゃなく 「今」がどこに あるのかを誰よりも知りたいだけ

///

Divine light like fireworks, only later you’ll see, we are miracle Leave everything behind in the present, used up, and forever

Your flying soul glows in the wind, don’t exceed, don’t rot away Not tomorrow or day after tomorrow Where’s it now? We just wanna know

[daydreamdoodles]

The feminine urge to wait for this valentine's day top to go on sale so I can buy it cheap and essentially deconstruct and remake it so it's good actually is haunting me

[g-k444]

take me from the streets - blindfold over eyes, chloroform over mouth and drag my limp body away

and then have me wake up. inside what looks like a box - my top removed, chest exposed with tits free and nipples hard from the cold air - back against the uncomfortable wooden planks, and bottom half seemingly freely stuck out of the bottom.

my legs are suddenly grabbed, thighs pushed against the outside wall of the box with a rough grip - making me realise that my bottom half is also unclothed - which im only further forced to understand as i feel pain shooting through my lower body - a cry leaving my throat

a grunt is heard outside of this box as the cock that penetrated my pussy withdrew before hammering itself back into my pussy with enough force to shatter not only my entire spine, but also the seemingly fragile box i was stuck in

as the cock withdrew once more, I fought to get away - wiggling my hips with the little manoeuvre space the hole at the end of the box gave me - trying to claw myself up and away from the cock that bruised by pussy

yet my attempt was feeble, as my legs still stuck out from the bottom of the box even with my pussy out of reach - and my escape was cut short as those two hands gripped my thighs harder - pulling my body down and my pussy into view once more

the hands wrenched my legs open and held me in place, lining up their cock once more before snapping their hips up to force it into my hole, making a scream rip from my throat which only seemed to spur the fury that the man fucked me with

my arms flailed, eyes ravenously searching around the box to look for any structural weaknesses or flaws that could grant me a way out from this gloryhole of a place

yet the air that was once cold in the box turned hot with my vigour, and i could feel the heat of my body also translating something far more embarrassing; i was going to orgasm from the feeling of being forcefully fucked by someone i didnt know and couldnt see and didnt even want

tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as my motions grew weaker, the feeling at my pussy consuming me more and more until i felt my hole clenching and tightening around the cock that reached its finish at the same time as me - being milked for every drop by my contracting walls which only felt warmer as the white seed coated them

yet that heat that had consumed me as their cock had fucked me only got a moment to cool for a moment, as one cock was withdrawn... yet my hole was unexpectedly breached once more - not even after a minute - and the heat began building again

gasps, cries, screams were ripped from my throat as from that cock it only went to the next - and my skin grew hot and bothered with the lack of stimulation that made my pussy sore from the continuous orgasm it felt as though i were unwillingly facing

and after what could've been just half an hour, or a whole day - those noises became completely silenced as i accepted my fate. let myself get fucked into without my will, and filled with seed that i could feel dripping down my thighs and legs.

i probably looked like a whore from the outside - a hole coated with white sperm which dripped over my skin - and yet nobody seemed to care - as the cocks didnt stop fucking my hole

[tsunaso]

HEAR ME OUT

Aventurine and his partner have been together for a while when they somehow try working through Aventurine’s past trauma by showing him what a true master is like (reader)

Note - heavy bdsm, master/slave, anything else you’d like but I would prefer this being a healthier one so not non/con or forced

Thank you! 💖💖

“LET ME SHOW YOU WHO I AM”

pairing. Sub!Aventurine x Top!male reader

synopsis. In where Aventurine finally submits on his own terms, he learns what it means to be touched without being taken. — 4.3k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, master/slave kink, collaring kink, light bondage, fingering, blowjob, handjob, overstimulation, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, aftercare, safe word use, past trauma, discussions of past abuse, implied SA (not graphic), hurt/comfort

The room was quiet.

Not sterile. Not cold. It smelled faintly of lavender and wax polish—warm light spilling from a shaded lamp. The blinds were drawn. The door was locked.

Aventurine stood in the center of the room like a model in a glass case, posed. Perfect. Still. He had removed his gloves first. Then his rings. Then his coat. Every motion methodical. Almost clinical.

You’d seen him negotiate with CEOs more relaxed than this.

You sat on the edge of the couch, legs slightly parted, arms resting on your knees, watching him like he was something fragile. Not in the way that meant he’d break—but in the way that meant he already had, at some point, and learned to glue himself together into someone flawless.

And he was flawless. That was the problem.

"You're not breathing," you said quietly.

Aventurine blinked. Then inhaled like he forgot that he needed to. A short, clipped breath. He forced a smile. "I'm just… preparing."

"For what?"

He paused. "To give you what you want."

You let that sit. Let him feel it.

Then you stood—slow, controlled—and stepped into his space.

"Look at me."

He did. Carefully. He always looked carefully, like his gaze was a scalpel and he was afraid to cut too deep.

You reached out, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t lean into it. He didn’t flinch either. He simply absorbed the touch like it was something he had to endure—an input to be processed, not felt.

“I want you to listen,” you said. “And I want you to listen as Aventurine. Not as someone performing. Not as a client trying to impress me. As you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “…I’m listening.”

“I’m not asking you to submit because I want to dominate you.”

He stiffened.

“I’m asking you to submit because I want to keep you safe.”

A silence followed. Longer this time.

You let your hand fall from his jaw and gently, deliberately, took his hand in yours. You turned it palm-up—his fingers were smooth, trembling ever so slightly.

You pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“That’s the only reason,” you said. “Everything else—the commands, the structure, the rules… those are tools. Not punishments. Not games. They're ways to show you something you weren’t allowed to believe.”

He stared at you, eyes flickering. “Which is?”

“That being owned can feel like being protected.”

His lips parted—then closed again. He didn’t speak.

But he was still listening.

So you guided him to the couch. You sat down first, then tugged him forward by the hand until he was kneeling between your legs. Not to humble him—to center him.

"Now," you murmured, letting your fingers brush along his throat. “Let’s make something clear before we go further.”

Aventurine swallowed again. You felt it beneath your fingertips.

"You are mine only if you choose to be. And that choice doesn’t disappear just because you're in a collar or calling me Master."

His breath hitched. Slightly.

"You have a safeword. And you will use it."

You felt him tense—but it wasn’t fear. It was confusion.

“Why?” he asked softly. “Do you think I’ll regret it?”

“No,” you said. “I think someone else made you believe you weren’t allowed to.”

He froze.

And there it was.

That flicker. That twitch beneath the surface. You saw it behind his eyes—how he wanted to deflect, wanted to throw on that trademark smirk and laugh you off, pretend none of it reached him.

But it did.

Because the first time you called him "slave," he hadn’t flinched. But he hadn’t melted either. He had looked like someone waiting to be hurt. Obedient, yes—but not present.

You didn’t want that again.

“I don’t want obedience like that,” you whispered.

His lashes flicked up. His eyes were wet—but not crying.

You kissed the space between his brows. “I want your devotion. Your trust. Not your fear.”

He went still.

“…Then I don’t know how to be yours,” he said softly.

You tilted his chin up.

“That’s okay,” you said. “I’ll teach you.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

The collar was black. Supple leather, lined in deep velvet. Not flashy. Not harsh. Nothing sharp or ornamental. It wasn’t a trophy. It was a promise.

You fastened it slowly around Aventurine’s throat, adjusting the buckle until it sat snug against his skin, resting in the hollow between his collarbones. His breathing had grown shallower with every click, every brush of your fingers. But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t stop you.

And now—now he knelt.

He looked beautiful like that. Not just in the aesthetic sense, though he always had a way of appearing curated, even when undone. No—this was deeper. He looked like something offered.

The room was low-lit. Heavy drapes. No mirrors. No performance. Just you and him, framed in candlelight and silence. Your voice was the only thing allowed to break it.

“You’re trembling.”

His eyes flicked up, fast. Shame tightening his jaw before he could stop it.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you said gently. “And that’s okay.”

He exhaled like the air had been trapped in his chest for years.

You reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead, slow. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull back. Still learning. Still testing the depth of the space you’d carved open between you.

“I want to hear you say your safeword.”

“…Now?”

“Yes.”

His lips parted, then closed again. A flicker of pride, of resistance. Not defiance—just fear dressed in finery.

You tilted his chin up, thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw.

“Say it for me, Aventurine.”

“…Citrine.”

The word hung in the air. Soft. Almost delicate. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth.

“Good,” you murmured. “That word is power. Not weakness.”

You saw it flash in his eyes. That old wiring. That ache. The way he’d been taught that power only came through performance or control, through being sharper, cleverer, faster.

And now here you were, asking him to surrender.

You reached for his shirt. Silk, crisp, fitted. The kind of thing he wore like a second skin. You undid the buttons slowly, not ripping or demanding, but unwrapping him like something valuable. Something earned.

By the time you slid it off his shoulders, his breath had quickened again.

“Color?” you asked softly.

He blinked. “Huh?”

You smiled. “Give me your color.”

“…Green.”

Safe. Uncertain, but safe.

You trailed your fingers down his chest—bare, smooth, too still.

“I want to see you move when I touch you. Not freeze.”

He swallowed hard.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be mine.”

He shivered.

“…Yes, Master.”

There it was. That subtle quake beneath the surface. Not fear. Relief.

You reached for the tie you’d laid on the bed earlier—rich crimson silk, soft and long. A blindfold, if needed. A restraint, if wanted. But tonight, just a tether. You looped it gently around his wrists behind his back—not tight. Just a suggestion.

“Sit back on your heels.”

He obeyed.

You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the leash of your presence even without a word. Your gaze burned into him—watching the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers twitched behind him, even restrained.

Then you spoke. Low. Commanding. Steady.

“Say it.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Say… what?”

“Who you are.”

His throat bobbed.

You took a step forward, letting your fingers trail beneath the collar at his throat.

“Say it, Aventurine. Who do you belong to?”

“…You.”

“That’s not enough.”

He shuddered.

“I belong to you,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m your slave.”

The words cracked on the edge of something old—something raw.

And you knew. That this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But it was the first time he wasn’t punished for saying it wrong. The first time he wasn’t being used like a toy to be broken and left behind.

This was the first time he said it and wasn’t afraid.

You stepped around him slowly, trailing your hand across his bare shoulder as you did.

“You’re mine,” you said, voice smooth as heat. “Because you asked to be. Because I said yes. And now… I’m going to show you what that means.”

You stopped behind him, let your hand drop lower, brushing the curve of his spine.

“You’re going to listen.”

Your hand slid lower—over the waistband of his slacks, down to his thigh.

“You’re going to obey.”

You knelt beside him now, brushing your lips over his temple.

“And if I touch you and you shake, I’ll hold you.”

He let out a small sound—too raw to name. You felt his breath stutter. His entire body leaned just slightly into yours. Like the tension in his shoulders had finally started to give.

“Color?” you asked, voice warm.

“…Green,” he whispered.

You smiled.

“Good slave.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted. And for the first time since you’d collared him, Aventurine didn’t look composed.

He looked free.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You guided him onto the bed slowly. Not forced. Not posed. You didn’t bend him—you invited him. And he followed.

The sheets were dark—deep maroon silk, soft enough to slide against bare skin without a sound. The collar caught the light in a subtle gleam as Aventurine lowered himself down, legs folded beneath him, arms still behind his back. You sat in front of him, letting the room fall to quiet.

He was breathing a little too fast again.

You reached out, cupping his jaw in one hand. His lashes fluttered.

“Color?”

“…Green,” he whispered.

Your thumb stroked his cheek. “You’re doing beautifully, treasure.”

His breath hitched again, this time from something that almost sounded like relief.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Just once. And when you pulled away, you saw the dazed flicker in his eyes.

You didn’t ask for more yet. You just started touching him—slow strokes of your fingers over his chest, his arms, his thighs. Mapping. Worshipping. Letting him feel like something sacred.

“You’ve been holding yourself together for so long,” you murmured, tracing the hollow of his hipbone. “You don’t have to anymore.”

Aventurine’s body twitched under your touch, heat flashing across his face. He was already hard—aching against the front of his slacks, pulse pounding through him in quiet, desperate waves.

You kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I want to see what you look like when you come apart.”

He made a noise—small, breathy.

“I want to see how messy I can make you.”

Another whimper. This one sharper.

You undid the button on his slacks. Pulled the zipper down with slow, steady fingers.

"You’ve kept yourself so clean," you said. "So controlled."

You slid his pants down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, flushed red, already leaking.

"But this isn’t clean," you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “This is filthy. Needy. And it belongs to me.”

He shivered violently. You felt his knees twitch beneath him.

“You’re mine, Aventurine.”

He nodded. “Y-Yes, Master.”

You pumped him slowly—light pressure, thumb teasing over the slit. You kissed down his thigh as you worked, feeling the tension begin to fracture.

"That’s it," you whispered, lips brushing his inner thigh. “Breathe for me, pretty boy.”

He did. He tried. He was panting now, head tilted back, fingers clenched behind him like he didn’t know where else to hold the sensation.

“Such a good thing,” you crooned. “So obedient. So sweet. So ready to break.”

Your tongue flicked over the tip. He jerked—gasped.

"Color?" you murmured against him.

“…Green,” he rasped. “F-fuck—green—”

You hummed in approval, then dragged your tongue up his shaft, slow, tasting every drop he’d spilled.

"Look at you," you whispered, mouth just above his cock. "So wet already. You’d let me ruin you with just my tongue, wouldn’t you?"

He moaned—loud.

So you took him in. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to pull a shudder from his hips before you pulled off again.

“Not yet,” you murmured, hand stroking him again, firmer. “You don’t get to cum until you beg.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.

“And not like a businessman,” you whispered. “Not like a negotiator. Like a whimpering little thing.”

His cock twitched in your fist.

"Say it."

“I—”

"Say what you are.”

“…Your p-pet,” he gasped.

You squeezed.

"Not good enough."

“I’m your—your toy—your slut—”

"Good," you growled. "Getting closer."

You tugged his head back by the collar, made him look at you.

"You’re mine, aren’t you?"

“Yes—yes, I’m yours—please, Master—please let me cum—"

And then he choked on a sound. His whole body jerked.

And the word fell from his lips:

“Yellow.”

You froze.

Not in fear. Not in failure.

In readiness.

Your hand left his cock instantly. You released the collar. Your voice softened.

“Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “You did perfect. You’re safe.”

His breathing was erratic. His eyes were glossy. But he wasn’t panicked. Not quite. Just too much. Overwhelmed. Drenched in sensations he’d never let himself feel before.

“I didn’t want to stop,” he said, voice breaking. “It just—just hit too fast—”

You nodded. Kissed his temple. Held his jaw steady.

“You did everything right,” you whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

He shivered. A small sound leaked from his throat—frustration. Shame. Something old.

You held him.

“You said yellow,” you murmured. “Not red. That means we slow down. We breathe. We check in.”

You reached for the silk tie around his wrists, undoing it gently.

He was trembling now.

And when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” you cut him off immediately.

“Don’t apologize,” you said. “Not for taking care of yourself. Not with me.”

He went quiet. Eyes searching yours.

“…So we can still—?”

You smiled.

“We’re going to continue. If you want to. And this time?”

You leaned in, kissed him slow, deep, open-mouthed.

“I want you to give me your surrender.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

He was still shaking when you brought him back to the bed.

Not from fear. Not from regret. From how much it was.

He let you hold him without asking. Let you kiss the top of his head, run your fingers down the back of his neck, cradle him in your lap like something precious. And when your hand slid to his thigh again—he opened his legs without hesitation.

“I want you inside me,” he whispered. “Please.”

Your fingers traced the line of his inner thigh, featherlight. “You sure?”

His breath caught.

Then, “Yes, Master.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Then I’ll give you what no one else ever did.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering.

“What’s that?”

You kissed his throat, tongue dragging over the edge of the collar.

“Time.”

You laid him out like he was something sacred—chest to the sheets, legs parted, cheek resting against a silk pillow. He looked wrecked already. Hair wild, skin flushed, cock twitching against his stomach. He still had the collar on.

Your hand ran down his back slowly, fingers trailing the curve of his spine. You watched his hips twitch in anticipation.

And then you whispered, “I’m going to stretch you open now.”

Aventurine shuddered.

“Not like them,” you added, voice low and warm. “Not fast. Not hard. Not careless.”

You pressed a kiss to the small of his back.

“Like this.”

Your hand slid between his legs, parting them more. You took your time with the lube—warm, slick, worked between your fingers before you ever touched his hole. You let your thumb rest against the rim, not pushing, just being there.

“Breathe for me,” you whispered. “Color?”

“Green,” he rasped. “Fuck, I’m green—just—please.”

You slid one finger in. Slowly. No resistance. Just heat. Just a shaky, desperate moan beneath you.

“That’s it,” you murmured. “That’s my good boy.”

He gasped into the pillow, his whole body tensing—then softening.

"You're so tight," you praised. "So soft inside. You were made for this."

You curled your finger, watching the way he arched, hips twitching.

“M-Master—”

You hummed, kissing the dip of his back.

“I know. It’s good now, isn’t it?”

He nodded, whimpering.

You took your time. You didn’t rush the second finger. You didn’t stretch him to watch him squirm—you stretched him because you wanted him to be ready. You wanted to give his body the chance to welcome you.

Not endure you.

Aventurine was panting now. His cock leaked freely onto the sheets. Every twist of your fingers sent a sob through him.

“You’re doing so well,” you whispered. “Letting me open you. Letting me feel how warm you are inside. This hole is mine now, isn’t it?”

He moaned—wrecked, high, humiliated.

“Yes, Master—it’s yours—just yours—”

You slipped in a third finger, carefully, watching his back arch as he cried out.

But he didn’t say yellow.

He didn’t say stop.

He pushed back.

You grinned.

“Oh, you’re greedy now,” you murmured against his ear, one hand reaching around to grip his leaking cock. “You want it all, don’t you?”

He whimpered. Nodded. Twitched in your hand.

"Say it."

“P-please,” he sobbed. “Please fill me—break me—fuck me full—I want to be yours inside—please, I need your cock—”

You laughed—low, hot, proud.

“Oh, my sweet little slut.”

He gasped—choked on it.

You leaned down, kissed the back of his neck. Then whispered, “You like being called that now, don’t you?”

“…Y-yes—”

“You like being my toy. My slave. My obedient little hole.”

His whole body seized.

“F-fuck—!”

You pulled your fingers out—slow, careful, teasing.

He sobbed at the loss.

You lined yourself up, pressed the tip against his stretched, slick entrance.

He pushed back instantly.

"Greedy thing," you growled. "Beg for it."

“Please, Master—please—fuck me—ruin me—make me your cumdump—please—”

And you gave him exactly what he asked for.

You sank in.

All the way.

Slow. Measured. No brutality. No rush. You slid into him inch by inch, letting him feel it, letting him open around it, letting the stretch burn sweet and thick as your cock filled his aching hole.

Aventurine gasped—his voice a cracked moan as his body trembled beneath yours.

“Oh, f-fuck—” he choked out, knuckles white as they dug into the sheets.

You leaned down, one arm braced beside his head, the other gripping his hip tight, keeping him spread open as your cock bottomed out, balls resting snug against his skin.

“There it is,” you whispered into his ear. “Feel that? That’s me, inside you.”

He whimpered. You felt the clench around you—tight, slick, hungry.

“This is what you needed all along. Not a man who takes. A man who fucks you like he owns every inch.”

You pulled back—slowly—and thrust in again, long and deep, your cock dragging against the sweet spot that made his legs shake.

He moaned—loud, broken. His cock throbbed untouched against the sheets.

You kept the rhythm slow, heavy, grinding deep with every thrust, pushing the sound out of him with every roll of your hips.

“Y-you’re so deep,” he gasped. “I—I can feel you in my stomach—Master—please—”

You kissed his neck, teeth grazing the collar. “You’re taking it so well. My pretty little whore.”

He shuddered. “Yes—yes—call me that again—”

You thrust deep—he jerked, crying out.

“Say it.”

“I’m your whore,” he whimpered. “I’m your obedient whore—use me—please—just—”

He clenched around you, hole fluttering, walls pulsing like he was already about to cum.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back.

“Don’t cum,” you growled into his ear. “Not until you break for me.”

Aventurine whined, a high, needy sound, mouth open, drool slipping down his chin as you kept fucking into him—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Faster,” he sobbed. “P-please—Master—please fuck me harder—need it—need you to ruin me—”

You slammed in hard. He screamed.

“Oh, that’s it,” you growled. “You like it now, don’t you? You like being fucked stupid.”

“Y-yes—yes, I do—please—don’t stop—”

You pulled the leash tighter, using it to anchor him as you began thrusting fast, hard, pounding into his slick hole until the slap of skin-on-skin echoed with every deep, bruising thrust.

“You gonna cum like this?” you hissed. “Face in the sheets, used, leaking, begging?”

“Yes—yes—I’m your cumslut—I’m yours—only yours—”

His words collapsed into gasping cries, voice breaking every time your cock slammed into that same aching spot deep inside.

You reached under him, fisted his cock—already wet, throbbing, twitching.

“You want to cum, slut?”

He nodded frantically, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Then fucking ask.”

“Please—Master—please let me cum—let me make a mess for you—please—”

You grinned.

“Cum for me, slave.”

He screamed.

His body seized, hole clenching so tight around your cock it almost pushed you over the edge. His cum splattered across the sheets in thick, hot streaks, and he collapsed beneath you—shaking, moaning, drooling, trembling with every aftershock as you kept fucking him through it.

He was babbling now. You didn’t need to understand. It was all yours.

You growled low, thrusting one last time and spilling inside him, hot and thick, grinding deep as you filled him to the brim. He sobbed into the sheets—completely broken open, your cum leaking from his fluttering hole as he whispered, “Thank you, Master,” again and again.

You kissed his shoulder.

“You did so well for me,” you murmured. “So good. So obedient. So mine.”

He made a small sound—something close to a sob—but there was no fear in it.

Only peace.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You didn’t let go of him. Not once. Not when he came undone under you, not when his body collapsed into aftershocks, not when his sobs started—quiet and broken, into the silk sheets.

You stayed inside him, shallow and warm, one hand on his waist, the other splayed across his chest. His breath came in shivers. His body twitched with every small pulse of aftershock, still spread open, still marked by you.

And still, he whispered, “Thank you, Master.” Over and over again. Like a prayer. Like a child afraid of silence.

You kissed the back of his neck. Gently. “You don’t have to thank me for not hurting you.”

His fingers curled in the sheets. He didn’t answer right away.

You pulled out slowly. Your cum dripped down the inside of his thighs, hot and wet, and he didn’t move. He just exhaled—long, cracked, like the last of his performance was melting out of him.

You left only briefly. Warm towel. Cloth. Water. When you returned, he hadn’t shifted.

He was still kneeling.

Silent.

Shaking.

You moved behind him and eased him into your lap. Chest to back. He folded like he’d been waiting to. You wrapped your arms around him and held him there—wet, ruined, open—and he let you.

You cleaned him gently. Slow, soft, reverent. Not possessive now. Not hungry. Just present.

“I want to hear your color,” you whispered.

“…Green,” he breathed. “Just… slow.”

“Slow is good.”

Another breath. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to go back to my room.”

“You won’t.”

You tightened the towel around him, pressing your palm over his heart. The leather collar was still warm under your fingers.

“Does this still feel good?” you asked, thumb brushing it.

“…Yes.”

“Does it still feel like a leash?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You tilted his face toward you. His eyes were red, wet, shining.

He swallowed.

“I kept waiting for it.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For the part where you stopped asking,” he said. “Where you just… took.”

Your breath stilled.

He looked down, shame creeping like old blood into his voice. “They didn’t ask. Not after I was sold. The first ones just—”

You adjusted your hold—firmer now. Grounded.

“I know.”

“There was a man who called me by my serial number,” he said. “Said names were for people.”

You didn’t speak. You held him tighter.

“I used to think… if I offered it first, let people use me, I was in control. If I moaned loud enough or spread my legs fast enough, maybe they’d forget I didn’t want it.”

His voice cracked. His jaw clenched.

“But none of them ever stopped.”

You found his hand. Laced your fingers through his.

“…And you did.”

You didn’t say of course. You didn’t say I’m not like them.

You said: “You said yellow. So I slowed.”

And something inside him shattered.

He didn’t break pretty. He broke real. Face crumpling, shoulders shaking, tears falling hard against your skin as he buried his face in your chest and wept.

Not from shame.

From being seen.

You rocked him gently. Back and forth. Holding him through every sob, every tremor, every time he tried to apologize only to collapse again.

“I didn’t think I could ever be like this again,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

You closed your eyes. Kissed his hair.

“You’re not soft. You’re just safe.”

His breath hitched.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt wanted,” he said, voice thin, “without needing to win something first.”

“You didn’t win me,” you murmured. “You let me hold you.”

His lashes fluttered. His voice dropped to a whisper:

“…Was I good?”

You cupped his cheek, thumb wiping a tear from his flushed skin.

“You were perfect.”

He laughed. It broke halfway. “I look pathetic right now.”

“No,” you said, smiling. “You look mine.”

He flinched—just slightly—but he didn’t deny it.

You kissed his nose. Brushed his damp hair back.

“Can I ask you something?”

“…Anything.”

“What do you want me to call you now?”

You didn’t rush it.

“You can keep Aventurine. Or Slave. Or…” You paused. “Kakavasha.”

He blinked.

His breath caught in his chest.

“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” he whispered. “It feels like it belongs to someone else.”

You nodded. “It does.”

He looked at you, startled.

You smiled.

“But maybe… that someone still lives here.” You placed your hand gently over his heart.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat worked. His lashes fluttered.

You leaned close, nose to his cheek.

“Until you decide… I’ll call you what I see.”

He swallowed.

“And what’s that?” he whispered.

You kissed the edge of his collar.

“My beloved.”

[ouppygirlcity]

GARFIELD EVOLUTIONARY TIMELINE

1976: Proto-Garfield, side-character to Jon

1978: Earliest properly-recognizable Garfield, visual overhaul accompanies syndication and retitle of comic to Garfield

1979: Transitional state between proto-Garfield and 80s Garfield, marketed by increased anthropomorphization and larger, cartoonish expressions, while retaining a realistic body shape

1980-1984: 80s Garfield, facial structure has largely stabilized save for dimensions, noticeable retention of quadrupedal motion in most situations

1985-1992: Emergence of modern Garfield, shift towards predominantly vertical locomotion, expansion of feet, facial structure begins to horizontally compress and vertically extend

1989: [REDACTED]

1993-1999: Continued anthropomorphic shift, separation of head from torso and reduction of belly fat, noticeable

2000-present: stabilization of modern Garfield, head size reduced in final proportion alteration. Jim Davis had divined the final, perfect version of his pop culture homonculus.

...but the end of the road for one man is a broad horizon for the next...

[monstera-modd]

DCxDP Crossover #2

The Space Worm

After a battle with a particularly tough ghost, Danny seeks refuge among the stars, hoping that his obsession will aid in his healing process. As he floats through the dazzling lights and passes by moons and planets, Danny finally finds the perfect spot! He trills and chirps in delight as he wraps himself around the metal structure, soothing his throbbing core. Closing his eyes, he indulges in the much-needed rest that Jazz always encourages him to take.

_________________

Constantine is going to kill someone (himself preferably).

Bleary-eyed, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

"Bat, if the world isn't on fire, I swear I'll curse you ten ways to Sunday!"

The call goes silent—par for the usual with Batman and phone calls.

"There's a massive spectral entity encircling the Watchtower."

John curses the day he ever got involved with their shit in the first place.

"...I'm on my way."

________________________

"This is awesome!"

Batman grunts as Flash smashes his face against the glass in the viewing dock, trying to catch a glimpse of the glowing worm. ("What? It has no legs, Batman—thus, a worm!")

Batman's glare hardens. "Constantine is on his way. Until then, no one makes loud noises that could draw the creature's attention to us."

"Did he say what it could be, perhaps?" Wonder Woman asks. She had been sitting at the end of the table but now stands near Flash, looking out into space.

A ping on one of the screens announces Constantine’s arrival. Superman, pacing silently, flies over and lands just as the doors slide open, revealing Constantine, who looks like he got dragged through Hell and back—twice. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse meant to banish hangovers.

“Alright,” he sighs, stepping into the room. “I’m here. Where is the bloody emergency?”

Batman, ever the efficient one, gestures toward the massive viewing window. Constantine follows the motion, and for the first time, his usual deadpan expression falters. His cigarette almost falls from his lips.

"Bloody hell," he mutters.

“Right?!" Flash chimes in. "It’s a worm! A big, glowing, space worm!"

Constantine doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he steps closer to the glass, eyes narrowing. The creature is massive, coiled protectively around part of the Watchtower’s exterior. A strange, rhythmic hum reverberates through the hull, though it’s unclear if it’s coming from the worm or just an auditory illusion from its sheer size.

“Looks spectral,” Constantine finally says, rubbing his chin. “But… it’s not actin’ like a typical ghost. It’s just… resting.”

Wonder Woman folds her arms. “Could it be intelligent?”

“Most ghosts are,” Constantine mutters. “Even the dumb ones.”

Batman’s voice cuts in. “If it’s intelligent, we need to figure out its intentions before taking action.”

Superman frowns, his X-ray vision scanning the creature’s form. “There’s something… odd about it. I don’t sense hostility, but there’s definitely something going on with its heart.”

Constantine stiffens. “Its core?”

Superman nods. “It has a fluctuating energy source. Almost like…” He hesitates, then looks at Constantine. “Almost like a ghost that’s injured.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

"Injured?" Flash repeats. "So, what? This thing came here to take a nap?"

Constantine curses again, louder this time. “You bunch of blokes just let a massive, injured ghost curl up around your base without knowin’ what it is?”

“I tried to scan it,” Batman says, voice tight. “It’s unlike any spectral entity we’ve encountered before.”

Constantine sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, fine. Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.”

He raises a hand, fingers curling as he murmurs in Latin. A faint golden light pulses from his fingertips, stretching toward the glass. For a moment, nothing happens. Then—

A tremor shakes the Watchtower.

The worm stirs.

A low, warbling trill reverberates through the station, and suddenly, a pair of massive, glowing green eyes snap open.

Constantine stumbles back. “Ah, shit.”

The entire room tenses. Batman reaches for his belt. Superman prepares to engage.

But before anyone can act—

The worm blinks. Its form ripples, shifting, distorting, and then—

A human shape peels away from the massive ghostly coils, floating weightlessly in the vacuum of space.

A boy.

White hair, black jumpsuit, glowing green eyes filled with exhaustion and confusion. He clutches his chest as if it pains him, his breathing heavy.

Then, through the comms, a weak but familiar voice crackles through the static.

“Uh… hey?” The boy—Danny Phantom—gives a sheepish grin. “So… this isn’t where I parked my spaceship.”

The room is dead silent.

Flash is the first to speak.

“Holy crap. The worm talks.”

Constantine groans. "I hate this job."

-Danny the green worm

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part

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

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

Wordcount: 14.5K (Yikes, my longest one yet.)

Playlist: 'Flawless' - The Neighbourhood | 'War of Hearts' - Ruelle | 'See You Bleed' - Ramsey | 'Scorpio' - Pour Vous | 'Terrible Thing' - AG

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral receiving (F.) - Rough Play - Hair pulling - Face slapping (y'all, they try and kill each other before doing the dirty) - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames

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

Next chapter: Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

The chicken is roasting in the oven, filling the open-concept kitchen with the smell of lemon, garlic, and rosemary. You stir the sauce on the stove slowly, absently, the motions muscle memory after five years of this routine. The marble counters gleam under the recessed lighting. The wine—your favourite Châteauneuf-du-Pape—is already breathing on the island beside two empty glasses. His glass is always on the right. Yours on the left.

You glance at the clock. 6:42 PM.

Right on time.

The sound of the garage door humming open cues your body before your mind catches up. You smooth your blouse, run a hand through your hair, and put on that soft, wifely smile you’ve perfected over the years. Not too eager. Not too cold. Just domestic enough to look real. Even if everything about your life is a lie.

Seungcheol walks in like he owns the world. Black slacks, white shirt rolled up to the elbows, collar slightly unbuttoned—just enough to make you pause for half a second longer than necessary. His wedding band gleams under the kitchen lights when he sets down his leather satchel by the counter. Not too fancy. Not too cheap. Just believable enough to pass for a self-employed contractor with a few wealthy clients.

“Smells amazing,” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek like he always does.

“Roasted lemon garlic chicken,” you reply, turning off the stove. “Figured we should use the good thyme from the garden before it dies again.”

He chuckles and pulls his chair out at the dining table. “You mean before you forget to water it again?”

You raise a brow. “I have a busy job, babe. Not all of us get to spend our afternoons measuring structural load capacities.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing his fork at you once you plate the food and set it down in front of him, “developing office towers and commercial buildings is an art.”

You laugh, sipping your wine as you sit across from him. He leans back slightly, watching you for a moment, and there’s that fleeting flicker in his eyes—the one you’ve never been able to pin down. The one that makes you think he’s hiding something. But then again, you are, too.

“The curtains look different,” he says, eyes drifting toward the large windows facing the garden. “When did you change them?”

You glance toward them. White, linen, sheer, with silver grommets. “Yesterday. The old ones were too heavy for spring. I wanted light, breezy. Open.”

He nods. “Makes the room feel bigger.”

Silence settles between you for a moment. Comfortable. Familiar. Until he says, almost casually, “Thinking of redoing the backyard.”

You spear a piece of asparagus, chew, and swallow before replying. “Again? That’s the third time in two years.”

“The koi pond doesn’t flow right. Feng Shui’s off,” he mutters.

You hide a smile behind your glass. What a load of shit. He doesn’t believe in Feng Shui. But the first rule of your kind of marriage is: always let the lies live in peace. Challenging them only brings unnecessary fire.

“We’re invited to Kim and Soojin’s baby shower,” you say next, leaning your chin into your palm. “Next Saturday. You’ll come, right?”

He exhales a sigh that borders on a groan. “Do I have to? It’s gonna be baby-themed everything and forced small talk with people pretending they like children.”

“So… normal Saturday then?”

He grins. You grin back. It’s routine. Polished. Perfect. This suburban domesticity you’ve curated over five years of marriage—it’s nothing short of an illusion built brick by brick. The neighbours believe you’re the golden couple. You believe it, too, sometimes. Right until the phone in your shoe closet buzzed this morning.

“By the way,” he says, reaching for more wine, “I’m going to be out of town this week. Client in Busan wants me to redesign his outdoor deck. Real high-end stuff. Might take three days.”

You take another sip of wine to give yourself time. “That’s funny,” you say carefully. “I’ve got to fly out for a case, too. Some corporate merger—kind of messy. I’ll be in Tokyo until at least Friday.”

You both pause for a moment. You tilt your head. He doesn’t blink. There’s no suspicion. Only understanding.

Of course, what you don’t tell him is that your “corporate case” is a sheikh in Shibuya who’s been secretly funding illegal arms trades across the Pacific. The briefcase hidden within a closet contains three fake passports, a suppressed Glock 19, and a single vial of poison discreetly hidden in a lipstick tube.

You think he’s consulting engineers and overseeing concrete pours. He thinks you’re in meetings arguing over contracts and legal strategy.

“I’ll be back Friday,” he says.

“Me too,” you lie.

You both smile.

After dinner, you rinse the dishes while he dries them. He hums a song—something old, you can’t place it—and you listen, eyes scanning the subtle tension in his shoulder. The way he tucks away the wine bottle too precisely. The too-casual stretch of his fingers over the dish towel. You wonder—not for the first time—What if he knows? What if he suspects me?

But no. That’s just habit. Paranoia bred into your bones after a decade in the field. You’re too good to get caught. Too careful to leave traces.

You fall asleep beside him like you always do. His body warm and steady, one hand slung lazily over your waist. His chest rises and falls, breath even, slow. But you can feel it; your instincts have never failed you before.

A shift in the air. Something is about to change.

Tokyo glitters beneath you like a fractured mirror. Sleek, sharp, reflective. Just like you.

The job is simple—child’s play, really. You’ve done more complicated hits in less time and less forgiving cities. But what makes Tokyo special is the sheer absurdity of how easy this one is going to be. All it takes is a certain kind of lingerie, a well-composed photo for your “ad,” and the universal male weakness: ego.

You don’t even roll your eyes when your target—the sheikh with too much money and far too many skeletons—responds within six hours. The meeting is set at the rooftop bar of his hotel. You’re already three steps ahead.

By the second night, you’ve laughed at all his jokes, played coy, offered just enough intrigue for him to feel like he’s getting something exclusive. He discusses his preferences like he’s bartering over silk—submission, obedience, a woman who knows how to give orders and isn’t afraid to bite. You smile, legs crossed, swirling your drink with one finger as you look at him like he’s a king. He believes it. They always do.

By the third night, the suite door clicks open. You’re in your trench coat, tall black stilettos clicking against the marble as you step inside. The lights are dim. You glance around, clocking everything: one camera, unplugged. Two exits. No bodyguards in sight. Idiot.

He’s sipping champagne, eyes glittering with anticipation. You face him, slowly undo your coat, and let it fall to the floor.

The look on his face is pure awe.

The black leather lingerie hugs your curves like sin. Thin straps, silver hardware, strategic cutouts. A blend of dangerous and divine. You step forward, heels clicking against the tile.

“On your knees,” you command, voice low, sultry.

He lets out a chuckle, half-impressed. “You’re quite bold, aren’t you?”

“That’s what you asked for, isn’t it? Someone who knows how to take control?”

He kneels. You circle him slowly, like a lioness. He doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down the back of his neck. That’s his final mistake.

In one swift, silent movement, you grab his head and twist. The crack is sharp and clean. He slumps forward.

You step over him without blinking, grab your phone, snap the picture, and send it to your handler.

Within minutes, you’re back in your coat and heels. Earlier that afternoon, you had already stashed your luggage, passport, and backup cash in the hotel’s laundry chute. Everything else is clean.

You keep the lingerie on underneath the coat. Always easier that way. No suspicion. No loose threads. No wasted time.

At the airport, you change in a bathroom stall. Simple wrap dress. Low heels. Hair in a bun. Lipstick wiped clean.

Back to your other self.

You arrive home first.

The late-afternoon sun casts long golden lines across the immaculate front lawn. You park the sleek black sedan in the driveway like any respectable suburban professional might—precise, not showy. Your eyes sweep the cul-de-sac before exiting the car, a habit you’ve never shaken. Two kids ride their bikes across the street. Someone’s dog barks. Mr. Park is watering his azaleas again. Perfect suburbia. A flawless, manicured illusion.

The moment you step inside, the temperature shifts. Cool, quiet, untouched. Home.

You close the door silently behind you and lean against it for a breath. This is the part you hate the most—returning. The shift between identities. Going from the woman who killed a man, to the woman who folds laundry and shops at the farmers market on Saturdays.

But you do it.

You carry your luggage upstairs, heels clicking against hardwood. Once in the bedroom, you head straight to the walk-in closet and kneel beside the third shelf from the left. With practised ease, you access the hidden panel and slide your suitcase inside the compartment. You place your heels neatly in their usual spot. Everything in order. Everything back to “normal.”

Inside the bedroom, you drop your coat over the chair, peel off your dress, and let it slide to the floor. Then comes the lingerie. You unbuckle each piece with methodical care and toss them into a loose pile with your dress. You’ll hide it in a minute. Right now, the steam of the shower is calling, and the ache in your shoulders is starting to settle.

He won’t be home until later, you remind yourself. He said evening. That buys you time.

You step into the ensuite bathroom and turn on the shower, the glass fogging up almost instantly. The water is hot—too hot—and that’s the way you want it. You stand under the spray, letting the pressure hit your spine and loosen your mask.

And that’s when you hear it. The front door.

Your breath stalls in your chest.

“Honey, I’m home,” Seungcheol calls from downstairs.

Shit.

“You’re back early?” you manage, pitching your voice into that sweet, casual tone. The one you use at neighbourhood barbecues.

“Took an earlier train,” he replies, his voice carrying him to your bedroom. “Got bored in Busan. You just got in?”

“Just now. Thought I had a little time to unwind before you arrived.”

You run your hands through your hair and try to slow your heartbeat. You can’t see him through the foggy glass. You pray he didn’t walk too far into the room. That he didn’t look down.

“How was the job?” you ask, still facing the tiled wall.

“Same old corporate mess,” he says easily, his tone not betraying anything. “Engineers screwed up the plan, had to clean up after everyone. Nothing new.”

You smile like you believe him.

“Join me?” you offer. Better to keep him close than to let him wander around.

He pauses for a beat too long. Then: “Absolutely.”

You hear him undress behind you, the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of his belt against the counter. You keep your eyes closed as his arms wrap around your waist under the stream. You press your body back into his. You touch him like always. You even kiss him the same way. And he responds. His hands are familiar. Comforting. Steady.

Seungcheol heads downstairs first. Something about garlic and butter and “making up for all the garbage food I ate this week.” You nod and wrap a towel around yourself, moving into the bedroom with practised calm.

The first thing you do is gather his clothes from the bathroom floor. His shirt, socks, pants—crumpled and smelling faintly of clean sweat and travel. You carry them into the bedroom, where your dress and lingerie still lie in that careless heap.

Stupid, you scold yourself, picking up the leather and bundling it in your arms with your dress. You walk toward the hamper in the corner of the room, shifting your hold.

And then—something falls.

A soft thud on the floor. You frown and bend down.

It’s a badge. Rectangular. Laminated.

Grand Palace Hotel Busan – Event Staff

You blink once. Twice.

This wasn’t part of the story he gave. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near an event space. Especially not as staff. This isn’t a building site. It’s something else entirely.

Your blood chills.

Slowly, you crouch, pick it up, and study it again. What the hell?

You slip it into the pile of his clothes in the hamper and push it to the bottom, hiding it beneath his pants.

You’ll retrieve it later. When he’s asleep. When the house is still.

Your expression smooths again as you grab your brush, run it through your damp hair, and slide into a fresh sweater and leggings. You head downstairs, footsteps light, shoulders squared.

He’s plating dinner when you walk in. The scent of garlic and butter wraps around the kitchen like a warm lie.

“You used the fancy pasta,” you comment, voice airy.

He grins over his shoulder. “Only for special occasions. You made it back in one piece, didn’t you?”

You kiss his cheek. “Barely. Tokyo traffic is a nightmare.”

He pours wine. You set the table. You talk about “contracts”, “clients”, “blueprints”, and “boardroom blowups.”

You laugh at his jokes. He holds your gaze just a little too long. The wine is smooth, the dinner perfect, the rhythm between you effortless. But as you lay awake that night, Seungcheol sleeping peacefully beside you, your mind drifts back to the ID card in your hamper.

From the outside, Lim & Associates looks like any other high-end boutique law firm in Gangnam.

The fourth-floor office has all the trappings—frosted glass doors, minimalist furniture, soft grey carpeting, and tasteful art in the hallway. The name etched above the door in elegant serif font gives off the exact kind of authority clients expect from corporate litigation experts.

But once you pass the seemingly standard reception desk and slide your hand across the biometric panel behind the framed Business Insider article on “Female Founders in Finance,” everything changes.

The glass seals. The lighting adjusts. The air shifts from ambient calm to calculated intensity. No paralegals. No phone calls. Just encrypted servers, blueprints for extraction routes, and a killboard that updates in real-time.

Welcome to the real Lim & Associates.

Not legal. Lethal.

You’re in the war room this morning—sleek and sharp, like everything else in this place. A long table stretches across the space, the wall lined with oversized displays streaming drone footage, internal comms, and heat-sensor readings from satellites you’re not supposed to have access to.

You sip your Americano in silence as Reina, your tech lead, flips through the feed. She’s always first in, last out, perpetually in dark lipstick and heels sharp enough to stab.

“Target codename: Jackal,” Reina announces, pulling up a grainy image of a man half-hidden by shadows. “Real name unknown. Hacker for hire. Specializes in creating secure logistics software for some very unpleasant people—cartel brokers, traffickers, smuggling syndicates. Lives completely off-grid somewhere in the desert, near the New Mexico border.”

Jiwoo whistles under her breath. “Is this the guy who ghosted an entire CIA comms network last year?”

Reina nods. “Same signature. This one’s a ghost. Doesn’t trust anyone. Doesn’t surface. Doesn’t stay in one place long. Even the locals are afraid of him.”

You set your coffee down and cross your arms. “And the bounty?”

“Twelve mil, dead or alive,” Reina replies without looking up. “But dead is preferred. No one wants this guy alive long enough to talk.”

Hyerim leans forward with a smirk. “Which means we’re not the only ones going after him, are we?”

Reina confirms it with a simple nod. “Intel shows chatter from at least one competing agency. Possibly more. First come, first kill.”

You stare at the flickering map overlay. It’s red, dry, dotted with heat zones and blinking movement pings. A fortress of heat sensors, drone tripwires, and scrambled signals. The man built a paranoid compound.

“So infiltration’s out,” you murmur. “He’s not gonna fall for anything face-to-face. Too smart. Too cautious.”

Samira rolls her eyes, perched as always on the edge of the table like a cat. “So you’re not going to slap on one of your lingerie sets and waltz into his trailer like you did in Tokyo?”

You smirk. “Not unless his type is women with RPGs.”

That earns a chorus of laughs until Bora says, “Alright then, Gwisin. What’s the play?”

You narrow your eyes at the monitor. The team’s teasing you with your code name again—Gwisin—equal parts fondness and awe. It started as a joke after your first kill with the company, but it stuck. Probably because it makes you sound like some legend to be feared in the dark.

Perhaps that's exactly what you are.

“He’s got a self-sufficient power grid, solar backup, and an underground comms relay. The place is a bunker.” You pause, then point at the screen. “We can’t get close, not without setting off every countermeasure he’s got. We’re going to have to take him from a distance. High-precision rifle. Possibly drone strike.”

“I’ll start prepping satellite positioning and recon angles,” Reina says, already moving.

“We’ll need at least a week,” you add. “Maybe more. I’ll go in. Do the groundwork myself.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Hyerim raises a brow. “You sure your doting husband will survive a week without you? I thought he was going to implode the last time you were gone more than three days.”

You chuckle softly. “He’ll manage. He knows I work long hours.”

“Yeah, but does he know what kind of hours?” Jiwoo quips.

You smirk and grab your coat. “That’s classified.”

But as you leave the war room, your smile fades. You’re already spinning the lie in your mind. New York. That’s what you’ll tell him. Complex corporate case. High stakes. All-consuming.

It should work. It always does.

The house smells of braised soy and garlic by the time Seungcheol walks through the door.

You’re at the stove with your sleeves rolled up, watching the rich brown sauce bubble around glistening short ribs, carrots, and daikon. The scent of galbijjim fills the kitchen like comfort.

You hear his steps before you see him—soft, unhurried—and then the creak of the door closing.

“You’re home early,” you say, not looking back yet.

“I missed your cooking,” he says as he walks up behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, warm and solid. Presses a kiss to the curve of your neck.

You stir the pot gently. “I thought you hated galbijjim,”

“I hate the bones,” he murmurs. “Not the flavour. And definitely not the cook.”

You smile faintly. But it’s automatic.

You eat together at the table like always. Warm light. Matching bowls. A small side dish of kimchi between you. The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s aware of itself.

Halfway through the meal, you speak.

“I have to leave again,” you say softly. “New York this time. High-profile merger. Might be gone for more than a week.”

You watch him, the way he doesn’t tense. Just nods, as if he already knows.

“Actually,” he says, pausing to set down his spoon, “I just got word from one of my old clients. A hospitality group in Dubai. They want me to fly in—finally starting construction on that coastal resort. I’ll be gone about the same time.”

You blink. Smile. “Really? What are the odds?”

He chuckles. “We’re always in sync.”

You clink your glass of water to his. “Power couple.”

But your hand doesn’t feel as steady as it should.

The New Mexico desert doesn’t breathe.

It bakes. It stretches. It waits.

It’s the kind of place where everything is wide open and still somehow claustrophobic. The silence stretches too long between radio pings. The air is dry enough to crack skin and make your lips peel.

For the last three days, you’ve been waiting.

You’re perched inside the creaking shell of a forgotten farm shed, abandoned sometime before the world got smart. Its rusted bones groan with every gust of wind, but it provides the cover you need. You call it the crow’s nest—high enough, shielded enough, just barely out of reach from Jackal’s tech-laced scanners. You’ve checked the thermals. Twice. Then again, for good measure.

Your rifle rests steadily against your shoulder, nestled into a carefully constructed groove in the shed wall. You’ve adjusted the bipod angle a hundred times. Calculated wind, dust, temperature, and solar position. At this distance, everything matters.

You don’t miss.

Not unless someone else gets in the way.

Back at the safehouse—hidden in the skeletal outline of a closed-down auto shop on the edge of town—Reina and Jiwoo are monitoring everything. Screens line the makeshift desk they’ve rigged up with cooling fans and portable comms. Reina’s fingers fly across the keyboard while Jiwoo tracks movement through satellite pings.

The girls are locked in, just like you.

“Jackal’s gone quiet,” Reina says through your earpiece, her voice a hushed echo of static. “Minimal movement. Looks like he’s gone full mole mode. Bastard hasn’t left his house once today.”

“He’s prepping,” you murmur, eyes still on the house through your scope. “He knows the deal is risky.”

“And get this,” Jiwoo cuts in. “We finally confirmed the client: Ricardo Delgado.”

Your pulse flickers.

Ricardo Delgado.

A trafficker so brutal, entire border towns whisper his name like a curse. If Jackal’s about to sign with him, he’s moving up in the world—from data mercenary to kingmaker. The kind of connection that could make him untouchable.

Or a bigger target than ever.

“Delgado wants to meet in person,” Reina adds. “We think he’ll show today. Still waiting on final satellite confirmation.”

“Jackal never meets face-to-face,” Jiwoo says, sceptical.

“Money changes minds,” you answer, low and steady. “Everyone has a price.”

You settle further into your nest, pulling your scarf higher to block the sun. The scope is aligned. The distance marked. The wind is calm. You wait, like the predator you are.

And then—

“Convoy incoming,” Reina says. “We’ve got eyes on three black Suburbans coming in from the north ridge.”

You squint through your scope and spot them—kicking up dust as they make their way toward Jackal’s compound. The sun glints off their armoured bodies like black beetles crawling across sand. You hold your breath.

One car. Two. Three.

They come to a slow, calculated stop.

Doors open.

Men get out—Delgado’s men, judging by their posture and the high-end weapons. Then comes the man himself. Dark suit. Sunglasses. And that aura of arrogant menace, even from this distance.

You don’t need to hear the words to know this man smells blood in everything he touches.

Then finally—

Jackal emerges.

He’s cautious. Almost jumpy. Wearing a hooded vest, shoulders hunched. You’ve studied him for days, memorized his gait. He walks like someone used to moving through walls, not around them.

Jiwoo’s voice crackles softly in your ear. “That’s him. Target confirmed.”

“You’ve got one window,” Reina says. “If you miss, we’ll lose him again.”

You don’t answer. You watch.

Jackal steps forward. The two men approach one another, wary but curious. You feel the moment stretch, breath caught at the edge of your ribs.

This is it.

The wind is perfect.

You steady your finger on the trigger.

But then—

Flash.

A glare of light. Just a second. Just long enough for your trained eyes to catch it.

You shift your scope instinctively—away from Jackal, toward the rocky ridgeline to your far right.

There. Tucked into the edge of the hillside. Another perch.

Another sniper.

“Reina,” you bark. “Talk to me. Someone else is here. Right ridge, northwest. I saw a scope glint. Can you confirm?”

Reina curses under her breath. “Give me five seconds. I’m shifting the satellite angle.”

You realign your sight, but it’s too late.

The other sniper fires.

The sound is distant—muffled by distance—but you see it. The bullet rips through the air and grazes Jackal’s arm. He stumbles backwards with a shout.

Chaos erupts.

Delgado’s men react instantly, almost too fast. A bag goes over Jackal’s head. They drag him to the second car. Tires scream, kicking up clouds of red dust as the convoy peels away.

You swear loudly. “Dammit! Dammit, dammit!”

“They’re on the move!” Jiwoo says. “Southbound highway, but we don’t have eyes beyond the ridge.”

You leap from your perch, adrenaline boiling. “Reina, track that shooter. Now.”

“Already on it,” she mutters. “Give me a minute to isolate heat signatures.”

You throw your rifle into its case and strap it to your back, jumping onto the quad you hid behind a brush wall earlier. The engine growls to life beneath you as you tear across the dirt, heading toward the opposite ridge where the mystery sniper took their shot.

The trail is faint, but you see it. Flattened brush. Dust still settling. Tire marks. Another quad. But no shooter in sight.

You dismount and crouch low in the sniper’s nest. Still warm. Still fresh.

“Empty,” you hiss into the comms. “He’s gone. Left no trace.”

“Still scanning the sat feed,” Reina says.

You grit your teeth. The kill was stolen. Jackal is gone. And someone else is playing this game far too close to your level.

The hum of electricity is the only sound in the room. You stand over Reina and Jiwoo as they re-run the satellite footage frame by frame.

Every flicker of motion. Every shadow. Every heat signature is pulled apart under your scrutiny.

“He’s good,” Jiwoo mutters. “He knew how to avoid camera angles. Hid his face the entire time. Tactical blackout gear. This isn’t some merc-for-hire.”

“Freeze it,” you say suddenly.

Reina does.

There—on the edge of the screen—the sniper climbs onto a quad and turns away from the camera. But the wind catches the back of his shirt.

A flicker of skin. A mark.

“Go back. Zoom in,” you say, heart hammering.

The image sharpens.

A tattoo.

Just below the neck. Barely there. A tree. Roots. Branches.

You don’t breathe.

“What the hell is that?” Jiwoo says.

You say nothing.

You reach for your phone with numb fingers and swipe through your albums until you find it. A photo from a summer in Bali. Seungcheol in the pool, his back to you, laughing. You zoom in.

Same tattoo. Same ink. Same impossible detail.

You connect your phone to the screen. The photos are side by side now—one from the desert, one from the pool.

Reina is the first to speak, her voice nearly a whisper.

“That’s your husband.”

You’ve only been back in Seoul for four hours.

The sky outside is the colour of ash, stuck between dusk and full night. Traffic hums below the windows of Lim & Associates, but up here, above the city’s glittering noise, the office is thrumming with something far more chaotic: curiosity.

The second you stepped through the biometric doors, you felt it. The shift in energy.

The subtle glances. The way conversations stopped half a beat too long. Even the silence tasted like blood in your mouth.

By the time you make it to the war room, it’s no longer a rumour—it’s evidence.

Reina’s pulled every image from the last five years of your marriage.

Honeymoon photos. Anniversary dinners. A weekend in Jeju where he made you coffee with cinnamon and called it your signature. Your wedding—Seungcheol’s hands on your waist, your smile so real you remember feeling it in your ribs.

Jiwoo has financials pulled up on another screen. “His offshore account matches the timeline of that Riyadh hit we missed last spring,” she says aloud. “Same week, we got beat to the contract.”

“That wasn’t luck,” Hyerim mutters, dragging a file onto the main screen. “The Novgorod job, too. S.Coups took it from under our noses. We assumed it was Black Wing Agency. It was him.”

You’re standing still, arms folded, lips tight, eyes dark.

But inside, everything is shattering.

You don’t speak. Not really. Just nod when asked something directly. Your voice feels caught in the hollow space between rage and disbelief. You know they’re not trying to be cruel. They’re doing what this job requires: gathering intel. Building profiles. Pattern recognition.

But it’s your life they’re peeling back.

Your marriage. Your memories.

“Gwisin,” Samira says gently, using your codename with an edge of caution. “Did you know?”

You shake your head. “No.” Voice clear. Controlled. Flat.

And it’s the truth.

You had no idea that the man who held you at night, who kissed your neck before work, who made you laugh when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking after a job—was the same person beating you to every high-level target for the last five years.

Seungcheol—S.Coups.

The most elegant chaos you’ve ever encountered in the field. A ghost of his own making.

Second only to you.

Your colleagues believe you. They can see it—your silence, your withdrawal, the shell of who you usually are. They’ve seen you after bad missions, messy kills, intel gone sideways. But not like this.

This isn’t mission failure. This is betrayal.

Still, Reina says it out loud, her voice quiet but not unkind. “Do you think there’s a possibility he might’ve known?” She glances at Jiwoo, who replies softly. “It’s possible. He’s good. Maybe better at long-game infiltration than we realized.”

“You know what they say,” Bora adds, not meeting your eyes. “Keep your friends close…”

“But your enemies closer...” Samira finishes.

The words hit harder than you expect. You swallow, but your throat is dry.

You stare at the wedding photo still up on the screen. Your hand in his. Your laugh caught mid-movement. His eyes on you like you’re something rare.

Was it a ploy? Was any of it real?

Did he kiss you because he loved you—or because he wanted to know your pulse?

You drift through the rest of the night in the war room like a ghost.

They keep talking. Listing hits. Mapping overlaps. Everything you lost—every target you missed, every mission that slipped through your fingers—lined up beside S.Coups’ confirmed contracts.

And there it is: the pattern.

You’ve still got more kills. More high-level hits. More precision.

But he’s your closest competitor.

You’ve been unknowingly locked in a rivalry with your own husband for five years.

Five years.

Five years of brushing your teeth beside your biggest threat.

Of sleeping with your enemy.

Of loving him.

Hours pass. One by one, they begin to gather their things.

It’s almost midnight. No one’s gone home yet. Not with the storm you dropped into their hands. But they don’t press you any more. Not tonight.

Jiwoo lingers last, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We believe you,” she says. “But we need to know you’re not compromised.”

You finally look up, your voice low and controlled. “Don’t worry.”

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, softer.

You manage a smile so convincing it hurts. “I know what I need to do.”

You sleep in one of the auxiliary offices—a cold couch and a folded blanket left by some junior operative who probably thinks sleeping here makes her look ambitious. The overhead lights stay off, and you don’t bother changing. You just curl in silence, arm under your head, eyes wide open.

You think about the way he held you. The softness no one else got to see. The long showers. The bruises left on your hips. The secret glances in public places. The night he said, I could kill for you.

You thought he meant it metaphorically.

Now you wonder if he was warning you.

At 3:45 AM, your phone buzzes on the table. You reach for it, heart already hollow.

The message reads:

Target: S.Coups

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen glows against your face.

You don’t move. You don’t sleep.

You’re a ghost.

But tonight, you’re not sure who you’re haunting.

Seungcheol’s office doesn’t look like much from the outside.

It’s nestled between a dental clinic and an architectural firm in a sleek high-rise in Mapo, hidden in plain sight. Floor twenty-one. Clean lines. Frosted doors. A minimalist logo stamped in bronze: ARGOS CONSTRUCTION & DESIGN

Officially, it's a boutique firm known for luxury hotels and high-end corporate real estate. Beautiful portfolios. Flawless branding. Seungcheol’s name is listed as Senior Project Lead. Clients think he spends most of his time in Dubai or Busan, consulting on zoning permits or high-rise scaffolding.

But once you pass the biometric scan and elevator override, everything changes.

The real heart of the operation lies beneath the surface. Literally. Two floors below ground. A bunker of blinking servers, reinforced steel, and silence so absolute it hums in your bones.

It’s here that Choi Seungcheol—known across the world’s most elite kill networks as S.Coups—stumbles back into reality.

The mission was a failure.

Jackal is gone.

And he missed his shot.

He never misses.

He walks into the main debriefing floor around 1:45 PM, still dusty from New Mexico, carrying tension in his shoulders like a weight welded to his spine. His eyes are bloodshot. His jaw is locked. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for someone to hit him.

They don’t.

Instead, his team is already there. Mingyu, Woozi, Wonwoo, Joshua—all gathered around the central command table, every screen alive with footage. Satellite captures, thermals, drone loops, and stills pulled from the perimeter cameras. Joshua looks up first.

And he doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t smile. Just says one word:

“Hyung...”

Seungcheol freezes. His hand twitches slightly at his side.

Mingyu turns the main monitor toward him with a grim expression. “We found out who the other sniper was.”

Woozi, who rarely shows emotion unless someone’s bleeding out, actually exhales before adding: “You’re not gonna like it.”

Seungcheol steps forward.

And there you are.

Frozen in time, high-res satellite shot, sunlight catching your jaw and cheekbone as you shift just enough to reveal your face through your scope. Your hair is tied back. Your eyes deadly calm. Your rifle perfectly aligned.

“No,” Seungcheol breathes.

“That’s her,” Mingyu confirms. “Codename: Gwisin.”

Another screen pops up. Kill logs. Confirmed contracts. Locations.

Dozens of missions—some he knew about. Others he’d missed because of you. Targets that disappeared just before he reached them. Jobs he thought were rerouted or reassigned.

It was you.

The person who’s been beating him, matching him, trailing him and haunting him for years... Was you.

His wife.

The silence breaks all at once.

“Hyung, what the fuck—”

“Did you know? You had to know, right?”

“There’s no way she got this close without—”

“What kind of long game is she playing? Five years married? That’s next-level infiltration.”

“She’s better than we thought. Shit—she’s better than almost anyone.”

Seungcheol doesn’t speak. He stares at the image like it’s going to shift. Like it’s a glitch.

But it doesn’t. It’s you.

His mind races, grabbing for anything—a mistake, a sign, a moment—but the truth settles in slow and cruel:

He had no idea.

Not once did you slip. Not once did you flinch. Not once did you let the mask fall.

Not even with him.

And then the grief rises. Ugly. Raw. Red.

He slams his fist into the wall.

The first time, it cracks.

The second time, it bleeds.

The third time, the others rush to pull him back.

“Hyung, stop!” Joshua grabs him from behind, dragging him away from the dented panel, blood dripping from his knuckles.

Seungcheol breathes like a man drowning, shoulders heaving, chest too tight. He sits down hard in the nearest chair. Joshua hands him a bottle of whiskey without a word.

He takes it. Unscrews the cap. Drinks.

The warmth hits his throat, but it doesn’t settle. Nothing does.

He leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The memories start to rush him. And he hates that he can’t shut them out.

Their wedding day. Your laugh echoing off the high ceilings of your home. Your hand in his on long walks. Your moans in the dark. Your head on his chest after a stormy night. The time you surprised him with a bottle of bourbon after his mother died.

Five years. Of everything. Of you.

And now he can’t tell if any of it was real. Or if he was just a mark—another mission. A long-term assignment you handled better than anyone ever has. What if you married him to stay close? What if the way you touched him was all a lie?

He doesn’t want to believe it. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.

“You think she knew?” he asks the room, voice raw.

Wonwoo answers quietly. “She had to. No way she didn’t. Not with your record. You’ve crossed paths too many times.”

“She married me,” Seungcheol whispers. “She married me while stealing jobs out from under me.”

“Maybe it was about dominance,” Woozi mutters. “Take down your rival and smile at him over breakfast.”

“Or maybe...” Mingyu says hesitantly, “She didn’t know either.”

“No,” Seungcheol snaps, suddenly venomous. “She knew. No one’s that good without knowing.”

He stands and drinks again. And again.

The others leave around 2 AM, after enough whiskey has numbed most of his edges. Mingyu throws him a look that says call if you need me, and Woozi doesn’t bother hiding the sympathy in his eyes.

Seungcheol stays.

Alone in the office, he sits at the edge of his desk, tie loosened, shirt rumpled. One hand bandaged and bloodied, the other gripping the bottle. He doesn’t turn off the lights. Doesn’t turn off the feed.

Because he can’t stop watching.

Watching you.

The way you moved behind that scope. The way you tracked your shot. The way your lips moved when you muttered commands to your team.

The way you looked like a stranger in skin he’s touched a hundred times.

3:45 AM.

His phone buzzes once. The tone is different. Urgent. Priority.

He blinks the alcohol-induced haze from his eyes, swiping across the screen.

New Contract Uploaded

Target: Gwisin

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen burns.

His fingers curl around the phone. His chest aches like something inside him has cracked clean open. There’s blood on his knuckles, whiskey in his veins, and your name on the hit list.

And for the first time in years, Seungcheol feels truly, utterly lost.

Because no matter what the file says—

he loves you.

You wake before the lights do.

The room is dim and cold, your body curled up uncomfortably on the worn leather couch in one of the smaller offices. Your neck aches. Your back is stiff. The blanket you used is halfway to the floor.

You didn’t sleep. Not really. You drifted in and out of hazy dreams, caught between the heat of memories and the frost of betrayal. His voice haunted the edges of your mind. His laugh. The scent of his cologne on your pillow. The feel of his lips at the nape of your neck, from a lifetime that feels like yesterday.

The first sound that drags you fully awake is the faint click of heels and muffled voices outside. Your colleagues are arriving.

You sit up slowly, blinking through the grey light.

Get up.

You push off the couch, shake the sleep from your limbs, and make your way to the restroom down the hall. The mirror is merciless. Your hair is tangled, your eyes shadowed. You turn on the faucet, splash cold water against your face, and force yourself to breathe. One. Two. Three.

Then, you meet your own eyes in the mirror.

You stare too long. You don’t recognize yourself.

You crack your neck once, wipe your face, and tie your hair back. When you emerge again into the hallway, your mask is in place. Crisp. Composed. Not a crack in sight.

The war room is quieter than usual.

Your girls are already gathered—Reina, Jiwoo, Samira, Bora, and Hyerim—all doing a masterclass in pretending not to be watching you.

“Morning,” you say as you walk in, voice smooth, calm.

“Morning, Gwisin,” Jiwoo replies gently, the nickname laced with caution today.

You nod. Set your coffee down. No one mentions the message from last night. But it’s there. Humming in the air like static. You feel it on your skin.

Then, your tablet buzzes.

You glance down.

Message from LIM HQ: Report to Executive Level – 9:15 AM

You check the time.

9:14.

Your breath stills. You lift your gaze and meet Reina’s eyes briefly. She nods once, understanding everything without needing a word.

You straighten your jacket. The floor falls silent behind you as you head to the elevator.

You rarely go to the executive level. Most assassins don’t. The higher-ups keep themselves wrapped in glass and shadows, their voices drifting down through encrypted comms and one-way messages. So when you’re summoned, it means something irreversible is about to happen.

The elevator doors open onto a floor that doesn’t look like any other in the building. It’s brighter here. Sleek. Clinical. Too clean.

The door to the boardroom is already open when you arrive.

Three of them sit behind the curved obsidian table: Madame Lim herself in the center, flanked by Director Oh and Mr. Kwon, both stone-faced and unreadable.

You step inside, your spine tall and your heels precise.

You greet them. They waste no time.

“Gwisin,” Madame Lim begins, “you understand why you’re here.”

You nod once. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your judgment is not under question. Not yet,” Director Oh adds. “But the situation has become... delicate. Dangerous.”

“S.Coups has proven himself a formidable asset,” Mr. Kwon continues. “Which makes him an even more formidable threat. Not just to you, but to this organization as a whole.”

You say nothing.

“We do not take betrayal lightly,” Madame Lim says. “We understand his appeal. Handsome. Charismatic. Intelligent. But even the sharpest agents sometimes fall for the wrong weapon.”

You clench your jaw, but your face does not change.

“We don’t care about your marriage,” Director Oh says coldly. “What we care about is the information he may have extracted from you.”

“Knowingly or not,” Mr. Kwon adds.

“This is your one chance,” Madame Lim finishes, voice cutting like glass. “Your marriage was a mistake. But you have the opportunity to clean it up. Efficiently. Permanently.”

They watch you.

You inhale. Hold it. Then:

“Understood.”

“Do you have any objections?” Director Oh asks.

You shake your head. “I know what’s expected of me.”

A pause.

Then Madame Lim nods. “You are dismissed.”

Back in the war room, your girls are waiting.

Not subtly.

They look up the moment you enter, expressions shifting between concern and restraint.

“So... what did they say?” Samira asks finally, carefully.

You’re just about to answer when your desk phone rings.

Jiwoo, sitting closest, picks it up with practised ease. “Mrs. Choi’s office. This is her assistant Jiwoo speaking.” Her eyes narrow. “Who may I ask is calling?”

Her expression changes. Freezes. Her breath catches.

She puts the phone on mute.

“It’s your husband,” she says, barely a whisper.

Everything in you goes still.

You stare at her.

If your cover was still intact, he wouldn’t know you were back.

He knows.

He knows.

You lift the receiver slowly, your voice light as air. “Honey,” you say, the smile on your lips a perfect weapon, “you know you’re not supposed to call me at work.”

There’s a silence on the other end. Then—

“I wasn’t expecting you to be back in town already,” Seungcheol replies calmly. Measured. Unreadable.

Your pulse ticks up, but you breathe through it. “Contract fell through,” you say sweetly. “Competing firm swooped in. Happens.”

He hums. “That’s a shame.”

You flip the script. “I thought you were still in Dubai?”

A beat.

Then his reply: “Had a little... ghost from a past job show up. Complicated things. Now I’ve got a mess to clean.”

Your stomach turns.

Still, your voice doesn’t flinch. “Will you be home for dinner? Since we’re both in town.”

A pause. Then: “Yeah. Seven, right?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll bring wine.”

“See you then, babe.”

You hang up.

The room is dead quiet.

You look up. Your mask drops—just a little—and you meet their eyes.

“It’s official,” you say.

You leave the office the second the line goes dead.

You don’t wait to explain. You don’t give your girls more than a look. They don’t follow, but they don’t stop you either. They saw your face. They heard the call. The game has changed.

You drive like a woman possessed—silent, laser-focused, heart pounding beneath the illusion of calm. The city blurs around you, neon and shadows slipping past the windshield. When you pull into the driveway of the house you built with him, the sun is beginning to dip below the skyline.

Your house is quiet. Still.

Too still.

You park in the back, kill the engine, and enter silently through the side door. Every footstep is light. Calculated. You’ve walked these floors a thousand times before. In heels. In silk robes. In nothing but a towel and a glass of wine.

You sweep the house. First the kitchen, then the hallway, the garage, the basement. Your breathing is low and controlled. When you reach the second floor, you head straight for the master bedroom and pull the closet door open.

Inside, your armoury waits—hidden in secret compartments behind shoes, false panels, inside the lining of old garment bags.

He never knew.

You pull out three weapons: a Glock, a semi-automatic Sig Sauer, and a compact shotgun that fits snugly under your arm. You load them quickly, efficiently, your hands as steady as your heart is wrecked.

Ammo in your waistband. Glock in your thigh holster. Sig against your back.

You wait.

And when you hear the click of the backdoor handle—fifteen minutes later—your breath catches in your throat.

He’s here.

He moves quietly.

No keys. No footsteps. Just the low shift of floorboards under careful weight.

You can hear him moving through the kitchen, then toward the hallway. His pace is slower than usual—like a man searching a house he already knows is dangerous.

You’re perched on the second-floor landing, crouched behind the hallway mirror, shotgun firm in your grip. And then—you see it.

His reflection.

Tall. Broad. Dark eyes scanning every corner. A gun in his hand.

He sees you, too. His eyes flick up. You fire.

The bullet punches through the wall and splinters the wood frame, but he dives behind the doorframe just in time.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” his voice calls.

You don’t respond. Your answer is the clink of a new shell being slammed into place.

The house erupts.

He fires up from the stairwell. You dart down the hall, ducking into the guest room as bullets tear through drywall behind you. You spin around the corner and return fire. You graze his shoulder as he rolls across the dining room floor and smashes into the wine rack.

“This what marriage looks like to you?!” you yell as you move, switching the shotgun for the Glock.

“I should ask you that,” he barks back. “What was the plan, huh? Marry me so you could win every job?”

You scream as you fire again. “I didn’t know who the hell you were!”

He grits his teeth, vaulting over the coffee table, firing as he moves. The hallway mirror shatters beside you.

You fall back into the living room, ducking behind the couch. Your shoulder’s bleeding. You don’t even know from what. You reload with a snarl.

“Liar!” he roars from the hallway. “You think I didn’t recognise the pattern? Gwisin always beat me by a step. You were right there. In our goddamn bed.”

“You think I knew I was married to S.Coups?” you shout back. “You think I’d sleep next to you every night if I did?”

You both burst into the living room at the same time—guns drawn, bodies moving too fast—and collide.

Your weapons hit the floor with a twin clang as your fists meet flesh.

You throw the first punch. He blocks. He shoves you back into the coffee table, and it shatters under your hip. You swing a silver vase at his face. He ducks and kicks you square in the ribs.

The wind rushes out of you.

You collapse but sweep his legs out with yours, dragging him down. You scramble, blood running from your lip, hand catching a glass tumbler and smashing it against his shoulder.

He grabs you by the waist and slams you against the wall.

“Was it real?” he growls into your face. “Any of it?”

You spit out blood. “You want the truth? I don’t know anymore.”

You break his grip, duck under his arm, roll across the carpet, and reach for your Glock under the couch.

You stand—gun in hand, and you turn.

But he’s already there. He’s holding the semi-auto.

Both of you freeze.

Guns pointed. Breathing ragged.

Your finger trembles just once.

He doesn’t shoot. Instead—he lowers his weapon. Slowly.

Eyes locked on you. He looks at your face—bloodied, cut, lips split; something inside him snaps.

“Do it,” he says.

You blink. Confused.

He steps forward, just one step.

“You want the bounty,” he says, softer this time. “Take the shot. Isn’t that what this is?”

Tears blur your vision. Your hand tightens around the grip as your jaw clenches shut.

“Come on,” you scream. “Fucking do it! Shoot me! Come on!”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t raise his hands. He just… stands there.

No defence. No deflection.

Just him. Standing still. Silent surrender.

“Shoot me,” you whisper, voice shaking now. “Just fucking shoot me.”

He shakes his head. Slowly.

He lets the gun fall.

A soft clatter as it lands on the floor.

The Glock in your hand trembles.

You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The air is thick—hot with adrenaline, grief, and rage. The scent of smoke and gunpowder still clings to your skin.

“I love you,” Seungcheol says, and it’s not a whisper. It’s a confession dragged out from deep inside, full of wreckage and devastation, the sound of a man who’s lost something he never thought he could.

You stare at him. For a long moment, nothing moves. Not the wind outside. Not your finger on the trigger. Not your fractured heart.

And then—he makes the choice for you.

He moves faster than your breath can catch. A sharp flick of his wrist sends the Glock clattering from your grip, skidding across the wood floor. You don’t react in time—not with a punch or a step back or a scream. Because before you can, his hands are on your face.

And then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like a man possessed, like he’s been choking and you’re the pull of oxygen back into his lungs. It’s messy, bruising, desperate. You gasp into it, shocked and enraged—but that flame turns into something else, something hot, and your hands grasp his shirt, pulling him closer.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

This is years of love and fury and betrayal colliding between your teeth.

Your back slams into the nearest wall with a muffled thud, and the sound you make is halfway between a gasp and a groan. You want to scream at him, hit him, hurt him for what he’s done—but instead, your nails dig into his shoulders, and your mouth crashes into his again.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping your hips like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You pull at his shirt, fists curled in the fabric, and when you feel the buttons tear loose beneath your hands, the sound only fuels you both.

“You think this changes anything?” you hiss against his lips.

“No,” he breathes, dragging your shirt over your head. “It changes everything.”

The wall digs into your spine as he kisses down your neck, your chest, his hands frantic. Your bra is unhooked and discarded in seconds. You’re half-naked, heaving, trembling—not from fear, but from everything else you’ve buried for five long years suddenly clawing to the surface.

You shove him hard, dragging him through the wreckage of your once-pristine home, stepping over shattered glass and kicked-over furniture. Neither of you cares. The cuts on your face sting. His knuckles are split open and bleeding. It doesn’t matter.

He backs you into the kitchen. It’s the only part of the house not completely wrecked.

You end up pressed against the island, his mouth claiming yours again, slower now, deeper. His touch is still rough but laced with something gentler beneath it, something like regret.

“Say it,” you whisper between kisses, voice shaking. “Say it wasn’t fake.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“It wasn’t.” His voice is hoarse. Honest. “Not for a second.”

Your breath catches, and then he’s lowering himself to his knees.

You blink, watching him.

“What are you doing—”

He doesn’t answer. Just kisses the skin of your belly, trailing lower.

You grab onto the counter’s edge as he slides your pants down with a roughness that feels like an apology and a plea in one. He leaves kisses across your thighs as you kick them away. Then his hands go to your underwear.

He looks up. Eyes locked on yours. And you’re staring back, equal parts hunger and hesitation, rage and need. And then—he tears them.

The lace snaps, cool air rushes over the glistening skin of your cunt, and you don’t have time to say a word before he picks you up and places you on the counter. His mouth descends on you, lips wrapping around your pulsing clit.

You cry out at the sensation, hand shooting into his hair, anchoring yourself to him and gripping him tightly as his tongue moves with the kind of precision only a devoted lover could master. Every flick, every slow lick of his tongue between your folds has you gasping, trembling, moaning his name like it’s been carved into your body all along.

Your head tips back, mouth parted as you suck in sharp, broken breaths. You feel his hands steadying your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your hips, grounding you but also not letting you move away from his onslaught.

“Cheol—Fuck.” you gasp, the name caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

One of his hands leaves your hip, and then two of his fingers slide inside your core—slow, deliberate, coaxing. The sensation is too much and not enough, and when he curls them just right, hitting that spot deep inside you only he seems to find, you nearly sob from the relief of it. Seungcheol can’t help but groan out in pleasure himself, your walls gripping his digits like a vice.

“I’m close,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

But then—he stops. His fingers don’t stop curling inside of you, but his mouth leaves your core.

Your eyes fly open. “What—” You stumble out.

“Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gravelly and low, broken in all the right ways. “I want your eyes on me when you come.”

You try. You really do.

It takes everything in you to lift your head and find his gaze. But when you do, the sight undoes you. His mouth glistening with your arousal, his hair a mess, pupils blown wide. And those eyes—God, those eyes.

You nod, unable to speak.

And then he lowers his mouth again.

You keep your eyes open—barely—as his mouth and fingers bring you over the edge, your body tensing, breath catching. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, the sensation crashing through you like a tidal wave breaking all the walls you’d built.

“Seungcheol—Yes. God—Fuck.”

And he guides you through it. But he doesn’t stop.

Even when you’re gasping, trembling, barely able to breathe, he keeps going—his tongue soft, slow, patient. It’s too much. You’re too raw.

You whimper, hand pushing at his head weakly. “Cheol—stop, please—too much.”

Only then does he lift his head, lips swollen, chin wet, gaze still locked on yours.

He doesn’t speak. But that smirk? It says everything.

You don’t give yourself even a second to recover before you’re dragging him up by his neck, crashing your mouth into his again, tasting your release on his tongue.

The kiss between you hasn’t stopped—it’s just changed. Slower, deeper, heavier. You’re breathing into each other’s mouths like the air outside of this is too thin, too sharp, too cold.

But something shifts.

This time, you take control.

You slide off the counter, legs trembling slightly beneath you, but your hands never leave him. You tilt your chin, deepen the kiss, and spin the two of you with a firm grunt, forcing his back to the kitchen island.

He lets you. His chest heaves and you feel the way his breath hitches in surprise. But the moment you reach for his belt, he groans—low and guttural.

“Baby...” he rasps, his voice raw and strained as your fingers work his buckle, undo his button and slide the zipper down.

You hum against his lips, tugging the fabric down just enough to feel the heat of his hard member pressing against the fabric, your touch brushing over him as he throbs beneath your fingers.

“Let me,” you whisper, beginning to lower yourself.

But his hands catch your arms—firm, trembling.

“No,” he breathes, eyes burning. “Not tonight. I need to be inside you. I need—” His voice catches. “I need all of you.”

You don’t argue. The desperation in his voice floors you.

He shucks off the rest of his pants and boxers in one motion, and his mouth is back on yours before you can draw another breath. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, dragging him closer.

Together, you stumble toward the floor.

There’s broken glass everywhere. Bits of plaster and wood from shattered frames. Ruined furniture lying in jagged silhouettes around you. But neither of you cares. Not really.

You fall together, skin against skin, your bare back hitting the floor.

You hiss.

“Ow,” you wince, a sharp piece digging into your shoulder.

“Shit—” he tries to shift, to help you up, but you shake your head with a breathless laugh, hand catching the back of his neck.

“I’m fine,” you whisper through a smile. “Don’t be soft on me now, Cheol.”

He looks at you for a beat—bruised and bloodied and smiling beneath him—and his heart clenches painfully.

“God, I love you,” he says before his mouth crashes on yours again like he’s never going to get the chance to say it twice.

And then he’s lining himself up between your thighs, his tip probing your entrance.

His hips press forward, one steady thrust, and your gasp gets lost in the curve of his throat as he fills you. You both cry out at the stretch, the relief, and the way everything that’s broken suddenly makes a kind of violent, perfect sense.

“Jesus, baby...” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your back arching to meet him. “Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.” And he doesn’t.

He finds a rhythm quickly—urgent, deep, relentless. His cock slams into you with force, but every thrust is layered with something else—anger, heartbreak, love so twisted it feels like it could split you open.

You cling to him. Your nails scratch down his back as he pants against your mouth, your name escaping him like a curse and a prayer.

“Cheol—harder,” you whimper, breath catching.

He groans at your voice, his hand curling into your hair, tugging just a little too sharply.

You yelp, then slap him. A clean, fast smack across his cheek.

He freezes, stunned, blinking at you. But you’re grinning—feral and breathless. He lets out a broken laugh. “You’re insane.”

“You married me,” you fire back, grabbing him by the face and dragging him down for another kiss.

The sounds in the room are frantic—moans, gasps, skin slapping against skin, the scratching of glass shards against hardwood floors under your movements. Every kiss is frantic. Every bite leaves a mark.

Your body tightens around him, trembling. He feels it.

“You close?” he asks, voice ragged, lips at your ear.

You nod, helpless. “So close—don’t stop—please, Cheol—”

His hand snakes between you, finding your clit easily, rubbing fast, tight circles.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

And you do.

You fall apart beneath him with a sob, your whole body convulsing as the orgasm crashes over you like a wave you never saw coming. He watches you, eyes wide, lips parted, whispering your name like it’s salvation.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good girl. Just like that.”

You barely register his thrusts speeding up, his breath stuttering.

He groans into your neck—long, low, desperate—as his cum spills inside you, hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against your chest, spent.

The only sound for a long while is your breathing—shaky, uneven, tangled together.

His weight is heavy, but comforting. His hand slides to your side, his thumb gently stroking your ribcage, careful not to touch the bruises blooming your skin. His breath fans over your neck.

You run your fingers through his damp hair and the back of his shoulder blades.

And when you finally find your voice again, it comes out as a whisper—barely a sound. “I love you.”

He stills. You think maybe he didn’t hear it.

But then he lifts his head slowly, eyes locking with yours, and you see it there—the emotion breaking over his face like ice shattering on a frozen lake.

He doesn’t say it back. He doesn't have to.

You wake up in the aftermath.

The sun is already high in the sky, soft gold spilling in through the cracked blinds and dust-speckled windows. It touches the edges of your ruined home—highlighting the bullet holes in the walls, the debris scattered across the floor, the stillness that follows chaos.

You’re wearing one of Seungcheol’s shirts.

It’s oversized, hanging off your shoulder, barely buttoned. The collar is stretched, and there’s a streak of dried blood near the cuff—yours, probably. Your hair is a mess, and when you reach up to scratch your scalp, your fingers brush against something soft.

A pillow feather.

You snort. Of course.

After last night’s explosion of violence and desire, you somehow made it upstairs to what was left of your bed. It was mostly frame, broken slats, and torn linen—but you made do.

Now, your bare feet pad carefully down the stairs. You avoid the glass fragments and splinters with the expertise of someone who has navigated minefields—literal and metaphorical. The floor creaks beneath your steps, and for the first time in days, it doesn’t sound like a warning.

Seungcheol is already in the kitchen.

He’s standing in front of the open fridge—barely hanging on its hinges—wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey pyjama pants. His hair is wild, sticking up in tufts, and his back is covered in faint scratches and bruises—yours. His fingers move slowly through the wreckage of what used to be a well-stocked refrigerator.

You watch him for a second before stepping in.

“Any luck?” you ask, voice soft.

He glances over his shoulder, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “We’ve got orange juice... one slightly bruised apple... and what I think might be cereal.”

“Luxury,” you murmur, joining him, peeking inside the fridge beside him. “Any milk?”

He scoffs. “Glass bottle took a bullet. It was a clean kill.”

You both laugh, and it surprises you how natural it feels. How easy. Like this is just another morning, and your home doesn’t look like a war zone.

He reaches out, brushing a strand of your hair back—fingers grazing over the feather tangled there.

“You’ve got something,” he says, tugging it free with a chuckle.

You roll your eyes but lean in when he kisses you.

It’s slow. Unhurried. Familiar.

His hand cups the back of your head. Yours rests over his bare ribs. No weapons, no lies, no blood between you this time.

“You sore?” he asks, murmuring against your lips.

“Everywhere,” you smirk. “But especially my shoulder. Got stabbed by something sharp on the floor last night. Could’ve been you. Could’ve been a piece of a chair leg. Hard to tell.”

Seungcheol huffs a short laugh and grazes your shoulder with the backs of his fingers, eyes narrowing where the skin is slightly red. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the broken glass from the vase. That thing exploded like a grenade.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. “You shouldn’t have thrown me into it.”

He raises a brow. “You tackled me through the coffee table.”

You grin. “Fair.”

There’s an unspoken truce between your bodies now. Your muscles ache, your joints are sore, and you’re both peppered with bruises—some purple with impact, some half-faded fingerprints, others... not entirely from violence.

The two of you end up sitting side by side on the floor of the living room, backs against the only intact wall, legs stretched out over the wreckage of your home, your salvaged breakfast lying between you.

You pass the box to Seungcheol. He pours a handful into his palm and tosses it into his mouth like it’s nothing.

“So,” you start, still a little out of breath, “you were the Istanbul embassy hit?”

He turns to you, mouth still full. “2020? Yeah.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, laughing. “I almost took that one. Client offered me triple last minute, but someone reported the route was compromised.”

He raises a brow. “That was me. Took out one of the scouts on the perimeter. Probably spooked ‘em.”

You shake your head. “You know how many contracts I lost because of you? I thought I was cursed.”

“And I thought someone was copying my blueprints,” he admits, wiping juice from his chin with the back of his hand. “Every time I planned a clean hit, someone beat me to it by hours or days.”

You blink slowly, realization dawning.

“Oh my god. Jakarta. The oil exec.”

“I was on a rooftop two blocks away,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Had my sights lined up, trigger halfway pulled, and bam—he drops dead. Heart shot.”

You grin. “Silenced pistol. Through the crowd. Red scarf.”

He stares. “That was you?” You shrug.

You pass him the juice bottle. He swigs.

“Kuwait?” you ask. “Royal cousin, private airstrip, 2023.”

He squints. “Nope. Morocco that same week, though. Oil refinery director.”

You nod slowly. “Close... but still not the same contract.”

You lean into his shoulder, warm and bruised. For a while, you just sit in the silence. Sharing cereal. Trading names of cities like souvenirs. Comparing scars. You hold out your left arm, turning it over. “Costa Rica. Machete. Wasn’t even the target—just his cousin.”

He flexes his hand, then touches his ring finger and pinky, his wedding band still on, catching the light. “Vietnam. Lost feeling here in a blast. Pipe bomb rigged under a bar stool. I leaned in to light a cigarette, and the damn thing blew.”

You hiss. “How long to recover?”

“Ten weeks. Didn’t tell my team.”

“I went deaf in one ear,” you admit. “Turkey. Close-quarters detonation. I still sleep on my right side.” He tilts his head to look at you. “I know.” You glance at him. “You noticed?” He nods. “Always.” You breathe through that.

And then, you ask the one question that’s followed you your entire career.

“Do you ever have trouble sleeping? After?”

He doesn’t even pause.

“No,” he says simply.

You nod. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“You know,” you start, voice soft, “my first contract was in Singapore. Hotel hit. Clean. Nerve-wracking as hell, though. Didn’t sleep for three days after.”

Seungcheol, who had returned to the kitchen in search of a surviving bottle of water, turns slightly, raising his brows at you still sitting on the floor. “First?”

You nod, smiling faintly. “When I joined the game back in 2015. Back then, I had to smuggle the gear in a violin case like it was a goddamn spy movie. I was twenty-one, still using my real name. Green as hell.”

He laughs as he leans against the counter, unscrewing the cap of his newfound treasure before taking a sip. “You? Green? I don’t buy it.”

“Swear to God,” you grin. “Nearly botched it. Took me forty minutes to get into the suite. He walked in while I was setting up. I had to improvise with a steak knife from room service.”

He winces, impressed. “That poor bastard.”

“Nah,” you reply. “He was a war criminal. No one misses him.”

You’re about to ask Seungcheol about his first hit when something catches your eye through the living room window. A flash of movement. A shape walking past the hedge by the front walkway. A mail truck parked across the street.

Your brows draw together. You shift up slightly on your knees.

“Cheol?”

“Yeah?” he answers, still in the kitchen.

You squint. “Why the hell is the mailman out on a Sunday?”

There’s a beat of silence. And then he’s at your side in seconds.

He moves so fast that the bottle of water still in his hand clatters against the floor as he drops it mid-stride, crouching beside you and peering out the same window.

“Our mailman doesn’t work Sundays,” he mutters, voice instantly low and cold. You don’t move. “Then who the hell is that?”

Before he can answer, a clinking noise rattles from the front door. You both snap toward the sound at once. The mailbox slot creaks.

Something metallic drops through.

And in a split second—his body slams into yours.

“Flashbang!”

You’re dragged across the floor in one fluid motion just as a deafening pop erupts behind you. A white flash floods the room, followed by a shockwave that rattles what’s left of the walls.

Your ears ring. Your vision blurs. But you’re on your feet a second later, adrenaline surging through your blood like fire.

All warmth is gone. There’s no time to ask questions. You’re running.

“Garage!” he shouts. “Now!”

Bullets rip through the hallway drywall behind you as two armed men breach the front door, already firing. The wood splinters, glass explodes in a cascade from what’s left of the windowpanes.

You both sprint, ducking low, weaving through the wreckage of your own home as if it’s muscle memory. He covers you with a hand against your back as you reach the inner garage door.

It slams shut behind you.

He locks it. Not that it’ll hold for long.

“Which car?” you gasp, spinning toward the two luxury vehicles parked beneath the hanging light.

He points. “Mine has ammo inside.”

“Mine’s faster.”

“Mine’s armored.”

“Fine,” you mutter, already rounding toward the matte black Audi Q8. “But I’m picking the music.”

“Like hell you are.”

You reach the passenger side and yank open the door, only to pause.

“Where’s the—” you begin, gesturing.

He slides into the driver’s seat, reaching under the dash with a practised hand and flips a latch under the steering column. A panel in the centre console pops open with a mechanical click.

“There,” Seungcheol mutters. “Top tray. Guns and extra clips. Take your pick.”

You reach in and grab both handguns without hesitation. Toss one to him.

“You could’ve told me we had an armoury in the car,” you snap.

“You married me. I thought you knew I was full of surprises.”

The garage door starts opening with a mechanical groan as he slams the car into reverse. The moment the path is clear, he floors it. Tyres scream against the concrete as you rocket backwards, then spin into a clean arc down the driveway beside your home.

Bullets fly as the gunmen breach through the garage door. The back window shatters.

“They’re following!” you shout, twisting to return fire through the shattered rear glass.

You hit one of the attackers in the leg. he falls down, but the other keeps up the pursuit on foot.

Seungcheol veers around a corner, nearly clipping a fire hydrant and barrels down a side street.

It takes thirty minutes to ensure nobody is following you—twisting through the city, cutting through narrow alleys, blasting through tunnels, jumping red lights with seconds to spare.

You finally pull up to a rusted building tucked between two loading docks on the edge of the port. It looks condemned. Empty. But the moment you step out of the vehicle and scan the perimeter, you know this place isn’t what it seems.

“Where the hell are we?” you ask, sweeping your gun up automatically.

Seungcheol rounds the car, guiding you toward the side of the building. “Safe house. Belongs to a friend.”

You eye him. “Define friend.”

“You’ll see.”

You follow him to a rusted steel door that looks like it hasn’t been opened in a decade. He raises his fist and knocks—four beats, short-long-short-short.

You wait.

Footsteps.

The door creaks open—and standing there, in a robe, dishevelled, and holding a toothbrush in one hand—is none other than Mingyu.

Your eyes widen. “You?”

He blinks at you. Looks from you to Seungcheol, then down at your bare legs, the blood stains on Seungcheol’s naked chest, the pistol still in your hand, the way you’re both still in your morning clothes.

Then he mutters, “Jesus. What the hell happened to you two?”

Seungcheol shoulders past him with a mutter, “You tell me.”

You trail behind, brushing past Mingyu, who still looks completely stunned. He glances around before slamming the door shut and locking it with three bolts, then follows you both into the industrial-style kitchen.

You drop your gun on the counter, exhaling heavily.

Mingyu plants his toothbrush in a mug.

“You bring your wife to work often?” he asks dryly.

“You and Mingyu work together?” you turn to Seungcheol, the words half an accusation.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

You let out a breath through your nose and tilt your head, arms folding tightly over your chest. “So that whole speech at our wedding about how you and Mingyu ‘went to college together and grew apart’ was just another lie?”

Seungcheol doesn’t miss a beat. “You had eleven aliases on our wedding registry. I think we’re even.”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath as you step away. “Unbelievable.”

“Is this really the time for an argument?” he snaps, rubbing his temple with one hand.

You’re about to fire back when Mingyu sighs dramatically behind you, arms crossed as he leans against the counter.

“Alright, alright,” he drawls, tone lazy but eyes sharp. “You two wanna pause the little lovers’ quarrel for a sec? Because you are, in fact, in deep shit.”

Seungcheol turns toward him, exasperated. “No shit. They shot at my wife and my damn car. I’m aware.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes like an exasperated sibling. “No, you’re not. Hold on.”

He’s back a moment later, laptop in hand. He tosses it onto the counter and opens it, the screen’s glow casting sharp light across his face. With a few taps, he spins the laptop around to show you both.

“Argos posted a bounty on your head,” he says, eyes flicking to Seungcheol. “It’s live. International boards. Deep channels. They’ve basically lit a beacon over your body for every hired gun from Moscow to Macau.”

Seungcheol stares at the screen, silent.

His hand shoots out, dragging the laptop closer. He scrolls down with a twitch in his jaw, reading every line, every bounty detail. Finally, he speaks, voice tight:

“What?”

Mingyu’s voice stays calm, but beneath it is a warning. “All of our contracts were terminated this morning. No explanation, no reassignment. Nothing. They gave you—what—twelve hours? Maybe less. They expected proof of your kill. When they didn’t get it, this was their answer.”

You blink, reeling. “But... Cheol’s their top asset. Why the hell would they—”

“Because,” Mingyu cuts in, “he didn’t pull the trigger. That’s all the proof they needed that he’s compromised. He failed to kill you. That makes him a liability.”

You feel your pulse in your teeth. “Okay... but why cut the rest of you loose?”

Mingyu shrugs, only half-joking. “I’m just waiting for my bounty to go live any day now.”

You raise your brows.

“Seriously,” he says, tone turning grim. “They know we’re loyal to Cheol. Everyone on his team is. Argos knows if they kept us around, we’d try to protect him. Help him go underground. So... clean sweep.”

Seungcheol is still staring at the screen, jaw clenched, eyes burning. His voice is low when he finally speaks:

“That explains me... but why were they shooting at my wife?” He glances at you, eyes hard. “You weren’t part of this. Yet you were a target, too.”

Mingyu sighs, rubbing his face. “I don’t know. I only have their side of the board. For all I know, someone jumped the gun. Or they wanted to ensure you didn’t get a second chance to prove loyalty.”

You frown, folding your arms as you turn toward him. “Is this thing encrypted?”

He gives you a long look. “I’m the tech lead, Gwisin. What do you think?”

You roll your eyes and pull the laptop toward you. Seungcheol grins softly at the familiar exchange. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in a series of commands only a seasoned ghost like you would know.

After a few seconds, an encrypted video line blinks to life on screen.

Two rings.

Reina’s face appears.

“What—” she starts, then her expression twists into visible relief and panic at once when she sees your face. “Holy shit. You’re alive.” Her voice is louder than expected. “We thought—God, I saw the bounty hit, and then everything went dark and—”

“Reina,” you say firmly. “Slow down.”

She exhales sharply, calming just enough to speak. “Lim & Associates has gone dark. Completely shut down. Doors are locked. HQ’s offline. We think the top brass has scattered. No comms. No trace. And about twenty minutes after you were supposed to confirm the kill—” she gestures, “a bounty for your head goes live.”

“Sounds familiar,” Mingyu says, leaning in.

Reina’s gaze shifts to him—and darkens.

Her voice flattens. “You.”

Mingyu grins, dimples showing. “Hi, Sweetheart. You look good.”

“Don’t.”

Seungcheol watches, confused. You, however, know exactly what this is. And so does Mingyu.

“Reina,” you warn, amusement tugging your lips. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” she bites, eyes not leaving Mingyu. “I’m just surprised he’s still breathing. I figured karma would’ve taken care of that by now.”

“Now honey,” Mingyu says, pretending not to be amused. “you know how much it turns me on when you're mad at me.”

Seungcheol blinks.

You sigh. “Long story. Don’t ask.”

“Gyu,” Reina snaps, crossing her arms. “Can you please, for the love of God, not think with your dick for two seconds?”

“You’re right,” Mingyu says, pulling the laptop toward him. “Let’s table our unresolved sexual tension and uncover corporate conspiracy instead.”

You and Seungcheol exchange an exhausted look as both techs begin furiously typing—throwing jargon and protocols across the feed faster than either of you can keep up.

“Did they just start flirting mid-catastrophe?” he murmurs.

“Apparently,” you reply, massaging your stiff neck.

Minutes pass in tense silence, the sound of keys clacking rapidly. Your pulse ticks higher.

Finally, both Reina and Mingyu stop. Mingyu stares at the screen.

Then, softly: “Oh my god.”

You and Seungcheol lean in instantly. “What?” you ask, sharp and focused. Reina’s voice is brittle. Controlled.

“Lim and Argos have been playing under the same table.” You go cold. “What?”

“They’ve been bidding against each other for years—driving up contract values, undercutting competition to steal clients, making the freelance market a bloodbath... all for mutual profit. Every ‘coincidence’? Every ‘competing company’? All engineered.”

“The hit on both of you...” Mingyu continues, voice low now, “was pre-planned. They marked you as a threat years ago, even before you married each other. Too skilled. Too independent. Too close.”

Reina nods. “They wanted to burn it all down. Kill the evidence. Clear the board. They weren’t expecting you two to survive.”

You feel like the floor’s been ripped out beneath you.

“Thank you, Rei,” you say, fingers hovering just over the laptop’s keyboard. “Truly. I mean it.”

On the other end of the call, Reina’s features soften.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she replies. “I’ll rally the others. We’ll get you everything we can. You say the word, we’ll move. You know we’ve got your back. Always.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll end this. I swear it.”

Reina holds your eyes for a beat longer, then the line cuts off.

The screen goes black.

You close the laptop slowly, and when you look up, Seungcheol is already watching Mingyu. The younger man is still frozen in place, arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm building just behind his eyes.

“What is it?” Seungcheol asks him, voice level but taut. “You’ve been quiet since she hung up. What are you thinking?”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Hyung... look. I hate to be the one to say this... .” he starts, then hesitates. Finally, he does. “But if you two separate, you have a shot at survival. Not a good one. But a shot.”

You feel Seungcheol tense beside you, the words like acid between them.

“If you stay together,” Mingyu continues, “you’re dead. They’ll find you. You’ll be too busy trying to keep each other alive to do it properly. You know I’m right.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, about to snap something back, but you cut him off before he can.

“He’s right.” The words fall out before you even realize you’re saying them. And the moment they’re spoken, the air in the room changes.

Seungcheol turns to you, disbelief and anger flickering through his eyes. “So, what...” he says, quieter now. “You want me to leave you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you don’t want that—not at all—but you also know it might be the only thing that buys you time.

The silence between you stretches until it’s taut. Until it’s unbearable.

He stares at you. You stare back. And in your shared look, there’s more said than either of you can articulate aloud. Fear. Anger. Love. Frustration. That goddamn sense of duty that’s somehow stronger than either of your instincts.

Mingyu’s voice cuts the silence with a well-placed sigh.

“You’re safe here tonight,” he says, voice intentionally casual. “Reina will loop us in with the rest of her team tomorrow. You can figure it out then.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond.

Mingyu pushes away from the counter, walks to a cabinet and tosses a fresh towel onto the table. “Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s a closet full of old gear and clothes—should fit.”

You nod silently.

“I’ve got some rice, eggs, and canned soup. It’s not five-star, but it’ll feed you.”

Seungcheol glances at him. “You going somewhere?”

Mingyu shrugs, heading for the door. “Yeah. Wonwoo’s. Now that I’m harbouring the two biggest walking bounties in the world, I figured I should be... I don’t know—armed to the teeth.”

You raise a brow. “Wonwoo, the quiet, lanky guy with the glasses from our wedding?”

“Yup. My best friend and Argos’s designated weapons guy. His safe house is basically a missile silo. I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before either of you can say anything else.

Later, after showers, dressing your wounds and forcing yourselves to eat what little you can keep down, you’re both lying side by side on a stiff mattress in one of the spare rooms. The sheets smell like old laundry detergent and sea salt. The room is dark except for a sliver of streetlight coming through the high window.

Neither of you is asleep. You’re staring at the ceiling. So is he.

You can feel the weight of the last two days in every inch of your body.

The silence is unbearable, so you speak.

“My default plan,” you say softly, “was always the Alps.”

Seungcheol turns his head toward you slightly. You don’t meet his eyes.

“Cabin in the Swiss mountains. Remote. Disconnected. Wood-burning stove, solar panels. Buried communication line. I have everything I need stashed there—documents, money, identity resets. It’s quiet.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then—

“Mine’s a fishing boat.” His voice is hoarse. “Docked off an island near the border of Venezuela and Trinidad. Nobody ever asks questions there. Just sun, salt, fish, and radio silence.”

You nod. Let the silence stretch again.

Then you speak again, even quieter than before.

“We could leave tomorrow.” You feel his head turn toward you more fully now. “Leave it all this shit behind. Run. Disappear. You go south. I go east. No one finds us.”

His voice is so low you barely catch it. “Is that what you want?”

You close your eyes. The answer aches in your throat. “It’s not about what I want,” you whisper. “It’s about what keeps us safe. What keeps our teams safe. What keeps you safe.”

Another pause.

You feel him shifting beside you, his muscles tense.

“Cheol,” you say gently. “Please say something.”

And finally—he does.

“You run now,” he says, staring up at the ceiling, “and you’ll never stop running. You’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Cabin or boat, it doesn’t matter. There’s no cave on this planet that can keep us hidden forever. They’ll find you. They’ll find me.”

You look at him then; his profile is drawn tight, jaw clenched.

“I’m not running,” he says. “I’m fighting.”

His hand finds yours in the darkness, rough fingers curling around your palm until they reach the ring on your finger. His thumb brushes over it slowly.

“I made a promise,” he says. “I said, ‘Till death do us part.’ I’m not abandoning that. Not now.”

You close your eyes and exhale—long, slow, exhausted. But your fingers close around his hand.

A/N: Soooo, this happened? For those who know me well, know that Cheol is my second ultimate bias, so I couldn't not write for him at one point. What was intended as a short piece turned into whatever the hell this is. Hope y'all enjoy! 💟 PS: I have plenty of ideas for a second part, so if anyone is interested, let me know! (Maybe even a separate story featuring Mingyu? 👀)

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[snail-day]

Nanami doesn't understand Minecraft. The appeal. The garish colors, the jagged edges. A sky made of squares, a sun that moved in awkward, ticking motions. (Something you claimed to be lag?) It was like staring into a world that hadn’t finished rendering. No plot. No rules. No real purpose. Just…blocks.

He had better things to do. Things with structure, routine. A glass of wine, a warm light, a novel in hand. You tucked into his side while he read aloud, your body slowly going slack with sleep, trusting him to hold you there.

That was comfort. That was meaningful. Yet, when you’d asked him to play, with your voice bright and teasing and just a little hopeful, he didn’t say no. Your pout being rather convincing.

“The movie’s coming out soon,” you’d said. “You can’t go in blind.” “Ten minutes,” you’d bargained, tugging on the sleeve of his linen shirt. “Just ten.”

So here he was.

The gentle sound of footsteps in grass tapped from the speakers - flop, flop, flop. He moved through a clumsy world, bumping into trees, accidentally crafting buttons instead of planks. A cow lowed in the distance, slow and strangely calming. Nearby, soft music drifted in, simple piano notes, echoing into the abyss of the lonely world.

Nanami narrowed his eyes. He hated how his character’s arms flailed when he walked. Hated how the pickaxe floated in midair, like it wasn’t even touching anything. The game defying the natural laws. Was deforestation what you called a good time?

But you were leaning into his side now, draped in the oversized cardigan he’d folded over the couch for you. Your head rested on his shoulder, your body warm against his, legs tucked under you like a sleepy cat. You were watching him, tired, content, eyes starting to flutter closed.

He pressed another key.

The sound of mining echoed - chink, chink, chink. Stone cracked apart in perfect cubes - plop, plop, plop. Gathering each one carefully. When he’d collected enough, he opened the building menu, fingers moving slower now, searching through the recipes.

If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. Loading minecraft wiki on a tab.

The house came first. Something modest but stable. No asymmetry. No ugly floating roofs like the ones you’d shown him with pride earlier that day. He used cobblestone for the frame, added a wooden roof and glass windows, and placed lanterns precisely two blocks apart along the walls.

Inside, he built shelves. Lined with books and a small fireplace in the corner. The fire crackled, low and soft, pixel sparks dancing upward. The sound of it mixed with the slow, soothing soundtrack and the gentle sounds of squids swimming (more like dying) on the beach.

He planted wheat outside on a grass patch. A small, efficient garden. You claimed there was carrots, potatoes, beets. A search for another day.

And when he found a cat - tiny, pixelated, meowing once with a high-pitched chirp - he coaxed it inside with fish and told it to sit by the fire.

You shifted against him, murmuring something soft, unintelligible, your hand unconsciously finding his and curling around it.

His chest ached.

This game…wasn’t so pointless after all.

It wasn’t about the blocks. It was about the quiet in-between. The safety. The fact that he could create a space just for you, even in this ridiculous little world. A place where the light never went out and the cat always waited by the fire.

Nanami glanced down at your sleeping form, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You deserved that.

You deserved everything.

“…You’re lucky I love you,” he said softly, kissing the crown of your head, barely above a whisper. The cat let out a quiet mrrp. Nanami, with a ghost of a smile, planted a flower by the window.

[nasa]

25 Years of Exploring the Universe with NASA's Chandra Xray Observatory

Illustration of the Chandra telescope in orbit around Earth. Credit: NASA/CXC & J. Vaughan

On July 23, 1999, the space shuttle Columbia launched into orbit carrying NASA’s Chandra X-ray Observatory. August 26 marked 25 years since Chandra released its first images.

These were the first of more than 25,000 observations Chandra has taken. This year, as NASA celebrates the 25th anniversary of this telescope and the incredible data it has provided, we’re taking a peek at some of its most memorable moments.

About the Spacecraft

The Chandra telescope system uses four specialized mirrors to observe X-ray emissions across the universe. X-rays that strike a “regular” mirror head on will be absorbed, so Chandra’s mirrors are shaped like barrels and precisely constructed. The rest of the spacecraft system provides the support structure and environment necessary for the telescope and the science instruments to work as an observatory. To provide motion to the observatory, Chandra has two different sets of thrusters. To control the temperatures of critical components, Chandra's thermal control system consists of a cooling radiator, insulators, heaters, and thermostats. Chandra's electrical power comes from its solar arrays.

Learn more about the spacecraft's components that were developed and tested at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama. Fun fact: If the state of Colorado were as smooth as the surface of the Chandra X-ray Observatory mirrors, Pike's Peak would be less than an inch tall.

Engineers in the X-ray Calibration Facility at NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, integrating the Chandra X-ray Observatory’s High-Resolution Camera with the mirror assembly, in this photo taken March 16, 1997. Credit: NASA

Launch

When space shuttle Columbia launched on July 23, 1999, Chandra was the heaviest and largest payload ever launched by the shuttle. Under the command of Col. Eileen Collins, Columbia lifted off the launch pad at NASA’s Kennedy Space Center in Florida. Chandra was deployed on the mission’s first day.

Reflected in the waters, space shuttle Columbia rockets into the night sky from Launch Pad 39-B on mission STS-93 from Kennedy Space Center. Credit: NASA

First Light Images

Just 34 days after launch, extraordinary first images from our Chandra X-ray Observatory were released. The image of supernova remnant Cassiopeia A traces the aftermath of a gigantic stellar explosion in such captivating detail that scientists can see evidence of what is likely the neutron star.

“We see the collision of the debris from the exploded star with the matter around it, we see shock waves rushing into interstellar space at millions of miles per hour,” said Harvey Tananbaum, founding Director of the Chandra X-ray Center at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.

Cassiopeia A is the remnant of a star that exploded about 300 years ago. The X-ray image shows an expanding shell of hot gas produced by the explosion colored in bright orange and yellows. Credit: NASA/CXC/SAO

A New Look at the Universe

NASA released 25 never-before-seen views to celebrate the telescopes 25th anniversary. This collection contains different types of objects in space and includes a new look at Cassiopeia A. Here the supernova remnant is seen with a quarter-century worth of Chandra observations (blue) plus recent views from NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope (grey and gold).

This image features deep data of the Cassiopeia A supernova, an expanding ball of matter and energy ejected from an exploding star in blues, greys and golds. The Cassiopeia A supernova remnant has been observed for over 2 million seconds since the start of Chandra’s mission in 1999 and has also recently been viewed by the James Webb Space Telescope. Credit: NASA/CXC/SAO

Can You Hear Me Now?

In 2020, experts at the Chandra X-ray Center/Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) and SYSTEM Sounds began the first ongoing, sustained effort at NASA to “sonify” (turn into sound) astronomical data. Data from NASA observatories such as Chandra, the Hubble Space Telescope, and the James Webb Space Telescope, has been translated into frequencies that can be heard by the human ear.

SAO Research shows that sonifications help many types of learners – especially those who are low-vision or blind -- engage with and enjoy astronomical data more.

Click to watch the “Listen to the Universe” documentary on NASA+ that explores our sonification work: Listen to the Universe | NASA+

An image of the striking croissant-shaped planetary nebula called the Cat’s Eye, with data from the Chandra X-ray Observatory and Hubble Space Telescope.  NASA’s Data sonification from Chandra, Hubble and/or Webb telecopes allows us to hear data of cosmic objects. Credit: NASA/CXO/SAO

Celebrate With Us!

Dedicated teams of engineers, designers, test technicians, and analysts at Marshall Space Flight Center in Huntsville, Alabama, are celebrating with partners at the Chandra X-ray Center and elsewhere outside and across the agency for the 25th anniversary of the Chandra X-ray Observatory. Their hard work keeps the spacecraft flying, enabling Chandra’s ongoing studies of black holes, supernovae, dark matter, and more.

Chandra will continue its mission to deepen our understanding of the origin and evolution of the cosmos, helping all of us explore the Universe.

The Chandra Xray Observatory, the longest cargo ever carried to space aboard the space shuttle, is shown in Columbia’s payload bay. This photo of the payload bay with its doors open was taken just before Chandra was tilted upward for release and deployed on July 23, 1999. Credit: NASA

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