#USB security key

[robpegoraro]

Migrating to a new Android phone without the old one around--or alive

Moving from a dead Android phone to a live one via only an online backup proved to be surprisingly easy--but it also reminded me that a few apps don't react well to that scenario.

I spent less of Sunday morning than I’d feared on a chore that I’d last had to tackle in the summer of 2017: setting up a new Android phone without the old one operational, leaving me to restore only from an online backup. Having this process go smoothly took some of the sting out of having my previously trusty Pixel 5a die on me. So did having this phone’s demise happen while I was at home and…

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

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

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

Wordcount: 13.8K

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

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

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

Previous Chapter: Till Death Do Us Part

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

And at the heart of it all: an arsenal.

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

He holds up a new M1911 with a low whistle.

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

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

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

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

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

Mingyu’s been following her around ever since.

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

Instead, you turn toward the weaponry again.

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

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

A beep cuts through the room. Then another.

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone watches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wave of muttering breaks out across the feeds.

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

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

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

The silence that follows is suffocating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

A long silence.

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

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

The war room comes alive.

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

It’s like HQ—only grittier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push away from the table and begin pacing.

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

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

You nod slowly. “That’s the one.”

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

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

“Add it to the board,” you say.

One by one, the map fills in.

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

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

Then Woozi finally says what everyone’s thinking.

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

Seungcheol’s voice is calm. Final.

“We kill them. All of them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

Seungcheol laughs under his breath. Just once.

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

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

Everyone waits, watching the screen update line by line.

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

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

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

The team nods.

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

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

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

The silence stretches.

Then Samira speaks.

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

Everyone turns to her.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

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

You freeze. Your mind starts spinning.

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

They’re already typing.

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

Seungcheol speaks then. “Can you reactivate it?”

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

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

Everyone falls silent again.

Then Seungcheol looks up. His voice is low.

“Let’s go to work.”

Bucharest is colder than expected.

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

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

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

She’s now patching in from his personal terminal.

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

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

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

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

Now all you need is the target.

“Any movement yet?” you murmur.

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

You wait.

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

Then—footsteps.

You freeze.

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

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

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

Jiwoo’s voice crackles in your ear.

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

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

There’s a pause.

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

You draw your karambit.

Light floods faintly from beneath the hallway door.

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

The Vasile triplets.

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

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

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

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

Silence falls again.

Blood pools quietly between broken cracks of flooring.

Then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me three,” you respond.

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

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

He walks. Alone. No security. You smile.

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

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

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

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

He passes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk away without looking back.

The first head has rolled.

Dubai is a city that refuses to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

“Woozi?”

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

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

VIP booth. Surrounded by women.

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

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

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

He shakes the thought away.

Focus.

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

Bathroom break.

Seungcheol downs his drink and follows.

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

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

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

The moment of recognition is quick. Seungcheol is quicker.

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

“Goodnight,” he mutters coldly.

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

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

He turns right.

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

The chain yanks.

He rolls—just in time.

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

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

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

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

She slams her fist into his ribs.

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

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

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

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

They lunge at the same time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

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

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

The second head has rolled.

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

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

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

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

“Good,” you reply, voice soft.

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

“That where we regroup?”

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze, head tilting slightly.

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

A pause.

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

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

Your blood runs cold. Then hot.

Varsha.

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

And apparently, your husband’s slept with her.

Your jaw clenches.

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

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

Safehouse reached.

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

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

His eyes light up the second he sees you.

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

God, he’s alive.

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

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

And then—

The name echoes again.

Varsha.

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

And then you slap him. Hard.

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

You don’t even let him recover.

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

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

You slap his hands away.

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

“Babe—”

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

He tries again, grabbing for your arms.

You swat at him like a feral cat.

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

“...what?”

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

You stare at him, blinking.

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

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

He smirks.

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

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

And instead of teasing you further, he leans down—close enough that his breath ghosts against your lips.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” he murmurs.

You scoff. “I’m not jealous.”

“You literally said you’d kill her.”

“That’s not the same thing—”

He laughs again.

You roll your eyes but don’t move away. Not even when he leans in, brushing his lips over yours with a feather-light touch. Not even when he whispers against your mouth.

“Trust me, baby, you’re the only one I want.”

You sigh, letting your forehead press to his.

“Good,” you whisper back.

And then he kisses you again.

The second Seungcheol’s mouth slants over yours again, something raw and almost reckless rises between you. Whatever apology you didn’t say for your blow-up burns off your tongue as your teeth sink into his lower lip instead. His hissed inhale at the sting makes something low in your stomach coil and thrum.

He pulls you closer like he’s starved. But you’re the one who can’t get enough.

The world narrows to your tongues fighting for dominance, teeth clashing and mouths bruising. You don’t even register the door closing behind you, or your boots tracking mud into the safe house. Seungcheol blindly stumbles back into the small main room, dragging you with him, hands gripping your hips like he needs the grounding.

You hit a wall. A stack of crates topples. Neither of you flinch.

He chuckles against your mouth when it crashes to the floor.

“Careful,” he murmurs, breathless. “You’re gonna wreck the place.”

You bite his bottom lip again. “I don’t care.”

Another kiss. Another half-step, and suddenly, he falls into a chair, dragging you with him.

You straddle his lap without hesitation, your thighs bracketing his hips, and your clothed core presses against the thick, growing bulge in his pants. His hands slide up your sides beneath your shirt, rough and warm, and you grind down on him with purpose. He groans into your mouth at the friction—one hand tightening on your waist while the other fists the hem of your shirt and yanks it up and over your head.

You break the kiss just long enough to let it go, arms flying overhead, before your lips crash back to his. Your hands are already at his belt, clumsily undoing the clasp, fingers fumbling with impatience as his hands work to undo your bra.

His mouth trails from your lips down your neck. “Jesus. You’re—”

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

You finally get his belt open, unzipping his pants while he kisses along the curve of your jaw and down your collarbone as he pushes your bra straps down. His hips buck slightly when your hand slides inside the waistband of his boxers, brushing against his hard length. You lean back, just enough to push his chest down into the chair.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, fingers splayed on his sternum. “And don’t touch.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow at your warning but obliges. You slide off his lap, dropping to your knees between his legs. His eyes darken instantly.

“Baby, what—”

“Shut. Up.”

You slap his hands away when he tries to touch you, and he groans, watching as you reach for his waistband and tug everything down and off—pants, underwear, all at once. His cock springs free, flushed and thick and already hard, bobbing slightly against his abdomen.

You don’t tease. Not yet.

You lean in and envelop him in your mouth.

His strangled groan echoes around the room as your mouth closes over the head of his cock, wet and hot and needy. You drag your tongue slowly along the underside of his shaft, taking your time, then hollow your cheeks and suck him deeper, feeling the stretch in your jaw and the way his body tenses instantly.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, hands fisting the edge of the chair. “Holy shit.”

You bob your head, tongue swirling, alternating suction with slow drags, and soon he’s groaning again, hips jerking subtly up into your mouth before he forces himself to still.

You take your time—too much time.

Your hand joins your ministrations, wrapping around the base of his cock, pumping slowly while your mouth works the head. You stroke in rhythm with your lips, twisting, flicking your tongue, pulling back to suck hard at the tip before going deep again.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, one hand falling into your hair despite your warning.

You let him tug, guide, just enough to make your scalp sting.

He starts panting, the tension in his thighs ratcheting up.

“Baby—shit—I’m close—”

You immediately pull off. He gasps at the sudden loss of contact, body twitching at the near-orgasm, hands still in your hair.

You look at him as you start stroking him again—slow, deliberate, not letting him tip over.

His head thunks back against the chair. “You’re fucking evil.”

You smirk. “And yet, you married me.”

He groans, head turning to the side like he’s trying to focus on anything else. But it doesn’t help. Your hand never stops. But it’s not enough. Not fast enough, not tight enough. Minutes tick by. You go down again.

He jerks up so fast you nearly choke. Your lips wrap around his tip again, and you find a new rhythm—suck, stroke, lick, repeat.

He’s shaking when he groans, “Gonna come—fuck—”

You stop. Again.

“Fucking hell!” he barks, hands flying to the armrests.

You glance up with innocent eyes. “Something wrong, baby?”

“Don’t make me—” He grits his teeth, cheeks flushed and body glistening with sweat. “Do not make me beg.”

You smirk, pumping him once—twice—slowly. He groans, head falling forward. “You’re gonna pay for this—”

“Shut up and take it.”

The third time you take him in your mouth, you don’t wait for the warning.

You edge him again, stopping just as his thighs start to tremble and the base of his spine tenses in that telltale way. You pull off. Again.

A string of saliva connects your mouth to the tip of his cock.

He’s not groaning anymore. He’s whining. Your big, bad assassin husband is actually whining.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, eyes blown wide with desperation. “Please.”

You tilt your head. “Please what?” He glares. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” You stroke him just once, and he groans. “Be in control?”

His jaw flexes. He looks at you like he wants to throttle you—or fuck you so hard the walls come down.

You lean in close again, lips brushing the tip.

“You’re punishing me, aren’t you?” he rasps. “For Dubai. For Varsha.”

You lick your lips. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“But you love it.”

He laughs through a moan. You smile, letting your tongue flick out—just enough to taste him again. And then, you sit back on your heels. Completely still. You don’t touch him. Don’t kiss him. Don’t move.

He stares at you, furious and hard and on the brink of madness.

You rise slowly to your feet, running your thumb across your bottom lip and gathering the saliva and precum gathered at the corner of your mouth.

You lick it clean, smiling.

You don’t expect him to move that fast.

One second you’re still standing in front of him, pleased with yourself, watching Seungcheol’s cock throb with need between his thighs… and the next, he’s out of the chair.

Before you can so much as flinch or retaliate, you’re airborne.

“Hey—” you yelp as he picks you up, manhandling you like you weigh nothing at all, and throws you across the room. Your back hits the mattress with a heavy oomph, limbs bouncing slightly on the bed as the air is knocked from your lungs.

You manage to suck in a breath before his body crashes down on top of yours, caging you in.

“You think you’re funny?” he growls lowly, his nose brushing yours as he pins your wrists above your head. You grin. “Maybe.”

He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive.

The heat from earlier flares again, but it’s darker now, fiercer. His mouth travels fast—biting down on your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot beneath your ear. You moan, arching beneath him, and he laughs against your skin.

You feel his hand on your chest before you register the slap—his palm hitting your breast hard enough to sting, then immediately squeezing it after.

“Fuck—” you whimper, legs twitching around his hips.

His mouth closes around your nipple in response—hot, wet, rough—and he sucks hard, alternating with his teeth. You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Still feeling bratty?” he mutters against your breast.

He doesn’t give you the time to retort—instead, he grabs your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat, and bites down on your neck instead. The sharp jolt sends sparks straight between your legs.

Your pants are ripped off you in the next heartbeat—tugged down so roughly they take your panties with them, leaving you sprawled naked and gasping on the bed.

He kisses his way down, leaving a trail of saliva and fire along your ribs, your stomach, and your hipbone.

When his mouth hovers over your soaked heat, your legs tremble. His breath ghosts over your core, and you meet his eyes, dark and ravenous, from between your thighs.

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” he says lowly, voice laced with mocking amusement. “Fingers? Mouth? Or cock?”

You blink, brain fogged with heat.

“What…?”

Seungcheol grins. “Tch. Thought so. Haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re already fucked out. You get to choose, baby. But choose wisely.” He leans closer, nose brushing your clit. “You’ll only get one.”

That finally snaps you out of it.

“Cock,” you whisper, voice hoarse and expectant.

He smirks. “Good choice.”

And then your world flips on its axis. Literally.

He grabs your thighs and flips you with a single motion. You shriek in surprise as you land on your stomach. He yanks you onto all fours.

“Cheol—!” you start, but he’s pushing your face into the mattress, his palm heavy against the back of your head.

“Shut up,” he mutters commandingly. “You asked for this.”

You feel his cock behind you—hard, hot, lined up with your weeping entrance—and then he’s inside you in one brutal, punishing thrust.

You cry out into the bedding, your fingers clawing at the sheets as he splits you open.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans behind you, his hands bruising your hips.

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

He starts pounding into you from behind, hips slamming against your ass with heavy, rhythmic force. The sound is obscene—skin on skin, your wetness, your gasps and his growls filling the tiny space.

You’re moaning, whining, helpless against the onslaught of his body.

Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs. He spanks your ass hard once—then again—and again, until you let out a sob, only to moan even when his palm lands on you again.

Your core clenches wildly around him.

“Fuck— you’re gripping me like a vice,” he mutters, voice low and ragged. “You like this? Huh, baby? Like being used?”

You can only cry out ‘Yes’ in response.

When your legs begin to shake, he grabs your hair and yanks you upright—your back slamming against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside you.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, keeping his grip tight in your hair as his free hand slides in front of your face.

You do without hesitation. Two fingers slide past your lips—rubbing over your tongue, pressing down against it.

“Suck.”

You moan as you obey, your tongue swirling over his fingers, your mouth hot and desperate, sucking on his digits like you did his cock. When he’s satisfied, he pulls them free and slides them down—between your thighs, right to your clit.

You cry out when his slick fingers start rubbing fast, ruthless circles over your pulsing nub.

“Cheol— oh god—fuck—”

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs against your ear. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

Your fingers dig into his arm as your orgasm suddenly crashes through you. It’s violent. Wild. And takes you by force. Your body locks, clenches, and trembles as the pressure explodes and pleasure rips through your nerves.

Seungcheol doesn’t stop.

He keeps thrusting, keeps circling your clit, keeps fucking you through it—overstimulation already setting in as you scream into the mattress.

He lets you fall forward again, and you collapse bonelessly, face down into the bed. He doesn’t stop. His hands grab your hips, holding you steady as he chases his own release.

He spanks your ass again, the sounds loud and lewd.

“Shit—fuck—fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering.

And then he spills inside you with a loud, broken groan.

Three more thrusts. Shallow. Slow. Making sure every drop stays buried deep. He finally pulls out, breath catching in his throat.

You’re wrecked. Soaked. Glistening. Barely able to move.

He flops down beside you, dragging your twitching body into his arms. You’re gasping, limbs limp, brain swimming—but a giggle bubbles out anyway.

“That was…” you pant, dazed. “Yeah. I should definitely rile you up more often.”

He groans playfully, burying his face into your neck. “Let’s not.”

The jungle is still sleeping when reality decides to wake you up.

The sharp buzz of his satellite phone on the nightstand and the soft, steady beeping from your GPS tracker lighting up beside the bed wake you both from your slumber. The haze of last night’s sweat-slicked limbs and tangled sheets is still warm on your skin, but the moment is gone as fast as it came. Instinct takes over.

Seungcheol grabs the sat phone and answers without hesitation. “Yeah?”

“It’s me,” Wonwoo says, gruff and casual as ever. “Shipment’s dropped. It’s in the clearing three clicks northeast of you. Sent the coordinates to your wife’s tracker.”

“She got it,” Seungcheol replies, throwing a quick glance at you as you nod.

“Good. Stay sharp out there,” Wonwoo mutters. “And… don’t die.”

Seungcheol breathes out. “Right back at you, Woo.”

Wonwoo disconnects, and just like that, the warmth of the bed, the afterglow—it all fades. You look at each other for a heartbeat, and then the switch flips.

Game time.

You both get dressed in practised silence. Vests. Gloves. Boots. Every movement is efficient. Clean. Sharp. Two ghosts suiting up for a kill.

Outside, the air is thick with jungle humidity. You follow Seungcheol as he rounds the side of the safe house, stepping over vines and damp earth until he crouches down and yanks off a heavy tarp.

Underneath it—well hidden—is a weathered military-grade jeep.

“Of course, you had this here,” you mutter, lips twitching slightly.

He grins as he gets in. “Had to leave myself a ride.”

You climb into the passenger seat, pulling your GPS forward. “Take the path north, then veer right at the ridge. The drop is just past the waterline clearing.”

The jeep lurches forward, engine snarling low and quiet, and you both fall into the tense stillness of the mission. Every branch that scrapes the side of the jeep, every call of birds overhead, every bump in the road—it all heightens your senses.

It doesn’t take long before you reach the clearing.

Seungcheol kills the engine, and the world goes eerily quiet except for the rustle of wind through leaves. You step out, weapons drawn, scanning your surroundings. Then you see it.

A dark metal crate sits just ahead, nestled in the grass like a gift from the gods.

Seungcheol breaks it open with a crowbar, and your eyes widen.

Wonwoo went off.

Inside the crate lies a small armoury. Sleek, matte-black rifles. Knives with ceramic edges. Ammo in every calibre. Smoke bombs. Blackout tech. Scoped pistols. Infrared sensors. Heat detectors. New comms gear. Suppressors.

“Damn,” you mutter, running your hand across a silencer. “This is better than Christmas.”

You both start suiting up—checking each item before adding it to your loadout. Sights calibrated. Knives balanced. Comms synced.

You’re just about to zip up your tactical vest when something catches your eye at the bottom of the crate.

A flash drive.

You pick it up. Silver casing with black marker on the side: XOXO, Reina.

Your eyebrows lift. “The hell is this?”

Seungcheol is already watching you, so he throws you his sat phone, and you dial Reina. She answers after three rings, sounding distinctly out of breath.

“Yeah—hello?”

You narrow your eyes. “...You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies too fast. “Totally fine. Just finished working out. What’s up?”

You stare into the jungle. “Got your gift.”

Silence.

Then Reina exhales. “Oh. Right. The drive.” Her voice shifts, businesslike. “That’s a virus I wrote to scramble Kang and Lim’s encrypted program. Once you’re in, it’ll override the signal.”

You glance at Seungcheol. “Define ‘in’.”

“As I mentioned, it uses biometric access,” Reina explains. “Voice, retinal, and fingerprint. The print scan is advanced—it monitors heart rate and body temp. If either spike, a fail-safe activates. It’s basically a dead man’s switch.”

Seungcheol groans behind you. “So… a walk in the park.”

Reina snorts. “You’ll have to get Kang to unlock the system without triggering any alarms. Once you’re in, insert the flash drive. It’ll spoof the signal to Lim—make it seem like the bounty’s still live on her end, but dead to the global market. She’ll never know.”

You blink. “That’s… impressive.”

“I know,” Reina says smugly.

You start to thank her, then pause—smirking slightly.

“You know,” you say smugly, “Next time, maybe think twice when you decide to “work out” again. And do it preferably after we’ve walked towards possible death.”

More silence.

Then a very quiet, “God, you’re creepy. Can’t hide shit from you.”

You laugh. “You’re not that subtle, Reina.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, but you can hear the faint smile in her voice. “Good luck. Don’t die.”

“Back at you.” You hang up.

When you turn around, Seungcheol’s watching you with a faint smirk.

“What?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just something about a pot and kettle.”

“I didn’t hear you complain last night.”

He chuckles at your statement, but it fades as the moment quiets.

Your eyes meet, and the atmosphere shifts. Reality settles like a weight on your shoulders.

It’s go time.

The sun rides high above the canopy by the time the wheels of the jeep crunch to a stop beneath the thick shadows of the jungle. You and Seungcheol sit in stillness for a moment, the low hum of the engine dying out as he kills the ignition. Birds call in the distance, muffled by the density of the leaves, and the air is heavy with anticipation.

“We’re close,” you murmur, checking your GPS. “About one klick northeast.”

He nods once, scanning the tree line. “We’ll go on foot from here. We park any closer; we risk setting off possible perimeter sensors.”

Without another word, you both exit the vehicle and disappear into the green.

The jungle is unforgiving—thick vines, hanging moss, and humidity clinging to your skin like a second suit. You pull a machete from your belt, and Seungcheol does the same, both of you slashing carefully through the underbrush, keeping your steps measured and soundless. There’s no conversation, just the rhythm of your shared breaths and blades, and the silent language spoken between trained killers.

After a short climb, you reach a ridge. It crests gently above a natural dip in the earth, and below it, spread across a cleared stretch of jungle floor, lies Kang’s compound.

Modern. Sleek. Built like a fortress with luxury trimmings—glass walls, solar panels, and a central structure acting as an office or control centre. It stands out in the wild like a dagger.

You drop to your stomach near the edge of the ridge, dragging your binoculars from your pack. Beside you, Seungcheol pulls out his own gear—infrared heat sensors, a laser rangefinder. You share what you see in low, practised whispers.

“Two snipers. North and southeast towers,” you murmur. “Both posted high, rifles trained toward the outer edge.”

“Got eyes on two more guards. Heavily armed, center-left of the courtyard near the entrance,” he adds. “Looks like they’re protecting the main path in.”

You tap the side of your lens, switching to thermal.

“Seven more, patrolling inside the compound. Standard rotation—seems like they’re on a ten-minute loop. Armed, but not alert.”

“Visual on Kang?”

You scan the second floor of the compound and freeze when you find the shadowed silhouette of a tall man, pacing across what appears to be an office.

“There,” you whisper, nudging Seungcheol. “Tall, wide shoulders. Movement pattern matches. Looks like he’s talking to someone—”

Seungcheol adjusts his lens. “Confirmed. That’s him.”

You nod and reach into your pack again, pulling out the scrambler. You power it on and set the frequency, watching as the blinking green light turns steady blue.

“Alarms scrambled. Cameras looped. We’ll have a twenty-minute window before their system reboots, and he realizes something’s off.”

“Plenty of time,” Seungcheol replies, cocking your rifle and attaching the silencer and balancing it on a tripod.

You both lie flat on the ridge, shoulder to shoulder. You take the snipers. He watches for movement.

“North tower first,” you whisper.

You adjust the sight, take a breath, and squeeze the trigger. The silencer reduces the crack to a faint hiss, and the sniper in the north tower drops like a ragdoll. One down.

You shift slightly. “Southeast tower.”

Another shot. Another body slumps, this time into the rail, his body tumbling quietly over the edge into the brush.

“Clear,” you mutter. “I’ll move. You take east. I’ll go west.”

Seungcheol nods, already sliding down the hill.

You stay behind a moment longer, disassembling your rifle and pocketing the scrambler. Then you’re on your feet, slipping through the trees silently.

You move fast and low.

By the time you reach the outer edge of the compound, Seungcheol has already taken out the two guards near the courtyard. You spot their bodies tucked neatly behind a stone wall, blood blooming silently across their shirts. You nod to yourself and slip around the west side, coming up behind the greenhouse wing. A guard steps out to smoke. You waste no time.

Karambit to his throat. A gurgled gasp. You pull him into the shadows, wipe the blade, and move on.

Another guard rounds the corner, humming to himself. You take him down in two swift moves—elbow to the windpipe, blade to the kidney. He falls in a twitch.

Inside, the compound is eerily silent. The scrambler continues to work wonders—no alarms, no flickers of suspicion from the guards, still unaware they’re being hunted.

You and Seungcheol clear the floors like ghosts. He moves swiftly on the east side, the occasional thud of a body hitting the tile filtering through your comms. You press into the south corridor, slicing through two more men and dragging them into an empty bathroom.

With every guard down, every hallway cleared, the silence grows heavier. Anticipation coils tighter in your gut.

Finally, you reach the top floor.

And just like that—you’re standing at Kang’s office door.

Seungcheol rounds the corner from the other direction, his face slick with sweat, blood spatters on his cheek, but his eyes sharp. He meets your gaze, and you both press flat against either side of the door. You nod once to each other.

Seungcheol opens the door with a silent push, and you toss a smoke bomb inside.

The hiss of the release is immediate, followed by a fast bloom of dense, grey smoke that overtakes the pristine mahogany of his luxury office. The desk disappears, the floor vanishes beneath haze, and you hear the sound of a chair scraping back sharply.

“What the—?!” Kang’s voice barks in confusion.

You slip inside, silent and focused. You can hear Kang’s movements: stumbling, coughing, his shoes thudding heavily against the floor as he tries to orient himself. There’s a crash—he’s knocked something off his desk—and then a shuffle of panic.

Then silence.

Until the feeling of a cold, steely barrel of a gun chamber touches his forehead.

“Don’t move,” Seungcheol says, voice calm, firm, and ice-sharp.

He freezes.

“Seungcheol?” Kang rasps through the smoke.

Your figure melts from the shadows behind him like a ghost. Your karambit is back in your hand, its curved blade cold and gleaming. You press it to the side of Kang’s throat.

He stiffens instantly.

Your voice is quiet and cold, the edge of your breath brushing his ear. “Hello, Kang. Miss us?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes out a rough laugh, half-amused, half-appalled. “You two have really lost your minds.”

He tries to move, but you press the blade a hair deeper. A single drop of blood runs down his neck.

He barks another laugh. “The two biggest targets on the global kill list walk right into my compound. I should be flattered. Or furious.”

Seungcheol says nothing, only pressing the gun harder to his forehead.

“I underestimated you, Seungcheol. I knew you were soft, but this? Playing Bonnie and Clyde with your little wife? How’s it feel, huh? Always in her shadow?”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrow. He’s still as stone, but the way his jaw clenches tells you exactly how hard he’s biting back the need to pull the trigger.

Seungcheol finally speaks, voice low, cold. “It feels like I married the only person worth trusting in this goddamn world. And the fact you’re scared of her proves it.”

You smirk.

Leaning closer, you whisper, “Let’s see if we can keep you calm enough to survive the next few minutes, shall we?”

Kang glares. “What do you want?”

“Access,” you say simply. “To your program.”

He scoffs. “You think I’m going to just hand it over?”

You press the karambit harder into the tender skin beneath his jaw, a steady stream of blood oozing from the tip piercing his skin. “No. You’re going to walk us through it. And if you fuck around—if you even flinch the wrong way—you’ll die before the failsafe ever gets a chance to go off.”

Kang huffs through his nose, but walks to the desk with your blade still at his throat. Seungcheol stays close by, his gun never wavering. Kang’s fingers tremble slightly as he wakes up the terminal. The light from the monitor casts strange shadows across his face as he clears his throat and accesses the program.

“Director Kang Hojin,” he states, firm and loud. “Override sequence Omega Black, authorisation Sigma-One-Seven-Delta.”

The system chimes.

Voice scan accepted.

He places his hand on the scanner. Another chime.

Fingerprint accepted.

Then comes the retinal scan. He leans forward towards the webcam. The screen buzzes.

Access denied. Retinal match not found.

Your heart stutters. Seungcheol’s grip on his gun tightens.

Kang lifts his head with a smug look. “Oops.”

You grab his shoulder and force him back down. “Do it again. Don’t blink.”

Kang exhales sharply through his nose and leans forward again. This time, he holds perfectly still.

Retinal scan accepted.

Access granted.

Relief floods you, but you shove it down. No room for error now.

“Bounty logs,” Seungcheol says.

Kang navigates the system with practised fingers, moving through encrypted folders. “Here. This is what you want.”

You reach into your belt and pull out the flash drive. Kang’s eyes flicker to it.

“Plug it in,” Seungcheol says. You do.

The second the drive locks in, the screen flashes. Code scrolls, long strings of green bleeding across black. The virus is doing its job.

“You idiots have no idea what you’ve just done,” Kang growls. “You think Lim won’t find this? You think she didn’t plan for this?”

You say nothing. Seungcheol watches the screen. Progress: 82%.

“Even if you kill me, she’ll never stop. You’re nothing to her. Ants. She’ll make sure the entire world hunts you for sport.”

The progress bar reaches 100%.

Final confirmation: Bounty Deactivated — Market Update Complete.

“You talk too much,” Seungcheol mutters. Then he pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits Kang clean between the eyes. His head snaps back before slumping forward onto the keyboard, blood blooming fast beneath him. The room goes quiet.

You exhale. Slide the flash drive from the port and tuck it back into your belt.

“Let’s go,” Seungcheol says.

You’re two steps toward the door when the monitor flickers red.

On the screen, a new prompt flashes: ALARM ACTIVATED — FAILSAFE INITIATED — DETONATION SEQUENCE: 2:00

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

“Run,” Seungcheol breathes, already grabbing your wrist. “GO!”

Your boots slam against the floor as you both bolt from Kang’s office, weaving past his slumped, lifeless body behind his desk. The halls flash red—emergency lights triggered by the failsafe.

“Where did that come from?!” Seungcheol shouts.

“My scrambler!” you gasp, realisation slamming into you like a truck. “It triggered the reboot. The system finally recognised us.”

01:45.

You skid through the corridor, heart in your throat, legs pumping hard. Down the stairs—two at a time—your boots barely hitting the steps before you’re flying again. You hear Seungcheol right behind you, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses between each inhale.

You nearly slip on the last stair, but Seungcheol grabs your arm and steadies you without stopping. The two of you slam through a side exit and into the open air of the jungle’s edge.

01:02

“Too far,” you choke out. “We parked too far—”

“We’re not making the jeep,” he says, teeth clenched. “Find cover.”

You don’t argue. You veer left, leaping over a fallen tree trunk, ducking under a vine. Your legs burn. The world is loud with your breaths, your pulse in your ears, the scream of your muscles.

00:54

Behind you, the compound hums unnaturally, the kind of silence that feels like something holding its breath. You glance back—just a flash—and see smoke already leaking from the vents on the roof. The timer is real. The end is coming.

“There!” Seungcheol shouts behind you, pointing.

A rock formation, jagged and moss-covered, partially buried under tangled roots. A crevice big enough—maybe.

He speeds up. You do, too.

00:32

You’re panting. Staggering. Tripping over your own feet—but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Then—just as your feet hit the edge of the formation—arms wrap around your waist.

Seungcheol lifts you, spins, and throws the both of you behind the largest boulder.

You crash into the dirt hard, grass in your mouth, Seungcheol’s weight covering you entirely. His arms pin you down, his body a shield.

He curls around you, breath hot against your ear.

“Hold on,” he whispers.

You shut your eyes. You feel his heartbeat.

00:01.

The sky lights orange. Fire screams through the trees. The compound behind you explodes in a catastrophic blast that tears the jungle apart. Glass, steel, smoke and flame shoot into the air like a volcanic eruption.

Debris pelts the ridge. Metal thuds against the boulder you hide behind. The earth shakes.

You cry out once, but it’s swallowed by the roar.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. His arms cage you tighter, shielding every inch of you. His weight grounds you, anchors you to the earth as the fury rages overhead.

Then—

Silence.

Smoke. Crackling. The compound groans as its structure collapses.

Your ears ring. Your skin is coated in ash and dust. You blink slowly, chest heaving.

Seungcheol lifts his head first.

His hair is singed at the edges. There’s a bleeding cut on his arm from fallen debris. But he’s alive.

You roll beneath him slightly, dazed, pupils blown wide as your gaze meets his.

Neither of you speak.

You just reach up with shaking fingers and brush a smear of soot from his cheek.

Then you mouth it:

Thank you.

He lets out a dry chuckle, then shifts beside you, flopping onto his back in the grass with a groan.

The two of you stare up at the sky above. Bits of scorched leaves flutter down like feathers.

The train hums steadily beneath your feet, metal wheels grinding softly against iron tracks as the landscape rolls by in a blur of dusk and shadow. It’s your second train in two days, and the rhythm has become something almost meditative—lulling, even soothing—if not for the weight pressing down on your chest.

Munich was a blur. Quick layover. New platform. A different conductor, different glances, different whispers of German you barely registered through the haze of concentration and caffeine. Now it’s Luxembourg ahead, the final stretch before you disappear into the woods, heading toward a place the rest of the world doesn’t even know exists.

You sit cross-legged on the small fold-out sleeper bunk in your private cabin, flicking through weapons one by one. Cleaning cloths. Fresh rounds. Blade oil. The hum of the train is your only soundtrack.

Across from you, Seungcheol mirrors your movements, his back against the wall, knees up, long fingers reassembling the slide of his pistol with practised ease. It’s not about necessity at this point. Everything’s already ready. It’s about habit. Control. The illusion of it, anyway.

You glance up at him, catching the crease between his brows and the faint tremor in his thumb as he locks the magazine into place. He’s steady. Always has been. But this isn’t like any mission you’ve done before.

He senses your eyes on him and glances up, offering a small, tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You ever gonna stop checking that knife?” he asks.

You twirl the karambit around your fingers. “Not tonight.”

He nods like he understands—and he does. Of course, he does.

There’s a long stretch of silence before he speaks again, this time more carefully. “Can you tell me about her?”

You pause, eyes narrowing slightly. “Lim?”

He nods. “I’ve never met her. Never even seen a photo. Only heard what Reina and Jiwoo said. But if I’m going to walk into her house with a bullet chambered, I want to understand who we’re really facing.”

You sit back, the weight of the knife still warm in your palm. You stare out the window for a beat—at the darkening sky, at the streaks of stars beginning to appear above dense silhouettes of trees and valleys—before you speak.

“She’s brilliant,” you say softly, letting the words form with intention. “And terrifying in the most elegant way imaginable. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t make threats. She makes promises. And she keeps them. Always.”

Seungcheol listens, his jaw tight.

“She recruits people like an art collector would. She studies them. Waits. Makes them feel seen. Then she bends them to her will so subtly they don’t even realize they’ve changed sides. And when she’s done with them… she never gets her hands dirty. You’ll never see it coming.”

You feel his gaze on you, but you keep your eyes on the knife in your hand.

“I watched her take down five agencies from the inside just by turning people against each other. I watched her call a kill order on a pregnant agent because she had doubts about continuing. I saw the body. The husband. The baby didn’t make it.”

You swallow hard.

“She told me once that loyalty was just a leash wrapped in velvet. She said affection was a liability… and love?” You look up now, straight into Seungcheol’s eyes. “Love was a knife people begged to be stabbed with.”

The quiet after your words stretches thin between you, taut and cold. His face is unreadable for a long beat, but his hands are clenched, and you know that fury lives just beneath his skin.

“She gave the order for me to kill you,” you murmur. “When I married you, she knew who you were. She could have given me the order right then and there. But she waited until she was sure of my feelings for you. Until she was sure it would hurt me. She was always ten steps ahead.”

Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, but you see the flicker of pain in his eyes. “And you almost did.”

You nod. “I would’ve. I nearly did. But when I saw your face…” Your voice breaks, just slightly. “I couldn’t do it.”

“So this is it,” he murmurs. “The end of the road.”

You nod slowly. “If we fail, she disappears. The whole web collapses. And people like Reina, Mingyu, Jiwoo, Joshua—they’ll be hunted. You and I?” You give a faint, dry laugh. “We won’t even be worth the cleanup effort. She’ll make an example of us.”

“And if we win?”

You don’t answer him.

Seungcheol leans back against the wall again, exhaling heavily through his nose. “This is the part where I say we can still back out, isn’t it?”

You smile wryly. “That boat in Trinidad still floating?”

He chuckles—a low, humourless sound—but you’re glad to hear it.

“That cabin in the Alps is looking mighty tempting now,” he murmurs, gaze distant. “Just the two of us. Snowed in. No names. No guns.”

You lean your head back against the window, closing your eyes for a second.

He turns toward you again, one corner of his mouth twitching. “We’re idiots.”

“Mm.” You smile. “But we’re in love. That’s worse.”

The silence that follows isn’t tense. It’s… full. Weighty with all the things you aren’t saying, all the possibilities you won’t let yourself dream about right now. Your eyes meet his in the quiet—two people teetering at the edge of something neither of you can control.

No more chances after this.

No more exits.

You sit up slowly, slide the karambit back into your thigh holster, and reach for his hand.

“Till death do us part, right?” you ask, voice steady.

His eyes soften, his fingers tightening around yours like a promise.

“...and probably still after that, too,” he whispers.

The forest is silent. Still. Too still.

You and Seungcheol move like a whisper between the trees, every step calculated, every crunch of damp underbrush softened by instinct and years of experience. The canopy above shivers faintly in the wind, moonlight occasionally slashing through the leaves in silver streaks. Your gear is strapped tight to your body, weapons close. You feel your heartbeat in your throat, steady but forceful. The weight of what’s ahead presses against your ribcage like a warning.

After nearly an hour on foot, there it is.

Lim’s estate.

It rises from the forest, glass and metal shimmering faintly in the dark. But not glass—mirrors. Massive mirrored panels encase the exterior walls, reflecting the surrounding trees and sky so perfectly it makes the entire compound look like a trick of the eye. Almost invisible. Almost unreal.

You crouch down with Seungcheol behind the trunk of a fallen tree, binoculars raised. But they don’t help. The reflections are endless. No windows to see through. No weak spots. You try the thermal sensors, the electromagnetic sweeper, even the pulse radar.

Nothing. Complete blackout.

Seungcheol’s expression hardens beside you. “We’re going in blind.”

You nod once, tension coiling low in your stomach.

At least the scrambler still works. You check the signal and feel a flicker of control return. “No alarms. No cameras,” you murmur.

“But everything else?” he asks.

You meet his gaze. “We’re caught in her web now.”

Just then, movement—a silhouette rounding the west side of the compound. A guard. Walking alone, slow, almost bored. Rifle at his side. Head turning in lazy arcs.

You both recognize it instantly: your window.

You slip over the tree, bodies melting into the foliage. The air feels colder the closer you get to the structure, like something sinister is waiting. You signal. Seungcheol nods, flanking left. You go right.

The guard never sees it coming.

One swift, clean movement—your blade slicing silently, Seungcheol catching the body before it hits the ground. You both drag him into the brush and dart to the wall. A hidden side door. Seungcheol picks the lock, fast and silent, while you cover him.

The door creaks open with a soft hiss.

And then you’re in.

The compound swallows you in darkness. No overhead lights. Just muted emergency bulbs glowing red along the baseboards. The air smells faintly of bleach and expensive perfume.

Together, you move room by room—clinical hallways, offices filled with screens, empty staircases. You kill quickly, efficiently. One by one, the guards fall. They don’t scream. They don’t even know what’s happening until it’s over. You and Seungcheol sweep the entire ground floor, then the first, avoiding the glass-walled atrium and sticking to shadowed corners.

No alarms. No reinforcements. No Lim.

You’re starting to feel a strange sense of unease. Like it’s all too easy.

Then—just as your boot hits the top of the second-floor landing—it happens.

A voice rings out, smooth and cold, echoing through the speakers tucked into every corner.

“Gwisin.” You feel Seungcheol stiffen behind you. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Your body freezes. You’d thought—hoped—you were ahead. But of course not. You warned Seungcheol yourself: she’s always ten steps in front.

The silence that follows is deafening. You look down the hallway. Then, with a mechanical hiss, a door at the end slides open.

A deep, impossible darkness yawns within.

You don’t move. Neither does Seungcheol.

“Come in,” Lim’s voice purrs. “I insist.”

You glance at Seungcheol. His jaw clenches, but he nods once. No turning back now.

You move in sync, every step echoing on the polished black floors. The office is silent, save for your breathing. Then, the door shuts behind you with a hiss of finality, locking you in the dark.

And then—

Bang.

“Agh—!”

The sound of the gunshot is deafening, sharp and shocking in the enclosed space. You scream his name, reaching out, panic clawing at your throat.

“Cheol—!”

He drops beside you, groaning in pain, clutching his leg. You see the blood, dark and hot, pouring from his thigh.

“Stop.” Lim’s voice snaps, sharp now, slicing through the dark like a knife.

“He’s not dead. Yet. But if you take one more step, Gwisin, the next bullet goes through his skull.”

Your hands lift immediately. You straighten slowly, your heart thundering, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Seungcheol grabs your hand as you try to move, fingers slick with blood.

He’s trying to stay conscious. His teeth are clenched, his breathing shallow. But his eyes never leave yours.

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t do this.”

You turn to Lim, face blank. “I’m here,” you say aloud, stepping forward into the dark. “I’ll play your stupid games. Just don’t touch him again.”

The lights flicker to life.

And there she is.

Madame Lim sits in the centre of the room, calm and unbothered, her white suit pristine, her legs crossed as if she were merely waiting for tea. Her hair is swept back, face emotionless, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. A table separates the chair facing hers.

Atop it: a single, silver revolver.

Your stomach drops. Lim smiles slowly.

“You remember how this works.”

You stare at the gun. At the chairs.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel real, consuming dread curl its claws into your chest.

Russian Roulette.

And you already know—only one of you will be walking away.

Your legs carry you forward, one heavy step after the next, the sound of your boots echoing in the stillness like distant thunder. The pain in your chest doesn’t come from a wound, but it hurts just the same—coiled fury, barely contained. You can feel the heat of Seungcheol’s blood still on your hand, your breath caught somewhere between rage and terror.

The chair is waiting. Empty.

You sit slowly, your knees trembling under the weight of what you’re walking into.

Across from you, Madame Lim lounges in her seat like the queen she’s always pretended to be—composed, elegant, a portrait of detached cruelty. She eyes you with a quiet satisfaction, her red lips curling into something that’s almost… amused.

“Welcome home, darling,” she says smoothly.

You clench your jaw. The mask doesn’t slip.

“I’m here,” you say evenly. “What’s the play?”

Lim’s smirk widens. Slowly, she reaches for the revolver resting on the table between you, her delicate fingers wrapping around the cold metal like it’s a treasured artefact.

She flips it open with a practised snap, turns it so you can see—

One bullet.

She closes the chamber and spins it. The click-click-click of the revolver spinning fills the silence between you, steady and cruel.

Then she sets it down, the handle pointing to the space between you.

“Simple,” she says, voice like silk over broken glass. “We spin the revolver. Whoever the handle lands on takes the first shot. If you win, you get the pleasure of accessing my system, removing your bounty, and tearing my empire apart from the ground up… before you put a bullet through my skull.”

She pauses, lips curling.

“But if I win… I get to watch the life drain from your eyes. I get to see the anguish on Seungcheol’s face when I shoot the love of his life in front of him. Right before I kill him, too. Tragically romantic.”

Your nails dig into your thighs beneath the table, the only outward sign of how close you are to snapping. But your voice remains even.

“You forget I need you alive to access your system. So this is a waste of time. I lose no matter what.”

Lim tuts, rising gracefully from her chair. “Oh no, darling. Quite the contrary.”

She walks toward the far side of the room, the hem of her white suit jacket swaying with each precise step. You glance behind you just once—Seungcheol still lies on the ground, bleeding, pale, but breathing. His eyes find yours, and the look there nearly unravels you.

You turn back to Lim just in time to see her approach her desk and pull out a sleek black laptop.

She returns, sets it down beside the revolver with exaggerated care, and slowly opens it. The screen glows to life. One by one, she performs the biometric logins—retinal, fingerprint, and voice. Just like Kang had.

Then she leans back, smug. “Now, you don’t need me alive anymore.”

You stare at her. And she stares right back, the game finally unfolding, the trap finally sprung.

“Let’s begin,” she says softly.

She takes the revolver, gives it a spin again, and when it stops—

The handle points directly at you.

You inhale deeply, picking it up. The weight of it is intimate and horrifying all at once. One in six. You press it to your temple, finger tightening on the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Lim smiles, pleased. You slide the revolver across the table.

She picks it up gracefully and points it to her own head, never blinking, never breaking eye contact.

Click.

Still nothing. Your turn again.

You pick it up, ignoring the burn in your lungs, the sweat forming at the back of your neck. Lim is watching you with that same gleaming hunger.

“You always were weak,” she says. “Falling in love. Letting yourself care. You would’ve ruled this world, Gwisin, if you hadn’t gone soft.”

You ignore her. Gun to your temple.

Click.

You breathe out slowly, chest tight. She snatches it next, almost eagerly, her voice rising.

“You should’ve killed him. He was never worth it. Do you know how pathetic you look, crawling around for a man who’d bleed out for you? Do you think he’ll survive this anyway? Or do you just want someone to cry over your corpse?”

Gun raised.

Click.

Still nothing. Now you know. This is it.

If you get the bullet, it’s over. If not—you win.

She leans forward, taunting, her voice a venomous hiss now.

“He’s not going to make it. You’ve already lost, darling. Look at him—pale, dying, weak. Just like your resolve. Like your entire rebellion. You could’ve chosen me. But instead, you’re nothing more than a wife in mourning.”

You cut her off, hand closing around the gun mid-sentence. Her mouth stills, eyes flicking downward as you lift it once more. You don’t speak. You don’t blink. You just pull the trigger.

Click.

Silence. Everything stops. You don’t move. She doesn’t move.

Because that was the fifth shot.

And everyone in the room knows what that means.

The sixth belongs to her.

She smiles—slow, awful, the knowing kind of smile that monsters wear in their final moments.

You gently place the revolver back down, never looking away as you pick up the laptop. You pull the flash drive from your pocket with a trembling hand and plug it in.

Lines of code scroll by. You follow Reina’s instructions to the letter.

The virus deploys.

One by one, every trace of the bounty system begins to dismantle itself. Files corrupt. Names disappear. Targets are wiped clean. You check twice, then a third time. It’s done.

You press one final command, and the entire system shuts down.

No more empires. No more Lim.

Your victory tastes like ash.

You stand slowly, refusing to look at her, and turn toward the man on the floor.

“Cheol…” you whisper, approaching him softly.

That’s when it happens.

“Sorry, darling,” Lim purrs. “Can’t let you win.”

Bang.

You freeze. But the pain never comes.

The thud of a body hitting the floor echoes behind you. And when you turn— She’s there.

Madame Lim.

Shot through the chest.

Seungcheol’s pistol clatters to the ground beside him, his arm falling limp.

He’s panting, eyes fluttering, drained from the blood loss and effort it took to raise the weapon. But he did it. He saved you. Again.

“No— no, no, no, baby, stay with me—”

You scramble to him, sliding to the floor, pressing your hands hard against his thigh. Blood oozes between your fingers. You tear at your shirt, using the fabric to make a quick tourniquet above the wound.

His skin is clammy. Pale.

“Don’t do this to me,” you plead, voice cracking. “Don’t you dare go quiet now, Choi Seungcheol.”

He tries to speak, but no words come out. His eyes close.

“NO!” you scream, pressing harder, doing everything you can to keep him tethered to you. “Stay awake. Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you now.”

You grab your comms, tears streaking down your face.

“Reina! Mingyu! Jiwoo! Anyone!” you cry into the mic. “He’s down—he’s hit! We need extraction now—NOW!”

Static. Then Reina’s voice breaks through, panicked but focused.

“We’re on our way. Hold on. Just hold on.”

You sob, forehead pressed to his as you hold the wound with both hands.

“You promised me,” you whisper. “You said even after death, remember? So don’t you dare let go. Stay. You stay with me.”

The Caribbean sun beats down from a cloudless sky, the wind gentle as it dances through the sails of the boat that floats lazily just off the coast of Trinidad. Seagulls cry in the distance, their wings cutting through the heat as waves lap softly against the hull. The air tastes like salt, and stillness, and peace. For once, the world is quiet.

You lay stretched across a sun-bleached lounge chair on the deck, skin warm, drink sweating in your hand. A lazy breeze rolls over your bare stomach, ruffling your hair. Sunglasses shield your eyes, but you’re not really looking at anything. Just the endless blue horizon.

It’s been six months.

Six months since the compound. Six months since Madame Lim fell. Since you screamed into the comms for someone—anyone—to come and save the man bleeding out in your arms.

And now—this. The boat. His boat.

The one he joked about right before you came up with that ridiculous plan to take on your bosses. The mythical exit plan. A sailboat docked and waiting off the coast of Trinidad for a day that might never come. But it did come.

You take another sip of your drink and close your eyes.

The sun presses hot against your skin. Your breathing slows.

Then— A creak of wood.

Bare feet padding across the deck.

You don’t bother opening your eyes. You know who it is.

Reina’s voice floats out from the cabin, bright and amused. “I swear, this place is turning me into a whole new woman.”

You lift your sunglasses to peer at her. She emerges wearing a bikini that somehow manages to be both functional and designer, two fresh cocktails in her hands.

She walks over and hands you one before plopping down in the chair beside yours with a content sigh.

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

The boat rocks gently, and the sea stretches out in all directions.

Reina swirls her drink, then glances at you. “You know,” she says softly, “Seungcheol was onto something, keeping this boat stashed away.”

You smile, a slow curve of your lips. There’s something bittersweet in it.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He definitely was.”

The silence between you shifts. Not heavy, not sad. Just full. You both sit with it. With the past. With what you lost. With what you kept.

Then—

“Is that how you talk about me when I’m not around?”

The voice cuts through the stillness like lightning. Familiar. Deep. Teasing.

A shadow moves at the stern of the boat.

Then, emerging from the water with a grin and a sun-drenched gleam in his eyes—

Seungcheol.

Shirtless, drenched, water trailing down his broad chest. His swimming trunks cling to his hips. His hair is dark and wet, pushed back by the sea. His towel is slung casually over one shoulder, and his smile—lazy, wicked, alive—makes your heart skip.

The scar on his leg is visible, faint against his tan skin. He walks with a slight limp still, but he’s upright. Strong. Getting better every day.

You stare, lips parted in a grin that spreads like a sunrise across your face. “You’re supposed to warn a girl before you sneak back on deck.”

He approaches, towel-drying his face, and when he leans over, he kisses you. Softly. Warmly. His lips linger, just long enough to remind you that this—he—is real.

“I heard you talking shit,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. “You heard wrong.”

He slides into the space beside you, pulling your legs gently over his lap, his hand resting casually on your thigh like it belongs there. Because it does.

“When are you coming in for a swim?” he asks, nudging you with a grin. “Water’s perfect.”

“When I feel like it,” you reply, tipping your glass toward him with a lazy clink.

Reina groans. “Ugh. You two are disgusting.”

You and Seungcheol both smirk, not even bothering to deny it.

The three of you laugh, and for a moment, everything is light.

Beep.

A sound breaks from the cabin. Muffled. Sharp. Urgent.

Your heart stutters.

You’re on your feet in an instant. So is Seungcheol. Both of you race below deck, Reina on your heels. You slide into the cabin, heart already pounding in your chest.

There it is.

You recognize it immediately. One of your old encrypted devices, the ones you used when Lim & Associates was still in operation, the one on which your bounties arrived.

You reach for it, hands steady despite the fear unfurling in your gut.

The screen flickers to life. Code scrolls. Then—

A name.

Target: Kim Mingyu.

Alias: Fireball.

Bounty: 3 Million.

Your blood turns to ice.

Seungcheol reads it beside you, lips parting in disbelief. “What…”

Reina appears in the doorway, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”

You turn the screen toward her.

She sees the name. And freezes.

“What the hell did that idiot do now?”

A/N: Andddd, it's here! After how much you guys seemed to love part one, I couldn't not write this second part. Hope you all enjoyed the rollercoaster that was Gwisin and S.Coups. Are you ready for the second storyline? 👀💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

[dickgraysonisnothereforthis]

Everybody’s on the Call Line (Jason todd x gn!reader)

Humor, fluff, established relationship. whole batfam gets involved. Reader is a hacker

This happened because I read the latest coffee shop au from @jjenthusee (and you should too!) and I remembered that I can also write cute fluff. So here this fic is, straight from my drafts where it’s been languishing for months. Anyway.

Swearing, as always. No use of y/n. I don’t know how long this is

———

Jason eases himself carefully onto the fire escape, metal creaking beneath his boots. He stifles a groan. He’s taking a risk sneaking into your apartment like this, he knows he is. If you wake up and see Red Hood snooping around outside your window, you’ll probably call the cops. But he’s tired as all hell, patrol was long and stupid, and your apartment was closer. Jason will just slide in while you’re sleeping, stow his gear where you won’t find it, and collapse into your bed. In the morning, he’ll just say he let himself in with the spare key you gave him. Easy. All he has to do is disable the window alarm he’d gotten for you, and then he’s home free.

The alarm trips, and Jason moves to silence it but then realized it doesn’t matter, you’re still up, working at your computer.

He freezes as you glance over your shoulder, then turn around to face him. He still has his gear on. Shit.

“Uh, hi,” you offer, looking at him with a curious glance as he races to figure out an excuse. “I don’t think we’ve met before?”

This throws him for a loop. You’re reacting very well to a vigilante crawling through your window at 2:30 in the fucking morning. But you’ve given him an opening, and he’s going to take it.

“No,” he says shortly, wincing behind the helmet. He’s never spoken to you like this and instantly hates the tone he’s using, but he’s got a persona to keep up. Or something.

You nod, seemingly unfazed. “No worries. Do you work with Red Robin?”

What? Why are you asking about Tim? Do you have some secret Red Robin crush that he’s going to have to push Tim off a building for?

Dumbfounded, Jason answers, “Uh, sometimes?”

You nod again. “Do you think you could give something to him for me?”

What the shit is happening right now?

As if to help tip Jason’s world off its axis, you’re interrupted by a tap at the window. Jason looks to see Red Robin crouched on your fire escape. You wave him inside.

“Hey, Escher,” Tim says. “Hood.” Jason has no idea what the fuck is going on.

“I’ve got the script,” you say, holding out a flash drive to him, but Tim shakes his head. “No good. They updated the security.”

“Well, shit.” You turn and dump the USB stick into a glass of water on your desk. “It’s a paperweight now. Only took me five hours to figure out.”

“I know,” Tim says, clearly frustrated. “They keep outmaneuvering us.”

Wait, wait. Jason’s still three steps behind you. “Escher?” he demands.

Both you and Tim turn to look at him, frowning. “Like, M.C. Escher? But, spelled ‘emcee,’” you say, as if that explains anything. “It’s my screen name.”

“You two know each other?”

“Yeah, we work together.” Tim raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know that?”

Jason shakes his head, and Tim looks at you for a flash of a moment before turning back to Jason. “Sorry,” he mouths, shrugging. Jason waves him off. He’ll deal with that later.

Tim turns back to your computer screen, but your eyes stay on Jason, narrowing. “What does it matter if we work together? Do I know you from somewhere?”

Shit. You were always too sharp for your own good. Jason’s tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth. “Uhh…”

You fold your arms over your chest. Behind you, out of your field of vision, Tim grins at Jason, delighted. Asshole.

“We don’t normally work with civilians,” Jason says, fishing for an excuse.

You sniff, rolling your eyes. “And yet, here you are. Which, the way, you haven’t explained. What are you doing in my bedroom?”

Fair. What is he doing in your bedroom? Would it freak you out if he said he was a burglar? Too late for that now.

“I told him to meet me here,” Tim says, pulling Jason’s ass out of the fire. “Sorry I didn’t tell you first.”

You shrug. “S’okay,” you say, spinning back around in your desk chair to face the screen.

Over your shoulder, Tim mouths, “you owe me.” Jason gives him the finger.

“Do you have a safe copy of the new security system?” you ask, looking at Tim intently.

He shakes his head. “Not yet, Oracle is working on duplicating it.”

You slump down in your chair. “Drat. I hate waiting.”

“Yeah,” Tim sits on the floor next to your bed, knees to his chest. “She said it’d be ready in a few hours.”

“Balls.” You fidget with a pen on your desk.

“Hold on. How did you start working with Red over here?” Jason asks. He knows you work in tech, that you’re a programmer, but he didn’t realize you were building code for fucking Batman.

Tim laughs. “I found them solving random problems on a Swedish forum.”

Jason blinks. Okay.

“Well, yeah. You found me there. Oracle found me hacking your comm links,” you grin, pleased with yourself.

Holy shit. “You got into the comm links?”

“Yeah,” you nod, satisfied. “I’ve done it twice now,” you add smugly.

“Don’t tell B,” Tim warns. “He doesn’t know. Oracle said she wouldn’t tell.”

Wow. You must be the real deal. He wonders if he can get you to fuck with Bruce’s plans, just to be a shit. "How long have you been working for the Caped Crusader, then?"

"I don't work for Batman," you say primly, as Tim sighs. "I help him out when you guys can't get your shit together."

Jason snickers under his breath. "Sore subject, huh?"

"They don’t like B," Tim confirms from the floor. "If you did it would make everything easier," he grumbles.

"It's stupid," you insist. "Come on, how is this a viable solution to any long-term problem?"

Jason laughs outright as Tim sputters. "He's a detective! He detects!"

"Then why does he have to dress up like that?" you point out. “You can be a detective in normal clothes, you know.”

"He needs armor, he keeps getting shot at!"

"Explain the cape, then," you shoot back. "Justify that monstrosity."

"It's fucking idiotic," Jason adds, piling on gleefully. "It'd be different if he could fly, but he just hops around."

Tim gasps, affronted, while you crack up in your chair. "Thank you. I mean, look at yourself, Red. You're sitting on my bedroom floor in a goddamn cape."

"It looks cool," Tim says defensively.

"No," you counter, "that looks cool." You point your finger in Jason's direction, and he feels his face heat up.

"Oh, come on," Tim scoffs. "You think his costume is cool?"

"Uh, yeah," you say, eyes taking Jason in as you nod. "Very cool. Very hot."

"Oh my god," Tim mutters. "It's tactically stupid. Why are his forearms exposed?"

"So I can see how muscley they are." You stare at them, eyes wide. Jason coughs awkwardly, and your eyes flit back up. "Sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "I like leather."

"Of course you like his costume," Tim mutters under his breath.

"What's that supposed to mean?" you shoot at him, and Tim flusters. "Why do you care if I don't like your costume?"

"Yeah," Jason adds, letting some menace fall into his voice. "Why do you care if they don’t like your costume?"

"I didn't—I wasn't trying to—"

"I have a boyfriend," you interrupt, looking at Tim scornfully.

"They have a boyfriend," Jason parrots, grinning behind the helmet.

"Oh my god. I know you have a boyfriend. Relax," Tim pacifies you. "Relax," he adds, nodding at Jason. Jason grunts.

Before you can argue further, there’s another tap at your window, and Cass slips softly into the room. You light up. “Hello, my love!” you greet her excitedly. Cass raps you on the top of your head, and you beam up at her. Your hands twitch toward her before you stop yourself, folding them in your lap. Cass turns to Jason, placing her hand carefully on his arm. He bumps against her, waiting until she pushes back lightly. She then moves onto Tim, tugging gently on a lock of his hair, before depositing a flash drive on the desk. You snatch it up eagerly.

From Oracle, Cass signs.

“It’s O’s duplicate!” Tim plucks it from your fingers, driving it into your desktop.

“Be nice to her,” you warn, running a hand over your computer as the file loads. Strings of code write themselves across your screen. Jason moves forward to get a better look at you. He can’t help it, he wants to see you in action. Your face is scrunched up, tongue between your teeth as your eyes flash back and forth, following the cursor. “It’s incomplete.” You squint at Tim. “What gives?”

Tim tsks. “I don’t know. Let me get Oracle.” He puts a hand to his ear. “Oracle, come in.”

Barbara’s voice answers in Jason’s ear. “Here. I know, I know, it’s not all there,” she says, annoyed. “Let Escher know that I had to reverse engineer it from what we found.”

“She says she has to reverse engineer it,” Tim repeats.

You drum your fingers on the desk. “Okay, what else does she know?”

“What else do you—”

“Hold on, this is stupid,” you interrupt. “Can you, like, put her on speaker? Actually,” you click over to another screen, enter a command. “You’re broadcasting live, O.” Jason hears Barbara’s sigh through the speakers of your computer. “That’s three times,” you add smugly.

Jason let’s out a low whistle. Damn. You’re really good at this.

“We've got to stop meeting like this, Escher.” Barbara almost sounds amused. “How did you get in this time?”

“Hiya, babe.” You click back to your project. “That’s for me to know and you to never find out. I don’t want you closing your back door.”

Barbara chuckles. “Red and I will shut you out.”

“But for how long? I’m too slippery, baby.” Jason almost blushes underneath his helmet. It always trips him up when you talk like this.

“I had to reverse engineer the code from what it spit out when I tried to get in this time,” Barbara explains. “Can you fill in the gaps?”

“Some of them.” You type quickly, deleting code as you get error messages and retyping just as fast.

“Wait, here…” Tim points to something on the screen.

“Yeah, okay,” you back up to where he’s pointing and add something.

“There’s something about the updated security,” Barbara adds. “I think there’s a pattern somewhere.”

“Where?” you demand.

“I don’t know. Gut feeling. But I think I’m right.”

“Do you think there’s something generating new code?” Tim asks. “Like, a program that’s spitting out new security?”

“Oh.” Your fingers still on the keys, face relaxing. “Yeah. Good call, Red.” You scan the code again, scrolling back to the top. “Okay. This changes things.” You start from the beginning, erasing whole sections of Barbara’s work and typing out new code. “Well, shit,” you laugh under your breath. “This is some sexy-ass code we’re looking at.”

“You can fill in the blanks?” Jason asks.

You glance up at him. “Of course I can. I wrote it.”

“What?” Tim shouts. “This is you?”

“It’s me,” you confirm. “Guilty.” A small smile plays around your lips. “Sorry.” Cass steps forward, pinching your ear until you yelp.

“Fuck, Escher.” Tim rubs the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know you were a traitor.”

“Chill, bird brain,” you say defensively, leaning out of Cass’ reach. “This was from, like, five years ago. I needed some cash.”

“You could be on B’s payroll,” Tim offers.

You snort as Barbara huffs a laugh over the comm line. “Fat chance, I’ve been trying to convince them for months.”

“I’m not a fucking lapdog. I play by my own rules,” you insist.

“Yeah?” Jason can’t help but push you. “And what rules are those?”

You cock an eye at him warily. “The rule of not tying my kite to some lunatic.”

Jason nods. Can’t argue with that one.

“Anyway,” you turn back to the computer. “Because I wrote it, I can build you the malware.”

“To get past the security or to neutralize the program spitting out new code?” Barbara asks over the line.

“Dealer’s choice,” you say, then stick your tongue between your teeth as you squint at the screen. “I can make both happen.”

The comm crackles in Jason’s ear. “Oracle, come in,” Bruce barks.

Tim whips his head toward you with a crack. “Nothing from you now, Escher,” Barbara warns. “I’m patching him through.”

You grin, eagerly pretending to zip your lips.

“Here,” Barbara answers.

“I heard from one of my informants,” Bruce’s monotone growl fills the room. Jason catches you roll your eyes and almost bursts out laughing. “They’re going to get into the controls for Blackgate prison.”

“This is Black Mask?” Barbara clarifies.

Bruce grunts as your eyebrows shoot up. “This is Black Mask?” you whisper, except you’ve never been very good at whispering. Tim slices a hand over his neck to silence you as Jason moves to your computer. He’s been eyeing the program you’re using to broadcast the comm connection, and he thinks he’s found the mute button. He taps a key and then turns his head toward you. “Off?”

You nod. “Off. Thanks. This is Black Mask’s security?”

“Yeah, he’s making a move against the jail. He’s going to get some of his guys out,” Tim explains.

“Hmm. Hmm hmm hmm.” You tap your fingers against your chin.

“What?” Tim folds his arms over his chest.

“I originally sold it to the Falcones.” You flick your hair out of your face. “Guess they sold me out behind my back.”

A security program that’s making its way through the mob? That’s…really useful, actually.

“Can you get in and stop them?” Bruce asks.

“Maybe,” Oracle hedges. “Hold on, I have to call in reinforcements.” She mutes Bruce’s line. “Escher, you’re up.”

“Wait, you want it now?” you say, aghast. “Christ, how long do I have?”

“Act quickly.” Bruce orders. “My intel says they’re moving at 3:45am.”

Your eyes fly to the clock on your monitor. “What the fuck!” you screech. “That’s in forty minutes! I can’t do it in forty minutes! I have to break through my own walls!”

“Escher,” Barbara starts, just as Tim says “listen, you have to—”

“I can’t, it’s not enough time!” you wail.

“Hey, hey,” Jason cuts in. “Easy. Don’t worry, love. You can do it.”

You look at him fearfully. “You haven’t even told me what to do!”

“Just get past the security,” Jason says patiently. “Don’t worry about shutting down the whole program.”

You nod at him, eyes wide.

“Deep breaths, now,” he instructs. “Come on, in for two, hold, out for four. We’ll do it together. Ready?”

You nod again.

“Okay.” Jason sucks in a breath, loudly so it’ll register over the modulator. You copy him, inhaling, holding, and exhaling on his rhythm. After a few breaths you shake your head, turning back to the computer.

“Alright. I can make it happen.” You resume typing, eyes narrowed as you focus.

“We’re alright, B, I’ve got someone on it,” Oracle says, satisfied.

Tim turns to Jason, clearly impressed. Jason shrugs. You’ve been together for a while now, he knows how to pull you out of a spiral.

He turns back to you. You’re ripping through code at a hundred miles an hour, hunched over the keyboard. Jason grimaces, he’s always trying to get you to sit up straight to help your tech neck. He’ll have to rub out the knots in your shoulders later.

Jason feels Cass’ eyes on him, and he tilts his head toward her. Less than forty minutes, she signs to him. I’ll have to take it back to the Clocktower.

Jason’s thought of that. He evenly points his chin in your direction. You can handle it, he knows you can. Cass nods.

Tim coughs quietly, and Jason raises his head to look at him. “You want the keys to the castle?” he mutters.

He means code you built that generates new security programs. Jason nods. “But that’s just between us, yeah?” It would be loads easier for Jason if he keeps the code out of Bruce’s hands. Black Mask has been operating in Jason’s territory, and Jason has a long string of investigations against him, well-beyond the scope of this Blackgate shit. Bruce needs to keep his nose out of it.

Tim scoffs. “Fine. Seems like you should get first dibs anyway.” He nods towards your desk where you’re still working stubbornly.

The room is silent, all three of them letting you work. After a few minutes, Tim steps toward you. “Here, you need any hel—”

Jason throws an arm out to stop him, just as Cass grabs his wrist and tugs him backwards, shaking her head. He holds up his hands in surrender.

Fifteen minutes later, you rap your knuckles on your desk. “Oi, peanut gallery!” You spin around in your chair, smiling wickedly. “I solved your case for you!”

“It’s not a case,” Tim mutters, and Jason scoffs.

“Don’t be jealous, RR,” Babs says over the line. “You can both be the prettiest.” Tim splutters as you laugh delightedly.

“Nice job,” Jason says, placing a hand on your shoulder. You grin up at him. He catches Cass and Tim share a look, sees her sign something too fast for his eyes to follow.

“Batgirl’s bringing it to you now, Oracle,” Tim says as you unplug the flash drive and hand it to Cass. You wave to her as she slips through the window.

“My backup came through,” Babs reports to Bruce. “They’ll be obsolete in a few minutes.”

“Copy.” The line fizzles as Babs cuts him off.

“Fuck yeah,” you grin in satisfaction. “Nothing like hearing that overgrown Bat say ‘copy.’”

Jason cackles as Tim rolls his eyes. “Oracle,” he says loudly. “Hood was in the dark about our friend here.” His eyes flick to you before he looks at Jason meaningfully.

And just what the fuck does he think he’s doing? Jason all but snarls at him.

“Huh. I could’ve sworn you were smarter than that, Hood,” Barbara admonishes.

“Shut up, O,” he grumbles. Jason glances at you to make sure you haven’t caught on to what they’re talking about, but you don’t seem to be paying attention; you’ve pulled up Steam and are scrolling through your game library.

“Maybe it’s time to clue them in. Take off your party hat,” Barbara says meaningfully. Tim nods forcefully.

“Butt out,” Jason says half-heartedly, but it doesn’t stick. He’s been thinking about telling you about Red Hood anyway; you’ve been together for a year and a half. He’s been…well, he’s scared. But maybe he shouldn’t be.

“We’d have to vote on it,” he says gruffly. Tim pumps his fist in the air. “In person,” he says meaningfully. Comm links aren’t safe, apparently.

“You have my vote,” Babs says confidently. “And Batgirl’s, too, she’s here.” Barbara pauses meaningfully. “I’m happy for you, Hood.”

“Me too!” Tim pipes up immediately.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason waves them off, like his heart isn’t pounding. “Can you call everyone over?”

“Roger that.” Barbara seems pleased. “Hood is asking us all to meet near him,” she broadcasts aloud. “Sending you coordinates.”

Dick, Steph, Bruce, and Damian all copy. Jason steels himself. “Alright, RR, time to go.”

You glance at him as he moves toward the window. “Heading out?”

“Yeah,” Tim answers. “Got a big family meeting to get to.” He grins at Jason.

“Okay. See you around. Nice meeting you,” you say to Jason, before turning back to your screen.

“Uh, yeah,” he says uncomfortably, while Tim snickers. “See you later.”

The troops have already assembled two rooftops over. “Hood, what’s the situation?” Bruce asks sternly.

“The situation,” Tim starts happily, “is—”

“Hold on,” Jason cuts him off. “Disconnect comm links.” He watches warily as everyone takes them out of their ears.

“Compromised?” Dick asks with concern.

“Uh, yeah.” Jason scratches the back of his neck. “Listen, uh…” he looks at Tim helplessly.

“Jason’s dating Escher.”

“What!” Dick screams as Steph claps her hands together excitedly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating anyone?”

“Uh—”

“Fuck, yeah!” Steph interrupts. “This is great! Escher’s the freaking best!”

“Language,” Bruce says as Jason takes off the helmet to glare at Steph accusingly.

“We play Minecraft together,” she explains. “I didn’t know you two were dating!”

“Wait, hold on. I thought you all knew about that.” Jason shifts his glare to Tim.

Tim shrugs. “Only me and Babs knew,” he says.

“Timmy, why didn’t you share!” Dick groans, bounding over to ruffle Jason’s hair.

Jason pushes him away, trying to swipe his feet out from under him. Dick dodges easily, throwing a light right hook in return. “Wasn’t any of your business, now was it?” Jason says gruffly.

Tim looks at Dick, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t want to get on his bad side.”

“Fair.” Dick grins softly at Jason, bumping shoulders with him. “Nice job, Little Wing.”

Jason blushes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Congrats, Todd, but why are we all here?” Damian interrupts.

“I’m gonna tell ‘em,” Jason says simply. “About this. If it’s cool.”

“Fine with me,” Steph says instantly.

Tim nods, “seconded. Babs and Cass say it’s fine with them, we asked before we went dark.”

“Well, who am I to stand in their way,” Dick half-jokes, but he’s looking at Bruce with serious eyes. So is Jason.

“I’ll follow Father’s ruling,” Damian says stoutly.

That leaves the big man himself. Bruce smiles gently. “Of course, Jaylad. We’re all happy for you.”

Jason blushes all over again. “Thanks, old man.” He lets out a breath.

“But we have to ask Duke,” Bruce adds meaningfully.

“I texted him, he says it’s fine,” Tim says quickly. “But also, uh—” he holds his hand to his ear.

Warily, Jason puts his comm back in. “Jason, what the fuck!” you shriek. “What the fucking fuck is this!”

“I forgot to disconnect,” Babs says sheepishly.

“Jason, you ass! Why didn’t you tell me you ran around in a fucking costume?” you shout down the line. Steph and Dick keel over laughing. Jason realizes everyone has taken the liberty of putting their comm back in.

“Baby, please,” he says resignedly.

“Baby?” Dick mouths, beaming.

“Don’t you fucking ‘baby’ me!” you holler.

“Babe, you are a hacker,” he points out. “How come you didn’t share that with the class?”

That makes you pause. “Fair fucking point, I guess,” you mutter. Jason sees Bruce try to tug the comm out of Damian’s ear, but Damian dances out of reach.

“Uh, also, can you cool it with the swearing?” Jason asks. “There’s a kid here.”

“…if it’s Robin I am going to throw up.”

“Hello,” Damian says helpfully.

Your end of the line is silent.

“Hey, Escher, it’s Spoiler!” Steph cuts in. “Nice job shacking up with Hood.” She eyes Jason evilly.

“This is a fucking ambush,” you grind out. “Jason, you fucking ambushed me.”

“Language,” Bruce orders gently. Tim just about busts a gut while Jason waves frantically at Bruce, shaking his head rapidly. “Nice to meet you over the phone,” Bruce adds. Dick gives him a thumbs up.

“…likewise,” you say eventually. “I hope you’ll excuse me, but this has been insane, and I’m disconnecting. Jason, get your as— get back here after you’ve finished your family dinner.” Your end goes dead.

“They seem nice,” Bruce says after a moment. “We’ll have to talk about how they got into the comm links,” he looks at Tim reproachfully.

“See you later, Hood,” Dick says easily, nodding at your building.

Jason turns back to your apartment. He can already see you in the window, arms crossed over your chest. You’re trying to scowl at him, but he can see the smile trying to escape.

He shrugs his shoulders, grinning. You throw up your hands but beckon him anyway. Come on, come back.

Don’t worry, Jason’s coming.

[cherry-leclerc]

method acting ☆ cl16

genre: angst, yearning, humor, fluff, journalist!reader, established relationship

word count: 13.2k

There’s a lot of things you’d like to do differently in life. And the weeks leading up to that night is one of them.

inspired by doomsday, lizzy mcalpine , true blue, boygenius , cool about it, boygenius !

cherry here!… hello there. sooo this was supposed to go up a few days ago, but silly me scheduled the wrong date, haha, so this is me formally apologizing for that. on a more lighter note: i’m so excited for you guys to read this one considering this is the re-written version of ‘method acting’ if you guys even remember the original version. love u all very much, and enjoyyy :)

From his boyish smile, to his dominant smirk—you knew it all. 

The way it would slowly start to spread, but always ended with a dimple. You loved many things in life—many, many things—but nothing comes close to him. From the very start, he’s been gentle. A gentle giant, you’d sometimes joke with a teasing voice, to which he’d roll his eyes yet never deny. 

The way he’d start every sentence with—honey—and end with—I love you. The way he’d cradle your face between his hands, kissing the corner of your mouth first before pressing down completely. The way he’d translate for you with all the patience in the world. Everything about him had been so easy to learn, so easy to love.

But here, in a room, staring at each other, you begin to wonder if you ever knew him at all. Because suddenly you don’t know what the frown on his face means. What the furrowed brows with the pinched expression interpret to. You don’t know any of it. 

Why are you so surprised, though?

You caused this, anyways.

-

“I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that you don’t know how to use a USB, Lis. Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know—tech savvy?” 

Lissie aims a harsh glare before tapping her nail against the computer screen as if that might make the process a whole lot quicker. “So what? I lied on my resume. Everybody does it.”

You chuckle. “Who even uses USB’s nowadays?”

“Apparently Grandpa Will. Oh, yay, it's done!” She shimmies. “I’ll see you later, m’kay?” With that, she zips down the paddock without a second glance. You sigh, gathering your stuff and making your way down the busy crowd, heading straight towards Ferrari Hospitality. 

He’s on his computer when you first walk in, keys clicking. He nibbles on his bottom lip, knits his dark brows like he’s in pain. As soon as you tap your finger against the wall, he perks up, all his interest suddenly gone. He grins. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Lis,” you respond, claiming a seat next to him. 

The Monegasque hums, leaning in to kiss your lips swiftly. “Thank you, Elisabella.” You giggle, sneaking a quick peek at his open screen. “Whatcha’ workin’ on? Wait—let me guess. You’re getting your marriage license annulled?”

“To be with you, yes,” he agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “How do you think Joris is going to take it?”

A playful shrug. “He’s just going to have to accept it, no?”

“I suppose.” Snapping the computer shut, he fixes himself, head pressed softly against your lap, closing his eyes. The sight of his even breaths and curved nose makes you smile as you start threading your fingers through his hair. He sighs, tense shoulders instantly rolling back. “Journling, and whatnot. It’s a habit that has a near expiration date, for sure, but is quite nice as of now.”

And though he can’t see you, your neat brows raise up in surprise. “Journaling on an electronic device? Why not an actual journal? You know—something authentic. I actually know of a place back in Portland where they sell some cute ones, ver—”

“I’m not looking for cute. I’m looking for security.” A beat. “I’d lose it in a week, and we don’t want that happening, now do we? My laptop works just fine. Plus, I feel more at peace knowing it’s not something I will just leave behind.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” you declare, enjoying the way his lips twist with a childlike snarl. “Anyways, I’m glad you’ve picked up on a new hobby. It’s good for you, Charlie.”

“Learned from the best.” You blush. “By the way, media shouldn’t last longer than an hour? Wanna go out?”

“Aren’t you tired?” you question, forcing his eyelids open as he squirms, pushing your hand away.

“A little. But I still want to do something with you.”

A tired sigh. “Cute, but I can’t. Lissie and William are out for today, so it’s just me, which means I have to conduct all the interviews by myself.”

The brunette bats an eye. “Why?”

“She forgot she had a deadline—hence why I was busy helping her—and Will still has to look it over. They have to send it in by midnight and it’s—it’s a lot.”

“Why couldn’t she just email it?”

“That’s what I’m saying!” you screech, causing him to flinch and squeeze his eyes. Sheepishly, you pat his head. “He insisted on a USB. Says he wants all work done like the olden days.”

“That sucks,” he mumbles. “And who even uses USB’s nowadays? They’re so outdated.”

“That’s what I’m��” You stop, mid-sentence, lowering your voice when he sits up and scoots away. “Saying,” you finish, whispering. You purse your lips, sending a slight grimace. “You get it.”

Charles nods, standing up and placing his laptop into his duffel bag. “I’ll come back and pick you up, yeah? Meanwhile, I can maybe cook something for us.”

“Honey,” you coo. “I love you, but please don’t.” His face drops. What the fuck? You giggle. “How about take-out?”

“How about,” he mutters, stiff as a statue when you press your lips down onto his jaw, but quickly melts. “Chinese?”

“Sounds good.” Another peck. “I’ll call you!”

-

If you remember—and you do remember—you fell in love with writing ever since you watched The Devil Wears Prada. It was a reset for you because before that you had seriously considered going to law. At first, you started with column writing in your school's newspaper. No one ever read it, you’d always find it on the floor after being trampled on, but you never cared. 

Soon after, you started publishing smaller pieces here and there on your fashion blog that has since been taken down, but that was the moment you knew. Thing was, you wanted to nurture this into a career, you really did, but nothing to do with fashion, rather sports. 

Maybe it had to do with the fact that every Sunday your Grandpa would beg for you to come over to his house and watch the races with him. They were extremely boring at first. Who willingly drives for roughly two hours in loops? Then, it clicked. Everything changed and you were enthralled. 

After that, all you knew was that you wanted it bad. It was hard, studying over time in order to get done quickly and just start working, but it was well worth it. You met Lis the same year she started working with Formula One, so you both figured a lot of things out together, and for two years, it was just you and her, interviewing and writing about the drivers on the grid.

But he noticed you both years ago.

He first noticed the burn on the back of your left leg. He initially thought it was a band-aid by the way it healed, but later found out you had burned yourself with a curling iron back in highschool when you were rushing to get your senior pictures taken. Then he noticed your eyes and the way they always had a glimmer to them, even if something wasn't going your way. He respected the hell out of you after that.

 How do you do that? 

You freeze. Do what?

Stay so…so—optimistic. Happy, I suppose.

You laughed then, and he saw the way your hair fell over your shoulder like a silk curtain. He would have smiled if he wasn’t so stuck up on that. It’s all a facade. They way you see me—it’s not real.

Believe me, I don’t think you’re real.

You blush, looking back down at your journal where you’ve been too busy scribbling prior to his question. You just have to ignore them sometimes, you know? Remind yourself that they don’t know you and you don’t know them. Trust me, it helps.

And after that, you two never stopped talking. 

Whether it was about work, or perhaps even the weather, you two always had something going on. Something everyone noticed, but never brought up. And at one point, you confessed your next dream.

Journalist of the Year, he repeated, a goofy smile slowly itching his skin. Yeah, I can see that.

It’s not that easy, though, you retort, exhaling heavily. I mean, I’ve been doing this for quite a while now and I haven’t even been considered once, which is fine, maybe I’m not good enough, but maybe it’s also time to…I don’t know—give up?

He kept quiet, kept his eyes focused on you, and frowned. If it’s something you want, then it’s most likely something you can have. 

Pft, you scoff. Nah. Not this. It’s nearly unattainable for someone like me. Even Lissie has won, and we’ve been here for the same amount of years. Now I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve it, but that just comes to show that there’s always someone better. And I’m just here. You look up. It’s okay, you can laugh.

A beat. I could be a hypocrite to tell you that it’s not good to measure how talented you are or how talented you can be based on some award, but Jesus Chrsit, I do the same thing. I understand. And it’s because I understand that I’m telling you to keep working hard and prove yourself to them. You have it in you—I’ve known ever since we met. You smile. Your time will come, yeah?

And for the first time: you believed it. 

A nod. Thanks, Charles. Yours will too.

About a month later, you two started officially dating. It almost seemed too good to be true at times, but wherever he looked for you in the crowd, you knew it just had to be. 

But the start of your relationship was also the end of something else.

Interviews and articles? 

He nods. Right. None of that.

You follow his actions, nodding numbly as you blink. So, no more working together? Because you want me to have a fair shot?

Yes, he confirmed. I just don’t want you to be nominated—because it’s only a matter of time, I have a feeling—and feel as if they picked you simply because of your dating status. 

Who’s going to do all of that, then? 

There’s plenty of other reporters. Lissie? Will? Maybe even Natalie. He took a step closer, grabbing your hands gently. What I’m trying to say is that I want you to feel accomplished. That what you did was simply because of your work, and not having to do with your connections because trust me, that doesn’t feel good.

But I love working with you. You give his hand a squeeze, tilting your head and smiling sadly. You’re my favorite person to write about and talk to…

And he genuinely seemed to be pained by your words, wincing.

But you suck it up because you know he’s right. I’ll always be your favorite?

Only the best.

A hum. Alright then. You take a step back, extending your hand for a professional handshake. He smiles, taking it and giving it a good tug.

 It was nice working with you, Mr. Leclerc.

-

“I’ll never understand,” Lissie starts, pressing the elevator button for the twenty-fifth floor and chewing on a licorice. “Why you two ever create such a stupid rule like that?” A hard chew. “All I’m saying is that it could have definitely helped you out a whole lot. You probably would have won by now.”

You roll your eyes, but not without thinking how she might be right. You’ve definitely wondered about a world in which you two hadn’t taken this approach, and while it would have been nice, you also know that it would have felt a little less special knowing that being a nepo to Charles had something to do with it. Which is most likely what would have happened, let’s be completely honest here. 

“You came to this arrangement, what? Twenty years ago, maybe fourty? And it’s not to be rude, but you haven't been nominated, so was this really worth it if it hasn’t made much of a difference?”

“Okay,” you grunt, ripping the red candy away from her and throwing it into the nearby trash as soon as you step out of the elevator. She pouts, following along. “I think we get it, I fucked up, very funny.”

“No,” she hums. “I never said you did, I was simply thinking, that's all.” You scoff. “But whatever. I have a feeling this is it. You definitely have it in the bag. They’d be crazy not to add you for a fourth time!”

Spinning, you smile bitterly at the Brit girl. She gulps. “Thank you, Lis, your mild support is very much appreciated.”

You turn back around, walking faster.

“Sheesh, sorry,” she hisses, entering the familiar office with a lost expression.

Carly, your manager runs over, practically jumping onto you and hugging you tight. “Lis, close the door!” You groan at the loud sound against your ear, but she's none the wiser, already embracing you harder. “You did it!”

“I told you!” Lissie shoots smugly.

You freeze, heart racing. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying—”

“Why would she be lying?”

Letting go, Carly lets out a delirious laugh. “Everything—all of it—has finally paid off. You did it, you’re on the list!”

“Holy shit,” you whisper in disbelief, playing with your necklace as you pace the spacious office. Lissie and Carly both grin at each other from ear to ear, nodding enthusiastically. You come to a halt. “Are you making this up because I said I would kill myself if I didn’t make it this year because, for your information, I was totally kidding!”

“It’s not a joke,” the redhead squeals, jumping again. “I’m so proud of you!”

“I am too!” Lissie shrieks, running and kissing you face as you try your best to swat her away even though you’re laughing. “Even after what I said in the elevator, I knew this shit was the real deal this time! Didn’t I tell you? Carly, I told her.” She twirls you, making you grin harder.  “You won!”

“Okay, let's touch some grass, ladies,” Carly cuts in. “We can’t forget that this is just a nomination and that there’s still work that needs to be done in order to secure our best chances.”

“Right,” you respond, elegantly fixing yourself and nodding up and down. You freeze. “Wait, what work? I thought this was it?”

Carly shakes her head. “Oh honey, we’re just getting started.” A pause. “You have to write an article.”

“I am—confused. What do you mean by article?”

The Brit takes a seat in a nearby chair, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s their one and only requirement. Show them why they should pick you.”

Carly nods, red hair bouncing. “Shouldn’t be too hard. You’re as talented as they come. Just do what you do, but…better!”

Color drains your face as you go back to pacing. “What do you mean better? This is all I got! There’s nothing left to show, oh God—”

“What are you talking about?” your manager yelps. “There’s always more!”

“Exactly,” Lissie hums, somehow munching on another piece of candy. “There’s always—that, yeah. More.”

Your eye twitches. “Okay, you already went through this and won. How did you do it?”

She pouts, tapping the licorice against her lips before clicking her fingers. “I wrote my piece on fashion and how it’s made its way into Formula One. Wasn’t even that hard. Well. Shouldn't be. Write what you know and it’ll come to ya, they say. Or maybe they don’t, but definitely still do that.”

Your shoulders drop, plopping down next to her and placing a pillow over your face. “Fuck. That’s genius.” It is, isn’t it? she mumbles, slowly chewing in deep thought. Screaming into the pillow, you feel the frustration you didn’t have a second ago finally erupt. “What am I going to do?”

“Sweetheart,” Carly starts, forearms pressed against her glass desk, and stern eyes trained onto you. “You have got to be one of the most raw writers I have ever worked with.” A beat. “Sorry, Lis.” 

“Screw you,” she snarls, focusing on her phone now. 

Your manager sighs, rubbing her temples. “And please take that as a compliment because it is. You don’t hold back, and you tell it how it is. That’s what makes you one of the best! And if it weren’t for you wanting this, I would have definitely sent an angry email on your behalf because you deserve this more than anyone.”

“Wow,” the Brit muttered, raising her dark brows. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, cringing. “But you’ve won already, Lis, and we supported you, and now…” She faces you again with soft eyes. “We’re doing this for you. You got it, m’kay?”

“But—” your voice cuts off as you blink rapidly, losing focus with the thought of failing, imprinting itself into the forefront of your mind. “I don’t know what to write about, which is weird because I always have an idea, at least. That’s simply a bad sign, that much I know.”

“It’s only bad if you think it is,” Lissie says, clicking her phone off and smiling gently. “But in all honesty, I think it’s actually quite good. That means you know what's at stake, and you know you have to make this the best goddamn article in your entire life.” A beat. “Write what you know, I’m telling you.”

“What she said,” Carly squeaks cheerfully, eyes crinkling as she starts pouring champagne and handing them one by one. “But just so you know, we have to get this in by October thirteenth because they make their decision by the sixteenth.”

“But that’s Charles’ birthday week,” you wail, rubbing your eyes harshly. “Fucking hell—”

“He’ll understand,” Lissie cuts you off, clicking her glass against Carly’s who shrugs, sipping neatly. “All of us know he will.”

“Okay then,” you whisper slowly. You curl your hand tighter against the glass. “Cheers?”

“Cheers, mate!”

-

Entering his Monaco flat, Charles lets out a tired sigh, taking his shoes off and flinging his keys to the nearby coffee table. The loud thud makes him flinch before running over hurriedly. A large scratch lays across the rich wood as he panics, kneeling down to inspect it carefully.

“Are you serious, Charlie?” he hears over his shoulder, jumping to find you with a frown on your lips and hands on your hips. “That was a gift!”

“I’m sorry!” he squeaks. “From your Grandpa, I know, I’m sorry!”

You let out a breath, shrugging. “It’s fine. How was your day?”

He eyes you suspiciously once before getting closer to you and kissing you hello. “Eh. Decent. Yours?”

Plump lips twist before flattening back out. “Decent.”

He squints, noticing the way you play with your necklace. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not,” you answer quickly. Defensively.

His brows furrow deeper. “Blow me.”

“Blow you?”

“Yes. Right here, right now—blow me.” He demonstrates, letting out a breath as if taking a breathalyzer test. 

You let out a sore laugh, rolling your heels as you stumble back. What? Your laughing stops, though tears run down your face as you try to get your words out. “You mean breathe out, not blow you.” Your giggles pick up once again, making him blush deep red. “God, you need to learn a bit more proper english.”

He looks away, cringing at the sound of his voice replaying, and then turning with a stoic face. “Don’t change the subject.” A pause. “Breathe out.”

You freeze. “Why?”

“Don’t ask questions, just do it.” “I’m not going to do it.”

“Just do it,” he presses harder.

You glare. “No. I’m not.”

Taking one last glance, he leaps forward with zero warning and starts tickling you, making your squeal. Stop! “Breathe!” I am breathing, you twat! “Blow me—God damn it! Whatever! Blow! Breathe! Blow!” 

“Fine, fine, just stop!” you screech, giggles coming to an end as he nods and stares down at you, which by now, you’re laid down on the couch with him towering over. You blush, breathing out lightly, nearly nothing. He rolls his eyes. Blow me harder. “Blow me harder,” you mimic, copying his accent. 

He groans. “You get what I’m saying—”

“I don’t, though,” you joke, laughing harder. As soon as your eyes shut, he smiles down at you affectionately, but when they open again, he reverts his lips back into a straight line. Your lips wobble playfully. Letting out a big breath, he whiffs strongly. “Gross, Cha!”

“You smell like strawberry sorbet, relax.” A beat. “Open your mouth and stick your tongue out for me.”

“Okay, this is getting really kinky.”

He aims for a deadpan expression. 

Rolling your eyes, you do as you're told and he lets out a scream. “What the fuck!”

“It’s red!”

“No duh, Charles!”

“Strawberry sorbet. The last pint. You ate it all, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So that's a yes.”

You frown.

“And we always share, but when we don’t it’s because you’re going through something and you couldn’t help yourself.”

“Okay, Sherlock Holmes, we get it,” you grunt, pushing him off as you sit up. He does the same, staring at you, concerned. “By the way, does that upset you?”

“The ice cream? Nah.”

You nod, then yawn. “Why do you have to be so attentive?”

“Because I love you.”

You smile. “I made it onto the list.”

“The list?”

“The list.”

A wide grin dances across his pink lips as he jumps onto the coach, up and down, making you bounce and stare up with a soft look. “The list! Thee list. Holy crap, congratulations, honey!” Landing on the ground, he hugs you, digging his face into the crook of your neck and kissing it over and over. “You smell nice—congrats—is that citrus—wait, this smells really nice—”

“It is citrus,” you giggle as he separates from you. “And thanks. It means the most coming from you.”

Silence takes over for a second or two before his brows knit neatly. “What’s wrong?”

“No. Nothing.” They raise up higher. “I’m not gonna lie—I’m scared.”

Tugging you closer to his chest, he drags so you two are laying back down. You close your eyes at the feeling of his arms wrapping around you like some blanket. “About what? You totally got this.”

“Hmph. It’s just that, I, uh. I have to write an article on a topic of my choice, and—I. Don’t know? I have no clue what to write about.”

Listening attentively, he doesn’t interrupt as your words begin to pour out like a prayer. He doesn’t even interrupt when you say something along the lines of being “at best—mediocre”, even though he really wanted to. You scoff. “It’s a silly problem to have, I’m well aware, but…it’s the truth.”

The Monegasque picks your breathing patterns, mindlessly copying as you cuddle him. “You’ll figure it out.”

You swiftly look up, cheek pressed against his heart beat. “That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

What do you want him to say? Your lips open aimlessly, then close forcefully. 

He grabs a nearby blacket, covering you both and hugging you the same he’s seen you hug your teddy bear. “I think you need to have a little bit more faith. In yourself, that is. Because your mind…” Green eyes connect with yours as your breath comes to a strong halt. He tends to make your body react that way, quite often. He sends a simple grin. Dimples and all.

“It's the most beautiful thing on this earth.”

-

Abu Dhabi 2021.

It’s been talked about too much already.

Spain 2016.

You’re kidding, right?

Fine. Azerbaijan 2018—

You let out a muffled scream. “Pierre, no! I need something better.”

“Better than all that drama?” he dead pans, genuinely confused as to why his ideas are being shut down.

You exhale, hair flying outward. “I love it too, but I need something new. Unheard of.”

The Frenchman pauses, curling a brow. “I’ve gone blank.”

You bite down on your tongue, shrugging it off. “It’s okay. I should probably come up with my own topic, anyways.”

Getting up, you wave goodbye and make your way to the ice cream truck that’s been rented out for the weekend. Smartest investment, you think to yourself as you twirl your tongue around the lavender spoon. 

“This time I really do mean it—blow me.”

Squinting up at the sun—which so happens to be behind Charles like a halo—you chuckle, feeding him a spoonful. “Good, no?”

“Delicious,” he hums, going in for another. “Have you tried the funnel cakes?” They have funnel cakes? you squeal, eyes shining. He nods. “Want one?”

You deflate. “Later.”

Watching the crowd walk by, you two sit there, switching turns and enjoying each other's company. It’s amazing how no one comes up to Charles, either. Not that he would mind, but it’s definitely a nice surprise. Glancing over, he hands the spoon back to you. “Come up with something?”

“I have a few ideas, but nothing solid yet.”

Pistachio ice cream melts away faster. “I told Pierre to leave you alone, I hope he didn’t bother you too much.”

“He’s actually the reason why I have these ideas. Don’t let him know, though, I would never live it down.”

Watercolor eyes go wide. “Really? Pierre actually helped?”

“Weird, huh?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Don’t stress out too much, honey. You still have time.”

You purse your lips. “But the sooner I figure it, the sooner I can start and just focus, and do the proper research and try and—”

“You have time,” he reaffirms with a knowing look. You cock your head and he sends a sly grin. “Plenty.”

“Plenty,” you copy as he nods along. Extending his arm, he signals to the spoon. You shake your head. “You can have the rest.”

“You’re the gift that keeps on giving.”

-

Write what you know. Write. What. You. Know.

What the fuck does that even mean?

Biting down on your pen, you’re spaced out, staring at the picture frame. In it, Charles and Carlos smile, you can tell, behind their helmets. While the Monegasque’s eyes crinkle sweetly, the Spaniards are dilated and wide. Both nice, but nothing beats those green eyes. 

You can slowly feel your sanity slipping away, day by day. There’d be times where you thought you had it figured out, but then you’d bring it up and Lissie would smile and say—

“Yes! Stick to that one! Start it. Right now.”

It wouldn’t seem genuine because you know she just wanted you to get it done given it’s due in less than two weeks. And even though it was good, it wasn’t good enough. 

“I’m just going to brainstorm a few more ideas.”

She’d given up, mumbling beneath her breath and grabbing her keynotes and headed to her meeting. Well, technically it was your meeting too, but again. Time crunch.

Hence, why you’re admiring the picture and thinking harder than you were a minute ago. The door slides open then, the two Ferrari drivers back from their media duties. You rip your gaze away as soon as they make their way closer. “How does one fake their own disappearance?”

“Oi,” the brown eyed boy warns, toothy grin expanding. “Good question, though.”

“Oi, you,” your boyfriend warns back, glaring at his teammate. “At this point, I’m sure she’d go through with it.” He turns to you. “Honey, you’ve got to decide already, it can’t be that hard.”

“I know that!” you burst out, ears burning as you avoid their eyes. “But there’s just so much! I don’t want to jump the gun and make a mistake, is all.”

Carlos juts his lip, then rolls his jaw. “If only you took someone’s very good proposition.”

A scoff. “I wasn’t going to write about Papaya Rules, Chili.”

“It would’ve been so good, though!” A beat. “What about—”

“Nor multi-21.”

His expression drops, along with his shoulders, and strolls away, flipping you off. I hope you figure it out, then! A low chuckle makes its way as you exhale loudly. “C’mon, what’s the problem this time?”

You bite your lip, brows drawn in together as you gaze back at Charles. “I’m not entirely convinced.”

“Honey…”

“A-and I know I’m running out of time, but I just want it to be perfect!”

He smiles, throwing his arm on your shoulder. “And it will be, but you need a topic.”

“Yeah…” You raise a brow.  “What happened to having ‘plenty’ of time?”

The Monegasque wiggles his brows. “You can’t take up too much advantage.”

-

I’ve decided. 

That’s the lie you settle with because quite frankly, you’re done with the constant questions. If you were going to come up with the best matter to write about, then you need to have a clear head. Carly is over the moon, Lissie is ecstatic, and Charles is proud. 

Great! What’s it going to be about?

It’s a surprise. 

At first, they were all as curious as can be, but later when you insisted that it’d be better that way, they nodded, though the interest was still there. 

Now—with only a week and a half before your due date—you lay, plopped on your stomach, fingers teasing the keyboard as you watch Charles jump into his race suit. You sigh, sitting up. “I think I’m going to stay in here today.”

He fixes the zipper. “Yeah?”

You nod. “That way I can work and watch you.” You point to the T.V. hung up on his room wall. “Is that okay with you?”

“Whatever you need to do in order to focus, baby.” A wink. “It’s fine by me.”

They’re in lap sixty out of seventy-five, the last time you check, and your page remains as white as a ghost and as bare as a newborn baby. It’s both amusing and mind-boggling. Groaning, you hit your head with the back of your hand before running it down your face. Then, to make matters worse, your laptop dies.

Shit, you grit as you look around and spot Charles’ placed neatly on top of a nearby chair. Strolling over, you grab and open it, typing in his passcode and signing into your account. A few seconds later, the blank page resurfaces. Blinking slowly, you spot it. 

Notes. 

You take a look around, but really don’t know why since you’re the only one in his motorhome, and then click onto the App, furrowing your brows with concentration. 

Turns out, you really like to read because one after another, you skim through his journal entries without a second thought. Eagerly, might you add. Some things you know, others you don’t, but nevertheless, you’re caught off guard. How sensitive he is and how it portrays in every word. Not only are you amazed, but you’re completely engrossed. 

And it sparks something in you.

With a large grin, the brunette makes his way back to his room, trophy in hand and handshakes and pats on the back all around. Grazie mille, he beams as he makes his way closer, sending a final wave before opening his door. Finding you with his spare helmet over your head, he laughs. You giggle, opening the visor. “That’s one good looking winner!”

He laughs, placing the gold trophy down and enjoying you the way you struggle to take it off. You let out a loud gasp as soon as he assists you, tugging it off. “Shit.” Another gasp. “How do you wear that thing for two hours?” Fixing your hair, you pat it down as you send him a sheepish smile. “Give me a kiss!”

“No thanks. Too sweaty.”

Pouting, you pinch his ear tenderly before he gives in, pressing his lips against yours. “You were amazing out there, Charlie. You really were, I want you to know.”

Green eyes soften as he tries his best to savor this moment. “Only cause you say so.” You giggle, hugging his waist and he drapes his hands over your shoulders and rests his chin on top of your head. “How far along were you able to get?”

A hum. “Quite far, actually.”

He lets out a whistle, making your cheeks glow. “Looks like we’re both having a good day.”

“Looks like,” you swoon. “Looks like.”

Tilting your head back, you match with his eyes as he sends a dimpled smile. 

Write what you know, you think to yourself as he leans back down to kiss you. His lips greedily crash against your own as you let out a soft moan, playing with his hair, large hands making their way down to your ass. And you, my dear Charlie…

He groans, shuddering as soon as you grind back against his thigh. You smile, admiring his open mouth.

I know you very well.

-

You feel guilty when you start on your first page, but by the time you make it to your third, you’ve talked yourself out of it. You would explain. As soon as you’re done, before you turn it in, you would explain it all to him. Tell him that this is simply because you love him. How he’s your biggest inspiration, and how this wasn’t you using him, but rather you showing others how amazing he truly is.

He notices it right away—the determination. And he admires you for it because he hasn’t seen you like that ever since your writer’s block. So, he tries not to intrude in moments where you’re on a roll, and instead makes sure to have a bath ready for you. He joins you sometimes, too.

Cracking your fingers, you yawn, exhausted, and stretch like a cat. He chuckles, closing his book like a light thud. “Update?”

“Six pages.”

“Wow. You really got it going on.” You blush. “You deserve something sweet. What do you want?”

“But it’s so late, and you have to be up early tomorrow…”

He rolls his eyes, already grabbing your trench coat. “It’s a bit cold out right now.”

You smile.

It’s not that far of a walk, three miles. After buying you a hot chocolate—with extra whip—he takes your mitten covered hand and leads you out the small coffee shop. By now, not many people are out, so it makes for a calm stroll.

“Shhh—ah,” you hiss, tongue sticking out as your face twists with subtle pain. He laughs, eyes crinkling. Drink slowly, he says, voice laced with humor. “The cool air helps,” you murmur, blowing on the hot drink. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

He shakes his head. “I just wanted you to unwind.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” you coo, enjoying the way his ears turn pink. You giggle. “Why do I feel like you’re thinking about something, though?”

“I am. You.” A gust of wind dances. “Always.”

You purse your lips, taking a slow sip, lipstick painting the white lid. “I’m serious, Cha. You’ve been quiet ever since you got off that phone call two hours ago.” Neat brows knit together with concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he answers, but it’s too quick for it to be the truth.

Giving his large hand a squeeze, you send a knowing look. His breath hitches. “You can talk to me—”

“Are you almost done with your article?” he asks, obviously changing the topic as he stares up ahead, and if not, down at his shoes. Pink nose twitches. “I miss you, and call me greedy, but I was hoping you’d be done before my birthday, at least, that way we could…I don’t know—” He shrugs. “You’ve just been really busy—which I get why, and I understand—but I miss y-you.”

Wincing, you chew your bottom lip a couple times before letting go. “Almost, but.” His shoulders drop, making your stomach twist. You panic. “I feel like I’m missing something. Like the final bang in order for it to be…” A beat. “I’ll be done before your birthday, you can count on that.”

Round eyes finally flicker up as he nods, a more relaxed look evident. “This makes me sound so needy,” he says. “Which I guess I am, bu—”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut him off with a reassuring smile. “But please, tell me what’s going on…”

The Monegasque stiffens. Despite walking, you can tell. You can feel it. Also, it doesn’t take a genius to notice. “They’re not renewing Carlos’ contract for next year.”

You stop walking, making him stop too. He’s still holding onto you, rubbing small circles against cashmere. “W-why?”

“Guess.”

Your mind races. The rumors have definitely been swirling—everyone’s heard—but really? “They’re actually doing it?”

He nods.

“Lewis,” you whisper like it the first time you pronounce his name. “This is, uh…wow. I mean, wow.” 

“Yup,” he says, popping the p. “Wow, for sure.” Letting go, he takes a small step back, but still faces you with an uneasy look. “They brought it up as a possibility, but I don’t know why I never thought they’d be capable of…” He grimaces. “I can’t even begin to imagine how Carlos must be feeling.”

“Weren’t they just praising him last time during your guys’ team meeting?” You curl the cup towards your chest. “That’s fucked up.” Charles sighs, pinching the tip of his nose swiftly. Your eyes fill up with concern. “What about you?”

“I got an extension.”

You let out a breath of relief, nodding. “O-okay, okay. That’s good, Charlie, that’s really good.” When he keeps quiet, you pause all movement and blink feverishly. “Why are you upset, then?”

“I’m not,” he answers. “Only worried.” Listening closely, you silently wait for him to continue. He sighs, rubbing his eyes, suddenly tired. “It’s just that…he. He’s Lewis,” he finishes like that’s enough explanation.

You curl a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

A weak chuckle. “It means he’s better, and the team is going to favor him over me.” A timid shrug. “I get it, though. If anyone can bring a Championship home for the team, it’s going to be him.”

“It’s going to be you.”

“No.” The light in his eyes gave out, slowly and painfully so. “It’s not.”

Berry lips open, then close lamely, analyzing him like the world's biggest mystery. Sternly, you narrow your eyes down like knives. “World Champion?”

He flinches.

You click your tongue. “Do you realize how crazy you sound?”

“What?” he says, puzzled.

You nod. “Why are you giving up so easily, huh?”

Sharp jaw clenches. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he’s a former World Champion, and I’m not.” He chuckles sourly. “It’s really not that difficult to figure out. I mean, I’ve been working for it for so long now, and look at me! I’m nowhere close to being there!”

Silence. Chest heaves. You never let go of your gaze, and he has no other choice than to do the same. He’s not mad at you—not mad at anyone, really—but he’s frustrated. And yeah. Maybe he is giving up the fight, but anyone else who was in his position would too. No one wants to be the laughing stock, no one wants to be compared. 

“Listen to me Charles Leclerc, and listen to me closely because I’m only going to say this once.”

He waits.

“If it’s something you want, then it’s most likely something you can have.”

Pink lips turn upward as he tilts his head in the slightest of tilts.

Holding his face between your delicate hands, you raise your brows, shivering at the icy air. He can feel your hand vibrate against his skin as he grabs them, brings them up to his mouth, and blows hot air onto them. “I believe in you. Everybody does. Do you believe in that?”

And it takes a moment for him to answer. It takes a moment for it to register. He nods. Sure of himself.

“Only because you do.”

-

“A USB?” He frowns. “I thought you hated those?”

“I do,” you say, combing through your hair, staring at him through the reflection of the mirror. “But I feel like this makes it real. Physically turning it in, I mean. It’s dumb, but…” You check the time, shrieking and grabbing your things. “Carly is going to kill me! Okay, I’ll be back in an hour, and then we can go with your family for dinner, or I’ll meet you there, yeah?” You huff. “Red or white wine?”

“Sparkling water,” he ponders. “Maman is trying to get to ‘quit.’ Which is probably not the right way to put it because it’s not like Lorenzo, Arthur, and I are alcoholics.”

“Oh. Alright then, I’ll just get that instead.” Tippy toeing, you peck his cheek briskly, sweet perfume hitting him. “I love you.”

Adoration fills his watercolor eyes. “I love you, too.”

Who knew?

Who knew that’d be the last time you’d hear those words coming from him?

-

Entering the familiar office, you wheeze, crouching down to catch your breath before sending over a coy smile. Carly laughs, clearly amused, before signaling to the chair that sits right in front of her. “We could have done this any other day as long as it was before the deadline, you know?”

“No,” you pant, heart beat barely switching back to its regular pace. Well. Sort of. “I need to get this out of the way, I promised Charles I’d be free before his birthday. He said it was his one and only wish, could you believe that, he’s so cute, isn’t he?” She blinks. Pink dusts your cheekbones. “Anyways, here it is.”

Looking down at your extended hand, she almost lets out a snicker. “I get I’m older than you, but really? You emailing it to me would have been just as effective.”

“I didn’t want to risk it going straight into your spam folder.” That, and I don’t want to see when you actually read it because I have a funny feeling you’re going to disapprove, which is okay, fair. “Here.”

“Very well, then,” she mumbles, retrieving it. “Why don’t we proofread it together one more time before send—”

Horrified at the innocent suggestion, you leap up from your chair, pushing back. “There’s no need, I checked it about a thousand times.” She raises a sharp brow at your outburst, the defensiveness in it. You laugh nervously. “And I should get going, anyways. Pascale is cooking Cha an early birthday dinner, can’t be late.”

Placing her forearms against the table, she nods slowly, but still unsure. “I won’t hold you back any longer, then. Tell him I said happy birthday.”

Tight lips form a forced smile, uneven breaths expanding. “Of course.”

You’re expected in an hour, so when you should be up forty-five minutes early, Pascale is pleased, but a bit surprised. Hugging you hello, she opens the door wider, letting you in. “They’re out in the back. Dinner should be ready in a bit.”

“No worries. Do you need any assistance?”

She shakes her head, thin blond hair swaying. “I’ve got it all under control, chérie.”

Nodding, you put your things down and start making your way towards the sound, beers clinking. You let out a snicker. “And here you are claiming not to be an alcoholic,” you joke. Flustered, Charles turns to face your soft voice. 

“It’s my first,” he squeaks.

“Third,” both Lorenzo and Arthur shoot, greeting you with a gentle nod. 

“It barely even has any alcohol,” your boyfriend tries defending, but the crack in his voice makes everyone burst out with laughter. Blood rushes to his cheeks. “Weren’t you supposed to be with Carly?”

“I was, but we got done pretty quickly.”

“What’d she think?” he asks, tugging you onto his lap. You giggle, meanwhile Arthur gags and Lorenzo blinks unbothered. “Bet she loved it.”

“I wouldn’t know. I left before she read it.”

He cocks his head. “Seriously?”

You nod. “You said you wanted my full attention.”

“I didn’t say it like that—”

“Well, now you have it.” You kiss his nose gingerly. “Happy early birthday, Charlie.”

The Monegasque smiles deeply. “Thank you.”

“Arthur! Lorenzo! Come help and set the table!”

Arthur groans. “Why just us? What about Charles?”

Poking her head out the window, Pascale aims a stern look, making him dash up. You laugh, ideally going to stand up, but gets tugged back down onto his thigh. You roll your eyes. “I should help, too. But you stay here and relax.”

“I will, but only if you stay with me.”

“Pascale needs my help—”

“Right, but she has both of them already.” He gives your hair a gentle tug. “Stay.”

Sighing, you nod, resting your head on his shoulder as he holds you. From here, you can see the breathtaking view of Monaco’s sunset. The ocean, the trees. Filled with satisfaction in life, you kiss the side of his neck, making him squirm slightly. “Carly says happy birthday. Early. Early birthday.”

A hum. “Make sure to tell her that I said thank you, the next time you see her.”

The sound of waves crashing sings softly. He traces shapes down your leg. “When will I be able to read it?”

You’re sure you stop breathing. “S-soon. After Carly gives me the green light, at least.”

A beat. “I’m excited.”

Your stomach churns. “You are?”

“Mhm. Very. Didn’t you know I was your biggest fan?”

Fixing yourself to look at him, you open your lips, feeling how dry they’ve become. “Charles—”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

A sore laugh. “They’re calling you.”

You reach towards your back pocket, pulling it out. Carly Freeman. Clicking it off, you shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

He wiggles his brows. “Doesn’t seem like it’s nothing. Answer her, it’s fine.”

“She’s going to have to wait until tomorrow,” you announce, standing up and dusting your hands off. “I’m here with you, and she's going to have to wait. Whatever it is, it can’t be more important than this.”

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. 

He sends a worried look. “Are you sure? What if it has something to do with your article? You should pick up—”

“I said I’m here with you,” you affirm. “Tomorrow. She’ll be fine.”

“Okay…” Standing to his full height, he sends a gesture towards the house. “Let's go?”

His hand reaches out, waiting for you. You smile, taking it. “Let’s go.”

-

Your phone keeps buzzing and it doesn’t let him sleep.

That, and Carly is a terrible liar.

Shifting in the bed as quietly as possible, Charles reaches for your phone, trying his best not to wake you. “Hello?” he croaks. The line stays quiet, static rolling. “I know it's you, Carly.”

“Charles! How’s my favorite driver?” 

You twist, unwrapping your leg that was draped over him. He freezes, soothing you a bit before you settle down. Climbing off the bed, he walks out, gently closing the door and heading towards the living room. “I know your favorite is Fernando, what’s up?”

She laughs nervously, cursing underneath her breath. “Is my little journalist with you?”

“She is.”

“Great! May I speak with her very quick—”

“But she’s asleep.” She groans. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“Well…”

Sitting down on the couch, he leans back, placing his feet onto the coffee table. Normally, he wouldn’t, but you weren’t here right now, and lucky for him, he wasn’t wearing any shoes. He clicks his tongue. “Does this have something to do with your guys’ meeting today?”

“Yes. And no.” More static. “Do you mind waking her up for me?”

“Um…well I do. Sorry, Carly, but she needs to get some rest, she’s been working non-stop, and—”

“No, no, I get it!” she squeals. “I totally understand. Can you let her know that I need to talk to her as soon as possible? Like—urgent. Please and thank you and have a good night!”

“Wait,” he says, furrowing his brows and pushing the phone closer to his ear. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing to worry about. Too much,” she adds. “It’s just that I need a bit of clarification, that’s all.”

“Clarification?”

“Yup. On a tiny mistake of hers. But we can fix it together, she still has time, and if she hurries then we can still meet the dea—”

“She doesn’t make mistakes, though. Ever.”

A hiss. “It’s a tiny one, Charles—”

“Okay, tell me and I’ll tell her.”

“What? I can’t. I need to speak directly with her first.”

“Carly…”

“What now?” she grits. 

“What’s the issue?” he presses harder. “I’ll let her know right now.”

The line goes quiet. For a moment, he begins to wonder if she’s hung up already, but when she clears her throat, he listens carefully, but can’t decipher her mumbles.

“She gave me the wrong USB.” That’s it? She groans. “Listen to me Charles—the USB she brought to be today only has her title written on it along with a few notes about what it’s supposed to be about. It’s the wrong one and I need the other one now.”

“Okay,” he mutters slowly, nodding. “I’m sure she’ll bring it to you once I let her know, but that’s going to have to be until tomorrow.”

She gasps. “You said you’d let her know right now!”

He winces. “I know I did, but it’s late! Trust me, though. I’ll tell her you called and I’ll even drive her myself tomorrow to drop it off. It must be around here somewhere right…” And it sure is. Sitting nicely on the coffee table, inches away from his feet. He sits up straight away, picking it up as if it were some sort of new discovery. Which in a way, it was. “Carly, why is this so important to you?”

“She’s my favorite client,” she answers without missing a beat. “I only want what’s best for her, and right now we need to fix this little mishap and get this article in as soon as possible.” A beat. “Also, maybe don’t mention the first part to Lissie, she’d totally kill me.”

Analyzing the black USB, he remains stoic, blinking only because he needs to. “Goodnight, Carly…”

“Yeah. I, um—goodnight, Charles.”

Once he hangs up, he’s quick on his feet, retrieving his laptop from the counter and sticking the drive in without a second to process what he’s doing. He shouldn’t. Probably. Definitely not. But the interest Carly clearly has was enough to poke his mind and for him to start wondering what on earth is so significant? 

And it’s so obvious now why.

Charles Lecelrc: The Man Behind the Helmet

His eyes skim fast, narrowing sharply.

Like any other human being, he struggles with depression, though fails to admit. Many sleepless nights, many fights, many canceled therapy appointments, I begin to question: does every praise his fans give him make him think he’s above all these things? The truth hurts, but it's only because it's real. And Charles Lecelrc, you are nowhere close to being as perfect as everyone makes you out to be.

His heart stops, re-reading the last sentence. He wishes for it to say anything but that, but it never changes, and it only mocks him like a school bully. 

Many assume that the death of his late-father, Hervé, and his late-godfather, Jules Bianchi, have made him stronger in a sense. That it has fed the drive in him to succeed. To be the best of the best, but what if that wasn’t true at all? Would any of you be surprised? Probably, but again, no one truly knows him the way I do. So, what feeds his determination? 

The thought of failing the same way they did. 

Anger bubbles up inside of him, grinding his molar until they crunch loudly against his temples. 

But who can blame him for having that fear inherited down onto him? Tabloids also have a part in this, and so do unwanted changes. One way or another, we can relate with the latter, but never in the way he does. Reading and hearing rumors takes a toll on Charles, that much is true, but what can we expect when his next new teammate is a seven-time World Champion. 

I guess the only question that stands in not only our minds, but also his… 

Is he strong enough to come head to head with someone as talented as Lewis Hamil—

“Wake up.”

Groggily, you rub your eyes. “Charlie, it’s dark out, come on. Come back to bed.”

“Stop calling me that, and get up.” In a single movement, he rips the blanket away and yanks you from your wrist, forcing you to sit. You gasp, his change of heart sobering you up from your sleepy daze. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

He laughs. “Me? What’s wrong with me? Are you serious right now or are you stupid?”

You flinch, taken aback. “Don’t talk to me like that, what did I do?”

“I won’t waste my breath explaining.” He drops his laptop on the bed, making you freeze as soon as you spot the familiar USB. “I'll let you re-read it.” 

“Where did you get this from?”

“Really? That’s what’s important to you?” He rolls his jaw, rubbing it until his skin turns a light shade of red. “If you don’t want me finding it, then next time don’t leave it out.”

Your lips go dry, crawling to the edge of the bed, but as soon as you’re about to reach out for him, he grimaces, shaking his head and taking three steps back. “Charlie—”

“No,” he hisses, glaring at you with utter hatred. The sight alone makes your eyes well up. “You don’t get to call me that. You don’t get to call me that ever again.” A cry rings through the air as you cover your hands over your face. “A-am I supposed to be impressed by what I read or what?”

“It’s no—”

“Did I do something to upset you or w-why were you talking about me like that?” he questions, genuine confusion taking over as he furrows his brows until they cause his eyes to pinch up too. 

Sniffling, you get up quickly, shaking your head adamantly until you get dizzy. “It wasn’t supposed to come off across that way! Are you kidding me?” Grabbing your heart, you soften your eyes. “I’m your biggest supporter.”

“Yeah? Well, that,” he snarls, pointing at the open screen like it's the most disturbing thing. “That doesn’t make sense with what you’re saying…” A beat. “Why would you do this to me?”

“Do what, though?” you whimper. “Everything I wrote about you is based on what you told me!”

“Exactly!” he shouts back, making the distance between you smaller, making you shrink. “I told you! Just you! I never once asked you to air out my business, and quite frankly, I thought that was common sense.” He lets out a dry chuckle. “You called me crazy and troublesome among other things. Are you my girlfriend or wolves in sheep's clothing? I’m trying to understand your logic here.”

You push your hair back, breathing hard. “You can’t just say that, there’s context behind that, come on…”

“Oh. Okay. My bad. I’m crazy because I talk to my father’s tombstone and Jules’. It's troublesome because I used to do cocaine in order to de-stress. I’m in over my head because I actually think I stand a chance against Lewis—a chance you convinced me I had!”

“That’s not what I meant!” you squeak. “You’re taking it all wrong, Charles, I would never say that about you!”

“But you did,” he states firmly. “And you know? If I’m so unready to face a friendly competition against my future teammate, then maybe I’m unready to face a lot of other things, too.” You freeze, dreading his next words as you plead him silently not to say them. “Maybe I’m not as ready to settle down with you as much as I thought I was…”

That does it. That seems to cut the little oxygen you had, off. Stumbling back, you feel the tears start to form again. “You don’t mean that…” You smile weakly. “You’re just a tiny bit upset right now, okay, fine. That’s fine. But you don’t mean any of that.”

Glaring until it hurts, he maintains eye contact. “Don’t tell me what I’m feeling, you don’t get to do that!”

You flinch. “I’m sorry.” A droplet slides down. “I’m sorry, okay?” More follows. “For all of it. For all of this. If I could take it all back, I would, you have to believe me, Charles, you know I would.”

His gaze lingers for a while longer, taking in your rosy nose. Your swollen eyes. Your wet cheeks. Everything that's supposed to make him feel better, but it doesn’t. “I really did trust you…” You breath hitches. “And I really did want you to win…” Pause. “And I still do.”

Strolling over, he disconnects the USB, making the screen go completely black, and hands it to you. Blinking down, you shake your head, too embarrassed to even look at it. “I don’t want it.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want it either…” Forcing your palm open, he places it down, instantly making your skin burn. “Journalist of the Year.”

You let out a wet sob, shoulders shaking. You don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but what you do know is that this doesn’t feel good and that your heart breaks with every passing second.

Never in a million years did you think you would experience any of this, especially with Charles. The Monegasque cocks his head, curls following. “I’m glad you’re about to get everything you’ve ever wanted, I really am.” He chuckles softly, eyeing you intently. “I just can’t help but wonder what that must feel like.”

“I was going to tell you,” you whisper meekly. “And you were supposed to understand where I was coming from.”

And if any anger was gone, well fuck that, it all came right back.

“Understand where you were coming from?” he spits out, shocked by your choice of words. “You really thought I would understand? I planned my entire future around you, and this is how you repay me? You went behind my back to write an article I didn’t even know about! We made a choice years ago!”

“No, you did!” you retort, despair rising hard and fast. “You came up with that decision all by yourself, Charles, I never agreed!” You look down. “Not entirely.”

“Huh,” he scoffs, squinting his eyes. “I was simply looking out for the girl that I love given that the internet is a scary place and she probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it, for God sakes, I guess this is my fault now, isn’t it?”

“I would have been able to handle it, but you never gave me the chance!”

“Yeah, because reporting on a driver and driver who's your boyfriend are two completely different things that you can’t seem to comprehend!”

Trembling, you blink carefully, gulping. “I would have done just fine.”

“You think so?” he challenges, a sour smile forming. You nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?” Closing the final distance between you two, your breath gets stuck as he sends a dirty glare, one that's meant to sting. “You’re not talented. You only have your position because of your dating status, when in reality, your work is utter shit. Everything is handed to you.”

There’s a mix of a whimper and a plea that comes out of you as you screw your eyes shut. “You’re being mean, Charles…”

He laughs, clapping his hands once with amusement. “That’s what the internet is! Maybe I was right, then—you can’t handle it.”

“I could…” you murmur, but it's no use. 

The brunette catches himself wanting to comfort you. To apologize for everything. But then he figures—why? It’s not like he truly did something wrong. 

“You’re the greatest disappointment of my life.”

Something ended the moment those words left his mouth—you both knew it. Sobbing hard, your shoulders vibrate violently as you seemingly gasp for air. He looks away. 

“You know, our life could have been so good. So fucking good. But you went and ruined it.” Green eyes flicker back. “Why would you do this to us?”

“I never meant to hurt you,” you declare with wet lashes. 

“You did a bit more than that,” he replies, wincing, blinking rapidly. He smiles. “If you wanted to write your article on me, you should’ve asked me. You should have talked to me. But no. And the thing is, I would have let you! God. I would have let you write whatever you wanted—but not like this. You stole an interview from me with no right, honey…”

Quickly, you flicker your gaze up at him, hoping to see any trace of  love in that one word, but you’re not surprised when you don’t find any, deflating furthermore. He shrugs. Like what you did to him was no big deal. 

“You took it from me. But I would have given it to you.”

-

“Are you sure you want to do this? You can always change your mind, babe, it’s totally fine!”

“No.” You fix your hair, posture straight. You smile. “I need to.”

Lissie shares a slow nod, nibbling on her bottom lip before handing you her keynotes. “Alright. Good luck.”

The idea first sparked when the Brit girl mentioned how she was the only one granted permission to interview Charles at this year's FIA prize giving ceremony. You had debated back and forth with what seemed like forever, both Carly and Lissie trying to talk you out of it, but you pleaded until they reluctantly agreed. 

You haven’t seen him ever since that day.

It’s insane to think about, sometimes. You knew each other for two years, dated for three, and haven’t crossed paths for another two. And now, you’re here. He’d been upfront that day, didn’t even flinch with his one and only birthday wish, meanwhile you felt the last stab hurt more than anything.

I wish to never see you again. 

Not long after, he grabbed his things and left. But not before turning around, sending you one last glance, dull, empty, and nothing like him anymore. You still recall.

Turn it in, he said, smiling warmly despite his better judgment. Despite not meaning it. Don’t let this all be for nothing.

Shaking your hands, you grin, fixing your silk dress. The Brit girl stares worriedly, but as soon as you wink, she hides it. Not that well, but enough. “He’s going to be so mad at me,” she jokes, but it’s probably true. He has a soft spot for her, and he only gave permission to her. No one else. 

You wince, grabbing her hands delicately. “I really appreciate this, Lissie. More than you’ll ever know.”

Waving goodbye, you make your way to the private conference hall. It’s daunting, actually, the sight of the large table where he’ll be sitting and the small chair where you will. Quite the narrative. His picture is hung in almost every corner, from the beginning of his career to now. The latest one makes you smile as he lifts the trophy high up with a beaming grin, dimples poking out and eyes crinkled just the way you remember. 

You thought about apologizing again. Better this time. Once things simmered down. You really wanted to, but as soon as Carly informed you that the article would need to be published in order for fans to engage with your content and for them to decide on a winner, you knew the gist of him accepting your apology was most likely never going to happen. 

And you contemplated not posting it. Carly did too. Lissie did too. No one thought it was a good idea, but you still did it. Like he said—you couldn’t let all that be for nothing.

The hate came immediately, you expected nothing less. In their minds, you were a loyal girlfriend, but after reading your work, the comments came rolling in. You were honestly quite grateful because you know you deserved every last bit of it. 

But somehow—somehow—you won Journalist of the Year. 

You were shocked to say the least—bewildered. And you could see it in Lissie and Carly’s eyes too. So, while accepting the award with a forced smile, it hit you like a truck.

Did you truly earn this or was it all thanks to him?

Either way, does it matter anymore?

The door gently opens as he steps in, a loopy smile stretched onto his lips before coming to a complete stop. With your heart in your throat, you cough awkwardly, standing up and waving. You cringe, putting your hand down as soon as he furrows his brows, looking around. 

“S-she’s not here,” you say, voice cracking. You blush. “You’re looking for Lissie, right?” Utter silence. He blinks, unresponsive and as stiff as a tree. You lick your lips. “I-I-I can leave if you want.” But you really hope he doesn’t want you to.

The Monegasque’s features strike with something familiar—something you knew not long ago. Then…

He smiles at you. 

“It’s alright.” Carefully, he makes his way closer, scooting his chair right next to yours as you blink, sitting back down and staring with your plump lips slightly open. He cocks his head. “Y-you look the same.”

You giggle. “Is that supposed to be a good thing?” When he fails to answer, you bite down on your lip hesitantly. “You haven’t changed much, either.” 

He clears his throat, averting his gaze. “I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but why are you here and where is Lissie?”

You flinch. Okay. This was expected. You practiced hours for this very moment. “Don’t be mad at her, okay, I asked her to let me do this. I wanted to…see you, Charles.” The sound of his name leaving your lips makes his heart stop because it's been so long since he’s heard it. Too long. A subtle blush. “I’m here to apologize.”

“Ah,” he winces, scrunching his nose. “Don’t. We’re cool.”

“Are we, though?”

He stiffens. 

Exhaling, you place your things down, pursing your lips. He watches the way your knee bounces up and down. How you play with your ring before covering it neatly with the opposite hand. That catches him completely off guard as he blinks rapidly, thinking he must be mistaken. 

“I know I don’t deserve any of this,” you say nervously. “By all means, I should have been kicked out five minutes ago, but you…” Round eyes soften, lashes batting slowly. “You’ve always been a kind and generous human being, Charles.”

“Stop,” he whispers. You frown. “Saying my name, I mean. You can talk—we can talk, but please, just. Don’t say it.”

“O-okay,” you mumble, stomach churning. “I won’t.”

He lets out a tight smile, tilting his head. Years ago, his hair was a tad bit longer, fluffier even. Now, it’s still the same, but somehow more mature. His eyes are still young and naive, but with a hint of wisdom. He usually would wear mismatching suits, but now it matches. A lot of him has changed, and you weren’t there to witness it.

“Congrats, by the way,” you add happily. “World Champion, eh?”

Pink spreads across his cheeks, slowly but surely. “Thanks. I was close to losing my mind.”

You laugh. “Seven years later, but it’s well deserved. I’m so proud of you.”

And for a moment, he goes completely numb. He’s heard plenty of kudos ever since winning his first title—and they were nice, they made him feel nice—but this. You? It’s the first time it makes him feel accomplished. And that feels more than nice.

Playing with his bracelet, he nods sheepishly. “How have you—how, um…God. I, um, how have you been?”

“Oh.” You let out a genuine smile. Soft. Angelic. And everything he wishes to find in any other girl that isn’t you. It’s not something he should notice. “I’ve been well.” You raise your hand. “Engaged.”

“You sure are,” he mumbles, finally acknowledging the silver band before flashing an easy smile of his own. And maybe it was real, or maybe it wasn’t, but he wasn’t as upset as he thought he’d be. Just a tiny bit bothered, is all. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

You lick your lips awkwardly. “You remember Carly’s son?”

A tide hits him as he internally screams. “Grayson, right?”

You nod. “She, uh, set us up a while ago and we hit it off.” You wince. “I’m sorry, is that weird?”

“No. Of course not,” he replies, shrugging. “You’re allowed to build your life with whomever you want. What happened between us was…” He chuckles. “So long ago. I’m happy for you both, I really am.”

And he means it this time.

Admiring the oval-shaped ring, you swoon as if you’re thinking of the exact moment he proposed to you, and that’s the prettiest sight Charles thinks he might ever see. Even if it didn’t end up being him. Once you look back up, he looks away, feigning interest in anything else stupidly.

“Yourself?”

“Myself?”

A playful eye roll. “Are you seeing anyone?”

A retch. “Ha ha, no! No, that’s not—that’s not for me.” You frown. He winces. “Please don’t be offended, but after you, I sort of lost interest in meeting other people. Pierre calls it trauma, I call it precaution.” A sore laugh. “B-but maybe one day. Never say never, am I right?”

The lights reflect directly towards you, so that lets him see the rosy blotches beginning to hug your cheekbones as your lips wobble. He panics. “N-no! Fuck. I didn’t mean to—”

“I ruined your life,” you wail, throwing your hands over your face. “Oh my God, I wrecked it!”

“You didn’t!” he tries. “I’ve gone on a couple of dates, here and there!”

You’re tiny cries take a quick pause. Sniffling, you shoot him a look, shiny eyes beaming back at him. “You have?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, slowly relaxing against his seat. “Sort of. Kind of.” A horrified expression maps out against your face. He grimaces. “I-It’s just not my thing!”

“I’m sorry, Ch—” You pause, rethinking your words. “I’m sorry.”

The Monegasque shrugs, hoping that’d be enough for you to drop the topic. “It’s okay, really. It’s a decision I made long ago, and I’d like to keep it like that for a while, at least.” You bite down on your bottom lip, nodding halfheartedly. “But please, um, tell me, how far along are you? Heard from Lissie that it’s a boy.”

You let out a wet giggle, wiping your tears away to the best of your ability. “Nineteen weeks. I’m in my second trimester.” Gingerly, you rub your tiny belly before your eyes light up. “Give me your hand!”

“What?”

Leaning in, you grab his large hand and place it down on your stomach, looking up at him to watch his reaction. At first, he’s weirded out, you can tell. He makes a silly face he probably doesn’t realize he’s making, but seconds later his features soften. His green eyes go round, no tension behind them. His brows lay flat, then knit together in amazement. He laughs, rubbing his thumb gently.

“Does it hurt?” he whispers. “When he kicks?”

You hum. “Sometimes it can. But I suppose it’s more discomfort than anything.” You wiggle your eyebrows. “Cool?”

He nods rapidly. “Super cool.”

Pulling away, he can feel his adrenaline as high as a kite, and as fast as his car. He feels different, he notes, as if something has finally shifted inside of him. With this, he takes time to admire you in a way he hasn’t been able to ever since.

Your hair is cut into layers now, glossy and shorter than he remembers. Your lips, round, plump and berry tinted. Your eyes, doe, innocent, and pure in a way he can’t seem to wrap his head around. Smile, even, wobbly, and everything in between.

Your gaze flickers. “Question…”

“Answer,” he replies, studying your body language. 

It’s harder than you had initially thought it would be, asking him what you’d been wondering for these past two years. Was it all that bad? The answer might be yes. Yes, it was. To him, perhaps. But it tugs your tongue, and it burns a bit, but you push through, focusing on him and his watercolor eyes.

“Do you—”

But he still knows you. He can still read you. Before you, it’s always him who understands your train of thought. 

He shakes his head, dimples imprinting like a finger in sand. “No regrets.” 

A peach seed forms as you let out a sheepish laugh. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life,” you admit, cringing slightly. “Just yesterday, I bought the wrong plane ticket. Got stuck in the airport for three extra hours.” He chuckles. “Totally unnecessary.”

“It happens,” he comforts you, clicking his tongue. 

“I guess so,” you say, sighing. “But betraying someone you love? Yeah. That’s got to be the worst mistake of my life.”

He flinches, an old wound suddenly opening. “Hey, you—”

You raise your hand, pleading with him. “Let me just…” So, he forces himself to sit there quietly, to not intrude no matter how much he really wants to. It’s fine, he wants to say, I’m fine now, we’re fine now, seriously.

A wince. “Do you know how guilty I feel whenever Grayson polishes my award?” A scoff. “He means no harm with his actions, but it makes me feel like shit everytime I walk past it. I’ve begged him to put it away somewhere in the attic, but he’s as proud as can be. Say’s an accomplishment like that deserves to be shown off. That it’s proof of all my hard work.” You smile. “Much like you and your trophy.”

You exhale. “You were right, though.” A hum. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I never said that.”

“Sure,” you give in quietly. “But you did say that if I won, I’d always wonder if I was truly respected for my work or if I was respected because of you.”

He bites his tongue. 

You shrug lamely. “And that’s just something I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life…” Steadily, you ease your eyes back towards him as you find him already staring at you, listening close and curious. “And I want you to know that I’m fine with that.” A beat. “What I’m not fine with is you being mad at me for the rest of your life.”

Charles opens his mouth, feeling his tongue as dry as the desert and his throat as dusty as the highest mountain. “I’m not mad at you��anymore.” He sits up straighter. “I said a lot of things to you that night that I shouldn’t have said, but you have to understand that you hurt me a thousand times worse.” 

Tears well up your eyes as you nod shamefully. He continues despite feeling the need to reach out for you. “I just wanted you to feel what I was feeling, even if that meant—well. You know. And, um…I tried to forget all of that, but I, too, felt guilty, so—I’m glad you’re here. That way I can say…I’m sorry.”

“No!” you wail, raising your arms up. “No, I’m sorry! I broke your trust, and I was a God awful girlfriend.”

“You did,” he chuckles before scrunching his nose in deep thought. “But you were also the best I’ll ever have.”

A wet sob escapes.

“I forgive you.”

“S-shit,” you let out. “You don’t know how g-good it feels to finally hear you say that.”

A gentle smile. “You?”

You giggle, standing up. “I have nothing to forgive you for, but yeah. Okay. I forgive you, as well.” You open your arms for a hug. He blinks. “It’ll make me feel better.”

Tsk. “You used to do this all the time wherever we fought,” he says, a hint of sadness wavering in his eyes before disappearing into thin air. Extending to his full height, he towers over you before going in to close the distance. He halts, coughing awkwardly.

You snicker, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Right. You're hugging two of us now.”

A wave of jealousy pangs his chest for a second. You’ve moved on, and he’s stuck in the year you were still in his life. Still his. He envies Grayson in every sense there exists, but he swallows down that pill because he’d always been a nice bloke the very few times he interacted with him. He needs to move on, too. 

Even if it takes him his whole life to figure out how. 

“The more the merrier.”

Your face has gone completely numb by now from how hard you're grinning from ear to ear. Wrapping your arms around his waist as he goes over your shoulders, you sigh contently as you catch the whiff of his cologne. His heartbeat quickened at the smell of your perfume. 

“Question,” he whispered. You chuckle against his chest. Answer. He gulps, nose twitching. “Would it make me a bad person to say that you’re probably the only girl I’ll ever love?” Silence. He screws his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. Why the fuck would he ever say that—

“I’d only say that I don’t deserve to be her,” you respond. “Anyone but me.”

A flinch. “O-of course. You’re getting married, you’re having a baby, what was I th—”

“Honey…”

He freezes. 

You lean back, holding his face between your hands and smiling. “It’s not your name…”

His voice catches. “It’s not…”

A deeper smile. Nostalgic. “A piece of me will always love you.” A pause. “You know me so well. Better than anyone. You’ve seen me naked. You’ve dressed me. You’ve seen me with makeup. You’ve seen me without. And…well—you’ve seen my good side. But you’re also the only one who's seen my bad.”

His palms quickly get sweaty as he tries his best to not do anything he might regret. And not because he’ll wish to take it back, but because you would. Neat brows draw in together as you graze his stubble with your thumb. As nurturing as a mother, which he supposes you already are. 

“I’d say that makes us pretty close, no?”

“Not as close as I’d like to be.” 

“You’ll find someone.” A beat. “Someone who’ll love you right.”

“You didn’t?” he questions before he can stop himself. “Sorry—”

“My love for you was honest. But I blew it.”

I’m still here, he wants to yell out. If you still want me like I want you, then I’m still here.

But he refrains from doing so.

“You’ve never done me wrong,” he attempts, kissing your palm gingerly before softening his gaze. You send a playful glare. “Except for that one time.” You snort. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore because—because it doesn’t matter anymore…”

Maybe it's the hormones, you sort of wish it was, but you know it’s due to his gentleness. You don’t deserve his sympathy, you don’t deserve even a fraction of it. Crying, you kiss his cheek, hoping everything you feel transfers itself into the warmth of his skin. And you don’t know, but it does just that.

Closing his eyes, he prays to dream about this kiss forever. Have nightmares, who even cares. As long as he doesn’t forget. 

You step away carefully, taking him in as his eyes flutter. 

“Charles Leclerc, first time World Champion…”

He smiles. You smile. 

His dimples pop out. Your eyes crinkle.

He loves you. You love him.

And maybe it didn’t work out in this life.

But maybe in the next.

“May I have an interview with you?”

taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting@chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire@alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna @emmaxdelicate

[ailelie]

Installing Linux (Mint) as a Non-Techy Person

I've wanted Linux for various reasons since college. I tried it once when I no longer had to worry about having specific programs for school, but it did not go well. It was a dedicated PC that was, I believe, poorly made. Anyway.

In the process of deGoogling and deWindows365'ing, I started to think about Linux again. Here is my experience.

Pre-Work: Take Stock

List out the programs you use regularly and those you need. Look up whether or not they work on Linux. For those that don't, look up alternatives.

If the alternative works on Windows/Mac, try it out first.

Make sure you have your files backed up somewhere.

Also, pick up a 5GB minimum USB drive.

Oh and make a system restore point (look it up in your Start menu) and back-up your files.

Step One: Choose a Distro

Dear god do Linux people like to talk about distros. Basically, from what all I've read, if you don't want to fuss a lot with your OS, you've got two options: Ubuntu and Linux Mint. Ubuntu is better known and run by a company called Canonical. Linux Mint is run by a small team and paid for via donations.

I chose Linux Mint. Some of the stuff I read about Ubuntu reminded me too much of my reasons for wanting to leave Windows, basically. Did I second-guess this a half-dozen times? Yes, yes I did.

The rest of this is true for Linux Mint Cinnamon only.

Step Two: Make your Flash Drive

Linux Mint has great instructions. For the most part they work.

Start here:

The trickiest part of creating the flash drive is verifying and authenticating it.

On the same page that you download the Linux .iso file there are two links. Right click+save as both of those files to your computer. I saved them and the .iso file all to my Downloads folder.

Then, once you get to the 'Verify your ISO image' page in their guide and you're on Windows like me, skip down to this link about verifying on Windows.

Once it is verified, you can go back to the Linux Mint guide. They'll direct you to download Etchr and use that to create your flash drive.

If this step is too tricky, then please reconsider Linux. Subsequent steps are both easier and trickier.

Step Three: Restart from your Flash Drive

This is the step where I nearly gave up. The guide is still great, except it doesn't mention certain security features that make installing Linux Mint impossible without extra steps.

(1) Look up your Bitlocker recovery key and have it handy.

I don't know if you'll need it like I did (I did not turn off Bitlocker at first), but better to be safe.

(2) Turn off Bitlocker.

(3) Restart. When on the title screen, press your Bios key. There might be more than one. On a Lenovo, pressing F1 several times gets you to the relevant menu. This is not the menu you'll need to install, though. Turn off "Secure Boot."

(4) Restart. This time press F12 (on a Lenovo). The HDD option, iirc, is your USB. Look it up on your phone to be sure.

Now you can return to the Linux Mint instructions.

Figuring this out via trial-and-error was not fun.

Step Four: Install Mint

Just follow the prompts. I chose to do the dual boot.

You will have to click through some scary messages about irrevocable changes. This is your last chance to change your mind.

I chose the dual boot because I may not have anticipated everything I'll need from Windows. My goal is to work primarily in Linux. Then, in a few months, if it is working, I'll look up the steps for making my machine Linux only.

Some Notes on Linux Mint

Some of the minor things I looked up ahead of time and other miscellany:

(1) HP Printers supposedly play nice with Linux. I have not tested this yet.

(2) Linux Mint can easily access your Windows files. I've read that this does not go both ways. I've not tested it yet.

(3) You can move the taskbar (panel in LM) to the left side of your screen.

(4) You are going to have to download your key programs again.

(5) The LM software manager has most programs, but not all. Some you'll have to download from websites. Follow instructions. If a file leads to a scary wall of strange text, close it and just do the Terminal instructions instead.

(6) The software manager also has fonts. I was able to get Fanwood (my favorite serif) and JetBrains (my favorite mono) easily.

In the end, be prepared for something to go wrong. Just trust that you are not the first person to ever experience the issue and look it up. If that doesn't help, you can always ask. The forums and reddit community both look active.

[harryssyndrome]

The Red Key | h.s (AU)

summery: When a rogue agent threatens global security with a deadly bioweapon known as Red Key, two operatives-Harry and YN-are drawn into a high-stakes mission where trust is fragile and betrayal cuts deep. YN, hiding her true identity behind a glamorous cover, must get close to a man from her past, while Harry races against time to stop a looming catastrophe. As the lines between duty and desire blur, the duo must outwit a cunning enemy and confront secrets that could destroy everything.

word count: 2.8k || Masterlist 🔫❤️‍🔥

A/N: Felt a little inspired by mission impossible II so why no 😌 I hope it’s nice little thing to read😅 warning? not proofread. It’s a mini series so a part or two. I’m sorry if it’s shit, I tried my best. my life’s a mess so… I’m not at my best, I’m posting after so long. it’s been in my draft for months, I promise dadrry are better. Like & reblog are appreciated, let me know if you wanna be added to the tag-list, feel free to leave comments. Mwah! 💋

Tag-list: @wheredidmyeyesgo @fruity-harry @angeldavis777 @cherryloveshs @harryyloverrr | Tag-list is OPEN || Request are OPEN

The grandeur of the gala was designed to impress. The sprawling ballroom was a display of unapologetic wealth, with every detail meticulously curated to reflect the stature of its host. From the cascading crystal chandeliers that bathed the room in a soft golden glow to the opulent red-and-gold tapestries adorning the walls, everything screamed excess. Waiters moved like shadows, weaving seamlessly through the crowd with silver trays balanced expertly in their hands. Glasses of champagne and delicate hors d’oeuvres passed from tray to guest in a rhythm as choreographed as the string quartet’s melody.

YN stood near one of the massive arched windows, her reflection a shimmering silhouette against the night. Her dress—a figure-hugging gown of midnight blue sequins—caught the light with every subtle movement, transforming her into a walking constellation. She looked every bit the rising singer she claimed to be, her soft smile and easy confidence drawing glances from all corners of the room.

But beneath the surface, her mind was focused and sharp. This wasn’t her world—no, it was her stage. And tonight, her performance was a heist.

Her mission was clear: retrieve the Red Key. Hidden somewhere in this labyrinthine estate was a device that could destabilize the world’s balance of power. The encrypted USB, codenamed the Red Key, housed a revolutionary program capable of dismantling even the most secure systems. For YN, this wasn’t just a job—it was a gamble. The paycheck was astronomical, enough to wipe away her debts and buy her freedom. But failure? Failure meant more than just losing her reputation—it meant death.

As YN surveyed the room, she felt the weight of her double life settle heavily on her shoulders. On the surface, she was a singer—a talent just beginning to garner whispers of fame. Her soulful voice and enigmatic stage presence had made her a subject of intrigue in elite circles. But in reality, her music was a façade, a clever cover that granted her access to places like this. She wasn’t here to perform. She was here to steal.

Her target was Lord Carlisle, the eccentric billionaire hosting the gala. Known for his insatiable appetite for collecting rare and dangerous artifacts, Carlisle was rumored to have acquired the Red Key through the black market. It was locked away in his private server room, and YN had spent months studying the estate’s layout to plan her approach.

She sipped her champagne as her eyes roved over the crowd. Carlisle stood near the center of the room, surrounded by sycophants and admirers. His laughter boomed over the delicate strains of music, his booming voice a sharp contrast to the otherwise refined atmosphere. YN’s lips curved into a small, calculated smile.

The first step was simple: blend in.

YN wove through the crowd with practiced ease, exchanging polite smiles and nods with other guests. She stopped briefly to admire a display of Carlisle’s prized artifacts—ancient relics encased in glass—and engaged in small talk with a curator who seemed all too eager to share their knowledge. It was all part of the act.

But as she moved toward the east wing—the restricted area where the server room was hidden—a prickle of awareness crawled up her spine. Someone was watching her.

She turned her head just slightly, catching the gaze of a man leaning casually against the bar. His tailored black tuxedo fit him like a second skin, and his dark curls fell perfectly into place, framing a face that seemed carved from marble. But it was his eyes that held her attention—intense and unrelenting, like they could see straight through her.

She recognized him instantly. Harry Styles.

MI6’s golden boy.

Her stomach clenched. If Styles was here, the stakes were higher than she’d anticipated. MI6 didn’t send agents to fancy galas for no reason. They sent them to stop people like her.

Their eyes locked for a moment, and he raised his glass in a mock salute. His lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no mistaking the challenge in his gaze.

YN forced herself to return the smile, her mind racing. If Styles suspected her, she couldn’t afford to let it show. She turned away and resumed her path toward the east wing, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Nice voice,” a smooth voice interrupted her thoughts.

YN stopped mid-step, cursing inwardly. She turned slowly, schooling her features into an expression of mild curiosity.

Harry stood just a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his eyes razor-sharp. Up close, he was even more disarming, his presence exuding a quiet confidence that was impossible to ignore.

“You haven’t heard me sing yet,” she replied, her tone light and playful.

“I don’t need to. I have an ear for talent,” he said, raising his glass to her.

YN kept her smile intact, though her mind raced with contingency plans. “Good to know. But I should be going—people to meet, champagne to drink.”

“Of course. Don’t let me keep you,” he said, stepping aside with an almost imperceptible bow.

But as she walked away, she felt his eyes follow her, a constant weight pressing against her back.

The east wing was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the lively atmosphere of the gala. August moved swiftly, her footsteps muffled by the plush red carpet. She reached the server room without incident, her fingers brushing over the keypad as she punched in the code she’d memorized.

The door clicked open, and she slipped inside.

The room was a technological fortress, lined with sleek black servers that hummed softly in the cool, climate-controlled air. YN pulled a decoy USB drive from her clutch—a fake designed to bypass the system’s defenses—and plugged it into the main console.

Her fingers danced over the keyboard as she navigated the system, bypassing layers of encryption with practiced ease. But just as she accessed the folder containing the Red Key, a voice shattered the silence.

“Mind if I cut in?”

Her blood ran cold. She spun around, her heart hammering in her chest.

Harry stood in the doorway, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. His posture was relaxed, but his sharp gaze told her he wasn’t here to make small talk.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice steady despite the panic clawing at her throat.

“I could ask you the same,” he replied, stepping closer. “But I already know. You’re here for the Red Key.”

Her mind raced, calculating her options. She could lunge for the taser hidden in her clutch, but something told her he’d see it coming.

“And you’re here to stop me?” she asked, her tone edged with defiance.

“Not exactly.” He glanced at the flashing red light above the door. “You tripped a silent alarm when you accessed that panel. Guards will be here in less than a minute.”

She cursed under her breath. The system must have detected the decoy USB.

“Fine,” she said, stepping away from the console. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“Good,” he replied with a smirk. “I don’t trust you either.”

The escape was chaos.

The guards arrived in droves, their shouts echoing through the hallway as they fired warning shots. YN and Harry sprinted down the corridor, their movements perfectly synchronized despite the tension crackling between them.

“In here!” Harry barked, pulling her into a narrow service elevator.

The doors closed just as a hail of bullets slammed into the metal.

YN leaned against the wall, catching her breath. “This isn’t exactly how I planned my night.”

“Really? I thought you were enjoying yourself,” Harry quipped, adjusting his cufflinks as if they weren’t running for their lives.

She glared at him. “Don’t get used to this partnership.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

The chase ended in the estate’s garage, where Harry hotwired a sleek black car with alarming ease.

“You’re full of surprises,” YN muttered as she slid into the passenger seat.

“You have no idea,” he replied, revving the engine.

The tires screeched as they sped out of the garage, leaving the estate and its chaos behind.

The car sped down a winding road that cut through a dense forest, the headlights slicing through the darkness. Harry’s hands gripped the steering wheel with practiced ease, his gaze focused on the road ahead. YN sat beside him, her arms crossed and jaw clenched, the tension between them palpable.

She broke the silence first. “You didn’t have to get involved, you know.”

Harry glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable. “And let you fumble your way out of a shootout? Tempting, but no.”

“I had it under control,” she said, her tone sharp.

“You’re welcome,” he shot back, his voice tinged with amusement.

YN exhaled sharply, turning her gaze out the window. The forest blurred into streaks of black and green, but her mind was fixed on the mission. The Red Key had slipped through her fingers, and she wasn’t sure if she could salvage the situation. Worse, she was now tethered to Harry Styles, MI6’s golden boy, whose motives remained frustratingly opaque.

“Where are we going?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“To regroup,” Harry replied. “You’re not the only one who wants the Red Key, you know.”

YN frowned. “So, what’s your angle? You swoop in, play hero, and then what? Hand it over to your bosses so they can lock it up in some classified vault?”

Harry smirked. “Something like that.”

Her frown deepened. She couldn’t afford to let MI6 take control of the device—not when she was this close to securing her freedom. But for now, she needed Harry’s help to stay ahead of Carlisle’s men.

They reached a secluded safe house an hour later, a modest cabin hidden deep in the woods. Harry parked the car and stepped out, moving with the casual confidence of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, unlocking the door.

The interior was spartan but functional—a single-room space with a kitchenette, a worn sofa, and a desk cluttered with maps and surveillance equipment. YN took it all in with a raised brow.

“Charming,” she said dryly.

Harry ignored the jab, heading to the desk and pulling out a laptop. “We don’t have much time. Carlisle’s men will be searching for us, and they won’t stop until they recover the Red Key.”

YN crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So, what’s the plan?”

Harry looked up at her, his expression serious. “We work together.”

She scoffed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “You’re good, but you’re not getting that device on your own. Carlisle has an army of guards and the best security money can buy. You need me.”

“And what’s in it for you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Harry leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Let’s just say I have my reasons.”

It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but it would have to do.

As the night wore on, the two of them pored over the intel Harry had gathered on Carlisle’s estate. Blueprints, security codes, and surveillance footage littered the desk, creating a mosaic of the billionaire’s heavily fortified world.

“His private jet leaves tomorrow morning,” Harry said, pointing to a flight plan on the screen. “If he takes the Red Key with him, we’ll lose our chance to intercept it.”

YN frowned, tracing her finger over the estate’s layout. “Then we hit him tonight.”

Harry raised a brow. “Bold move.”

“Desperate times,” she replied with a shrug.

He studied her for a moment, his gaze unreadable. “You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. “And what did you expect?”

“Someone colder. Detached. But you… you’re different.”

YN’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Don’t let it fool you. I’m as dangerous as they come.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Later, as they prepared for the mission, YN caught Harry watching her again.

“Something on your mind?” she asked, slipping a knife into her boot.

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Why do you do it? The heists, the double life… What’s the endgame?”

She paused, considering her answer. “Freedom,” she said simply. “I’ve spent my whole life running—from debts, from mistakes, from people who wanted to control me. This job… it’s my way out.”

Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Fair enough.”

“And what about you?” she countered. “Why MI6? Why risk your life for a government that probably sees you as expendable?”

His smile was faint, almost wistful. “Because someone has to. And I’m good at it.”

Their eyes met, a quiet understanding passing between them.

The mission began under the cover of darkness.

Harry and YN slipped back into Carlisle’s estate, their movements silent and precise. This time, they worked together seamlessly, their strengths complementing each other in ways neither had anticipated.

Harry disabled the perimeter alarms while YN picked the lock on a side entrance. Inside, they navigated the maze-like corridors with practiced ease, avoiding guards and security cameras with the skill of seasoned professionals.

At one point, they found themselves pressed against a wall, a pair of guards passing just inches away. YN could feel Harry’s breath against her ear, his presence both reassuring and distracting.

“Stay close,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She nodded, her heart pounding in her chest.

When they finally reached Carlisle’s office, the tension was nearly unbearable.

The Red Key sat on his desk, a small but menacing device that seemed almost innocuous in its simplicity.

“Is that it?” YN asked, her voice low.

Harry nodded. “That’s it.”

She moved to grab it, but Harry stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Wait,” he said, pointing to a faint red beam of light scanning the desk. “Laser tripwire. He’s not taking any chances.”

YN cursed under her breath. “Can you disable it?”

Harry smirked, pulling a small device from his pocket. “Watch and learn.”

The extraction was flawless—until it wasn’t.

As they exited the office, an alarm blared, shattering the silence. Carlisle’s men were on them in an instant, their shouts echoing through the halls.

“Go!” Harry shouted, shoving YN ahead of him.

They sprinted toward the exit, dodging bullets and ducking behind cover as the guards pursued them relentlessly.

When they finally reached the car, YN turned to Harry, her eyes blazing. “You planned this, didn’t you? You wanted the distraction!”

He didn’t deny it. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Before she could reply, the sound of approaching engines cut through the night. Carlisle’s men weren’t giving up without a fight

[sanzaibian]

“Sir, here are the Beatty files.” The young woman told me, handing a USB key.

I have heard a lot about these files. They were intercepted in the town after which they’re named by the secret services a while ago, but were encrypted in such a puzzling way that only now can we view them. And of course, I am the first one to be able to review its content.

I know a lot of things, as it is my job to be informed of anything and everything happening around the world. I know the plans of China over Taiwan, the successor to the Ayatollah, the contents of the talks between Putin and Kim Jong-un, and all the current US military strategy. In my line of work, everything can happen, yet at no single point could I make sense of the Beatty files. Nor could anyone else for that matter.

I excused the young woman, bidding to her my thanks for the deciphering team, and went to the unused laptop I had prepared. When it comes to matters of national security, I cannot afford to be careless, and let anyone unlicensed to get access to this. So brand new laptop, created by us, which has never been opened, to open these files.

And so I fiddled with the parameters a bit, entering the secret code, and inserted the USB key to view its contents. Inside were a few files, all of which videos. Their names were not informative, since I know for a fact that their original names were not recovered, so I just opened the first file in the list.

The video opened looking down in a white cubic room, meaning it was very likely a security camera recording. In addition, there was the time indicated on the bottom right, yet something felt weird about how it was displayed… 15:58… 15:59… 15:60 ???... 16:01, etc. Why is it not counting time correctly ? Nobody indicates time like this ! It’s wrong, it’s incorrect ! I just opened it and there’s already something I cannot in any way explain !

Taking a deep breath, I look at the center of the screen, in which I have a good view of a man sat in a chair. He has tanned skin, black hair and black stubble, and a very developed musculature. He looks to be a very attractive middle-eastern man, although I cannot say which ethnicity he precisely has.

The chair he’s sitting on is quite massive, and he looks almost as if he is… restrained in it ? Yes, there seems to be little handcuffs tethering him to the armchairs. But most striking are the numerous tubes going out from his arms, legs, torso and even head, linked to some types of medical appliances I cannot recognize, as well as to a sort of glass tank.

Suddenly, I notice the deep voice of a man. I up the volume, and hear… a language I cannot understand.

“Tzai en 19/03, 2:17, en tzoujkbruoi odogattzion program en Scipio Labratory. Ny hse Hk. Adtem, tzai widt nyn hskadiais, Sjd. Fingtrosy ÿ Sd. Vagohs, ÿ naum wom fill no tzoujketvÿsn ekspÿrians widt no #1073 bymarjen.”

At first I get some German vibes from it, but then it seems to be Polish, and then French… Whatever that language might be, it is not one I have ever heard. The man in the chair looks around, seemingly half-dazed, as if he was drugged. I don’t know what will happen to him, yet I get the feeling that it won’t be a desirable fate.

Suddenly, another voice, that of a woman by the looks of things, speaking in that same strange language.

“Hsüzmalhsÿv drël en im.”

Then a buzzer sound. There seems to be some white substance flowing inside the man’s body, through the tubes from the medical appliances. As it flows, I can see his eyes starting to become more droopy, before fluttering, and then closing. At the same time, his body starts floundering in the restraints, as if he was keeping himself from falling asleep. But as time went on and the white liquid ran dry, all of his muscles were relaxing and his stance become limp, like that of a dysfunctional robot. However, looking at his accelerating breathing rhythm, it seems to my trained eye that he is not actually asleep. It’s only his body refusing to function correctly.

“Drël ingkatzt. Etvÿsn harjimÿll.” Says another voice, deeper than the last one, but not as deep as the first one.

I don’t really know what’s happening. If the counter on the bottom-right of the screen wasn’t ticking up, I would have thought that the image was frozen. But then, suddenly, I can hear a low sound in the recording. And that sounds starts creeping higher and higher, as if something was charging up… Yeah, definitively charging up, since I almost saw some lightning sparks going off from the chair…

I don’t know what’s happening, but it seems to be malfunctioning. The sparks make themselves more and more intense, and it almost seems as if the machine is ready to explode...

Just as I say that, the first deep voice makes itself heard once again, but this time more in a frustrated or worried tone than an official one.

“Sel heont havy… Go huop sel hstill pÿrdont...”

But suddenly, the sparks stop, and while the sound doesn’t stop, beige liquid start flowing into the pipes… from the man to the tank ? What is that thing ? I don’t understand ! However, I can hear cries of rejoice in the audience, with all three voices I’ve heard since then saying incomprehensible stuff that I wouldn’t even be able to transcribe. I guess they also didn’t think… whatever this is would work ?

I take a drink from my water bottle as I keep an eye on the video. However, since I need to reach my bag, I cannot actively monitor it. Besides, according to what I hear, nothing of note seems to be happening... But when I have put down the bottle, I stop the video. I rub my eyes, but even then, I still see it.

The man seems smaller.

Somehow.

I go back in the video to the time where the man with the deepest voice sounded worried and… Yeah, looking like that, it’s even more apparent. The man has been losing mass. And the tanks have been filled by this beige skin-color liquid… Heh, if I didn’t know I was in reality, I would have said that this is muscle-juice, but this is ridiculous…

Especially since the body mass hasn’t been the only thing to change.

As I play back the video and continue through the long haul of high-pitch noise and not much else, I notice that the man’s stubble seems to be disappearing… and his head hair growing as well, somehow ? It almost seems as if he’s becoming less masculine by the second, if it even makes any sense, even though nothing about this video actually makesanysense. If I didn’t know who supplied it to me, I would have said this was a fake…

As his pecs were shrinking, his arms were thinning, his waist narrowing and his legs slimming, his stance almost seemed to be relaxing further – if it’s even possible. I mean, I don’t know ! It’s just the impression that I’m getting ! As the last of his stubble vanishes, at least according to what I can see through the pixels, he almost seems to be getting cuter ? Whence more relaxed ? Fuck, this makes absolutely no sense whatsoever…

Oh. I know why I get this impression. It’s not anymore weird or nonsensical, but at least in this context it seems to make sense… I think he also is losing height. Yes, actually. Height. It’s almost as if someone took the textbook definition of a “twink” and decided to impart its characteristic on this poor fellow – don’t ask me why I know what it is.

As I continue watching in horror, the woman’s voice says, gleefully :

“Entzony as hen !”

How can they sound so… happy ? Happy to torture a man like this ? To, quite visibly, drain his muscles into those tanks that look more and more full ? It just goes beyond me ! Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen my fair share of horrible and unethical treatments, and a ton of unethical human experiments. But this by far takes the cake of the most disturbing thing I have ever seen ! They’re taking away what he is, his identity ! Him ! That’s the most cruel violation of human rights I have ever seen ! To gleefully disfigure someone like that…

The tanks have finished filling up, and the sound starts lowering in intensity. The man left looks only like a shadow of who he was. He still looks like himself, except devoid of any… meat, may I say ? When the machine was well and truly turned off, the deep voice rejoiced, seemingly announcing the success of that terrible plot.

“Fÿstyfuroll ! Oll fod havy kotzvong !”

Funnily enough, the first word made me think of “feast for all”, which just feels wrong given the context. On that, they all seem to have left the premises, as a nurse came in and untethered the poor man from all the equipment, and taking with her the tanks filled of muscle juice.

I continued watching, hoping that I would get to see the young man wake up.

And wake up he did, looking around, before standing up… and immediately falling. Presumably due to him not expecting to be this skinny. He then looked at himself, and had an utterly horrified look in his eyes, as if he was processing the fact that he was irremediably different.

He crawled towards the wall, and using that, he climbed back to standing, managing to take a position so that he could be looking at the camera.

And on that, the video suddenly stopped, leaving me on this freeze frame :

I absolutely don’t know what to do with that. Now I not only understand, but also feel how confused the secret services were by intercepting this message. It just seems wrong in so many ways, so much that… it might not even have occurred on Earth for all I know ! The language is unknown, but familiar. The way to count time is disturbing, but otherwise identical to ours. The events depicted are of typical mad experimentation, but in a manner that is unthinkable in my knowledge of the world.

I don’t have the strength to view any of the other videos, since they’re likely all the same amount of disturbing. So I close the laptop, and already starts asking myself the question I need to give an answer for my superiors :

Just what the hell are the Beatty files ?!

[annachibi]

ALAN WAKE 2 COLLECTOR'S EDITION

I don't know how mine got here so fast but I did a little review!

First off, the packaging is lovely and everything is nice and secure! The box cover (which I love) is embossed and the box is very sturdy. My phone camera sucks but the pins all have 2 uh back thingies to them in case anyone needed that information. The hotel key is I believe real metal; it's cool to the touch and has a very nice weight to it. I'm leaving the art book out because otherwise I'll be here all night lmao

And the piece de resistance: the Angel Lamp! Again, my camera sucks, but I tried to get some detail shots. It has an included micro USB to USB cable for power, but it looks like it also takes 2 AAA batteries if you open that bottom bit, and either way you can turn it on and off via the switch at the bottom. It is not metal I don't think but it's true to size and not flimsy at all, plus it has some very nice weathering detailing especially on the wings, and the LED bit is made to look like a regular light bulb! I found it interesting that the fake cord at the back is clearly cut with the "wires" exposed. The power cable can take a little fiddling to get plugged into it but just be patient and gentle.

All in all, I'm extremely happy with all of it! <3

[lilmarshie]

Echoes of Absense

Hidden Agendas Chapter One

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Bob is devastated at the fact that you were taken from him. But he will stop at nothing to get you back home safely.

The silence that followed from your absence left a hollow hole and a deep, physical weight on Bob’s shoulders. It was a suffocating and painful force that was unrelenting. Just mere hours ago, laughter and joy filled the now empty room, a chilling reminder of what happened. His dear lover, respected teammate, and confidant was ripped from his grasp. Vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the lingering scent of unease and a gnawing knot of dread in his stomach.

He was the type of man who prided himself on wisdom and logic, but now he found himself adrift in a never ending sea of the inky, black unknown. It troubled him to no end. The police investigations were already well underway, with detectives swarming the area for prints, questioning witnesses ie. him, and asking the same questions over and over again. Bob knew that this wasn’t just any other missing persons case. You had gone digging in a place that you shouldn’t have during one of your investigations and now it’s caught up with you. The Shadow Syndicate was at play and they wouldn’t back down with out a fight. A clandestine organization shrouded in secrecy, whispered about in hushed tones in the darkest corners of the internet, a group you had been tracking for months for a story, a group that specialized in making people disappear.

Fueled by a potent cocktail of guilt and determination, Bob began his own investigation. He started with the your digital footprint, meticulously combing through emails, social media accounts, and online activity. He retraced your last known steps, revisiting the coffee shop you frequented, the bookstore you loved, the park where you often walked. Each clue, no matter how small, was a breadcrumb, a potential lead in the labyrinthine world of the Shadow Syndicate. He knew the risks. He knew that getting too close could paint a target on his own back. But the thought of abandoning you to such a fate was unbearable. Bob Reynolds was going to war and he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

As the sun dipped slowly over the horizon, casting shadows across the city, Bob found himself back at the apartment. The police tape adorned across the door was a stark reminder to the void that was left behind. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something, a crucial piece of the puzzle hidden in plain sight. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes scanning the room, searching for anything that might have been overlooked. His gaze landed on your desk, the top of it that was normally filled with papers, photographs, and half finished projects was now eerily empty and clean. Too clean. It was as if someone had meticulously scrubbed away any trace of your presence. A chill ran down Bob's spine. The Shadow Syndicate wasn't just making people disappear; they were erasing them.

Driven by a sudden surge of adrenaline, Bob approached the desk, his fingers tracing the smooth work down surface. He noticed a faint scratch near the edge, almost imperceptible to the naked eye. He pressed down on the spot, and a hidden compartment sprung open, revealing a small, encrypted USB drive. “You really did have your secrets, y/n.” He smiled to himself as he reached down and plucked up the small, USB drive.

Hope flickered in Bob's chest. This could be it, the key to unlocking the truth behind your disappearance. But he knew that accessing the data on the drive wouldn't be easy. The Shadow Syndicate was known for its sophisticated security measures, and attempting to bypass them could trigger alarms, alerting them to his investigation. Bob hesitated for a moment, weighing the risks. He could hand the drive over to the police, but he didn't trust them. They were too slow, too bureaucratic, and potentially compromised. He needed to act fast, before the Shadow Syndicate covered their tracks completely.

With a deep breath, Bob made his decision. He would crack the encryption himself. He spent countless hours hunched over his computer, fueled by caffeine and a burning desire to find you. He wrote complex algorithms, ran simulations, and tested every possible vulnerability. Days blurred into nights as he battled the Syndicate's digital defenses, inching closer to the truth with each passing moment. With each passing day, the clues became clearer and the Syndicate become far more powerful than he had ever imagined.

The tangled webs of lies led down dark and twisted paths that could take down entire countries and which would take place across continents. It was a deeply sick and flawed system that the Shadow Syndicate had established. But Bob knew that he was close to unlocking the clues to take the Syndicate down.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the encryption shattered. The data on the drive flooded his screen, revealing a series of coded messages, surveillance logs, and financial transactions. Bob's heart pounded in his chest as he pieced together the fragments of information, uncovering a web of deceit and corruption that reached far beyond anything he could have imagined. He had done it. This had been what you had tried so hard to accomplish. And he had cracked the code. With this newfound knowledge, Bob knew of the Syndicate’s next move, and he had the sites of all of the hidden underground tunnels and bunkers that the Syndicate had established.

Bob's resolve hardened. He knew he was walking into a dangerous game, one that could cost him his life. But he couldn't back down now. He owed it you, the love of his life, to bring the Shadow Syndicate to justice, to expose their secrets and dismantle their empire of lies. Bob Reynolds was ready for war, and this time, he was armed with the truth.

[mirandasidefics]

But Home is Nowhere

Pairing(s): Lucien X Plus Size Reader, Azriel X Plus Size Reader

Part 1 Summary: Reader is pulled into Prythian by an unknown force and comes face to face with members of the Night Court. However, the welcome is less than warm.

Word Count: 3.9K

Warning(s): Minor violence, minor self-harm, mentions of body issues/past self-harm.

A/N: This is my first ACOTAR fic and first story I've even considered posting since 2013, so please be gentle. The story is fully outlined, but due to the fact that I work full time and really weird hours updates will be once a month. Use of cisfemale descriptors used. Key: (Y/N )-Your Name, (e/c)-eye color, (h/c)-hair color.

You gathered your belongings as you did everyday before heading into work. ‘Phone, wallet, keys, charger, make-up…’ the list in your head prattled on as you secured each item in the black backpack. Once satisfied that you had everything you needed you swung the leaden object over your left shoulder. Pausing before the near full-length mirror at your door you tucked a strand of (h/c) hair behind you ear. Your (e/c) orbs roamed over for anything that could be out of place. It took a considerable amount of effort not to let your gaze pause on the parts of yourself that you hated. You pulled the dark red sweater down, covering your large and sagging lower belly and too wide hips. You debated on going back to put shapewear on so your muffin top didn’t hang over your dark black skinny jeans too much, but you were already running late. You quickly slipped your dress flats on to your feet as you whispered a small affirmation to yourself. ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

You were not looking forward to today. The laundry list of to-do tasks was miles long. Hours of work meetings, followed by even more hours of research and writing for your thesis. You were always writing. You paused again to double check that you had the required USB drive that held your many months’ worth of research. A quick glance reassured it was safely tucked away on the hook in your pack, and you stiffly grasped the handle of the front door. No sooner than pulling the door open, your feet tripped over the lip of the frame, and you plummeted down through the threshold.

Bracing for a faceplant against concrete, you were surprised to find soft grass under your fingertips. The grass was a deep rich shade of green and still held the wetness of early morning-dew. Slowly lifting your head, you glanced around the spot where you fell. You immediately noticed that you were no longer at the threshold of your duplex if the wide expanse of grass was to be trusted. Slower still, you raised yourself up on your knees. The sky you looked at was now clear of the pale grey clouds you spied out of your bedroom window only minutes before. The bright yellow-white sun was high enough above to indicate that it was midday. A chilled and briny breeze floated across your shoulders and caused strands of your hair to blow away from your face. You pushed your glasses a little further up the bridge of your nose as you took in the distant buildings to your left. Not a single one of the simple brick and mortar buildings appeared to be more than 3 to 4 floors in height. Further down you could make out some shops and an open square. It reminded you more of a smaller European town than of a bustling city suburb. Yet the buzz in the air told you that there was much more than what met your eyes. You could only make out a few figures as they darted through a bustling crowd. Despite the feeling that there were a large number of inhabitants in the city beyond, there wasn’t a single sound of a motorized vehicle. Your head tilted up to examine the vast blueness above you, looking for any sign of the planes that constantly passed over your home, but the sky was also empty. You held your breath, willing for the sound of a jet engine to be heard in the distance. All was silent, except for the brush of the wind and bubbling of water. You turned toward your right an observed a large house that sat just along the river’s edge. Your eyes followed the winding path of the turquoise water as it stretched into a decent sized bay, complete with docks and what appeared to be old wooden sailing ships. You felt like you had stepped back in time.

Panic began to seep into your bones. You could clearly tell that you were no longer in your own city, but where you were…that was wholly unknown to you. Was this even real? Maybe you hit your head when you tripped and this is all just some dream. Yeah, that had to be it. You reached for the backpack that had landed at your side when a shadow flew over you. A heavy thud was heard to your right and your head whipped up to look at the dark silhouette that now towered over head. You initially thought there had been the shape of wings along the figure’s outline, but after blinking away the shards of sunlight that your hand didn’t block, you determined that it must have been your imagination.

“Well hello there,” a velvety smooth tenor reached your ears, “You’re not an associate of Ms. Quinlan’s, are you?”

                “W-What?” Your voice trembled, a strong metallic scent radiated from the man as he knelt down. Your breath caught in your throat. He was absolutely stunning. You mentally slapped yourself after feeling your jaw literally drop. You could have sworn his eyes held flecks of starlight in them. However, his humorless chuckle sent a shiver down your spine.

                “Do you know Bryce?” He surveyed you this time.

                “I don’t…I don’t know any Bryce,” You couldn’t help the rise of your flight response start to kick in, “Where am I?” A part of you didn’t dare look away, but you had to gage your possible exits out of the periphery of your vision.  The man continued to stare and evaluate you. You swallowed thickly in an attempt to clear the non-existent obstruction that was your unease and opened your mouth to ask another question. Before you could speak the man cut you off, placing his hands in his pockets.

                “If you’re not here for or because of Bryce,” Something about his darkened expression filled your bones with fear, “then, unfortunately, I’m not in a position to readily trust you. I must protect my people. I hope you understand that my actions are nothing personal.” Confusion laced your features at his words and you clutched your bag tightly against your chest.

Without warning your entire body froze as what felt like ice cold claws scratched against the surface of your skull. Fear gripped you tightly, the need to run or fight back utterly demolished as you locked eyes with the man. He truly didn’t appear to be bothered in the slightest over how terrified you were.

‘Mother above…he’s going to kill me.’ Your mind reeled and you were certain that you would have emptied your bladder had you not done so before exiting your home. You couldn’t get your voice to cooperate, to beg for mercy as the claws gripped your skull harder. You couldn’t even scream as you felt the flesh tear near your right temple. Your heart beat erratically, hoping it would give out before you could feel any of the pain that was sure to accompany your death. It took all of your mental strength to dampen the fear down and whisper the prayer you incorporated into your own practice so long ago.

“Mother hold me, let me pass through the gates into that immortal land of milk and honey. Let me fear no evil, feel no pain, and let me enter eternity.” Eyes still locked with the man you saw a glimmer of…you honestly had no clue what emotion it was that passed over his expression. But as soon as it passed the feeling of the claws were gone and air rushed back into your lungs. The man stood to his full height and continue to stare at your gasping form. A rush of nausea swept over you and you heaved. The stomach acid burned your throat more than normal after not eating anything for well over 24 hours.

You spit the remaining mucus onto the grass and you were suddenly hauled up to your feet. His grip on your forearm was so tight you could already feel the bruises forming. While the man’s features appeared calm and unbothered, his eyes simmered with caution. However, he remained silent as darkness converged on you both. Your stomach rolled and plummeted with the sensation of your body in free fall, but the man’s grip never lessened. Suddenly your feet impacted against solid stone. Your vision blurred and your other arm reached out towards anything to purchase itself to keep you up right. Your throat burned again but the stomach acid never reached your mouth. Your outstretched hand finally found a wall and you clung onto it for dear life.

The surface was cool and rough to the touch. You chanced a glance around and found yourself in a small dimly lit room. The walls and floor appeared to have been carved directly out of the stone. The dampness to the air clued you in that you were not inside a building, but some structure more akin to a cave. The room held no furniture, unless you counted the metal sconce that held the only source of light. You did a double take as the light itself was strange, appearing to be condensed to the size of a lightbulb, but it was quickly obvious that there was no material encasing its source. Was there even a- your thoughts were interrupted by the screeching of metal hinges as a single wooden door swung open.

A second man appeared in the entry way and ducked down to avoid hitting his head on the top of the frame. Once he was fully inside the room you couldn’t believe your eyes. You blinked several times yet the insanely large bat like wings never disappeared. You attempted to take in his dark appearance, but shadows seemed to swirl around him. He wore a scaly leather outfit that appeared to be some type of armor. You couldn’t tell if it was multiple pieces or a single body suit in the dim silver light, but that didn’t matter as soon as you saw the first of the seven blue stones intermingled into his outfit. Your eyes widened. The first man handed the newcomer your bag, allowing you to get a good look at his winged back. You immediately noticed there were no straps that held the wings in place. Nor were they attached to the clothing he wore, but rather connected to and protruding from the skin underneath. With this realization the room spun as their soft voices drifted over towards you, but you couldn’t make out what was said as your knees gave out and everything went dark.

When you finally awoke the room was cold, dark, and damp; which sadly reminded you that recent events weren’t just a dream. You found that you were now alone, but weren’t sure if that was a good sign. There was no telling if either of the men-no males- would come back. A part of you hoped that someone would at least give you answers, even if just to tell you that you would rot away in this cell. If that was the case, why didn’t the first male just follow through with killing you? What caused him to stop and bring you to this place you now found yourself? Unsure of what to expect you backed yourself up into a corner on the opposite side from the door. A dim light filtered through the wood panels and space between the door and ground. You could hardly call what you sat upon a floor given all the dirt and rocks. Unfortunately, it did little to comfort you while the room was largely in shadow. Despite your best efforts and desire to make yourself as small as possible, your round and plump frame wouldn’t allow you to curl your knees towards your chest. So, you opted instead to sit with your legs stretched out in front of you, ankles crossed. A false picture of being unperturbed with your current circumstances. The longer you sat there in the silence, the more your anxiety seeped into your muscles. You shook your foot trying to expel the nervous energy. Your ears strained for any semblance for sounds of life beyond the door. Surely there had to be other prisoners or guards. Unless you really were just left for dead. You fought back the tears that welled up in your eyes.

                “This is fucked,” You mumbled, “I’m fucked. What the hell is happening?” You could feel the panic rise up your throat. Your heartbeat increased and your breath became shallow. You ran your fingers through your hair, pulling at the roots. Tiny pin pricks of pain blossomed as the blonde strands became taut. You felt pain, or rather discomfort. You’ve felt that in your extremely vivid dreams before, but it gave you an idea. Moving on to your hands and knees you began to feel around for any rocks or other items you could use. If you could find something and make it sharp enough, maybe you could wake yourself. The door looked the same, but maybe it was different. Maybe you were in a different REM cycle, meaning a different dream that just piggy backed off the first. After all, there was no way to determine if the male that took you was going to come back. ‘This has to be a nightmare.’

“Please, please let there be something,” You crawled through the darkness, eyes straining to make out any shapes. Your hands finally found a smooth stone about the size of your palm. In the darkness you couldn’t tell if it was granite or something else, so you went ahead and bashed the side against the stone of your cell wall. The side of the object splintered off as if the stone was made of glass.

“Obsidian…” You smiled to yourself. The obsidian shard would be sharp enough to draw blood wherever you managed to drag it along your skin.

“Where to cut, where to cut…” You felt along your body, the scars on your covered legs sang with expectation. Were you willing to risk taking off your pants in this place though? Were you willing to take off any of your clothing? Finally deciding against the removal of your clothes you crawled over to the door and lowered your hands to the soft light that filtered through. Pressing the shard against the palm of your left hand you hoped that there would be no feeling as you dragged it against the skin. Oh, how wrong you were.

“Fuck!” A searing pain erupted over your hand as the makeshift blade tore at the skin. You sucked in a breath through your teeth as blood pooled at the seams of the cut. The obsidian hit the ground.

“Why did you do that?” A deep tenor filled the space near the back of your cell and you screamed. The sconce on the wall lit up. Your head whipped around to the opposite corner from where you had been sitting. Your eyes took in the retreating shadows as they revealed the male that you really didn’t want to see. The cobalt stones again caught your eye as your gazed wondered over his form. The wings were still there. You cradled your bleeding hand and you backed away from the known male that stared you down. You figured that you were about to pass out again as the shadows behind him seemed to writhe and undulate around his frame.

“Don’t come any closer,” You tried to keep your voice steady, but you wanted to kick yourself for how pathetic you sounded. The male rolled his eyes and walked towards you before crouching down. His wings stretched out and angled themselves so as to not drag along the stone beneath. The sight of their movement took your breath away. They were real. All of this was real. He grabbed your hand and began to exam it. Your attempts to pull it back failed as his grip was tight. Clicking his tongue against his teeth he locked eyes with you, hazel orbs boring into your own. Despite yourself you noted just how attractive he was as he continued to scrutinize you. He continued to look at you expectantly and you realized that he must have asked you a second question. He sighed and gave you back your hand.

“I’ll be right back,” He stood and left. As soon as the door shut you scrambled to your feet and retreated back to your corner. Had he been in the room with you the entire time? If so, why was the light off? And…you felt pain in your hand. You glanced down at the jagged cut, the blood had yet to start to congeal and clot, but it was superficial at best. Honestly nothing to worry about. You’ve done worse to yourself before. But…you felt pain. Real pain, not just a semblance of a memory of pain as you’ve dreamt of before. This was no dream. Everything pointed to this being a very real place. And you were in very real trouble. Especially if you ended up in-

A soft knock on the door brought you out of your thoughts. Whomever was there didn’t wait for you to respond as they entered. A man-no again male- with long red hair and almost equally red-brown eyes walked into the room. He wore a simple off-white billowy linen shirt that appeared as if it was from the Renaissance or possibly the Victorian era. Honestly, you were really sure. The history of the fashion industry wasn’t your area of expertise.  He also wore a simple pair of dark brown pants. He was definitely different compared to your captor and the winged male. He appeared…warmer. Maybe it was the soft smile that graced his lips. However, his eyes-which you now saw that the left had a long scar that ran down towards his jaw- held a certain sense of sadness to them. Pity.

“Hello,” He held out his hand towards you as he cautiously approached, “Can I take a look at your hand?” He seemed friendly enough, but you still pulled your hand closer toward your chest. You shook your head and backed away, not trusting your voice. The red head looked back at the door, where you saw the winged male patiently waiting.

“She does understand our language correct?” He turned back towards you after receiving an affirming nod from his companion. He took a tentative step closer. You felt like you were being treated like a wild animal.

“Stop!” You hissed, “I’m perfectly fine. You can leave.” The male just stood, his gaze trailing to the blood that dripped down your forearm.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” He stated, “I need to heal your hand. Will you let me do that?” You paused.

“What do you care if it heals?” You squeezed your hand into a protective fist causing blood to gush out faster, “Isn’t it easier to just let me be?”

“Honestly I don’t care,” His demeanor changed like the flick of a switch, “If you don’t want help then that is your choice. My question then is why cut yourself in the first place?” You held his stare. You didn’t want to answer, knowing that it wouldn’t make any sense to the stranger.

“This is going no where Lucien,” the winged male finally re-entered the room, “Just heal her hand so I can begin my questioning.” Lucien scoffed, but did as requested. Grabbing your wrist, he tugged you away from the corner you backed yourself into. You held your breath as he pried your fingers open so he could get a look at the cut. You honestly tried to pull your hand free, but he was clearly much stronger than you. Almost unnaturally so. You were left with nothing to do but to watch. You heard a faint whirring sound, before he hovered his free hand over the injury. A warmth enveloped your open palm and was accompanied by a slight metallic scent to the air. Within seconds your skin had stitched itself back together. All that remained was the trail of drying blood. You stared at the healed skin, mind racing with jumbled thoughts. It didn’t make sense. Nothing in the world could do that. It was like…magic. Your breath caught in your throat. Just where the hell were you. You flicked your gaze back to Lucien standing before you, only this time you noted the golden mechanical eye and the arch of his ears. The pointed arch of his ears. The jumbled thoughts became cloudy and you felt darkness start to descend.

“There,” Lucien let go of her hand, which was something that he would immediately regret. It took less than 30 seconds for her wide (e/c) eyes to flutter shut. He watched as her knees gave out as she crashed towards the ground. His reflexes were fast enough to allow him to catch her before her head hit the hard stone. Azriel was immediately crouching next to him.

“That’s the second time she’s fainted,” He whispered, cursing under his breath. He removed her outer sweater and placed it under her head before standing up to speak to the male beside him. 

“How long has she been down here?” Lucien questioned also rising to his feet. This didn’t sit well with him. The woman was clearly frightened, and there was no absolutely no trace of any lingering magic emanating from her. So why was she being kept beneath the throne room in the Hewn City?

“A few hours,” Azriel explained, “Rhys found her this morning. According to him, she literally just appeared. Much in the same way Bryce did. Fell flat on her face outside their home on the Sidra’s edge.” Her face was pale, honestly, too pale for Lucien’s liking. He knelt down beside her, straightening out her legs so they weren’t tucked under at an odd angle.

“Does Feyre know?” The Shadowsinger remained quiet. Lucien looked up at the male. Azriel couldn’t meet his eyes. That wasn’t a good sign. There was no way that Feyre would be comfortable with having a defenseless and harmless human female locked away. It was unusual for Rhysand to keep things from his mate, not without there being a definitive threat.

“This human has no magic. Absolutely none. She’s completely powerless,” He spat out, “There are no traces of any spells surrounding her either. Whatever brought her here, she had no control over. Its likely she had no knowledge of what was happening either.”

“That’s what I need to find out,” Azriel stated simply. If he was irritated with Lucien’s outburst he didn’t let on. “So now that she’s healed and you’ve completed your assessment, you can leave.” This really didn’t sit well with him. Bryce had been brought right into their family home when she arrived. So, what was it about this human that set the High Lord on such edge that she’d been banished from what would probably be the safest place for a human in Prythian? Lucien really didn’t like what was happening, but knew better than to argue with the Spymaster. If anyone did get answers out of the woman it was going to be him. However, he wouldn’t let this injustice go to the way side. So, without so much as a word to the Shadowsinger, Lucien left the cell. He was determined to have a very stern word with the High Lord.

Part 2

[snappedsky]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63902599/chapters/163892617

ROTTMNT: Retired Leo AU

Baxter Stockboy declares war on the Ninja Turtles and the Purple Dragons.

--

Turf War Part 1

A government laboratory sits on a dark, quiet street in New York City, its surroundings illuminated by the nearby streetlamps. Security cameras hang from every corner outside and inside the building, wired to a security alarm that will immediately alert the authorities should anything set off the motion sensors.

Suddenly, all of the cameras and sensors go dead, leaving the building completely defenseless.

A small figure flies in on propellers extended from his backpack. He stops in front of the reinforced front door and cuts through it with a laser before entering the building.

He flies down the corridor up to another reinforced door locked by a key code and retinal scan. The figure rolls his eyes and slices through this door with his laser before entering the now unlocked room.

Standing in the middle of the floor is a pedestal with a glass cloche holding a small USB chip. The figure grins and rubs his hands together as he approaches the pedestal. Metal arms extend from his backpack, removing the cloche, and he takes the USB with his real hands.

“Blueprints for experimental weaponry, designed specifically for non-human entities,” he monologues to himself, examining the chip. “With a bit of tinkering from yours truly, I’ll move these blueprints from prototype to perfected, and they will make me the most powerful genius in the city- no, the world! Everyone will know the name Baxter Stockbo-hey!”

He’s cut off as the chip is swiped from his fingers by another mechanical arm. He whips around to see three taller figures standing in the doorway, all wearing bright purple jackets.

“Thanks for opening the doors for us,” the one in the middle says. “Really makes our job easier.”

“Who are you?” Stockboy demands.

“We’re the Purple Dragons,” Kendra replies, Jeremy and Jason smirking by her sides. “The greatest tech villains in the city. And these weapons belong to us.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stockboy scoffs, “well, I’m Baxter Stockboy. I’m the greatest tech villain in the city, and those weapons are mine! I stole them fair and square.”

“Well, Baxter-whoever-the-hell,” Kendra snorts, “we’re stealing them from you. Which makes us better.”

“Stockboy,” he snarls, “you will remember my name.”

“We’ll see.”

[ltwilliammowett]

Lanyard

A lanyard is a piece of cord, webbing or strap that can fulfil various functions, e.g. for fastening, retaining, retrieving. However, a lanyard is also a piece of rigging that is used to secure or lower objects on board a ship. The term itself comes from the French lanière=strap and has been used as braided cords since the 15th century. On board, boatswain's spears, small knives, marlinspikes and also powder horns and other weapons were attached to it so that they could be kept close at hand when needed.

One of five silver bosun calls, here with a silk ribbon, recovered from the 1545 wreck of the Mary Rose

Due to their use, especially in the equipment of officers, lanyards were considered particularly noble. In addition to those designs that served purely practical purposes, there were also those that had a decorative or distinctive character. In many armies around the world, lanyards are still worn today to mark membership of a military unit or as an honour.

Two bosun calls with lanyards, 19th century

Lanyards are still used today in their practical function of securing important items of equipment, especially weapons, but also everyday objects such as keys, cards, usb sticks, etc.

Clifford W. Ashley: Ashley-Buch der Knoten

Raoul Graumont, John Hensel: Encyclopedia of Knots and Fancy Rope Work

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A year in illustration (2024), Part two

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/07/great-kepplers-ghost/art-adjacent

Part one

Algorithmic feeds are a twiddler's playground

I confess that the kind of music that people make with modular synths leaves me totally, absolutely flat. However, the look of modular synths is perfect for conjuring up the idea of "twiddling" – a key part of my theory of enshittification (doubly so after I painstakingly put a HAL 9000 eye on every dial and knob).

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/11/for-you/#the-algorithm-tm

(Image: Cryteria, CC BY 3.0; djhughman, CC BY 2.0; modified)

CDA 230 bans Facebook from blocking interoperable tools

"Interoperability" is one of those abstractions I really struggle to visually represent, but sticking a giant, scuffed, USB-C port (courtesy of D-Kuru's great CC BY 4.0 macrofocus image) on the Facebook sign worked great.

(Image: D-Kuru, Minette Lontsie, CC BY-SA 4.0, modified)

Cleantech has an enshittification problem

Illustrating "cleantech" being bricked seemed pretty straightforward, but it took a lot of doing to find a good picture of a brick. Eventually, I found a brick and took a picture of it! I think the solar panels on the brick are pretty nicely matted in.

(Image: 臺灣古寫真上色, Grendelkhan CC BY-SA 4.0; modified)

How to design a tech regulation

Cutting out those balance scales took a long-ass time, but I've found a lot of uses for them, illustrating the concept of "making trade-offs." The tradeoff here is between a rigid, planned approach and a more improvisational one, so I used an Air Force guy at rigid attention and a guerrilla fighter on the scales. The "impatient guy" from the maybe-a-radio-ad stands in this time for a government regulator.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/20/scalesplaining/#administratability

(Image: Noah Wulf, CC BY-SA 4.0, modified)

Microsoft pinky swears that THIS TIME they'll make security a priority

Look, I'll stipulate that using "Clippy" as a symbol for Microsoft personified is a bit antiquated, but I like to think that for those who know, they really know. The Uncle Sam is Keppler again. With apologies to Skippy Shulz, natch.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/14/patch-tuesday/

An end to the climate emergency is in our grasp

Virgil Finlay's demon head is sinister, sure, but the unintentional, undeniable sinisterness of the body language of this guy puts him in the shade. He comes from an unsourced image that looks like an ad for a built-in stereo.

https://craphound.com/images/guygestures.jpg

The audience in the front comes from a Victorian daugerrotype of a crowd watching some kind of unknown spectacle. I cropped 'em out by hand and use them as a visual stand-in for "this is a thing that the world is, or should be, watching."

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/12/s-curve/#anything-that-cant-go-on-forever-eventually-stops

Surveillance pricing

I don't make a lot of animations, but this one is super-sweet. The idea of things switching slowly via crossfades is a great way to illustrate how tech lets companies change things when you aren't paying attention. Thanks as ever to ezgif.com for help assembling and optimizing it.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

(Image: Cryteria, CC BY 3.0, modified)

"Carbon neutral" Bitcoin operation founded by coal plant operator wasn't actually carbon neutral

Thomas Hawk is an amazing photographer who also posts all kinds of amazing found photos (more than 23,000 of them!) to his Flickr stream, at very high rez:

https://www.flickr.com/search/?sort=date-taken-desc&safe_search=1&tags=foundphotograph&user_id=51035555243%40N01&view_all=1

The guys in the foreground appear in one of these, proudly displaying an award for – I kid you not – "canned bacon." The kids in the background come from a gallery of photos of early 20th C. child laborers.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/09/terawulf/#hunterbrook

The Google antitrust remedy should extinguish surveillance, not democratize it

If Keppler's "Capital Controls the Senate" is one of the most important antitrust images of all time, then his "Next!" (depicting Standard Oil as a rapacious, world-strangling octopus) is the most important antitrust illustration.

The Uncle Sam-as-a-cop figure is another Keppler (natch), and he's a regular in my collages – I can make him stand in for any federal agency by putting its logo on his chest, where a badge would go.

It took me a long time to cut up that Next! image for easy modding. Here's a GIMP XCF file for your pleasure:

https://craphound.com/images/standard-oil-kraken.xcf

And a PSD:

https://craphound.com/images/standard-oil-kraken.psd

https://pluralistic.net/2024/08/07/revealed-preferences/#extinguish-v-improve

(Image: Cryteria, CC BY 3.0, modified)

The largest campaign finance violation in US history

The giant figure looking at something in his palm through a looking-glass is yet another Keppler Uncle Sam illo (in the original, Sam is peering at a taxpayer who's shouting back up at him). I love the sad little donkey; I spent a bunch of time this election year finding public domain images of mules and elephants and dressing them in the livery of the mascots of the Democratic and Republican parties to have a bunch of visual signifiers with different emotional valences for each.

Note the halftoned background (a Maricopa County ballot); I'm increasingly fond of halftoning as a way to create a nice looking, scale-independent background.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/31/greater-fools/#coinbased

AI's productivity theater

"Technofeudalism" was a theme in my work even before Yanis Varoufakis's excellent book on the subject. Putting a HAL Eye on the reeve in this medieval tapestry depicting him lording it over his groveling serfs really caught the subject, especially after I faded in some Matrix code waterfall for the background.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/25/accountability-sinks/#work-harder-not-smarter

(Image: Cryteria, CC BY 3.0, modified)

Return to office and dying on the job

This medieval torture chamber was really brightened up by the LATE AGAIN! workplace poster on the wall and the impatient guy posed before the Manhattan skyline through the window bars. Cutting out all the window-panes took forever.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/27/sharpen-your-blades-boys/#disciplinary-technology

Thinking the unthinkable

Bosch's anus-demon (from the Garden of Earthly Delights) returns, this time to illustrate the problems of radium suppositories as a metaphor for commercial surveillance (yes, a visual metaphor for a textual metaphor – whew, it's getting abstract around here). It took some fiddling to get the right green radioactive glow in the anal cavity, and to match it for each of the suppositories in the Museum of the Health Sciences' picture of a box of the

The damask-esque background comes from a gallery of antique marbled endpapers that I often use when I need a texture, tweaking the curves and colors until they look cool.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/19/just-stop-putting-that-up-your-ass/#harm-reduction

There's no such thing as "shareholder supremacy"

Boy I love this one. The background is a late 1800s photo of the Temple of Pluto. The golden calf on the idol comes from an early 20th century illustrated bible. Add Milton Friedman's head, the lettering from the original U Chicago School of Business, and a tiny golden top-hat for the calf, and voila! Idol-worship! Alistair Milne's tip for making gold textures work went down a treat here.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/18/falsifiability/#figleaves-not-rubrics

America's best-paid CEOs have the worst-paid employees

The heads of the millionaires are more Keppler Punch illos, while the bodies and sofas come from another Thomas Hawk found industrial photo. You'll remember the child coal miners from ""Carbon neutral" Bitcoin operation founded by coal plant operator wasn't actually carbon neutral." I have a vivid memory of carefully cutting out the guillotine and its Jacobins during a boring conference presentation.

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/09/low-wage-100/#executive-excess

Conspiratorialism as a material phenomenon

The superstitious belief that Big Tech has built a mind-control ray is a common theme in my work, and I've got a few prized, carefully sliced up "mind control ray" themed images from old pulps in my stock art folder. This one is augmented with Cryteria's HAL 9000 eye, and a Keppler cavorting vaudevallian with Zuck's metaverse head. The midcentury family comes from a midcentury ad for Mason Masterpieces's bronzed baby-shoes.

(Image: Cryteria, CC BY 3.0, modified)

Part three

Part four

[saltyyuuri]

🩵 Mission mishap 🩵

Jett x gn!reader

Song: southbound Artemas (it was stuck in my head)

Words:2200

Note: this is once again inspired by a tiktok made by Teo, and requested In DMS. Enjoy! (Also if you are the tiktoker you have invaded my feed. I am not complaining)

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

"Come ooooon, what's the worst that can happen?" Oh how tempted you were to say famous last words, staring as Jett was nearing one of her fingers at one of the spilled vials with a blue liquid on the floor. You were both on a recon mission, which she was supposed to cover your back while you would gather intel.

Of course things didn't quite go as they were planned; which isn't unusual in your domain of work. Of course there was people in this lab-now all laying dead on the floor thanks too Jett. But of course in the middle of all the commotion a couple of things got knocked over, including paperwork, glass tools and a couple of unidentified vials filled with a few different liquids. Some had been splattered on the floor and of course Jett had gotten a little curious.

You had warned her multiple times not to touch it-if you don't know what it is it's best not to meddle with it. Her opinion wasn't the same-she was curious. And so you just watched with a bit of indifference as she poked her finger in the liquid. After a few seconds of silence you just turned back to continue picking up any valuable paperwork-the computer currently getting its data transferred onto a hard drive.

"are you happy now?" You mumbled out as you finished picking up everything and stuffing it in a duffel bag you brought. You picked up the USB key that was serving together the data from the computer and stuffed it in the bag too, having a special compartment just for the hard drives to make sure they wouldn't get knocked around. "Very. Just slightly disappointed nothing happened." Jett huffed, rolling her eyes. You let out a sigh, getting the strap of the duffle bag over your shoulder as you were ready to go.

"right-because it would have been totally funny if something bad happened meaning I would have to drag your body back." You mumbled out as you shook your head, Jett following behind you with a smirk. "Please-as if it would kill me." She said in a cocky tone to which you just shook your head as you know it would be pointless to try to convince her otherwise. You both made it back to the transport aircraft safely, placing the duffel bag on one of the benches and securing it with the safety belt on the seat.

You sat on the seat directly beside it while Jett sat in front of you, relaxed and nonchalant. At some point she yawned-then reached into one of her pockets to grab a little snack packet she brought along. It was a packet of mixed nuts-tearing it open and eating it almost immediately. "Are you eating that with the hand you touched the liquid with?" You asked her in a slightly baffled tone.

"uhhh... I don't know. I don't care." Jett said, shrugging as she was just busy eating her snack. "And what if that was poison? You're just casually going to eat that?" You pressed on, just trying to get her to stop eating with that damn hand. "Meh. We're heading back to protocol anyways, if I die, Sage is there. Either that or I'll build a tolerance to poison!" Jett said, laughing as she spoke. "Oh, because Sage would definitely be thrilled to resurrect you because you were dumb enough to eat with a hand that had something unknown on it-"you mumbled out as you shook your head.

Jett just rolled her eyes and finished her snack, tossing the paper in a small waste basket that was kept on board for the aircraft. All you could do was just sigh and shake your head. Sometimes her nonchalance was honestly annoying, as if not giving two craps that she potentially just poisoned herself. You just kept an eye on her, just in case. She seemed pretty fine-and it had been a couple of minutes.

You gave up on trying to monitor her-instead turning towards the duffle bag and decided to start sorting the papers inside. Your attention was just completely on it-not even focused on the sounds of the aircraft or Jett humming anymore. You spent a few minutes doing that, briefly skimming through the papers and sorting them accordingly. The only thing that brought you out of your focus is when you heard a deep voice speak up.

"uh... Something's not right." That's all you heard, in a deep voice but with the same tone Jett uses. You almost immediately froze because there was no guys on the plane from what you knew. No one was supposed to be in here-and your head snapped up to look towards Jett. Before you could even register what happened- Jett just looked masculine.

It was a literal gender swap. You just stared at her- him? Your brain was just not registering anything at this point. "(Y/n), why do I sound like a guy-? What's going on-" Jett asked again, this time standing up from... His? seat. You are just stunned for a moment before cracking a smile and then starting to laugh. "Karma... That's definitely Karma." You managed to say between laughter.

"what do you mean karma-what is going on?! Why do I feel- oh shit-" Jett froze, looking down upon himself. And then the realization hit- Jett thought that he was high, he was just even more surprised to figure out he was no longer a woman. His face went red and he immediately sat back down and crossed his legs uncomfortably. "Oh hell no. No-" he said, barely registering what was going on himself.

"did you just get a fucking boner-" you said through your laughter, nearly choking when his face went even redder. At this point you were practically crying of laughter. "Oh my fucking god this is fucking priceless-" you said, gasping for air while Jett had to sit uncomfortably and try to figure things out. Everything was hitting like a train at this point; hormones, the thoughts, the changes...

When you two were back at base, you know you would have one hell of a great time to explain this to Brimstone. And Jett would probably get in trouble. But in the meantime you were getting quite a good laugh out of it. When you bursted through the doors to Brimstone's office , grinning from ear to ear and holding out the duffel bag to him, he already was suspicious something happened.

"... So what's the catch?" He asked, cautiously taking the duffel bag and peeking inside in case something was hidden in there. "Well... Jett got a little too curious." You started to say as you were trying to stifle a laugh. Brimstone just looked at you suspiciously before Jett finally came in the office. He was standing a little more straight this time but still looking quite awkward.

It felt like watching a teenager go through the awkward phase-where they were just trying to figure out what to do with their oversized limbs, but despite that trying to look confident. You were already trying to suppress a laugh again-where Jett was trying to look normal- but his back was a little too leaned back probably out of habit from having a little more weight in the front- even looking slightly unbalanced.

Brimstone starred at Jett for a moment-Frozen for a second as of trying to understand what the hell just happened. And then he just let out a groan, rubbing his face with one hand before calling in Viper instead. So the whole afternoon Jett was getting dragged through the labs and getting briefly tested to see what was the substance he accidentally ate, trying to see if it was reversible or if it was radianite infused.

On the bright side the Intel you brought back was quite useful and you got to get a little bit of praise for that. Getting a couple of days off afterwards for a job well done was always a nice reward. You were just sitting back at the common room, chatting away with a couple of different agents and telling them what happened so that they wouldn't get too surprised when Jett would be released from the labs. But even with the heads up they were still pretty shocked after Jett walked through the door, still looking like a guy.

It was dead silent in the common room and people just stared in shock, amusement or confusion. Meanwhile you were just giggling again- unable to help it as you looked him up and down. "And?" You finally asked Jett, the poor guy looking pretty uncomfortable in the doorway as everyone was just staring. "It should ware off by tomorrow.." he mumbled out. The silence was getting a little uncomfortable and you finally get up from your spot, walking towards him before placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him out of the common room.

Jett hands up at the feeling of your hand on his shoulder but didn't complain to being removed from the common room as it was getting a little awkward. You walked him back to his dorm, staying by his side. "So. I hope lesson was learned- no randomly touching or eating liquids you don't know." You said as you reached his door, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

Jett grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, whatever." He said, trying to unlock his door but the face scanner wasn't going through. Of course it wouldn't work because it wasn't the same face at this point- his jaw was a little more Sharp and cheekbones a little more defined. You had to suppress another chuckle as you watched Jett getting annoyed.

"do you want to crash at my place?" You finally suggested, still grinning as you spoke. "... Fine." Jett mumbled out, already turning to walk down the hall towards your own dorm before freezing. As if something went through his entire body in one jolt. ".. on second thought I don't think that's a good idea." Jett finally said with a slightly strained voice. It took you a second to understand before you had to stifle another laugh.

"oh dear lord. This is going to be one hell of a long night isn't it-" you managed to squeak out as you were holding back another laugh, practically forcefully dragging him towards your room because he didn't really have another place to sleep seeing as he couldn't unlock his own room. "(Y/n), no- but what if-"

"who cares? I'm not complaining if anything happens -" you said smugly with a small smirk, unlocking your dorm room to let him in. Jett grumble something out, walking inside your dorm and crossing his arms. "Hey this isn't a free pass you know-" he said, slightly annoyed as he spoke. "I never said it was. I just said if something happened I'm not going to be complaining." You said smugly again with that same smirk.

He ended up walking over to you and pinning you to the wall, one hand directly beside your head as he leaned in with a small frown. "And what's that supposed to mean, huh?" He asked, as if not realizing just how close he actually was. You were a little stunned by the sudden movement and blushing just slightly. Jett took a moment before realizing and backed up-looking a little embarrassed and annoyed. "Dammit - what the hell is wrong with me?!" He huffed out, just looking annoyed more about himself than anything else.

"Guess that your getting a testosterone rush or something-" you mumbled out as you tried to compose yourself after what just happened. Jett huffed- shaking his head. "I have more self control than that." He said once again annoyance. You raised an eyebrow his way and crossed your arms. "Bullshit." You immediately called out.

"I am not spitting bullshit! I have self control!" He immediately retorted back. You raised an eyebrow at his words and crossed your arms. "Right. So if I casually changed to my pajamas in front of you you would totally be chill?" You said with an almost dead pan expression, unfazed. He froze, cheeks tinting just slightly red and immediately turning around. You already had a brief idea as to why he turned around.

"please don't." Is all he said, voice sounding strained once again. "You say that as if you haven't seen me change hundreds of times already." You once again say completely unfazed but moving to your dresser to grab some pajamas. The words seem to strike him and he straightened up, looking tense. "Yeah well.. I wasn't - there wasn't... You know!" He nearly yelled out in frustration, making you cackle once again. "Right. There wasn't a raging boner giving away your every thought." You said smugly, starting to change without giving too much of a care since anyways he had his back turned.

"Hey-that's not how-!" Jett turned around almost immediately and ready to argue before his eyes landed on your body, practically nude as you were changing. Any attempt at words after that was just a jumble of noises, a sharp deep breath and a lot of staring. When you are done changing you looked back at him. "You were saying?" You said with a small smirk.

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[mama-qwerty]

Okay, Tumblr doesn't want to link things properly. Whatevs.

New post to ao3 - Sonic 3 spoilers inside

~~~

The Moment

Sirens wailed, their sound different from the ones in the United States.

Maddie stayed with Tom as the paramedics hurried in. Movement to her left. Someone spoke to her. She didn’t hear the words.

Her eyes were focused on her fallen husband.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. No one was supposed to be hurt. Least of all, Tom.

The paramedics gestured her back, and she moved, reluctantly. Watched as they placed a neck brace on him. Gently rolled him to his side to slide a board beneath, then lifted him onto the gurney. A quick hoist and then they were rolling him outside, to the waiting ambulance.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It had been a simple plan. Kind of fun, in a way. She and Tom had been working as inside agents, getting to the server room at G.U.N. headquarters in England, in order to plant a USB drive from Tails. This would disable various security systems to allow Sonic to zip inside and get the second key for some big weapon Robotnik was looking for. That crazy doctor already had the first key, so they had to make sure the second stayed out of his hands.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Keep reading on ao3

[fivenightsatfreddysfanfiction]

Rely On His Will

Gregory, Cassie, and Oswald look over the pages of Afton Files they snuck out of Jeremy's database and discuss discoveries made with that information.

.

======================

.

Gregory’s fingers tapped steadily over the keys of his laptop, his focus taken up by the code on the screen as he rested with his back against the tree in the schoolyard where he liked to sit. On either side of him sat Oswald and Cassie, nibbling on their lunches as they sorted through printouts of the files taken from Mr. Fitzgerald’s database. Information about the original Fazband as recorded from drive copies taken of the Toy Animatronics line, data and observations on Mike Schmidt, on Jeremy Fitzgerald, on the readings of energy labeled Remnant Subjects One through Seven; whatever seemed confusing was marked for later study, while things about Mike were carefully highlighted with markers.

“Looking at some of the stuff written about this guy, you’d think he woulda died at least a dozen times while on the job,” Oswald commented in mild surprise, talking around a mouthful of crackers and cheese from his box lunch. He held a page over Gregory’s head when Cassie reached up, waving to see it herself. “Take a look. The Toys kept some weird records but it seems to match up with what Mr. Fitzgerald said about him to Gregory.”

“Yeah, the stuff about Freddy and Friends is also kind of weird. Each of them has a Remnant reading on them, so those have to be the ghost kids from the Missing Children Incident,” Cassie agreed, looking between the page she got from Oswald and one she already had on hand, “But there’s also notes about a scheduled decommission. Looks like Afton Robotics was waiting for a signal to come and take them in to get the Remnant from their endoskeletons.”

“Over my dead body were they taking those metal assholes for bullshit experiments,” Gregory muttered absently as he kept typing, lines of code filling in gaps and replacing garbled data in what was displayed on his screen. Oswald leaned closer to him to look at the screen himself, another cracker half in his mouth as his shoulder pressed against Gregory’s.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” he asked around the snack, blinking at the dizzying array of numbers and symbols.

“Updating Foxy the Pirate’s security systems,” the boy replied, brow furrowing slightly as he concentrated, “Mr. Fitzgerald’s dad put some coding in that isn’t in the other two drives, so it took me a while to figure out what it was for. Looks like it made Foxy Mr. Schmidt’s bodyguard in emergency situations or if a command was given for it.”

“What for? Oswald’s right, there’s info in here about a lot of injuries Mr. Schmidt should have taken during his turns on the night shift and just.. didn’t. You think this Strength to Survive thing had something to do with it?” Cassie asked in confusion and Gregory blinked, looking at her oddly.

“What? How’d you figure about that?” he asked and Cassie waved one of the printouts at him with an unimpressed expression.

“The Marionette records have way more weird info about Mr. Schmidt and Mr. Fitzgerald,” she told him, “That’s what you get for just dragging everything into that USB bracelet you were hiding under that bandanna on your hand. Didn’t even bother to check which files have the good stuff.” She went back to reading it over, “Says here that it was hoping to use his Strength to Survive to anchor the children to the living world. Was it talking about the ghost kids? Did the Marionette think it could use Mr. Schmidt’s secret thing to bring them back to life?”

“That sounds so creepy when you say it like that,” Oswald commented with a faint grimace that Gregory mirrored on his own face. Cassie threw up her hands in exasperation, rolling her eyes.

“Well, what am I supposed to call it? We don’t know what it actually is!” she pointed out and set the printouts down to take an aggressive bite of her sandwich, squinting at them both in daring.

Oswald rubbed at his chin thoughtfully while Gregory slowly went back to working on coding. “Well, I think it might be.. like.. some kind of superpower?” he suggested slowly.

“The guy who got bit in the head had superpowers?” Cassie questioned flatly, one eyebrow raising, “Is that what you’re going with?”

“He lived after getting bit in the head, didn’t he? Sounds like a superpower definitely woulda helped with that,” Oswald declared with a sniff.

“I can believe Remnant doing stuff with emotions and souls,” Cassie retorted, folding her arms over her chest, “I don’t believe in people randomly getting superpowers.”

“What about Remnant powers?” Gregory asked, his focus back on his typing again, eyes shifting back and forth over the lines of code. “Strength to Survive.. sounds like something emotion based, doesn’t it? Getting a burst of strength when you’re desperate to live through a dangerous moment?” Oswald placed a hand on his own arm with a faint frown, fingers resting on the soft blue fabric strips wrapped around and hiding his scars under his jacket.

Cassie frowned in silence, thinking it over. “I guess that makes sense,” she admitted slowly. She picked up the pages and read them over again. “If that’s the case, then some of these notes make a lot more sense too,” she added and blinked. “So, Mr. Schmidt had a Remnant power? Something that could let him live through dangerous times, like all these incidents where he should have died or gotten seriously hurt,” she murmured.

“Huh, guess the old ghost was onto something when he said it’d be bad if Afton got her hands on Mike’s power,” Gregory muttered. He bit his lip a little, glancing over at Oswald who blinked rapidly at him in confusion. “Hey, uh, Cassie?” he began hesitantly, “What if I told you I was talking with a Remnant ghost on the other side of the wall at Circus Baby’s?”

“He said he’s a spirit, not a ghost,” Oswald corrected and Gregory gave him a flat glare as Cassie looked between them both with a wrinkled nose.

“There’s a difference?” the other boy questioned in that tone that said how little he cared about it.

“Six said he didn’t come from a soul, so I guess yeah?”

“Wait, wait, you two actually talk to a ghost?” Cassie exclaimed in surprise and Oswald threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Spirit!”

“Whatever!”

“You don’t think we’re crazy for it?” Gregory asked her in surprise and Cassie just gave him an unimpressed look.

“I think you’re stupid for trying to keep this from me for who knows how long, but with everything that happened with Afton Robotics and Fazbear Entertainment, I’m not surprised that Remnant does some really weird stuff to people and places,” she replied, “So no. Not crazy. Just really dumb. You think I can’t hear you muttering about that guy? I just thought it was code for some weird guy squatting in Freddy’s, like those people who broadcast themselves breaking into abandoned buildings on dares.”

“I don’t know what to feel about that,” Oswald mumbled, squinting with a fingertip pressed to his mouth while Gregory grimaced, shoulders slumping in place.

“Just be happy I liked you two before you started trying to be really bad secret agents,” Cassie told him with a grin, “Cuz you guys are really bad at it. Pretty embarrassing even. Hehe!”

Gregory pointed at the papers in her lap. “So, about what you were reading,” he began, “Afton Robotics really had notes about taking the old Fazband in for their experiments?” Cassie handed him a page with a nod and he skimmed the writing with a scowl. “They were gonna melt the endos with the ghost kids attached?”

Oswald sucked air in sharply, his eyes wide with alarm as the two kids looked to him in concern. “My dad’s job, at the mill!” he explained, pointing at the page, “He would try to fix stuff and get it reused before he had to melt it down, and he worked with lots of metal stuff.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “Back in my old town, when I was doing the whole time travel thing, I found some scrap animatronic parts around the closed down mill. With how long ago this order was made, I think the Fazband was gonna be the last set of animatronics to get sent to my dad’s workplace before it closed down for whatever reason.”

“Maybe that’s why that Spring Bonnie went after your dad? He could have had a lot of Remnant around him from melting so much stuff that had emotions layered onto it,” Gregory wondered aloud as Cassie nodded.

“Yeah, it’s not just souls that can get attached to stuff. If people really loved the animatronics that got sent to be melted, that would leave strong Remnant,” she explained to Oswald, “And since your dad was the last person to handle them, all that Remnant could transfer off to him. If Spring Bonnie was collecting Remnant for Afton Robotics, it might have tried to take your dad for it.”

He looked worried, finger curled between his teeth as he bit on it a little. Gregory reached up and wrapped a hand around his wrist, gently pulling down to get it out of his mouth. “Can we get it off him? So he’s not a big target anymore or something?” Oswald asked, looking between them with pleading eyes.

“I don’t know if we can,” Gregory replied quietly, “That’s Afton tech. I don’t have access to that, even if my name is Afton too.” He shrugged. “And from what I remember seeing in the Pizzaplex, the way to get Remnant off of people doesn’t exactly have what we would call ‘survival rates’.”

Oswald’s face paled and Cassie smacked Gregory upside the head. “Did you have to be so frank about it?!” she demanded, her hands on her hips. She turned to the other boy. “Look, your dad got targeted cuz he got near where that animatronic was, right? And now you guys are here in another city. As long as he doesn’t get in range of another Afton animatronic, he should be safe. Most of them are in the Pizzaplex and Gregory trashed the heck out of that place, so everything is either still inside the building or getting moved back to Afton Robotics since the mill is closed.” She smiled at Oswald’s relieved expression, “Your dad’s safe and if we can stop the Aftons from going after Remnant, then there won’t be anymore trouble. We just need this Strength to Survive thing, right?”

“Well, that’s one part,” Gregory agreed, rubbing his head as he looked over his code work, “I’m still thinking what else to do. As long as Afton keeps coming back, her and her family are gonna be a problem. And the main problem is this William Afton guy she was planning to bring back to life in me.” He paused, a deep scowl crossing his face that had Oswald and Cassie sharing a worried look over his head. “..Fuck my life, I think I have an idea now and I hate it,” he growled and rubbed his hands over his face, “Augh! I’ll deal with it when I deal with it! I gotta get all these guys up and running first!”

“Wait, what’s your idea?” Cassie asked.

“Don’t ask,” Gregory grumbled in frustration, typing more aggressively.

“She kinda did already,” Oswald pointed out.

“Then stop asking about it!” Gregory bit out, hunching his shoulders up defensively. The two children shared another worried look over his head. “Can we just focus on what else got recorded in the Toys’ drives so we can have an idea of what else Mike had that we can use to get Afton Robotics off our asses?”

“Lunch hour is almost over, so we don’t have a lotta time left before we need to get back to class,” Oswald told him, finishing off the last of his crackers and cheese before picking up more printouts to read through. Cassie did the same, still glancing worriedly at Gregory from the corner of her eye between reading pages. They carefully scooted closer, pressing their shoulders to Gregory’s in silent solidarity until tension bled out of the smaller boy and he sat back with a tired sigh, the back of his head thudding lightly against the tree trunk.

“I thought the fight was supposed to be over,” he murmured and reached up to rub his head, palm pressed to his crown.

“It will be when we win,” Cassie told him with a determined expression and a spark of faint blue flashed in Gregory’s eyes as Oswald glanced up over his head.

“I promise.. I will win against him,” he swore softly, “Nobody fucks with my family. Never again.”