#flash drive encryption

[artficlly]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.��

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

hi, if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

[elinaann]

protect a flash drive without bitlocker

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES | MV1

an: this is slightly based off of a request but not at all at the same time, i had this idea come to me in a dream and had to write it as soon as possible. this one is dedicated to 🐴non x

wc: 6.0k

THE CITY HUMMED WITH QUIET MENACE, a sprawling jungle of glass and steel that never truly slept. High above the streets, the skyline was shrouded in a dense layer of mist, the lights of distant towers bleeding through like smudged paint on a dark canvas. Somewhere below, the world carried on, unaware of the silent war that played out in the shadows—where men like Max Verstappen existed, moving unseen, ghosts in the system.

Max had been doing this for as long as he could remember. Recruited young, trained to be invisible, his life had been stripped of anything that didn’t serve the mission. Emotion dulled, past erased—he had been remade into something precise, something lethal. He didn’t question it. There was no point.

Tonight was no different. His orders had been clear: infiltrate, extract, disappear. A routine operation for someone like him. The target was a classified data vault hidden beneath the bones of an abandoned government facility—forgotten by the world but not by those who understood its value. Whatever was locked inside was important enough for the agency to send him, which meant there was no room for error.

The corridors were silent, bathed in the cold glow of emergency lights. He moved without a sound, a shadow slipping past security feeds and motion sensors with practised ease. The hard drive was exactly where it was supposed to be, tucked behind layers of encryption and reinforced steel. He bypassed the safeguards in seconds, fingers flying over the terminal, but just as the transfer neared completion, the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

He wasn’t alone.

A flicker in his peripheral vision—then movement. Fast.

Max barely twisted in time to avoid the strike aimed at his throat, instinct carrying him backwards as a blade skimmed past his skin. No hesitation, no wasted effort. He countered immediately, using the momentum to lash out, but she was already gone, slipping back into the dim light like smoke.

His eyes locked onto her, scanning, assessing. She was good. Too good. Every movement precise, every attack calculated. Not just an operative—an equal.

They clashed again, the fight a brutal dance of skill and intent. Strikes deflected, counters met with counters. For every step he gained, she matched him effortlessly, as if she knew exactly how he moved, how he thought.

And then, as their blades met in a deadlock, a flicker of something else. Not recognition—something deeper, buried beneath years of erased memories.

A flash.

Fifteen years old, standing in the rain, bruised and bleeding but not broken. A voice—her voice—sharp with defiance. Again.

It vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only the pounding of his pulse and the fire in her eyes.

Who was she?

She twisted free, launching into another attack, and Max forced himself to focus. Questions could wait. First, he had to survive.

The fight pressed on, a deadly rhythm of movement and steel. Each strike was met with precision, each dodge answered with equal force. It had been a long time since Max had faced someone who could keep up with him—longer still since he had felt something close to uncertainty in a fight. But there was no denying it. She knew him. Knew the way he moved, the way he anticipated attacks before they landed.

And worse—he knew her too.

Not in a way that made sense. Not in a way that should have been possible.

She feinted left before twisting low, her boot catching his knee hard enough to unbalance him. He barely managed to absorb the impact, rolling back to create distance. He expected her to press forward, to take advantage of the opening, but instead, she hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Her breathing was steady, her stance unwavering, but in her eyes—something flickered. A question.

Max clenched his jaw. He couldn't afford hesitation, couldn't afford doubt. Whoever she was, whatever this was, it didn’t change the mission. He forced himself to move, closing the distance between them with speed, but as he reached for his knife, another flash tore through him—

Fifteen again. A training room lit with harsh white fluorescents. The air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. His body ached, muscles trembling from exhaustion, but he refused to stop. She stood opposite him, just as battered, just as relentless. Her voice, breathless but sharp—

"You’re getting slow, Max."

The memory splintered as she moved, striking at him with that same speed, that same precision. He barely countered in time.

His pulse thundered. He had no past, that’s what he’d been told. Whatever he was remembering right now, he wasn’t supposed to remember.

And yet…

A part of him did.

She drove him back, seizing control of the fight, her attacks coming faster now, sharper—more desperate. As if she, too, was fighting something beyond just the mission.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The abandoned facility, the stolen data, the reason they were even here in the first place—it all faded into insignificance. There was only her. The way she moved. The way something deep within his bones screamed that this wasn’t the first time they had fought like this.

Then, just as suddenly, the silence shattered.

A distant alarm.

Reinforcements.

Max swore under his breath. This had already gone too far.

Their gazes locked, breath ragged, neither willing to lower their guard. But the moment was broken.

Whoever she was, whatever this was—they were out of time.

The distant alarm pulsed through the facility, a stark reminder that they weren’t alone. The fight should have ended then and there—one of them should have taken the opportunity to finish it. But neither of them moved.

Max’s grip tightened around his knife, but his instincts screamed at him to do something else entirely. Run. Stay. Demand answers. The confusion was a dangerous distraction, one he had never allowed himself before.

She was still watching him, breathing hard, eyes flicking towards the corridor where the reinforcements would be coming from. Her hesitation was telling.

She wasn’t here for them.

Whoever she was—whatever her mission—she was working alone.

The second stretched between them, thick with something unspoken, before she made her choice.

She turned and ran.

Max almost let her go. Almost.

But something inside him wouldn’t allow it.

Without thinking, he took off after her.

She was fast, her movements fluid, as if she already knew the building’s layout. He followed instinctively, boots silent against the steel grates as they weaved through the abandoned corridors. The flashing red lights cast long shadows, flickering over rusted walls and forgotten machinery.

She took a sharp turn, disappearing into a stairwell. Max followed without hesitation, vaulting over the railing to cut her off at the landing below. She barely managed to stop in time, skidding to a halt before twisting into a defensive stance.

For the first time, she spoke.

"Still reckless."

The words sent an almost physical shock through him. Not because of what she’d said—but because of how she’d said it. Not mocking. Not surprised. Just… knowing.

Max didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His chest was heaving, his mind torn between the mission and the undeniable truth that was forcing its way through the cracks in his erased past.

Then, another flash—

Younger. A different place. Late night, stolen moments between brutal training sessions. A whispered conversation in the dark. She’s beside him, pressing an ice pack to his ribs, smirking slightly as he winces.

"Still reckless," she murmurs, and there’s something almost fond in her voice.

It hit him like a bullet. The memory wasn’t vague or blurred—it was real.

Which meant she was real.

His hesitation was all she needed. With a sharp movement, she threw something—small, metallic—towards the ground between them. A split second later, smoke erupted, thick and blinding.

Max lunged forward, but by the time he broke through the haze, she was gone.

Vanished into the labyrinth of the facility.

The alarm was still blaring. He could hear the distant shouts of guards closing in, but his mind was elsewhere, stuck in the past he wasn’t supposed to have.

Who the hell was she?

And why had they made him forget?

The mission was slipping away.

Max knew it—could feel it unraveling the second he made his choice. The data didn’t matter anymore. The agency’s orders, the years of conditioning that had drilled obedience into his bones—none of it mattered. Not when the memories were clawing their way back to the surface, memories that weren’t supposed to exist.

She wasn’t supposed to exist.

But she did. And he needed to find her.

The alarm pulsed overhead, the facility coming alive with movement as guards swept through the corridors. Max melted into the shadows, instincts taking over, but his mind was elsewhere—tracing the route she had taken, searching for an exit she might have used.

He replayed every detail of their fight, every step of her retreat. She had moved with certainty, like she knew exactly where she was going. That meant she had planned this.

Which meant she had a way out.

Max exhaled sharply and turned away from the terminal. The stolen data was still mid-transfer, the mission still technically salvageable—but that wasn’t why he was here anymore. He left it behind without hesitation, slipping into the stairwell she had disappeared through moments before.

His body moved on instinct, muscle memory leading him through the facility as if chasing something deeper than just a target.

Fifteen again. Late-night training. They were always the last two left standing, bruised and aching but refusing to fall. A voice in the dark, hers—

"They’ll break us apart one day."

He hadn’t believed her.

Max’s jaw clenched. They had broken them apart. Wiped them clean. Turned them into strangers.

But not completely.

Some part of him still remembered. And if that part existed in him, then it existed in her too.

He reached the lower levels of the building, moving faster now. The reinforcements were closing in above—he could hear the distant echo of boots, orders shouted over comms. He had minutes at best.

The facility was a relic of a forgotten past, its lower levels half-abandoned, corridors thick with dust and disuse. It was the perfect place to disappear.

And that’s exactly what she had done.

Max slowed, scanning the space, eyes catching the faintest disturbance in the dust—a trail. Not clumsy, not obvious, but enough. She wanted to vanish, but she was still human. Still breathing, still moving, still—

There.

A side door, slightly ajar. The faintest shift in the air, the ghost of movement beyond.

Max didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through, slipping into the dimly lit corridor beyond, senses sharp. The space was narrow, lined with rusted pipes, the distant hum of an old ventilation system vibrating through the walls. She had taken this route for a reason.

An exit.

He moved quickly but carefully, resisting the urge to break into a sprint. She knew he was coming—she had to. But she hadn’t tried to stop him.

Why?

The corridor opened up into a loading bay, long abandoned, the night air cutting sharp through a broken shutter. Outside, the city sprawled in the distance, a blur of lights against the dark.

She was there.

Standing just beyond the exit, half-turned, as if debating whether to disappear for good.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"You left the mission," she said, voice unreadable.

Max exhaled slowly. "So did you."

Something flickered in her eyes. Something almost like recognition. Like a truth neither of them could quite grasp.

He took a step forward.

And this time—she didn’t run.

Max barely had time to react. One second, they were standing there, locked in some unspoken standoff—the next, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

He didn’t even see the knife until it was pressed against his throat.

The cold bite of steel sent a sharp pulse through him, but he didn’t flinch. His hands remained at his sides, body taut, ready—but he didn’t strike. Not yet.

She was close now. Close enough that he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice low.

Her grip on the knife didn’t waver.

"They’ll kill you if I answer that question."

The words shouldn’t have sent a chill through him, but they did. Not because of what she said—but because of how she said it. A warning, not a threat. A truth she didn’t want to speak aloud.

He held her gaze. "Then why not kill me yourself?"

Her jaw tensed. "If I wanted you dead, you would be."

Something about the certainty in her voice sent his pulse spiking.

"Then tell me," he pressed. "Tell me why I remember you."

She exhaled sharply, her expression flickering—just for a second. As if she wanted to. As if she was weighing whether or not to break whatever rules had been drilled into her as deeply as his own.

Then, finally—

"Ask Christian where he picked you up from."

Max’s breath stilled.

The name hit him harder than it should have.

Christian. His handler. The man who had trained him, who had shaped him into what he was today. The one person in his life who had ever been constant.

There was nothing before him. No memories, no past. Christian had found him, recruited him, trained him—

Hadn’t he?

The question lodged itself deep, twisting into something sharp and unfamiliar.

He shook his head. "Christian raised me."

She pressed the knife just a little harder against his skin—not enough to cut, just enough to make sure he felt it.

"No, he didn’t."

Max’s throat went dry.

The certainty in her voice, the way she didn’t even hesitate—it felt like a noose tightening around something inside him.

The life he’d known had always been clear, precise, unshakable. He had been taken in as a boy, trained to be a ghost, stripped of anything that might make him hesitate. No attachments. No past.

No questions.

But now—

Now he wasn’t so sure.

She must have seen the doubt flicker in his eyes because something in her stance shifted. Not in triumph. Not in relief. Something closer to regret.

The knife at his throat lowered slightly, just enough to press against his chest instead. Light. Just a touch. A reminder.

"Whatever you do," she said softly, "don’t let them make you forget again."

The words hit him like a gunshot.

And then—she was gone.

A single blink, a breath too slow, and she vanished into the shadows like she had never been there at all.

Max stood frozen, the city wind cutting sharp against his skin.

His hands curled into fists.

Because for the first time in his life, he had a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

The flight back was silent.

Max sat motionless in the jet’s dim cabin, hands clasped loosely, gaze fixed on nothing. The city lights faded beneath him, swallowed by the vast dark as they ascended. The hum of the engines filled the space, steady and constant—something to focus on. Something to drown out the chaos in his head.

Christian would be waiting for him.

He had no mission report to give. No extracted data, no explanations that would make sense. It was the first mission he had ever failed.

And the worst part was—he hadn’t even tried to succeed.

The memory of her voice lingered, curling around the edges of his mind like smoke. The way she moved, the way she spoke—like she knew him. Like she had always known him.

Like he should have known her.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words dug deep. No matter how much he tried to push them away, they wouldn’t leave him.

The base was cold when he arrived, the same clinical sterility as always, but tonight, it felt different. Or maybe he was different.

Christian was waiting for him, as expected. He stood with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, but Max knew him well enough to recognise the subtle tension in his shoulders. Disappointment.

Christian let the silence stretch for a moment before he finally spoke.

"You’ve never failed a mission before."

Max kept his expression blank. "There were complications."

"Complications." Christian’s tone was flat, like he was waiting for something more.

Max exhaled, keeping his body relaxed, forcing himself into the role he had played for years. "Security was heavier than expected. Extraction was compromised. I made the call to retreat before it escalated."

A lie. A clean, believable lie.

Christian studied him carefully.

Then, with quiet finality—

"That’s not the whole truth."

Something in Max’s gut twisted. Christian knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not her, but enough to know that Max was keeping something from him.

He needed to tread carefully. He needed to play this right.

So why the hell did he open his mouth and say—

"Where did you pick me up from?"

The words had barely left him before the shift in the air was immediate.

Christian’s entire body went still.

A long, heavy silence.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"You’re remembering."

Max’s stomach turned.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t disbelief. It was a confirmation.

Christian knew.

And before Max could even react, before he could think of a way to fix this, to backtrack, to—

The door behind him slid open.

Boots. Movement. Too many of them.

His instincts flared, but before he could reach for a weapon, hands were on him. A hard grip on his arms, forcing them behind his back. He tensed, about to fight, but then he saw it—

The mask.

The metal apparatus in their hands, wires trailing, the gleam of something sharp and invasive.

Max’s breath locked in his throat.

No.

Not this.

Not again.

He never knew what it did. 

All he knew was that it hurt.

His pulse pounded, his body coiled to resist, but Christian only took a step back, running a hand down his face.

"Fuck. How is this happening already?"

The hands on Max tightened. He thrashed against them, instincts screaming to fight, to run, but it was already too late. The mask was forced over his face, the sharp scent of chemicals hitting him fast.

His vision swayed. The edges of the room blurred.

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

Her voice, clear as a bullet to the skull.

Max fought. He fought, but the world was slipping, pulling him under.

And then—

Darkness.

The world came back in pieces.

A dull ache throbbed behind Max’s eyes, a deep, lingering weight pressing against his skull. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like he was surfacing from somewhere too deep, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to have been.

He was lying on something cold. A cot. The metallic scent of the base’s medical wing filled his lungs, sterile and artificial. The hum of overhead lights buzzed faintly in the background, a rhythmic, familiar noise that should have grounded him.

But something was off.

His thoughts were slow, thick, like they were moving through treacle.

And then—

"You're awake."

Christian’s voice.

Max blinked against the brightness, his vision sharpening as he turned his head. Christian stood a few feet away, arms crossed, studying him with the careful scrutiny of someone searching for cracks in a foundation.

Max forced himself upright. The movement sent a sharp wave of nausea through him, but he ignored it.

"What happened?" His own voice felt distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Christian exhaled through his nose, something unreadable flickering across his expression. "You wiped out during the mission. Comms went dark. We had to extract you."

Wiped out? That wasn’t—

No, that couldn’t be right.

The mission. He’d gone in alone. Infiltrated the facility. He was about to extract the data, and then—

His head pulsed, a sharp spike of pain cutting through his thoughts.

Christian watched him carefully. "What do you remember?"

Max frowned, trying to push past the fog. "The facility. I got inside. Security was heavier than expected, but I navigated it. I reached the terminal, started the extraction—"

A flicker of something.

A shadow of movement. The ghost of a fight, a blade catching the dim light—

No.

That wasn’t right.

The mission had gone wrong. That was all.

He forced the thought aside. "There was an alarm. I had to abandon the extraction. That’s when things got messy. I must have taken a hit on the way out."

Christian nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. "You don’t remember anyone else being there?"

The question was casual. Too casual.

Max’s muscles tensed instinctively. "No."

Christian tilted his head slightly. "No other operatives? No one who might have compromised the mission?"

Max shook his head. "I was alone."

The lie slipped out effortlessly. He didn’t know why he was lying, not fully—but something in his gut told him it was necessary.

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—

"You don’t remember anything else?"

There was something about the way he said it. The way his tone shifted, like he was looking for something specific.

Max opened his mouth to deny it again—

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The thought cut through his mind like a blade.

His breath stalled.

Something about those words felt wrong. Or rather—too sharp. Too defined. Like they weren’t supposed to be there at all.

The chemicals had done their job. He knew they had. He felt the emptiness, the hollowed-out space in his head where things had been scrubbed clean.

But that one thought remained.

And he had no idea why.

Christian was still watching him, patient, expectant.

Max forced his expression blank. "No. I don’t remember anything else."

A beat.

Then Christian nodded, like that was the answer he had been waiting for.

"Get some rest," he said, stepping back towards the door. "We’ll debrief properly in the morning."

Max only nodded.

He waited until Christian was gone, until the door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

His hands curled into fists against the sheets.

Because something wasn’t right.

And this time, no matter what they did to him—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

Max sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His head still ached—a deep, lingering throb at the base of his skull—but he ignored it. He was too focused on the weight pressing against his chest.

The wrongness of it all.

They had wiped him. They must have. He could feel the gaps, the hazy edges where memories had been scraped clean. It wasn’t the first time.

But this time, something had slipped through.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words sat heavy in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He didn’t know where they came from. Didn’t know why they felt important. But they did.

And that meant something had gone wrong.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, methodically. Focus. He needed to be careful. Christian was already suspicious—his questions hadn’t been casual. He had been testing him.

And Max had barely passed.

He glanced towards the door. Locked, as expected. There would be a guard outside. There always was after the machine, at least for the first few hours. Just in case.

They were watching him.

Which meant he needed to act like nothing was wrong.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His body felt steady now, movements fluid despite the dull weight in his skull. He crossed the small room, pressing his fingertips against the cool metal wall, grounding himself in something tangible.

His reflection stared back at him from the glass panel by the door. He looked the same as always—sharp, composed, unreadable.

But he didn’t feel the same.

He reached up, pressing his palm against his chest, against the spot where—

A flicker. A whisper of sensation, something just out of reach—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

His breath caught.

Her voice.

It was there. Faint, distant, but real.

And suddenly, he knew.

The wipe hadn’t worked properly. Not completely.

Something had stayed behind.

And if something had stayed behind, then so had she.

Max clenched his jaw.

They thought they had erased her. Thought they had wiped him clean, reset him like they always did.

But this time, something was different.

And for the first time in his life—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

The next week was hell.

Max barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt like he was missing something, like the answers were just out of reach, slipping through his fingers the moment he got too close.

He spent hours running through the details in his head, over and over, searching for cracks. But there was nothing tangible—just fragments. A voice that didn’t belong. A question he shouldn’t have asked. The phantom feeling of a knife pressing lightly against his chest.

Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, it was like slamming into an invisible wall.

The chemicals had done their job too well.

He found himself pacing his room at night, replaying Christian’s words, analysing every interaction, searching for a thread to pull.

But he couldn’t.

There was nothing there.

And that was the most maddening part.

By the fourth day, he was barely holding it together.

He was losing his edge. He could feel it. His reaction time was slower, his focus splintered. During training exercises, he caught himself hesitating, second-guessing movements that should have been instinctual.

It wasn’t just affecting him mentally. It was affecting his performance.

And that was dangerous.

By the fifth day, he started telling himself he was going insane.

That was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it?

They had wiped him. That was routine. He had failed a mission—Christian had told him what had happened. There was no reason to question it.

The words in his head, the voice, the flashes of something more—

They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.

His own mind was turning against him. That was all. He just needed to let it go.

But he couldn’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

And the not-knowing was driving him to the edge.

On the seventh day, Christian came to him with a new mission.

Max barely had time to gather himself before he was summoned to the briefing room. The moment he walked in, he felt Christian’s gaze settle on him, sharp and assessing, like he was looking for something.

Max straightened his posture, schooling his features into something neutral. He had to keep it together.

Christian held out a thin file. "You’re being deployed again."

Max took it, flipping it open. The details were standard—location, objective, extraction plan. Another infiltration job. Another ghost mission.

But Christian wasn’t watching the file.

He was watching him.

"You look like shit, Max," he said bluntly.

Max barely blinked. "Didn’t realise I was being assessed on aesthetics."

Christian didn’t smile. "You haven’t been sleeping properly."

It wasn’t a question.

Max shut the file, keeping his expression unreadable. "I’m fine."

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—"Good. Because this time, there’s no margin for error."

Something about the way he said it sent a sharp pulse through Max’s gut.

Because Christian wasn’t just talking about the mission.

He was testing him. Again.

And Max had no idea if he was still passing.

The mission was straightforward. Infiltration. Retrieval. Extraction.

No complications. No surprises.

At least, that’s what the file said.

Max knew better.

Christian had given him a comms unit this time, something he never did unless he expected to monitor performance directly. Which meant this wasn’t just about completing the objective—it was about proving himself.

Proving he wasn’t slipping.

Proving he was still the same agent he had always been.

Proving he wasn’t remembering.

He locked in. Forced his mind to focus. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

The drop site was an abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Prague. The air was thick with the scent of rust and rain-soaked concrete, the sound of distant traffic humming just beyond the perimeter.

Max moved quickly, slipping through the darkness like a shadow. The plan was clean—get inside, access the target’s server, extract the encrypted data, and leave before anyone knew he was there.

But Christian’s presence in his ear made everything feel off.

"Comms check." Christian’s voice crackled through the line.

"Copy," Max muttered under his breath.

"You’re on a tight window. No distractions."

The words were casual. But the way he said them wasn’t.

Max ignored it. Pushed forward.

The building was hollowed out, skeletal remains of an old factory now repurposed for something far less industrial. Surveillance equipment was minimal—whoever was running this operation relied on secrecy rather than security.

It made things easier.

Within minutes, Max had reached the target room. A small, nondescript office, a single desk, and a humming server in the corner.

He set up quickly, connecting the extraction device to the system, watching the data begin to transfer.

"ETA?" Christian asked.

"Two minutes."

"Good. Keep it clean."

Max clenched his jaw. The way Christian was talking—it wasn’t just mission oversight. It was scrutiny. He wasn’t just expecting success. He was waiting for a mistake.

Max exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the task. He just had to get through this.

He watched the transfer bar crawl forward, the soft whir of the machine filling the silence.

Almost there.

And then—

A noise.

A shift in the air, subtle but wrong.

Max didn’t hesitate. He cut the extraction, ripped out the device, and had his gun raised in the same breath—

But the doorway was empty.

Nothing. No movement.

Still, his pulse had spiked.

Something was there.

He could feel it.

"Max?" Christian’s voice came through the comms.

Max didn’t lower his weapon. "I heard something."

A pause. Then, calmly—"You’re alone."

It was meant to reassure him.

It didn’t.

Max swallowed down the unease, forcing himself to move. He secured the drive, checked the hall, and started his exit.

He needed to get out.

But as he moved through the corridors, every shadow felt heavier. Every noise felt sharper.

Like he wasn’t alone at all.

And then—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

The voice wasn’t in his comms.

It was in his head.

Max stumbled. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

"Max?" Christian again. Sharper this time.

Max gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing steady. "I’m fine."

A lie.

Because he wasn’t fine.

Something was wrong.

And this time, he wasn’t sure he could ignore it.

Max barely had time to react.

A presence—too close, too quiet—moved behind him, and before he could turn, the cold press of a blade kissed his throat.

He went rigid.

Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to twist out of the hold, to strike first and ask questions later. But something stopped him.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Faint, distant, buried beneath the layers of conditioning. But it was there.

A whisper of something lost.

He opened his mouth—

A hand slid over it, silencing him.

"Shh."

The voice was barely above a breath, warm against his ear.

And familiar.

His pulse hammered against his ribs.

She moved swiftly, with precision—reaching up to his ear, plucking the comm unit free before he could stop her.

A second later, she dropped it to the ground and brought her boot down hard.

The crack of crushed tech echoed through the empty hallway.

Static burst in his ear—then silence.

Christian was gone.

Max inhaled slowly, carefully. "If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me who you are first."

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped around him, lowering the knife as she did. Her grip was light, controlled, like she knew he was dangerous but wasn’t afraid.

He finally got a proper look at her.

Dark clothing, tactical gear—she was built for this world, just like he was. Her face was unreadable, save for her eyes.

They were sharp, calculating. But not unfamiliar.

Max clenched his jaw.

She knew him.

She turned her gaze towards the drive in his hand, then back to him. "Do you have what you need?"

His fingers curled around it instinctively. "Why do you care?"

She exhaled, a quiet huff of something—annoyance, amusement, he couldn’t tell. Then, without a word, she reached past him, grabbed the device, plugged it in and began tapping a few keys on the terminal he’d left behind.

The screen flickered.

His extraction continued.

She was helping him.

Every muscle in his body stayed taut, waiting for the catch. "Why are you doing this?"

Silence.

The transfer completed. She pulled the drive free and pressed it into his palm.

He didn’t take his eyes off her. "Who are you?"

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then—

Softly, carefully—

"You already know."

Unlike last time, she didn’t leave.

Instead, she pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket, a rough tear from something larger. She grabbed a pen from the desk, quick and efficient, and scribbled something down.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped closer.

Too close.

Max didn’t move, but he felt his muscles lock, felt the brush of her knuckles as she slipped the folded paper between the straps of his tactical vest, tucking it neatly against his chest.

A calculated move.

Deliberate.

His pulse spiked—just for a second, just enough that he hated himself for it.

She held his gaze, unreadable. "Meet me here. Seventeen hundred. I’ll give you the answers you want."

Max’s throat felt dry. He glanced down at the paper, at the faint scratch of ink just visible through the fold. An address.

He exhaled sharply. "I can’t leave my base."

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering him. "If you’re motivated enough—if you want the answers—you can."

Simple. Direct.

And infuriatingly confident.

Max clenched his jaw. He should shove the paper back at her. Should call her bluff, demand an explanation now. But his fingers twitched instead, the whisper of her touch still there, phantom-like, against his chest.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough to unsettle him.

By the time he forced himself to look up again, she was already turning away.

He should stop her. He should do something.

But for some reason, he didn’t.

He just stood there, the weight of the paper burning against his skin.

By the time Max stepped out of the building, she was gone.

No trace. No sound. Just the faint echo of her voice still lingering in his head.

His fingers twitched against his vest where the paper sat, warm from his body heat, feeling heavier than it should. He resisted the urge to pull it out and look. Not here. Not yet.

Instead, he locked in, moved. The extraction point was half a mile north, and he didn’t have time to dwell. The moment he was in the open, he moved fast, slipping through the industrial skeleton of the compound, mindlessly following the path drilled into him.

And yet—

The address. The time. The way she had stood so close, the way she had known him.

It was all he could think about.

The jet was already waiting when he arrived. He barely had time to board before Christian turned from where he stood by the cockpit, eyes sharp, scanning him like a threat assessment.

Max pulled off his gloves, keeping his movements smooth, measured. Controlled.

Christian frowned. "What happened to your comms?"

Max didn’t blink. "Glitch. Cut out before extraction. Didn’t have time to fix it."

Christian studied him for a beat too long, but then—exhale. A slow nod. "Tech will look at it."

It worked.

Christian believed him.

Max sank into his seat, forcing his body to relax, listening to the hum of the jet as it powered up. The mission was over.

But his mind wasn’t anywhere near it.

He should be thinking about the debrief, about the logistics of his return, about the inevitable post-mission assessments.

Instead, all he could think about was her.

And the paper in his vest.

And the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, he was going to have to do something he had never done before.

Find a way out.

PART TWO...

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[wandascrush]

Is it really you?

Pairing: Sharon Carter x f!reader, Avengers x f!reader, Natasha Romanoff x f!reader, HYDRA x f!reader

Part 11 of the DIWK series!

Tag list: @esposadejoyhuerta @kissesfornat @ayrtonwilbury @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @caffeine-pup @seventeen-x @blacatto

Warnings: violence, murder, guns, blood, explosions, fire

It had taken Sharon four months, but she finally found you.

The lead had come from a corrupt Europol contact—one she had to break fingers to get talking.

A flash drive, encrypted with information on something called Project Nightshade. HYDRA had set up an operation deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Remote. Isolated. Off the grid. The kind of place you disappear into and never come out.

It was only when she finished reading that she realized you were the project.

Carter spent weeks monitoring the perimeter, tracking movements, listening to intercepted comms. The base was heavily fortified, tighter than even some old SHIELD black sites. HYDRA wasn't just hiding a prisoner.

They were hiding a prized possession. They were hiding you- Asset Nightshade.

Cold hands tightened around the scope of her sniper rifle, positioned on a high ridge overlooking the facility. She had no backup, no official sanction. Just herself, her weapons, and you at the end of this mission.

She peered through her scope, scanning the compound’s exterior.

Armed patrols at every entrance. Sniper nests on the rooftops.

Security drones circling the perimeter.

Getting in was going to be a nightmare.

Getting out with you?

Even worse.

Her earpiece crackled—an old mercenary contact she had bribed for blueprints.

"Carter, you got about a ten-minute window during shift rotation. After that, they lock it down tight."

Sharon exhaled slowly, lowering her rifle.

Ten minutes. That was all she’d have.

"Ten’s all I need," she muttered, pulling down her mask and slipping down the ridge.

Sharon moved through the forest like a shadow, boots silent against the damp ground. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and rain-soaked earth. She timed her movements with the shifting patrols, slipping between blind spots, ducking beneath sensor towers.

The moment the guard at the back exit turned his head, she struck.

A knife to the throat.

A quiet, clean kill.

She dragged his body into the shadows, stripping him of his access card.

——————-

The facility was a fortress. Deep underground, lined with reinforced steel, the kind of place where things went in and never came out.

But Sharon wasn’t looking for a way in.

She was looking for a way out.

She found you in a cell guarded by two burly men—

The guards fell easily. It was almost disappointing.

You didn’t react when the cell door hissed open.

You should. Your training demands it. But there’s no tension in your shoulders, no shift in posture. Just blankness.

You sit on the metal cot, hands resting on your thighs, still as stone.

Sharon steps in, gun raised, breath tight in her chest.

She barely recognizes you.

Your hair is damp, messy from sweat. Your face thinner. Shadows cling to the hollows of your cheeks, and bruises bloom beneath your skin like wilted roses. But still, Sharon thinks to herself, still beautiful.

“Y/N,” she whispered, her voice tight with urgency.

Your head lifted slightly, eyes unfocused.

Recognition flickered—but not enough.

Sharon’s stomach twisted. They had done something to you.

She knelt beside you, hands gripping your face. “Listen to me. It’s me. It’s Sharon.”

You blinked slowly.

“You’re an intruder.”

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“No, no, no. Not an intruder, L/N.”

A flicker of softness flashed in your eyes, a moment of recognition from your last name.

Sharon’s voice softens, but only for a second, “Yeah babe, that’s right. It’s me, I’m your friend. And we need to move.”

When you didn’t immediately stand, she pulled you up, throwing your arm over her shoulder.

The moment your legs buckled, she knew—they had weakened you. Drugged you. Rebuilt you.

But they hadn’t taken all of you.

Not yet.

Sharon shoved a gun into your shaking hands. She trusted you wouldn’t hurt her.

“Think you can still shoot?”

Your fingers curled around the grip automatically. Muscle memory. Second nature.

You exhaled shakily.

She watches as your hands flex—calm, methodical—ready for a fight if need be. But there’s no recognition in your face.

No hesitation.

No warmth.

Only the mechanical precision of a weapon awaiting orders.

She swallows hard, her heart breaking in real time.

“Lets get the fuck out of here.”

Your gaze flickers, an almost imperceptible shift, but she catches it

A small crack.

But then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say flatly.

Sharon doesn’t hesitate.

She raises her gun and aims it right at your forehead.

“You don’t get a choice.”

Her voice is firm, her grip steady. But inside, she’s terrified.

The alarm blasts through the facility and chaos erupts. The sound of boots running starts to grow close.

They know. Fuck, they’re coming.

Sharon curses under her breath, grabbing your wrist. “Move.”

You don’t resist. Not exactly. But you don’t comply either. Your training demands submission to orders—and right now, there are two voices in your head.

One is Sharon Carter.

The other is the voice of HYDRA. Your maker.

Your steps are too silent, too controlled, moving like a predator as she drags you through the corridors. No fear. No hesitation.

Even in escape, you are efficient.

A beauty designed to obey.

Shots whiz past, bullets pinging off the metal walls as guards flood into the corridors.

Sharon ducks behind cover, returns fire with deadly precision, taking out two men before yanking you down with her. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps. “Help me!”

But you just stare at her.

Your fingers flex—your mind foggy, uncertain. You were always trained to protect, to fight.

And then—

A voice crackles through the HYDRA comms, sharp and authoritative.

“Agent Nightshade. Don’t disobey your makers.”

Your body seizes. Breath hitching.

Another, sickly sweet voice cracks through the comms, “Sister’s Keeper.”

In an instant—your brain goes blank.

Sharon sees it happen. Watches the point of control in your eyes get ripped away.

You strike first.

A kick, inhumanly fast, meant to take her down.

Sharon barely blocks, stumbling backward, disbelief flooding her veins.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N!”

But you’re already moving.

It’s like you can’t even hear her.

Her gun is kicked from her hands before she can react.

The fight is brutal. Precise. You don’t miss.

But neither does she.

You were trained together, years ago. Before the Avengers. Before the lies. Before all of this shit.

Sharon knows your patterns like the back of her hand.

But this dark, grimey, underworld has changed you.

She blocks a blow aimed for her throat—

And makes a split-second decision.

She doesn’t dodge.

Your fist slams into her jaw, and she crumples.

You stand over her, chest heaving, fingers trembling. Your body stills. Your mind flickers. The world slows.

Sharon Carter is on the ground.

You put her there.

The fog in your brain stumbles, just slightly. Something pangs in your chest, not physical pain. But sadness.

Her voice, hoarse, breaks through the static.

“You’re still in there.”

Your vision swims. The alarms blare.

Sharon reaches up, pressing something into your palm. A small silver device.

A trigger.

She gasps, coughing from the impact, but her eyes never leave yours.

“Press it, Y/N.”

Both sides of you are screaming

You press it. And the entire HYDRA facility explodes.

The walls around you shudder, a deep groan echoing through the underground facility as fire licks up the hallways, chasing oxygen like a starving animal.

You’re still standing. Somehow.

Your breath comes out in ragged gasps, and something unfamiliar twists in your chest.

Emotion.

The numbness isn’t gone—but it’s cracking. Fractured.

And Sharon is still there.

She’s coughing, one hand pressed to her ribs, but she’s alive. Alive because you didn’t finish the fight. Alive because you stopped.

She stares at you through the smoke.

“Y/N,” she rasps, voice fraying at the edges. “We have to move.”

You hesitate.

Your body can’t move. The trigger words won’t allow it.

But the base is burning. Second by second, the walls crumble and flame.

And the only voice left in your head now is hers. Samantha’s.

Sharon knows she has little to no time left, and in your frozen state she whips the back of your head with her gun. Your limp body is practically thrown over her shoulder like a rag.

She carries you through the ruins of your prison, her legs are so tired they nearly give out.

You two are so close to an exit tunnel when someone pops out of the smoke and dust.

A slow clap echoes throughout the burning hallways.

“Touching,” Samantha’s voice coos, sickly sweet and venomous. “The rogue little blonde came all this way for the broken one.”

Sharon’s spine goes rigid.

Still holding you in one arm, she slowly reaches into the back of her belt with the other—fingers wrapping around the grip of her sidearm.

Samantha steps through the hallway, firelight dancing along the steel of her knife.

“I should’ve known you’d come for her,” Samantha muses, circling closer. “I always wondered what happened to that little SHIELD rat. The one who didn’t quite belong anywhere. Auntie Peggy must be oh-so disappointed.” She feigns a pout.

“Funny,” Sharon murmurs, rising to her feet and easing your unconscious body gently behind a half-fallen support beam. Her voice is steady. Low. Lethal. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

Samantha grins. “She was always going to belong to us. You never stood a chance. Project Nightshade has been years in the making. By coincidence, Y/N came to us, betrayed us, and became our perfect weapon. It was meant to be.”

Sharon lifts her gun.

Samantha lunges.

It’s fast—almost too fast—but Sharon is faster.

The first bullet catches Samantha in the side.

The second one lands in her leg.

She stumbles, but keeps coming, teeth bared, blade flashing. “She’s ours”

Sharon ducks the swing, slams her boot into Samantha’s knee, right as a knife plunges itself into her ribs. A scream rips from her throat but she doesn’t stop, and fires again—this time point-blank.

The bullet tears through her chest.

Samantha staggers, choking on blood.

“I used to tell her about monsters like you,” the blonde slowly walks to look over Samantha’s body.

She tries to speak, but blood is gurgling out of her mouth and nose.

Sharon puts her last bullet between Samantha’s eyes.

She doesn’t look back.

[followingthebutterflies7]

Sweeter Than Honey | Part Two: Mistakes

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

--------------------------------------------------------

Part Two: Mistakes

Every step you take toward him should feel like progress. So why does it feel like falling?

You were in.

Officially.

On paper, you were an independent contractor overseeing “transport solutions” for Agnew Holdings LLC, one of Spencer’s polished, legitimate fronts. A boutique logistics consultancy based in Manhattan, the kind of place Fortune 500 executives smiled at in boardrooms, unaware that a criminal empire thrived under the polished glass.

In practice, you were stepping deeper into a world where everything glittered, but nothing was clean.

The office was a minimalist dream: brushed steel, matte glass, and expensive silence. Modern art hung from the walls, but it was the kind you forgot the moment you looked away. Every surface gleamed like a mirror, daring you to find a fingerprint.

You sat at a sleek desk near the operations floor, pretending to focus on mock manifests for overseas shipments. Most employees worked silently, hunched over laptops and quarterly reports, but you could feel the tension that undercut the place, a quiet hum of watchfulness, as if the walls themselves were wired for sound.

You worked hard to look busy. You already knew every file by heart, the FBI had given them to you.

Now, you just had to act like you’d built them yourself. The routes, the customs paperwork, and the legal loopholes. All of it a polished lie.

Every twenty minutes or so, a man in a discreet black suit would walk past your door. They never spoke. They didn’t have to.

Security at Agnew Holdings wasn't there to make anyone feel safe. They were there to remind you that you weren’t.

--------------------------------------------------------

It had been two weeks since your meeting with Spencer. You hadn’t seen him since.

You told yourself that was a good thing. You told yourself that meant you were doing your job.

But every day he stayed silent, some part of you wound tighter.

You weren’t foolish enough to think he’d forgotten you. Spencer Agnew wasn’t the kind of man who forgot.

He was the kind of man who waited.

And Alex Tran made sure you didn’t forget that either.

He didn’t speak to you after that first brutal vetting. Not the second day. Not the third. Or the fourth. Not even after a week.

But you felt him.

Watching.

Every call you answered. Every file you adjusted. Every key you pressed.

It was a ghostly pressure between your shoulder blades, an invisible thread pulled taut and trembling.

You gathered information carefully, methodically. Files you shouldn’t have had access to. Internal codes slipped between meeting minutes. Logistics anomalies disguised as clerical errors.

Every night, you loaded new scraps of intel onto an encrypted flash drive hidden inside the seam of your briefcase. Every night, you debated whether you'd be caught the next morning.

Because Alex Tran wasn't watching you like he suspected something. He was watching you like he was waiting for you to prove it.

By the start of your third week the tension broke.

You were reviewing a set of international cargo routes at your desk when the shadows shifted.

You didn’t hear him approach. You just felt him standing behind you, silent as a blade being drawn.

"Come with me," Alex said, his voice low and unreadable.

You stood smoothly, careful not to show hesitation, and followed him down the gleaming corridor. The deeper into the building he led you, the more polished glass gave way to raw, blackened steel. Security keypads replaced doorknobs. Cameras blinked like patient red eyes.

The door he opened wasn’t marked, there was no window. Inside there was a private conference room, empty except for one chair.

You sat.

Alex stood.

“You’re under review,” he said flatly.

You crossed one leg over the other, casual. “By you?”

A flicker of something, maybe amusement, crossed his face.

"No."

A pause, deliberate.

"By him."

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show.

“Should I be nervous?” you asked, voice light.

Alex stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint scars along his knuckles.

“You should be perfect.”

--------------------------------------------------------

The review wasn’t a conversation.

It was a trap.

That afternoon you received a shipment file routed directly to your terminal.

Urgent. Sensitive. High-value electronics scheduled for midnight pickup at a secondary dock.

At first glance, it looked routine. Until it didn’t.

The truck manifests were incomplete. The shipping codes were off by a single digit. One container had an internal flag you didn’t recognize.

It was too messy to be accidental. It wasn’t an oversight. It was bait.

You didn’t call attention to it. You had a choice to make.

If you flagged it for review, you’d look paranoid, or worse, incompetent. If you ignored it, you risked walking into a fabricated "mistake" that could get people killed.

Either way, you’d lose. Unless you rewrote the game.

You stayed late into the night, creating a new transit schedule.

You rerouted the trucks to avoid compromised areas, sending them to much quieter and safer zones. You created new manifests with a digital footprint that looked weeks old. You spoofed confirmation calls from fake dispatchers.

You covered the holes they had left like a seamstress repairing a perfect counterfeit suit. You wrapped the whole thing in so much plausible deniability, it looked like it had always been right.

By the time dawn broke over Manhattan’s skyline, the shipment was clean, intact, and impossible to trace back to you.

No alarms. No deaths. No failures.

Exactly the outcome you were trained to deliver.

But you didn’t celebrate. You knew better.

Because Alex Tran was already watching from the shadows of the operations floor, arms crossed, face unreadable.

And somewhere, maybe even already reading your file, Spencer Agnew knew too.

You survived the test. But survival wasn't victory. It was just the next move on a board you were only beginning to understand.

And if the last few weeks had been about earning your place, the next would be about keeping it. While pretending not to notice how the walls were already starting to close in.

--------------------------------------------------------

That night, Spencer requested a meeting.

Private. No details. No Excuses.

You were simply told to be there.

You prepared carefully but not obviously by choosing a tailored black dress, sharp heels, and a watch that looked expensive but wasn’t. Professional enough to blend in. Subtle enough not to look like armor.

Still, it felt like armor.

Because walking into Spencer Agnew’s penthouse felt like walking into the lair of something ancient and patient.

His office was nothing like the sterile precision of Agnew Holdings.

It was old-world luxury: dark wood paneling, vintage maps framed in burnished gold, velvet armchairs worn smooth at the arms, heavy leather-bound books filling floor-to-ceiling shelves. A low fire burned in a marble hearth, casting long, flickering shadows across the Persian rugs.

Everything smelled faintly of smoke, leather, and something richer underneath; amber, sandalwood, the kind of scent that stayed on your skin long after you left.

You arrived exactly five minutes early. He was already there.

Spencer stood near the massive window, a glass of amber liquor in hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose and forgotten around his neck.

The city stretched out behind him, skyscrapers gleaming like the teeth of some sleeping monster. The lights painted shifting patterns across his profile, jaw shadowed, hair curling rebelliously against his temples, gaze unreadable.

He didn’t turn when you entered.

"You handled the test," he said, voice low, almost thoughtful.

You didn’t pretend not to know what he meant.

"I handle a lot of things," you said smoothly, stepping further into the room.

Now he turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His gaze swept over you, not admiring, not possessive, just…thorough. Like he was cataloging you. Assessing not the surface, but the seams beneath it.

Yet somehow, it still felt devastatingly intimate.

"Most people fold under pressure," he said. "Or they posture. Pretend they're smarter than they are."

You lifted your chin slightly. "And I did neither?"

He stepped closer, his glass catching the firelight.

"You adapted," he said simply.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward. It was something heavier. Denser. The kind of silence that asked questions neither of you were ready to answer.

You felt the air stretch taut, charged with something that had nothing to do with power and everything to do with proximity.

Spencer studied you. Not the way a man admires a woman, but the way a hunter respects the prey clever enough to set its own traps.

"You’re not like the others," he said, voice dipping lower.

You gave a soft, practiced smile. "I’ve heard that before."

"But do you believe it?" he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was dangerous. And you weren’t entirely sure which version of you he was speaking to anymore. The operative? The persona? Or something more raw underneath?

He stepped closer again. Too close. Close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, layered over skin and expensive whiskey.

Close enough that you felt the subtle, electric pull between you. A thread stretched tight, daring either of you to cut it or tie it tighter.

Your breath caught, just for a second. But you didn’t step back. And he didn’t push forward.

He simply looked at you, really looked at you, and for one suspended moment, it felt like the entire city fell away.

"You’re dangerous," he said quietly.

The words should have been an accusation. But they sounded almost like a compliment.

And for a terrifying second, standing there with your heartbeat too loud in your ears, you weren’t sure which of you he meant.

You didn’t break eye contact.

You didn’t breathe.

You didn’t move.

Finally, Spencer gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if he’d decided something you weren’t privy to.

"Welcome to the real game," he said.

And just like that, the moment broke. He turned back toward the window, lifting his glass again. Dismissed, without ever actually dismissing you.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and stepped back toward the door, your heels silent against the thick carpet.

You told yourself the rush of adrenaline in your veins was just nerves. Just the high of getting closer to the mark.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But your hands were trembling slightly when you closed the door behind you.

And you didn’t know if you were running away from him-

-or yourself.

--------------------------------------------------------

You made the call to Marlowe from the back stairwell of your apartment building.

It was nearly midnight. The city buzzed faintly below, but up here it was cold, quiet, forgotten.

You leaned against the chipped brick wall, burner phone pressed to your ear, the concrete under your heels still holding the heat of the day.

Marlowe answered on the second ring, voice rough and immediate.

“You’re doing well,” she said, skipping any pleasantries, the connection crackling with static over the burner phone. “We’ve got intel suggesting he’s moving something heavy soon. Guns. Bodies. We’re not sure yet. We need details.”

“I’ll get them.” you said. But something in your gut twisted, slow and delicate. There was a pause, just long enough to feel deliberate, before Marlowe spoke again.

"You're getting close," she said. "Maybe closer than you should."

You didn’t answer.

Marlowe’s voice sharpened, cutting through the cold.

"Keep your head clear," she said. "He’s not your ally. Not your confidant. And sure as hell not your..."

She trailed off, the word left unsaid, heavy between you. She didn’t need to say it. You both heard it anyway.

"He's your mark," she finished.

The reminder landed with a dull, familiar weight.

You swallowed.

"I know," you said.

There was another long silence.

Marlowe’s voice dropped lower. Softer. Almost pitying.

"Do you?" she asked.

Not accusing.

Just... tired. Like she’d seen this before. Too many agents thinking they were the exception. Too many agents who forgot which lies belonged to them.

You closed your eyes. You didn’t answer.

You hung up instead, the line cutting to dead air.

For a long moment, you stayed there, phone cooling in your hand, breathing in the faint smell of rain and asphalt and something metallic beneath it.

The words echoed anyway.

He’s your mark.

You repeated it silently. Over and over.

Until it sounded like the lie it was becoming.

--------------------------------------------------------

Your progress wasn’t loud, it was made in careful, patient inches.

You worked your way into the transport operations the way water wore down stone, silent, persistent, inevitable.

It started with small tasks. Internal schedules. Double-checking manifests. Confirming carrier licenses. Quiet things no one wanted to bother with.

You did them all without complaint.

You smiled at the right people. Listened more than you spoke. Made yourself invaluable without making yourself noticeable.

By the end of your first three months, no one questioned why Elise Hawthorne’s name was on the logistics rosters. No one blinked when you started making small adjustments to transport routes, optimizing loads, sidestepping random inspections.

You became necessary.

And that was when the real opportunities began.

First came the observation runs.

"You’ve been good on paper," the Operations Director said one afternoon, dropping a sealed file onto your desk with a grunt. "Let’s see how you are on the ground."

You nodded crisply, hiding the flicker of satisfaction curling through your chest.

Two days later, you found yourself in a sleek black SUV, bouncing down the battered side streets of the industrial district. Clipboards, cargo checks, and cold-eyed men packed into the schedule ahead of you.

Alex Tran was waiting by the first truck. The first time you had seen him that month, but not the first time you had been aware of his watchful eyes.

Dressed down in tactical black, gun at his hip, gaze cold enough to freeze asphalt.

"You’ll stay close," he said without greeting.

You nodded once, matching his pace as he led you through the inspection.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to.

Every once in a while, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, not with curiosity. With calculation.

As if he were trying to solve an equation where none of the variables added up. You were confusing him, he was starting to trust you. Something that he didn’t do. And it was making him angry.

You played your part during the operations perfectly.

Professional. Precise. Helpful but not pushy.

You caught a forged manifest within ten minutes at the first handoff. Quietly corrected a load discrepancy at the second. Smoothed over a bristling argument between two drivers at the third.

You didn’t flinch when weapons were checked, or when they were pulled on you. You didn’t ask questions when the crates were heavier than declared, just waved them through.

You just did your job.

And Alex saw it. He didn’t say it. But you saw it in the way his mouth tightened. The way he stopped hovering quite so closely.

It was a start.

At the end of your fourth month with Angew Holdings, you found something waiting for you on your desk.

No note. No signature.

Just a small, velvet-lined box.

You checked it for traps first. Reflex.

Inside was a slim, understated silver pen. Heavy, expensive, engraved with your initials. Subtle. Professional. Perfectly you.

Then you found it. Tucked beneath the satin lining, almost invisible, a single slip of fine cream cardstock. Three words, handwritten in black ink:

Good work. -S

Your throat tightened. Not from sentiment. From something more dangerous.

Approval from Spencer Agnew wasn’t a gift.

It was an invitation. And a warning.

You tucked the card and the pen away carefully, heartbeat steady.

When you looked up, Alex was standing across the operations floor, watching you.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

His disapproval was written in every taut line of his body. Your carefully built trust with him now broken into fragments.

Approval from Spencer had marked you.

And Alex didn’t trust anything that wore Spencer’s attention like a medal.

Over the next week, you were no longer just shadowing ground operations, you were organizing them. Setting schedules. Signing off on manifests. Escorting high-value shipments through the last stages of transfer.

You weren’t at the center of Agnew Holdings. Not yet. But you were in the bloodstream now. Moving through the arteries of a machine built on steel and blood and secrets.

And it was working.

Marlowe’s encrypted updates came in cautiously optimistic.

You were getting closer. You were gaining trust. You were setting the stage for the bigger moves ahead.

But under the careful victories, something gnawed at the back of your mind.

A slow, quiet awareness.

That every step deeper you moved into Spencer Agnew’s world was a step further away from the version of yourself you still pretended to be.

--------------------------------------------------------

Halfway through your fifth month, everything went sideways.

It should have been routine.

You were shadowing a simple exchange, paperwork, handoffs, signatures, the kind you could almost sleepwalk through by now. Two trucks. Six men. A quiet warehouse by the docks, thick with salt and diesel fumes.

The only strange thing had been Spencer himself.

He insisted on overseeing it personally. No explanation. No warning.

Unusual for him, the man who built distance into an art form.

Still, you played your part. Smiled. Nodded. Blended.

Until you stepped out of the car and realized something was wrong.

It was too quiet.

No seagulls screaming over the water. No radios buzzing from the port authority checkpoint. No distant thrum of trucks or container lifts.

Dead silence.

The hair on the back of your neck prickled just seconds before the first shot shattered the air.

Gunfire ripped down from the rusted catwalks above, sharp and sudden, turning the night into chaos.

Screams.

Scrambling boots on concrete.

The metallic clatter of weapons drawn in panic.

Chaos.

You dropped behind the nearest crate, pulling the gun Alex had insisted you carry. The cold metal bit into the flesh of your hands.

You weren’t supposed to use it, hadn’t even planned on it. You weren’t supposed to even look like you could. Your FBI training would give you away in half a heartbeat.

But then your eyes found Spencer.

He wasn’t ducking. He wasn’t even moving for cover.

He stood in the open, calm, almost... curious. Like he was trying to read the pattern inside the chaos.

You opened your mouth to shout just as you saw it. The glint of a rifle barrel overhead, trained directly on him.

"Spencer!" you yelled, voice cracking through the gunfire.

He turned toward you, just a fraction, just enough.

And you moved without thinking.

The gun rose.

Your hand was steady even though your heart wasn’t.

One shot.

The man on the catwalk jerked backward, arms flailing like a broken marionette, before he fell in a sickening echo of boots and steel.

For one suspended second, the world held its breath.

Spencer’s eyes locked onto yours, not in shock, not in anger.

In recognition.

Spencer looked at you. Really looked at you.

Something electric and terrible passed between you.

And then someone yanked him back toward cover, and the world exploded again.

More shots. More shouting. You ran, heart hammering, the metallic taste of adrenaline burning your throat.

You survived. You all survived.

The clean-up took hours.

The shooters were hired freelancers, dead ends. No fingerprints, no ties, no convenient stories. The docks were re-secured. The shipment was intact, whatever it was. You didn’t ask.

You sat on the edge of a battered shipping crate outside the warehouse, the night air cool against your sweat-soaked skin.

Your hand was still trembling.

Not from fear. From something worse.

From the memory of Spencer’s eyes when he realized what you had done.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You told yourself it was instinct.

You told yourself it was to preserve your cover.

You lied.

He found you there, sometime past three in the morning.

Spencer emerged from the warehouse like a ghost. His shirt bloodstained, sleeves pushed back, jacket slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat. None of the blood was his.

He moved differently now. Looser. Rougher around the edges. The king’s crown was crooked.

His armor had cracks. Maybe you had put them there.

He crossed the cracked concrete without a word and stopped in front of you. You didn’t look up immediately. You didn’t trust yourself to.

"You saved my life," he said quietly.

You exhaled a shaky breath and forced your gaze upward.

Spencer’s face was shadowed, half-lit by the distant floodlights. He looked at you like he was seeing something new, something he hadn’t known to look for until now.

"I thought you didn’t trust new people," you said, voice soft and hoarse.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"I don’t," he said.

He crouched in front of you, folding himself into your space without hesitation, without asking.

"But maybe I should."

His hand brushed against yours, not quite taking it, not quite letting it go.

Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it hurt.

It was a simple touch. It should have been meaningless.

But it wasn’t.

You could feel it, the possibility coiled between your skin and his, warm and treacherous.

Spencer searched your face like he was hunting for the real answer beneath all the careful lies.

"Why’d you do it?" he asked.

Your throat tightened.

For a second, just a second, you almost told the truth.

Because you didn’t want to see him fall. Because you didn’t want to lose the way he looked at you. Because some reckless, traitorous part of you didn’t want to be his enemy anymore.

But you didn’t say any of that.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just met his eyes, steady, practiced, and let the lie sit heavy between you.

For the mission. For your cover. For survival.

But you couldn’t tell Spencer any of it. Of the truth or the lies.

You took a deep breath, letting the corner of your mouth tug into a wry, careless smile. Your own armor.

"Can’t afford to lose the most lucrative job I’ve had in a while," you said lightly, voice dry.

A joke. A shield. A plausible excuse.

Spencer didn’t laugh.

He just looked at you, long enough and deep enough that the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding twisted painfully inside your chest.

He knew.

He knew you were lying.

But he didn’t call you on it. He just nodded once, almost imperceptibly, and stood.

The moment between you snapped like a brittle thread pulled too tight. Without another word, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the warehouse. His footsteps fading, swallowed up by the stillness of the night.

You sat there alone, frozen for a moment longer. Your body thrumming with the aftershocks of adrenaline, denial, and something far more dangerous humming just beneath your skin. Your heart pounding against your ribs like it was trying to tell you something you didn’t want to hear.

Then a faint shift in the air. The subtle scrape of a boot on concrete.

You looked up.

Alex stood in the doorway, half-shrouded in the dim light spilling from the floodlights outside. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.

But his eyes- Sharp. Cold. Alive with something simmering just beneath the surface.

He had been watching.

For how long, you didn’t know. Long enough. Long enough to see too much.

You straightened slowly, slipping the gun you had used back into the hidden holster inside your jacket. Every movement careful. Measured. Controlled.

Alex didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just watched you with that same ruthless precision, like a man weighing whether to pull the trigger or wait for a cleaner shot.

"You were sloppy," he said finally, voice low and flat.

You let out a breath you hoped sounded steadier than you felt.

"No one else noticed," you said.

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.

"He did."

It wasn��t a question.

It was a statement of fact.

You said nothing.

Alex pushed off the doorframe and crossed the space between you in three slow steps.

He didn’t get in your face. He didn’t have to. His presence alone pressed down like a weight.

"You’re here to do a job," Alex said quietly. "Not catch bullets for him."

"I was protecting the shipment," you said, evenly. Another lie to add to your long list. But it was not as clean as you wanted it to be. Not clean enough for Alex.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you.

"You keep telling yourself that," he said. "Maybe you’ll even believe it."

The words landed like a bullet between your eyes. Fast, deep, deliberate.

You lifted your chin, refusing to flinch.

"Is that a warning?" you asked.

Alex’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

"No," he said. "Not yet."

And then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the shadows with the same silent efficiency he'd arrived with. Leaving you alone with the gun at your hip, the blood on your hands, and the gnawing certainty that it wasn’t just the mission slipping out of your control anymore.

--------------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @tenderhornynihilist

[simpingforheros]

Safe

Pairing: Gotham Knights! Jason Todd X Female! Reader

Summary: Being a mercenary isn’t easy. Being a lab experiment turned mercenary isn’t easy either. Being a Bio-engineered mercenary in Gotham city with a reformed Red Hood isn’t easy at all.

Warnings: Hurt Comfort, Angst with bittersweet ending, Enemies to Friends??, Female Pronouns, Mild Violence, Horrible Fight Scenes (I’m sorry), Reader is basically Black Cat but little different, implied OOC! Amanda Waller, Mentions of Death, Torture, PTSD, and Panic Attacks.

Author’s Note: I guess I’ll give y’all a break from my Toxic! Jason agenda. But I’m not giving y’all a break from calling y’all out on being slanderous to my underrated, unproblematic princess that is GK! Jason. He may not be as pretty as the other ones, but he got a better relationship with his family than y’all have with y’all’s daddies (jk I’m sorry). Also yes, the reader is Black Cat coded because I love her and I want to see Jason with a cool feline counterpart of his own.

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.

Fuck. FUCK!

Chanted through her mind as she realizes what the hell she has just done. This whole assignment was a set up from the moment that job listing hit her burner phone. Her clawed gloves raked through her hair as she desperately took in her situation.

Months after the death of Batman, criminals became bolder with their crimes despite the lurking remains of Batman’s legacy. New villains and mercenaries came in to either assist Gotham’s veteran rogues or building their own empires among the shadows of the bigger evil’s crimes. However, Y/N didn’t fall into either category.

Originally a lab rat for Amanda Waller to find a cure for her terminal cancer, the cat like mercenary became a quick popular option among gang leaders and the low life to hire to do quick jobs without minimum risk. Of course the cat like persona wasn’t due to her stealth…

A blast rings out of the previously locked door as the girl’s head snaps back. Her body collapses as the roar of victorious laughter fills the air.

“You see how that bitch’s head just snapped back like a twig?!” Victor Sionas laughed through his leather mask as his golden firearm flashed in the fluorescent light of the value.

It was supposed to be a quick heist, minimum risk on her end. Just grab a hard drive with 6.8 Billion dollars worth of stolen and encrypted medical documents and financial records and leave before Black Mask realized she was there. An easy heist for a fair reward.

Victor’s ranting and raving filled the safe in loud echos as his assistant tries to listen to her pager for their normal disposal team. As the crimson slowly sets into the concrete, a faint green glow began to form around her body. The harsh grit releases her life force as it recedes back into her skull.

Amanda Waller wasn’t normally a desperate woman, but when it came to her life, she didn’t care what criminal she had to deal with to get her life back. Even the League of Assassins…

As the pair was about to leave to attend a meeting of some kind, Y/N didn’t know or care to know as her ears ring back into tune. Her body jolts up as she springs back to life in an instant.

As her eyes meet Sionas’ shocked stare, her lips curled into a wicked smirk. Her E/C eyes shined with a new madness as she flexes her adamantium tipped claws, ready to rip out his throat.

Victor quickly raises his gun ready to shoot again as she swipes at his wrist. The appendage falling to the floor as his screams drowned out the echos of his false victories.

“I guess it was an easy job.” She comments before her claws strike again.

Maybe she should ask for a raise to make up for her dry cleaning?

+++++++++++++++

The crime scene was a bloodbath.

Police scrambled and crawled the building as lights and tape marked the massacre. Every surface, furniture, rug, and plant were all tagged, sprayed, and searched for any bodily matter that could lead you to the person behind this horrific crime.

Black Mask’s gang. A once prominent gang in Gotham city who survived fights between Batman and The Red Hood were all dead. Eviscerated. Slaughtered.

All of the dead were clinging onto weapons as either distinct claw marks either craved them to ribbons or they were killed by their own weapons. Whoever did it clearly attacked the ones who attacked first.

The only survivors were the ones who didn’t attempt to fight the assailant. Victor’s assistant was the only one that was harmed among them with a deep set of scratches on her face with a look of horror in her eyes.

A look Nightwing and Red Hood didn’t like to see even from a criminal.

“And you said you didn’t know why this happened?” Nightwing asks skeptical of the woman’s reliability.

The woman eagerly nods as she sputters out, “We caught her in the safe and Sionas wanted to teach her a lesson…we heard her reputation was only with stealing…not this…”

Jason growls as he grew inpatient with her stuttering, but he takes a deep breath. ‘Be Patient…’ He reminds himself before something made his ears perk up.

“It was like magic or something! Sionas shot her point blank in the head and she just came back to life in an instant!! That’s when she went crazy! We just wanted to get her back for stealing from our off shore accounts. We didn’t know that she was a…monster.”

Fuck.

+++++++++++++++++++

Fire. Fire is what it felt like. It crawls from the deepest part of her mind and spreads through her veins like a fever. Her vision tunneled in as memories of all her previous deaths haunting her brain surged forward as her body acted on instinct. Out of fear…

It took three days before the madness faded this time. That was probably the longest time she was trapped in that state since she escaped Waller. Those three days were a fog as she only remembered the splitting head ache from the gun shot and her costume covered in blood.

Once the new broke on a ‘maniac’ who killed the Black Mask’s gang, Y/N knew she couldn’t leave Gotham yet until the buzz died down. She already knew the Bat’s sidekicks were looking for her, so she used whatever cash she had left to hide out in a cheap motel room.

“Fuck….” She groans as her trembling hands dropped her cell phone. Her eyes tried to dart around the aisles of the gas station she was currently hunting for food in. The remaining madness caused her senses to be on high alert and her anxiety to be high.

If she was back home, she could hideout in her apartment with her cat for a month before finding another job listing, but she was trapped in Gotham in a ratty motel.

So venturing to the crummy gas station for some junk food and beer is the next best thing. At least the disinterested cashier doesn’t pay her any mind. 4am on a weekday with a case of beer probably made her just appear to be a normal tweaker.

(Y/N) adjusts her sunglasses and makes sure her silver hair was well hidden under her zip-up’s hood before she brings her items to the counter. The zit faced teen gives her a look over, not hiding the attention he gave to her exposed cleave from the tank top she had showing.

“Ma’am, we don’t allow sunglasses inside the store.” He creaks out. Her (E/C) roll as she takes her sun glasses off. The door chimes as someone enters the store, but her attention was focused on the cashier. When he finally scanned her beer, his cracking voice asks,

“Do you have ID, Ma’am?”

Her hands go to her sweatpants pocket and only feels the cash she brought. Her mental anguish grows as she sighs in annoyance. Her fake id was in motel, and she technically doesn’t exist so she never had a real id.

Deciding to turn up the charm, she smiles sweetly at the teenager as she says, “I’m sorry, but I left my id back at my place. I’m sure you can tell I’m old enough, right?”

Her cleavage seemed to not work its charm as the teen rudely says,

“I can tell you’re old by your hair lady. But I need ID.”

Her eyes widen as a faint glow of green shows as she snaps at him. “I’m not old! I’m 24, you little p-!”

She stops herself as she takes a deep breath as she feels the madness subsided. She really didn’t wanna kill a kid over some cheap beer.

“Fine…I had a bad day so just get me the snacks.” She admits in defeat as she pulls out a hundred bucks. Just as she was going to pay, a hand drops some beef jerky and a case of beer on the counter beside her items. A deep voice cuts the air and causes a shiver to crawl up her spine.

“Add her stuff and beer to my order.” A thick, veiny hand presents the cashier with his ID and a credit card as she turns her head to see who it was that saved her evening.

Before her was a man who stood well over 6 feet tall. His shoulders were as broad as an old oak tree with muscles strong enough to take one down. His face wasn’t particularly the normal standard for attractiveness, but the strong jaw and scar gave him a handsome roughness that made her stomach tighten. It didn’t help that his nearly buzzed hair gave him a military sense, but his eyes were what made her heart stop in her chest. The beautiful green eyes that glowed an unearthly hue that she was familiar with.

She sees it in her eyes everyday. The scar of the Lazarus pit.

(Y/N) almost forgot where she was before the cashier cleared his throat. Her focus returned back to the counter as she grabs her stuff. Before she could run off, something made her stop to wait for the man. Whether it was curiosity or stupidity, she didn’t know.

Maybe she wanted to see what his deal was? Was he with Waller? The League of Assassins? Can he tell she was from the pit too? How different were they? How many times did he die and come back?

The opportunity to speak with someone who may can relate to her outweighed her wariness from her situation. But it was curiosity that killed the cat, right?

As the man starts heading for the door, she follows as she says,

“Excuse me?”

His eyes meet hers as a small smile as he says,

“Hey, I’m sorry for stepping in over there. I understand when stuff isn’t going your way.”

A warmth takes over her face as she says shyly, “No, it’s fine I just wanted to thank you. That was really sweet of you…”

As the two walk out, the stranger's friendly demeanor drops a little as he mumbles into the empty night air.

"So, you're the one who killed Victor Sionas..."

Her breath releases as she hears the pin drop. Her eyes dart around the parking lot as she sees the only vehicle is a old school motorcycle. She doesn't have any weapons and she wasn't sure if how skilled he was or if he had gained powers just like her from the pit.

With a frown, (Y/N) gruffs out, "Yeah...what are you gonna let me enjoy my last beer before you turn me in?"

She looks up to the man as their eyes meet. His eyes studying her as she keeps a tight grip on her bag. Maybe if he charges at her, she can swing the bag to his head and throw him off...

"No." He answers simply as he heads towards his bike. Her eyes widen in disbelief as she sputters out.

"No? I just admitted to murder and you're letting me go??"

"Yep." He answers over his shoulder as he loads his things into the compartment under his seat. Irritation fills her being instead of the relief she should have felt. She stomps towards him as she fusses,

"What's your deal? You buy me a beer and casually ask me if I commit murder? And you're gonna just leave? Did the pit mess you up that bad??" She snaps at him as she stands face to face, face to chest with him. Her eyes glowed eerily as he was filled, and a familiar shiver went down his spine.

His hands clap onto her shoulders as he pulls her close to him. A wave of coldness filled her body as the eerie glow covered his hands. The familiar feeling of the Lazarus pit filled her as he leaned into a whisper.

"The only reason I'm not hauling your pretty ass to Arkham right now is because I understand that it wasn't you when you killed them, Kitty..." His eyes glowed momentarily as a sad look briefly flashed into those green pools. "A petty mercenary who had no history of mass murder on file doesn't just jump to it without warning. The Lazarus Pit fucks up people to their core, so trust me when I say that I understand better than anyone how you feel..."

'Understand? How can he understand?' Her mind unravels as she looks up at him in disbelief. Has he ever woke up afraid of what he might have done the night before? Worry about when someone would come and shoot him in the head or stab him just to see if he could come back without being submerged anymore? Did Waller use him to heal her at the expense of his own pain just to throw him away to fend for himself???

Rage flashes through her as she roughly pulls away from him. Her bag falls to the asphalt as glass shatters. Her eyes are wild as old memories filled her. "Don't you dare say you understand me? You don't know shit about what I had to go through?"

His eyebrows frown together as he grimaces. A look of recognition and guilt flashes before he says to her. "You're right. I don't know what you went through before you died, but I do understand how you're feeling. The anxiety, the rage, the blood lust...I wanna help you."

She laughs bitterly as she figures out something about him. He only died once and was brought back. The skunk stripe in his hair should have given it away when she realized he was similar to her.

"Which time?" (Y/N) asked as she turned around and walked away. "I've died plenty of times to know that you will never understand..."

And she leaves the man alone in the parking lot as she storms off to her motel, not caring if he sees where she went or not. Her heart was beating out of control as she felt the wavering thoughts of going back to him and either hitting him or hugging him.

‘Maybe I need to rest some more….’

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Silence filled the museum as the dust bunnies and art laid undisturbed during their rest from the public eye. Her footsteps were a minimum as she walked through the shadowy parts of the building, trying to find what she was sent to retrieve.

After another week of hiding out, a job was directly pinged for her on the job board. Her eyes squinted at it at first because the offer was a little bogus to her.

‘Steal a painting, retrieve the hard drive inside, and bring it to the disclosed location in exchange for 2 Million dollars in unmarked bills.’

2 Million for a petty thief job that would have more suited Catwoman instead her seemed pretty unusual. But, at this point, her phyiscal cash funds were running low and she still was afraid of using her offshore accounts now that she knows that some zombie like her knew who she was.

Her masked eyes scanned the building’s plaza until she found what she was looking for. A large flowery portrait hanging just beyond the fountain. Her head tilts as she looks at it from afar.

‘Pretty… I wonder if I can find a print of it to buy to hang in my living room…’ Her steps remaining slow and cautious until she reaches the fountain. She looks under where the painting hung, trying not to get too close to it. There was no tag or podium that held the artist’s name or any indication that it was an actual art piece. It was most likely some print from a furniture store catalog or Etsy.

Her eyes rolled as she realizes that the listing was another trap. Obviously from someone who didn’t know shit about art or how to buy mercenaries on the black market.

As if on que, her ears buzzed as she heard the pure instinct take over as she whips around. Her hand immediately stops the staff about to hit her in the face as she elbows the smaller opponent in the stomach before slamming her fist in his cheek to knock him back. The guy gets thrown back a couple of feet as he gasped for the air she punches outta him.

She looks to the guy as she twirls his staff absent mindedly in her hand. His costume and smaller physique gave it away as to who he was. She remembers seeing a tv show story about him the previous night on the news. The boy wonder, Robin. At least the third version of him.

“Hey, tweety bird. You good?” She asked in a nonchalant tone. Her eyes unamused as she watches the kid cough up a lung as he looked up at her in shock that she wasn’t attacking him like he expected her to.

“You know, it’s dangerous to be on job listing boards like that.” She scolds him lightly as she walks around him and grabs his arm, gently helping him up and sitting him by the fountain. “There’s actual killers on that board who would have happily tried cutting you up for pulling a shitty fake job like this.”

The sidekick glares at her as he was already confused as he just witness the girl he was sure killed an entire gang just casually scold him. “Like how you did with Black Mask?”

Her eyes flashed with guilt before the nonchalant personality appeared again as she focused on throwing the staff up to make it spin. “It was self defense. He and his gang had it coming for all the child drug peddling and the lives he ruined.”

A heavier drop down of three other figures caught her attention as she looks around. Nightwing, Batgirl, and Red Hood were surrounding the fountain, blocking her in. Her anxiety rising as she hides it with a now playful smile.

“Damn, didn’t realize little old me warranted for the whole family to come get me.” She says playfully. “Don’t worry I promise to be out of y’all’s city soon.”

“You still have to pay for your crimes.” Batgirl says as she steps forwards slightly. The feline mercenary tilts her head as she looks at them with now false concern.

“Me? A defenseless street cat?” She asked before laughing. “You can certainly try.”

Nightwing steps closer as her shoulders square up. Her defensive stance rising as she observes him. Way too lean to be the guy she met, and she can tell his face was more pretty boy looking.

“We wanna help you… but you still have to pay for what you’ve done even if you didn’t mean to.” He says softly.

‘So they know…that just means they are gonna be more defensive instead of offensive. They can’t risk killing me when they know I could rampage again.’ Her eyes shine as she laughs coldly at him.

“Oh, you wanna help me rot in prison?” She says as she finally looks at the Red Hood.

Right build, right height, and she’s sure if she can knock that helmet off, right face. That’s the man she met a week ago that affected her so badly. She knew she couldn’t let him get a good grab on her or she maybe toast.

She turns her now glowing eyes back to Nightwing as she smirks. “I think you would be better off letting me leave or else you can see what I actually do when I mean it.” She bluffs.

Movement nearly catches her off guard as Robin tries to rush her again. The staff in her hand flies into his face as she tries to move as Batgirl flies kicks her in the face. Her ears ring as the warm feeling of blood starts to run out of her nose. The cat catches the bat’s fist before she whips her in the face with another punch. She used the disorienting blow to slide under her legs and give a good kick to her knee. The distinctive pop and her cry lets her know she did dislocate the bone.

She remains in her crouched up position, ready to pounce. She can feel their eyes observing as her broken nose begins to heal as it disgustingly pops back into place as the blood retreats back to its original place like it was on rewind. Her wild eyes looks to them and makes notes of their stances.

Nightwing was ready to pounce on her. He stared at her like she was the wild animal that he knew she was. It was a look she was used to.

The Red Hood wasn’t even in an offensive or defensive position. He stood with his back straight as he watches her. Damn his stupid helmet from seeing his eyes, she wanted to know what he was thinking about. Was he bluffing too or was he trying to get a good feel on how to catch her.

Before Nightwing can start advancing on her, Red stops him with a step forward and raises hand. Nightwing looks confused as he asked him.

“What are you doing?” He seethes to him. “We gotta take her down, she already hurt Robin and Batgirl.”

“Out of self defense.” The Red Hood clarifies before chuckling. His modulated voice making the feline theft frown. “If she was dangerous like you think, she could have sliced Robin’s throat with those claws of hers when he first attacked. You guys were attacking first and she responded with non lethal force.”

Her eyes glared at the man as she stands up, slightly agitated. “So? Maybe I just don’t wanna kill a kid?”

Red tilts his head as he turns his attention to her. “Calm down, Kitty….if you surrender, I promise I won’t let them send you off to the pound.”

Nightwing looks at Red in horror as he basically promised to protect a wanted criminal. He didn’t seem to concerned by it. He even surprises his team by removing his helmet as he looks to the one they were chasing.

“I found your file on Amanda Waller’s network. Took me three days, but I know what she did to you, (Y/N).” The man she knew from the gas station.

The images of all the torture she endured flashed through her mind all at once as she remembers all Waller put her through for the sake of her cure.

Multiple executions to test the powers of the pit. Torture and savage punishments for the slightest disobedience. The nightmares and madness that fueled so many panic attacks. The feeling of her organs stolen to be put in that evil woman so she can use her healing factor to win against cancer while she spent days slowly dying and coming back to life over and over until her new organs regenerated back into her.

“Why?!” She snaps at him as rage filled her again. Her confusion over his insistence to help her made her so angry. Why would he wanna help her? Just because they were both dunked in a pool of Ra’s bath water?

“You’re the feared Red Hood! You’ve done worst shit than I’ve ever done and you are trying to act as my savior?!” She yells at him as she stomps towards him.

Nightwing tries to step between them, but Red keeps him away as she finally stood before him. Her hand rips off her goggles, revealing her face to him as she pokes into his chest. Her own chest tightening as her body shook. Her breath was tight as angry tears rolled down her face.

“Answer me, dammit! Why do you think you can save me?!”

“I don’t think I can save you.” He answers honestly. “I wanna help you save yourself…”

A look of grief passes over his eyes as he looks at the shorter woman. A memory of someone she didn’t know making his resolve strengthen.

“I was trapped in a state of anger for so long that I pushed everyone away that was trying to help me…it wasn’t until I lost the one person that tried to save me that I realized how much it meant to have someone just hold a hand out for me…” He says as he grips her shoulders. The expected coldness didn’t meet her. She felt him. The warmth seeping through his gloves into her suit. It felt…comforting….nice.

Her vision began tunneling as she felt her chest hyperventilating as she cries. His gentle words finally breaking her as he mumbles to her. “Let me help you fight the madness so you won’t be alone anymore…”

Her knees buckling as a sob broke through her. The warmth of his arms wrapping around her and pulling her into his chest made her cries so gut wrenching. Robin, Batgirl, and Nightwing watch in shock as they watched Jason, not only be the most gentle he’s ever been with someone, but see a stray tear fall from him eye.

As the two remained tied together as an unspoken bond was formed. A bond between two lost souls forcibly brought back into this world now feeling safe in each other’s warmth.

+++++++++++++++++++

Author’s Note: I’m gonna make a part 2 to this one because I actually like it. Let me know if you like this, if you hate it, or whatever. I’m trying to clear out my drafts so expect more Jason and other characters coming out either this week or next week.

++++++++++++++++++++

@simpingforheros fanfic. I DO NOT CONDONE THE COPYING, STEALING, OR REPOSTING OF MY FANFICS ON OTHER WEBSITES WITHOUT MY CONSENT.

[posttexasstressdisorder]

A mole infiltrated the highest ranks of American militias. Here's what he found.

ProPublica

January 4, 2025 8:26PM ET

John Williams kept a backpack filled with everything he’d need to go on the run: three pairs of socks; a few hundred dollars cash; makeshift disguises and lock-picking gear; medical supplies, vitamins and high-calorie energy gels; and thumb drives that each held more than 100 gigabytes of encrypted documents, which he would quickly distribute if he were about to be arrested or killed.

On April 1, 2023, Williams retrieved the bag from his closet and rushed to his car. He had no time to clean the dishes that had accumulated in his apartment. He did not know if armed men were out looking for him. He did not know if he would ever feel safe to return. He parked his car for the night in the foothills overlooking Salt Lake City and curled up his 6-foot-4-inch frame in the back seat of the 20-year-old Honda. This was his new home.

He turned on a recording app to add an entry to his diary. His voice had the high-pitched rasp of a lifelong smoker: “Where to fucking start,” he sighed, taking a deep breath. After more than two years undercover, he’d been growing rash and impulsive. He had feared someone was in danger and tried to warn him, but it backfired. Williams was sure at least one person knew he was a double agent now, he said into his phone. “It’s only a matter of time before it gets back to the rest.”

In the daylight, Williams dropped an envelope with no return address in a U.S. Postal Service mailbox. He’d loaded it with a flash drive and a gold Oath Keepers medallion.

It was addressed to me.

The documents laid out a remarkable odyssey. Posing as an ideological compatriot, Williams had penetrated the top ranks of two of the most prominent right-wing militias in the country. He’d slept in the home of the man who claims to be the new head of the Oath Keepers, rifling through his files in the middle of the night. He’d devised elaborate ruses to gather evidence of militias’ ties to high-ranking law enforcement officials. He’d uncovered secret operations like the surveillance of a young journalist, then improvised ways to sabotage the militants’ schemes. In one group, his ploys were so successful that he became the militia’s top commander in the state of Utah.

Now he was a fugitive. He drove south toward a desert four hours from the city, where he could disappear.

1. Prelude

I’d first heard from Williams five months earlier, when he sent me an intriguing but mysterious anonymous email. “I have been attempting to contact national media and civil rights groups for over a year and been ignored,” it read. “I’m tired of yelling into the void.” He sent it to an array of reporters. I was the only one to respond. I’ve burned a lot of time sating my curiosity about emails like that. I expected my interest to die after a quick call. Instead, I came to occupy a dizzying position as the only person to know the secret Williams had been harboring for almost two years.

We spoke a handful of times over encrypted calls before he fled. He’d been galvanized by the Jan. 6, 2021, storming of the Capitol, Williams told me, when militias like the Oath Keepers conspired to violently overturn the 2020 presidential election. He believed democracy was under siege from groups the FBI has said pose a major domestic terrorism threat. So he infiltrated the militia movement on spec, as a freelance vigilante. He did not tell the police or the FBI. A loner, he did not tell his family or friends.

Williams seemed consumed with how to ensure this wasn’t all a self-destructive, highly dangerous waste of time. He distrusted law enforcement and didn’t want to be an informant, he said. He told me he hoped to damage the movement by someday going public with what he’d learned.

The Capitol riot had been nagging at me too. I’d reported extensively on Jan. 6. I’d sat with families who blamed militias for snatching their loved ones away from them, pulling them into a life of secret meetings and violent plots — or into a jail cell. By the time Williams contacted me, though, the most infamous groups appeared to have largely gone dark. Were militias more enduring, more potent, than it seemed?

Some of what he told me seemed significant. Still, before the package arrived, it could feel like I was corresponding with a shadow. I knew Williams treated deception as an art form. “When you spin a lie,” he once told me, “you have to have things they can verify so they won’t think to ask questions.” While his stories generally seemed precise and sober — always reassuring for a journalist — I needed to proceed with extreme skepticism.

So I pored over his files, tens of thousands of them. They included dozens of hours of conversations he secretly recorded and years of private militia chat logs and videos. I was able to authenticate those through other sources, in and out of the movement. I also talked to dozens of people, from Williams’ friends to other members of his militias. I dug into his tumultuous past and discovered records online he hadn’t pointed me to that supported his account.

The files give a unique window, at once expansive and intimate, into one of the most consequential and volatile social movements of our time. Williams penetrated a new generation of paramilitary leaders, which included doctors, career cops and government attorneys. Sometimes they were frightening, sometimes bumbling, always heavily armed. It was a world where a man would propose assassinating politicians, only to spark a debate about logistics.

Federal prosecutors have convicted more than 1,000 people for their role in Jan. 6. Key militia captains were sent to prison for a decade or more. But that did not quash the allure that militias hold for a broad swath of Americans.

Now President-elect Donald Trump has promised to pardon Jan. 6 rioters when he returns to the White House. Experts warn that such a move could trigger a renaissance for militant extremists, sending them an unprecedented message of protection and support — and making it all the more urgent to understand them.

(Unless otherwise noted, none of the militia members mentioned in this story responded to requests for comment.)

Williams is part of a larger cold war, radical vs. radical, that’s stayed mostly in the shadows. A left-wing activist told me he personally knows about 30 people who’ve gone undercover in militias or white supremacist groups. They did not coordinate with law enforcement, instead taking the surveillance of one of the most intractable features of American politics into their own hands.

Skeptical of authorities, militias have sought to reshape the country through armed action. Williams sought to do it through betrayals and lies, which sat with him uneasily. “I couldn’t have been as successful at this if I wasn’t one of them in some respects,” he once told me. “I couldn’t have done it so long unless they recognized something in me.”

2. The Struggle

If there is one moment that set Williams on his path into the militia underground, it came roughly a decade before Jan. 6, when he was sent to a medium-security prison. He was in his early 30s, drawn to danger and filled with an inner turbulence.

Williams grew up in what he described to me, to friends and in court records as a dysfunctional and unhappy home. He was a gay child in rural America. His father viewed homosexuality as a mortal sin, he said. Williams spent much of his childhood outdoors, bird-watching, camping and trying to spend as little time as possible at home. (John Williams is now his legal name, one he recently acquired.)

Once he was old enough to move out, Williams continued to go off the grid for weeks at a time. Living in a cave interested him; the jobs he’d found at grocery stores and sandwich shops did not. He told me his young adulthood was “a blank space in my life,” a stretch of “petty crime” and falling-outs with old friends. He pled guilty to a series of misdemeanors: trespassing, criminal mischief, assault.

What landed Williams in prison was how he responded to one of those arrests. He sent disturbing, anonymous emails to investigators on the case, threatening their families. Police traced the messages back to him and put him away for three years.

Williams found time to read widely in prison — natural history books, Bertrand Russell, Cormac McCarthy. And it served as a finishing school for a skill that would be crucial in his undercover years. Surviving prison meant learning to maneuver around gang leaders and corrections officers. He learned how to steer conversations to his own benefit without the other person noticing.

When he got out, he had a clear ambition: to become a wilderness survival instructor. He used Facebook to advertise guided hikes in Utah’s Uinta Mountains. An old photo captures Williams looking like a lanky camp counselor as he shows students an edible plant. He sports a thick ponytail and cargo pants, painted toenails poking out from his hiking sandals.

Many people in Utah had turned to wilderness survival after a personal crisis, forming a community of misfits who thrived in environments harsh and remote. Even among them, Williams earned a reputation for putting himself in extreme situations. “Not many people are willing to struggle on their own. He takes that struggle to a high degree,” one friend told me admiringly. Williams took up krav maga and muay thai because he enjoyed fistfights. He once spent 40 days alone in the desert with only a knife, living off chipmunks and currants (by choice, to celebrate a birthday).

Williams struggled to get his survival business going. He’d hand out business cards at hobbyist gatherings with promises of adventure, but in practice, he was mostly leading seminars in city parks for beer money. He would only take calls in emergencies, another friend recalled, because he wanted to save money on minutes.

Then around New Year’s in 2019, according to Williams, he received an email from a leader in American Patriots Three Percent, or AP3. He wanted to hire Williams for a training session. He could pay $1,000.

Finally, Williams thought. I’m starting to get some traction.

3. The Decision

They had agreed there’d be no semiautomatic rifles, Williams told me, so everyone brought a sidearm. Some dozen militiamen had driven into the mountains near Peter Sinks, Utah, one of the coldest places in the contiguous U.S. Initially they wanted training in evasion and escape, Williams said, but he thought they needed to work up to that. So for three days, he taught them the basics of wilderness survival, but with a twist: how to stay alive while “trying to stay hidden.” He showed them how to build a shelter that would both keep them dry and escape detection. How to make a fire, then how to clean it up so no one could tell it was ever there.

As the days wore on, stray comments started to irk him. Once, a man said he’d been “kiked” into overpaying for his Ruger handgun. At the end of the training, AP3 leaders handed out matching patches. The ritual reminded Williams of a biker gang.

He’d already been to some shorter AP3 events to meet the men and tailor the lesson to his first meaningful client, Williams told me. But spending days in the woods with them felt different. He said he found the experience unpleasant and decided not to work with the group again.

This portion of Williams’ story — exactly how and why he first became a militia member — is the hardest to verify. By his own account, he kept his thoughts and plans entirely to himself. At the time, he was too embarrassed to even tell his friends what happened that weekend, he said. In the survival community, training militias was considered taboo.

I couldn’t help but wonder if Williams was hiding a less gallant backstory. Maybe he’d joined AP3 out of genuine enthusiasm and then soured on it. Maybe now he was trying to fool me. Indeed, when I called the AP3 leader who set up the training, he disputed Williams’ timeline. He remembered Williams staying sporadically but consistently involved after the session in the mountains, as a friend of the group who attended two or three events a year. To further muddy the picture, Williams had warned me the man would say something like that — Williams had worked hard to create the impression that he never left, he said, that he’d just gone inactive for a while, busy with work. (Remarkably, the AP3er defended Williams’ loyalty each time I asserted he’d secretly tried to undermine the group. “He was very well-respected,” he said. “I never questioned his honesty or his intentions.”)

Even Williams’ friends told me he was something of a mystery to them. But I found evidence that supports his story where so many loners bare their innermost thoughts: the internet. In 2019 and early 2020, Williams wrote thousands of since-deleted entries in online forums. These posts delivered a snapshot of his worldview in this period: idiosyncratic, erudite and angry with little room for moderation. “There are occasionally militia types that want these skills to further violent fringe agendas and I will absolutely not enable them,” he wrote in one 2020 entry about wilderness survival. In another, he called AP3 and its allies “far right lunatics.” The posts didn’t prove the details of his account, but here was the Williams I knew, writing under pseudonyms long before we’d met.

One day, he’d voice his disdain for Trump voters, neoliberalism or “the capitalist infrastructure.” Another, he’d rail against gun control measures as immoral. When Black Lives Matter protests broke out in 2020, Williams wrote that he was gathering medical supplies for local protestors. He sounded at times like a revolutionary crossed with a left-wing liberal arts student. “The sole job of a cop is to bully citizens on behalf of the state,” he wrote. “Violent overthrow of the state is our only viable option.”

Then came Jan. 6. As he was watching on TV, he later told me, Williams thought he recognized the patch on a rioter’s tactical vest. It looked like the one that AP3 leaders had handed out at the end of his training.

Did I teach that guy? he wondered. Why was I so cordial to them all? If they knew I was gay, I bet they’d want me dead, and I actually helped them. Because I was too selfish to think of anything but my career.

Shame quickly turned to anger, he told me, and to a desire for revenge. Pundits were saying that democracy itself was in mortal peril. Williams took that notion literally. He assumed countless Americans would respond with aggressive action, he said, and he wanted to be among them.

4. A New World

Williams stood alone in his apartment, watching himself in the mirror.

“I’m tall.”

“I’m Dave.”

“I’m tall.”

“I’m Dave.”

He tried to focus on his mannerisms, on the intonation of his voice. Whether he was saying the truth or a falsehood, he wanted to appear exactly the same.

Months had passed since the Capitol riot. By all appearances, Williams was now an enthusiastic member of AP3. Because he already had an in, joining the group was easy, he said. Becoming a self-fashioned spy took some trial and error, however. In the early days, he had posed as a homeless person to surveil militia training facilities, but he decided that was a waste of time.

The casual deceit that had served him in prison was proving useful. Deviousness was a skill, and he stayed up late working to hone it. He kept a journal with every lie he told so he wouldn’t lose track. His syllabus centered on acting exercises and the history of espionage and cults. People like sex cult leader Keith Raniere impressed him most — he studied biographies to learn how they manipulated people, how they used cruelty to wear their followers down into acquiescence.

Williams regularly berated the militia’s rank and file. He doled out condescending advice about the group’s security weaknesses, warning their technical incompetence would make them easy targets for left-wing hackers and government snoops. Orion Rollins, the militia’s top leader in Utah, soon messaged Williams to thank him for the guidance. “Don’t worry about being a dick,” he wrote. “It’s time to learn and become as untraceable as possible.” (The AP3 messages Williams sent me were so voluminous that I spent an entire month reading them before I noticed this exchange.)

Williams was entering the militia at a pivotal time. AP3 once had chapters in nearly every state, with a roster likely in the tens of thousands; as authorities cracked down on the movement after Jan. 6, membership was plummeting. Some who stayed on had white nationalist ties. Others were just lonely conservatives who had found purpose in the paramilitary cause. For now, the group’s leaders were focused on saving the militia, not taking up arms to fight their enemies. (Thanks to Williams’ trove and records from several other sources, I was eventually able to write an investigation into AP3’s resurgence.)

On March 4, 2021, Williams complained to Rollins that everyone was still ignoring his advice. Williams volunteered to take over as the state’s “intel officer,” responsible for protecting the group from outside scrutiny.

“My hands are tied,” Williams wrote. “If I’m not able to” take charge, the whole militia “might unravel.” Rollins gave him the promotion.

“Thanks Orion. You’ve shown good initiative here.” Privately, he saw a special advantage to his appointment. If anyone suspected there was a mole in Utah, Williams would be the natural choice to lead the mole hunt.

Now he had a leadership role. What he did not yet have was a plan. But how could he decide on goals, he figured, until he knew more about AP3? He would work to gather information and rise through the ranks by being the best militia member he could be.

He took note of the job titles of leaders he met, like an Air Force reserve master sergeant (I confirmed this through military records) who recruited other airmen into the movement. Williams attended paramilitary trainings, where the group practiced ambushes with improvised explosives and semiautomatic guns. He offered his comrades free lessons in hand-to-hand combat and bonded with them in the backcountry hunting jackrabbits. When the militia joined right-wing rallies for causes like gun rights, they went in tactical gear. Williams attended as their “gray man,” he said — assigned to blend in with the crowd and call in armed reinforcements if tensions erupted.

Since his work was seasonal, Williams could spend as much as 40 hours a week on militia activities. One of his duties as intel officer was to monitor the group’s enemies on the left, which could induce vertigo. A militia leader once dispatched him to a Democratic Socialists of America meeting at a local library, he said, where he saw a Proud Boy he recognized from a joint militia training. Was this a closet right-winger keeping tabs on the socialists? Or a closet leftist who might dox him or inform the police?

He first contacted me in October 2022. He couldn’t see how the movement was changing beyond his corner of Utah. AP3 was reinvigorated by then, I later found, with as many as 50 recruits applying each day. In private chats I reviewed, leaders were debating if they should commit acts of terrorism. At the Texas border, members were rounding up immigrants in armed patrols. But Williams didn’t know all that yet. On our first call, he launched into a litany of minutiae: names, logistical details, allegations of minor players committing petty crimes. He could tell I wasn’t sure what it all amounted to.

Williams feared that if anything he’d helped AP3, not damaged it. Then, in early November, Rollins told him to contact a retired detective named Bobby Kinch.

5. The Detective and the Sheriff

Williams turned on a recording device and dialed. Kinch picked up after one ring: “What’s going on?” he bellowed. “How you doing, man?”

“I don’t know if you remember me,” Kinch continued, but they’d met years before.

“Oh, oh, back in the day,” Williams said, stuttering for a second. He knew Kinch was expecting the call but was confused by the warm reception. Maybe Kinch was at the training in 2019?

“Well I’m the sitting, current national director of the Oath Keepers now.”

The militia’s eye-patched founder, Stewart Rhodes, was in jail amid his trial for conspiring to overthrow the government on Jan. 6. Kinch said he was serving on the group’s national board when his predecessor was arrested. Rhodes had called from jail to say, “Do not worry about me. This is God’s way.”

“He goes, ‘But I want you to save the organization.’”

Kinch explained that Rollins, who’d recently defected to the Oath Keepers, had been singing Williams’ praises. (Bound by shared ideology, militias are more porous than outsiders would think. Members often cycle between groups like square dance partners.) “I imagine your plate is full with all the crazy stuff going on in the world, but I’d love to sit down.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Williams said. “AP3 and Oath Keepers should definitely be working together.” He proposed forming a joint reconnaissance team so their two militias could collaborate on intelligence operations. Kinch lit up. “I’m a career cop,” he said. “I did a lot of covert stuff, surveillance.”

By the time they hung up 45 minutes later, Kinch had invited Williams to come stay at his home. Williams felt impressed with himself. The head of the most infamous militia in America was treating him like an old friend.

To me, Williams sounded like a different person on the call, with the same voice but a brand new personality. It was the first recording that I listened to and the first time I became certain the most important part of his story was true. To authenticate the record, I independently confirmed nonpublic details Kinch discussed on the tape, a process I repeated again and again with the other files. Soon I had proof of what would otherwise seem outlandish: Williams’ access was just as deep as he claimed.

I could see why people would be eager to follow Kinch. Even when he sermonized on the “global elitist cabal,” he spoke with the affable passion of a beloved high school teacher. I’d long been fascinated by the prevalence of cops on militia rosters, so I started examining his backstory.

Kinch grew up in upstate New York, the son of a World War II veteran who had him at about 50. When Kinch was young, he confided in a later recording, he was a “wheelman,” slang for getaway driver. “I ran from the cops so many fucking times,” he said. But “at the end of the day, you know, I got away. I never got caught.”

He moved to Las Vegas and, at the age of 25, became an officer in the metro police. Kinch came to serve in elite detective units over 23 years in the force, hunting fugitives and helping take down gangs like the Playboy Bloods. Eventually he was assigned to what he called the “Black squad,” according to court records, tasked with investigating violent crimes where the suspect was African American. (A Las Vegas police spokesperson told me they stopped “dividing squads by a suspect’s race” a year before Kinch retired.)

Then around Christmas in 2013, Kinch’s career began to self-destruct. In a series of Facebook posts, he said that he would welcome a “race war.” “Bring it!” he wrote. “I’m about as fed up as a man (American, Christian, White, Heterosexual) can get!” An ensuing investigation prompted the department to tell the Secret Service that Kinch “could be a threat to the president,” according to the Las Vegas Sun. (The Secret Service interviewed him and determined he was not a threat to President Barack Obama, the outlet reported. Kinch told the paper he was not racist and that he was being targeted by colleagues with “an ax to grind.”) In 2016, he turned in his badge, a year after the saga broke in the local press.

Kinch moved to southern Utah and found a job hawking hunting gear at a Sportsman’s Warehouse. But he “had this urge,” he later said on a right-wing podcast. “Like I wasn’t done yet.” So he joined the Oath Keepers. “When people tell me that violence doesn’t solve anything, I look back over my police career,” he once advised his followers. “And I’m like, ‘Wow, that’s interesting, because violence did solve quite a bit.’”

Kinch added Williams to an encrypted Signal channel where the Utah Oath Keepers coordinated their intel work. Two weeks later on Nov. 30, 2022, Williams received a cryptic message from David Coates, one of Kinch’s top deputies.

Coates was an elder statesman of sorts in the Oath Keepers, a 73-year-old Vietnam veteran with a Hulk Hogan mustache. There’d been a break-in at the Utah attorney general’s office, he reported to the group, and for some unspoken reason, the Oath Keepers seemed to think this was of direct relevance to them. Coates promised to find out more about the burglary: “The Sheriff should have some answers” to “my inquiries today or tomorrow.”

That last line would come to obsess Williams. He sent a long, made-up note about his own experiences collaborating with law enforcement officials. “I’m curious, how responsive is the Sheriff to your inquiries? Or do you have a source you work with?”

“The Sheriff has become a personal friend who hosted my FBI interview,” Coates responded. “He opens a lot of doors.” Coates had been in D.C. on Jan. 6, he’d told Williams. It’d make sense if that had piqued the FBI’s interest.

To Williams, it hinted at a more menacing scenario — at secret ties between those who threaten the rule of the law and those duty-bound to enforce it. He desperately wanted more details, more context, the sheriff’s name. But he didn’t want to push for too much too fast.

6. The Hunting of Man

A forest engulfed Kinch’s house on all sides. He lived in a half-million-dollar cabin in summer home country, up 8,000 feet in the mountains outside Zion National Park. Williams stood in the kitchen on a mid-December Saturday morning.

Williams had recently made a secret purchase of a small black device off Amazon. It looked like a USB drive. The on-off switch and microphone holes revealed what it really was: a bug. As the two men chatted over cups of cannoli-flavored coffee, Williams didn’t notice when Kinch’s dog snatched the bug from his bag.

The night before, Williams had slept in the guest room. The house was cluttered with semiautomatic rifles. He had risked photographing three plaques on the walls inscribed with the same Ernest Hemingway line. “There is no hunting like the hunting of man,” they read. “Those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else.”

They spotted the dog at the same time. The bug was attached to a charging device. The animal was running around with it like it was a tennis ball. As Kinch went to retrieve it, Williams felt panic grip his chest. Could anyone talk their way out of this? He’d learned enough about Kinch to be terrified of his rage. Looking around, Williams eyed his host’s handgun on the kitchen counter.

If he even starts to examine it, I’ll grab the gun, he thought. Then I’ll shoot him and flee into the woods.

Kinch took the bug from the dog’s mouth. Then he handed it right to Williams and started to apologize.

Don’t worry about it, Williams said. He’s a puppy!

On their way out the door, Kinch grabbed the pistol and placed it in the console of his truck. It was an hour’s drive to the nearest city, where the Oath Keepers were holding a leadership meeting. Williams rode shotgun, his bug hooked onto the zipper of his backpack. On the tape, I could hear the wind racing through the car window. The radio played Bryan Adams’ “Summer of ’69.”

Kinch seemed in the hold of a dark nostalgia — as if he was wrestling with the monotony of civilian life, with the new strictures he faced since turning in his badge. Twenty minutes in, he recited the Hemingway line like it was a mantra. “I have a harder time killing animals than a human being,” Kinch continued. Then he grew quiet as he recounted the night he decided to retire.

He’d woken up in an oleander bush with no memory of how he’d gotten there. His hands were covered in blood. He was holding a gun. “I had to literally take my magazine out and count my bullets, make sure I didn’t fucking kill somebody,” he said. “I black out when I get angry. And I don’t remember what the fuck I did.”

Kinch went on: “I love the adrenaline of police work,” and then he paused. “I miss it. It was a hoot.”

By the time they reached Cedar City, Utah, Kinch was back to charismatic form. He dished out compliments to the dozen or so Oath Keepers assembled for the meeting — “You look like you lost weight” — and told everyone to put their phones in their cars. “It’s just good practice. Because at some point we may have to go down a route,” one of his deputies explained, trailing off.

Kinch introduced Williams to the group. “He’s not the feds. And if he is, he’s doing a damn good job.”

Williams laughed, a little too loud.

7. Doctor, Lawyer, Sergeant, Spy

Early in the meeting, Kinch laid out his vision for the Oath Keepers’ role in American life. “We have a two-edged sword,” he said. The “dull edge” was more traditional grassroots work, exemplified by efforts to combat alleged election fraud. He hoped to build their political apparatus so that in five or 10 years, conservative candidates would be seeking the Oath Keepers’ endorsement.

Then there was the sharp edge: paramilitary training. “You hone all these skills because when the dull edge fails, you’ve got to be able to turn that around and be sharp.” The room smelled like donuts, one of the men had remarked.

The week before, Kinch’s predecessor had been convicted of seditious conspiracy. This was their first meeting since the verdict, and I opened the recordings later with the same anticipation I feel sitting down for the Super Bowl. What would come next for the militia after this historic trial: ruin, recovery or revolt?

The stature of men leading the group’s post-Jan. 6 resurrection startled me. I was expecting the ex-cops, like the one from Fresno, California, who said he stayed on with the militia because “this defines me.” Militias tend to prize law enforcement ties; during an armed operation, it could be useful to have police see you as a friend.

But there was also an Ohio OB-GYN on the national board of directors — he used to work for the Cleveland Clinic, I discovered, and now led a subsidiary of UnitedHealth Group. The doctor was joined at board meetings by a city prosecutor in Utah, an ex-city council member and, Williams was later told, a sergeant with an Illinois sheriff’s department. (The doctor did not respond to requests for comment. He has since left his post with the UnitedHealth subsidiary, a spokesperson for the company said.)

Over six hours, the men set goals and delegated responsibilities with surprisingly little worry about the federal crackdown on militias. They discussed the scourges they were there to combat (stolen elections, drag shows, President Joe Biden) only in asides. Instead, they focused on “marketing” — “So what buzzwords can we insert in our mission statement?” one asked — and on resources that’d help local chapters rapidly expand. “I’d like to see this organization be like the McDonald’s of patriot organizations,” another added. To Williams, it felt more like a Verizon sales meeting than an insurrectionist cell.

Kinch had only recently taken over and as I listened, I wondered how many followers he really had outside of that room. They hadn’t had a recruitment drive in the past year, which they resolved to change. They had $1,700 in the bank. But it didn’t seem entirely bravado. Kinch and his comrades mentioned conversations with chapters around the county.

Then as they turned from their weakened national presence to their recent successes in Utah, Williams snapped to attention.

“We had surveillance operations,” Kinch said, without elaboration.

“We’re making progress locally on the law enforcement,” Coates added. He said that at least three of them can get “the sheriff” on the phone any time of day. Like the last time, Coates didn’t give a name, but he said something even more intriguing: “The sheriff is my tie-in to the state attorney general because he’s friends.” Williams told me he fought the urge to lob a question. (The attorney general’s office did not respond to requests for comment.)

Closing out the day, Kinch summarized their plan moving forward: Keep a low profile. Focus on the unglamorous work. Rebuild their national footprint. And patiently prepare for 2024. “We still got what, two more years, till another quote unquote election?” He thanked Williams for coming and asked if they could start planning training exercises.

“Absolutely, yeah, I’m excited about that.” Williams was resolved to find his way onto the national board.

8. The Stakeout

On Dec. 17, 2022, a week after the meeting, Williams called a tech-savvy 19-year-old Oath Keeper named Rowan. He’d told Rowan he was going to teach him to infiltrate leftist groups, but Williams’ real goal was far more underhanded. While the older Oath Keepers had demurred at his most sensitive questions recently, the teenager seemed eager to impress a grizzled survival instructor. By assigning missions to Rowan, he hoped to probe the militias’ secrets without casting suspicion on himself.

“You don’t quite have the life experience to do this,” Williams opened on the recording. But with a couple years’ training, “I think we can work towards that goal.” He assigned his student a scholarly monograph, “Alienation: Marx’s Conception of Man in a Capitalist Society,” to begin his long education in how leftists think. “Perfect,” Rowan responded. He paused to write the title down.

Then came his pupil’s first exercise: build a dossier on Williams’ boss in AP3. Williams explained it was safest to practice on people they knew.

In Rowan, Williams had found a particularly vulnerable target. He was on probation at the time. According to court records, earlier that year, Rowan had walked up to a stranger’s truck as she was leaving her driveway. She rolled down her window. He punched her several times in the face. When police arrived, Rowan began screaming that he was going to kill them and threatened to “blow up the police department.” He was convicted of misdemeanor assault.

Williams felt guilty about using the young man but also excited. (“He is completely in my palm,” he recorded in his diary.) Within a few weeks, he had Rowan digging into Kinch’s background. “I’m going to gradually have him do more and more things,” he said in the diary, “with the hopes that I can eventually get him to hack” into militia leaders’ accounts.

The relationship quickly unearthed something that disturbed him. The week of their call, Williams woke up to a series of angry messages in the Oath Keepers’ encrypted Signal channel. The ire was directed toward a Salt Lake Tribune reporter who, according to Coates, was “a real piece of shit.” His sins included critical coverage of “anyone trying to expose voter fraud” and writing about a local political figure who’d appeared on a leaked Oath Keepers roster.

Williams messaged Rowan. “I noticed in the chat that there is some kind of red list of journalists etc? Could you get that to me?” he asked. “It would be very helpful to my safety when observing political rallies or infiltrating leftists.”

“Ah yes, i have doxes on many journalists in utah,” Rowan responded, using slang for sharing someone’s personal data with malicious intent.

He sent over a dossier on the Tribune reporter, which opened with a brief manifesto: “This dox goes out to those that have been terrorized, doxed, harassed, slandered, and family names mutilated by these people.” It provided the reporter’s address and phone number, along with two pictures of his house.

Then Rowan shared similar documents about a local film critic — he’d posted a “snarky” retweet of the Tribune writer — and about a student reporter at Southern Utah University. The college student had covered a rally the Oath Keepers recently attended, Rowan explained, and the militia believed he was coordinating with the Tribune. “We found the car he drove through a few other members that did a stakeout.”

“That’s awesome,” Williams said. Internally, he was reeling: a stakeout? In the dossier, he found a backgrounder on the student’s parents along with their address. Had armed men followed this kid around? Did they surveil his family home?

His notes show him wrestling with a decision he hadn’t let himself reckon with before: Was it time to stop being a fly on the wall and start taking action? Did he need to warn someone? The journalists? The police? Breaking character would open the door to disaster. The incident with Kinch’s dog had been a chilling reminder of the risks.

Williams had been in the militia too long. He was losing his sense of objectivity. The messages were alarming, but were they an imminent threat? He couldn’t tell. Williams had made plans to leave Utah if his cover was blown. He didn’t want to jeopardize two years of effort over a false alarm. But what if he did nothing and this kid got hurt?

9. The Plan

By 2023, Williams’ responsibilities were expanding as rapidly as his anxiety. His schedule was packed with events for AP3, the Oath Keepers and a third militia he’d recently gotten inside. He vowed to infiltrate the Proud Boys and got Coates to vouch for him with the local chapter. He prepared plans to penetrate a notorious white supremacist group too.

His adversaries were gaining momentum as well. Williams soon made the four-hour drive to Kinch’s house for another leadership meeting and was told on tape about a national Oath Keepers recruiting bump; they’d also found contact information for 40,000 former members, which they hoped to use to bring a flood of militiamen back into the fold.

Despite the risk to his own safety and progress, Williams decided to send the journalists anonymous warnings from burner accounts. He attached sensitive screenshots so that they’d take him seriously. And then … nothing. The reporters never responded; he wondered if the messages went to spam. His secret was still secure.

But the point of his mission was finally coming into focus. He was done simply playing the part of model militia member. His plan had two parts: After gathering as much compromising information as he could, he would someday release it all online, he told me. He carefully documented anything that looked legally questionable, hoping law enforcement would find something useful for a criminal case. At the very least, going public could make militiamen more suspicious of each other.

In the meantime, he would undermine the movement from the inside. He began trying to blunt the danger that he saw lurking in every volatile situation the militiamen put themselves in.

On Jan. 27, 2023, body camera footage from the police killing of Tyre Nichols, an unarmed Black man, became public. “The footage is gruesome and distressing,” The New York Times reported. “Cities across the U.S. are bracing for protests.” The militias had often responded to Black Lives Matter rallies with street brawls and armed patrols.

Williams had visions of Kyle Rittenhouse-esque shootings in the streets. He put his newly formulated strategy into action, sending messages to militiamen around the country with made-up rumors he hoped would persuade them to stay home.

In Utah, he wrote to Kinch and the leaders of his other two militias. He would be undercover at the protests in Salt Lake City, he wrote. If any militiamen went, even “a brief look of recognition could blow my cover and put my life in danger.” All three ordered their troops to avoid the event. (“This is a bit of a bummer,” one AP3 member responded. “I’ve got some aggression built up I need to let out.”)

After the protests, Williams turned on his voice diary and let out a long sigh. For weeks, he’d been nauseous and had trouble eating. He’d developed insomnia that would keep him up until dawn. He’d gone to the rally to watch for militia activity. When he got home, he’d vomited blood.

Even grocery shopping took hours now. He circled the aisles to check if he was being tailed. Once while driving, he thought he caught someone following him. He’d reached out to a therapist to help “relieve some of this pressure,” he said, but was afraid to speak candidly with him. “I can check his office for bugs and get his electronics out of the office. And then once we’re free, I can tell him what’s going on.”

He quickly launched into a litany of items on his to-do list. A training exercise to attend. A recording device he needed to find a way to install. “I’m just fucking sick of being around these toxic motherfuckers.”

“It’s getting to be too much for me.”

10. The Deep State

On March 20, Williams called Scot Seddon, the founder of AP3. If he was on the verge of a breakdown, it didn’t impact his performance. I could tell when Williams was trying to advance his agenda as I listened later, but he was subtle about it. Obsequious. Methodical. By day’s end, he’d achieved perhaps his most remarkable feat yet. He’d helped persuade Seddon and his lieutenants to fire the head of AP3’s Utah chapter and to install Williams in his place.

Now he had access to sensitive records only senior militia leaders could see. He had final say over the group’s actions in an entire state. He knew the coup would make him vastly more effective. Yet that night in his voice diary, Williams sounded like a man in despair.

The success only added to his paranoia. Becoming a major figure in the Utah militia scene raised a possibility he couldn’t countenance: He might be arrested and sent to jail for some action of his comrades.

With a sense of urgency now, he focused even more intently on militia ties to government authorities. “I have been still collecting evidence on the paramilitaries’ use of law enforcement,” he said in the diary entry. “It’s way deeper than I thought.”

He solved the mystery of the Oath Keepers’ “sheriff”: It was the sheriff for Iron County, Utah, a tourist hub near two national parks. He assigned Rowan to dig deeper into the official’s ties with the movement and come back with emails or text messages. (In a recent interview, the sheriff told me that he declined an offer to join the Oath Keepers but that he’s known “quite a few” members and thinks “they’re generally good people.” Coates has periodically contacted him about issues like firearms rules that Coates believes are unconstitutional, the sheriff said. “If I agree, I contact the attorney general’s office.”)

Claiming to work on “a communication strategy for reaching out to law enforcement,” Williams then goaded AP3 members into bragging about their police connections. They told him about their ties with high-ranking officers in Missouri and in Louisiana, in Texas and in Tennessee.

The revelations terrified him. “When this gets out, I think I’m probably going to flee overseas,” he said in his diary. “They have too many connections.” What if a cop ally helped militants track him down? “I don’t think I can safely stay within the United States.”

Four days later, he tuned into a Zoom seminar put on by a fellow AP3 leader. It was a rambling and sparsely attended meeting. But 45 minutes in, a woman brought up an issue in her Virginia hometown, population 23,000.

The town’s vice mayor, a proud election denier, was under fire for a homophobic remark. She believed a local reporter covering the controversy was leading a secret far-left plot. What’s more, the reporter happened to be her neighbor. To intimidate her, she said, he’d been leaving dead animals on her lawn.

“I think I have to settle a score with this guy,” she concluded. “They’re getting down to deep state local level and it’s got to be stopped.” After the call, Williams went to turn off his recording device. “Well, that was fucking insane,” he said aloud.

He soon reached out to the woman to offer his advice. Maybe he could talk her down, Williams thought, or at least determine what she meant by settling a score. But she wasn’t interested in speaking with him. So again he faced a choice: do nothing or risk his cover being blown. He finally came to the same conclusion he had the last time he’d feared journalists were in jeopardy. On March 31, he sent an anonymous warning.

“Because she is a member of a right wing militia group and is heavily armed, I wanted to let you know,” Williams wrote to the reporter. “I believe her to be severely mentally ill and I believe her to be dangerous. For my own safety, I cannot reveal more.”

He saw the article the next morning. The journalist had published 500 words about the disturbing email he’d gotten, complete with a screenshot of Williams’ entire note. Only a few people had joined that meandering call. Surely only Williams pestered the woman about it afterwards. There could be little doubt that he was the mole.

He pulled the go bag from his closet and fled. A few days later, while on the run, Williams recorded the final entries in his diary. Amid the upheaval, he sounded surprised to feel a sense of relief: “I see the light at the end of the tunnel for the first time in two and a half years.”

Coda: Project 2025

It was seven days before the 2024 presidential election. Williams had insisted I not bring my phone, on the off chance my movements were being tracked. We were finally meeting for the first time, in a city that he asked me not to disclose. He entered the cramped hotel room wearing a camo hat, hiking shoes and a “Spy vs. Spy” comic strip T-shirt. “Did you pick the shirt to match the occasion?” I asked. He laughed. “Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

We talked for days, with Williams splayed across a Best Western office chair beside the queen bed. He evoked an aging computer programmer with 100 pounds of muscle attached, and he seemed calmer than on the phone, endearingly offbeat. The vision he laid out — of his own future and of the country’s — was severe.

After he dropped everything and went underground, Williams spent a few weeks in the desert. He threw his phone in a river, flushed documents down the toilet and switched apartments when he returned to civilization. At first, he spent every night by the door ready for an attack; if anyone found him and ambushed him, it’d happen after dark, he figured. No one ever came, and he began to question if he’d needed to flee at all. The insomnia of his undercover years finally abated. He began to sketch out the rest of his life.

Initially, he hoped to connect with lawmakers in Washington, helping them craft legislation to combat the militia movement. By last summer, those ambitions had waned. Over time, he began to wrestle with his gift for deceiving people who trusted him. “I don’t necessarily like what it says about me that I have a talent for this,” he said.

To me, it seemed that the ordeal might be starting to change him. He’d become less precise in consistently adhering to the facts in recent weeks, I thought, more grandiose in his account of his own saga. But then for long stretches, he’d speak with the same introspection and attention to detail that he showed on our first calls. His obsession with keeping the Tyre Nichols protestors safe was myopic, he told me, a case of forgetting the big picture to quash the few dangers he could control.

Williams believes extremists will try to murder him after this story is published. And if they fail, he thinks he’ll “live to see the United States cease to exist.” He identifies with the violent abolitionist John Brown, who tried to start a slave revolt two years before the American Civil War and was executed. Williams thinks he himself may not be seen as such a radical soon, he told me. “I wonder if I’m maybe a little too early.”

I’d thought Williams was considering a return to a quiet life. Our two intense years together had been a strain sometimes even for me. But in the hotel room, he explained his plans for future operations against militias: “Until they kill me, this is what I’m doing.” He hopes to inspire others to follow in his footsteps and even start his own vigilante collective, running his own “agents” inside the far right.

In August, I published my investigation into AP3. (I used his records but did not otherwise rely on Williams as an anonymous source.) It was a way of starting to lay out what I’d learned since his first email: what’s driving the growth of militias, how they keep such a wide range of people united, the dangerous exploits that they’ve managed to keep out of public view.

Two months later, Williams published an anonymous essay. He revealed that he’d infiltrated the group as an “independent activist” and had sent me files. He wanted to test how the militia would respond to news of a mole.

The result was something he long had hoped for: a wave of paranoia inside AP3. “It’s a fucking risky thing we get involved in,” Seddon, the group’s founder, said in a private message. “Fucking trust nobody. There’s fucking turncoats everywhere.” (Seddon declined to comment for this story. He then sent a short follow-up email: “MAGA.”)

Sowing that distrust is why Williams is going on the record, albeit without his original name. He still plans to release thousands of files after this article is published — evidence tying sheriffs and police officers to the movement, his proudest coup, plus other records he hopes could become ammo for lawsuits. But Williams wants to let his former comrades know “a faggot is doing this to them.” He thinks his story could be his most effective weapon.

Every time militia members make a phone call, attend a meeting or go to a gun range together, he wants them “to be thinking, in the back of their heads, ‘This guy will betray me.’”

[akairawrites]

Risky reporter | Clark Kent imagine

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Word count: 2267

As Y/N glanced at the pavement below, she inhaled deeply to steady her racing heart. She stepped back, closed her eyes momentarily, and prepared herself for what lay ahead. With a swift motion, she sprinted and leaped off the building's edge. As the ground approached, regret set in. Her eyes shut, bracing for impact, but suddenly a force intervened, sweeping her away. In an instant, the fall turned into flight.

She held onto the figure she expected would save her. After landing on a nearby building, she stepped back to examine her rescuer and smiled. However, her smile quickly disappeared when he gave her an unimpressed look.

"Are you out of your mind?" he inquired. “What the hell were you thinking?” he continued to lecture

“I’m sorry. How else was I supposed to get your attention? You don't exactly have a phone number.”

He just stared down at her with his arms crossed

Y/N sighed and rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry, okay? There's just something I needed to talk to you about."

"Is it so important that you had to resort to jumping off a building to get my attention?" he asked, his demeanor unchanged, although deep down, he was genuinely worried. "Maybe?" she shrugged. “Look I found some information about Lex some really really important information.”

He stared down at her intensely and sighed through his nose. "It better be good," he muttered, still trying to mask his concern with frustration.

Y/n took a deep breath, her eyes now serious. " I hacked into one of his encrypted files. There's a plan in motion, something big, and it's happening soon. I didn't know how to reach you without tipping him off."

Y/n had been working with Lex Luthor for years until recently. She was fired for being too good at her job; Lex was afraid that she would be a liability. It turns out he was right. A few weeks later, she was contacted by Superman. The Superman wanted her help in stopping Lex with whatever evil plan he had.

His expression shifted slightly, the irritation giving away to a mix of concern and curiosity. "You could have tried a less suicidal method," he replied, but his tone was softer. "Show me what you found."

Reaching into her pocket, Y/n pulled out a small flash drive and handed it to him "Everything you need to know is on there."

He took the flash drive, glancing at it before looking back at her. "You did good, but next time, try a different approach to get my attention."

Y/n nodded a small smile returning to her face. "Deal. Now let's stop Lex before it's too late."

He held up his hand, cutting her off. "You mean let ME stop Lex."

"What?" She asked, her brow furrowing in confusion

"I'm doing this alone, Y/n. You already almost killed yourself just to get my attention," He stated, his voice firm and unyielding.

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" She shot back, frustration edging into her voice.

Superman crossed his arms tighter, his jaw clenched at her stubbornness. "That's not the point. This is dangerous, and I can't afford...to have you getting hurt."

"Don't you dare underestimate me," Y/n replied, stepping closer to him, her eyes flashing with determination. "I've come this far, and I'm not backing down now. You need me."

He hesitated, looking down at the flash drive in his hand, then back at Y/n. "You did your part Y/n, now let me do mine."

"Please, let me do this," Y/n begged. "I'm fully aware of the risk." Her voice was steady. "You need me, Superman. I know that building like the back of my hand."

Superman remained silent for a while, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He knew he was about to regret his decision.

"Fine, but you stay behind the scenes. No matter what."

"You got it, boss." Y/n chirped excited to be working with The Man of Steel again.

Sometime later...

"Alright, the security is down. There are a few guards at the main entrance, so be careful going in," Y/n quickly typed on her computer, intently looking at the screen, tracking Superman's every move.

She sat at a desk in an apartment. Superman would only allow her to work with him if she agreed to stay a close distance away from Lexcorp. Because her apartment was way too close, Superman asked a friend for a favor and let her stay at their apartment for a while. It was super nice, but a bit too dramatic on Superman's part.

The apartment was super clean and tidy there were no pictures of the apartment's owner which she thought was odd.

"Copy that." A little camera attached to The Man of Steel allowed her to see what he was doing and he was currently flying through the air "I'll let you know when I get there." That was all he said before he muted his audio.

In the meantime, she decided to look around, not to snoop but to get familiar with her surroundings.

She slid the rolling chair across the room, got off, and headed into the kitchen. There was a fresh fruit bowl that sat on the marbal countertop and a coffee maker half empty.

She went over and opened the cabinets. She noted the organized dishes and glassware. Everything was neatly in place, unlike her own cluttered apartment. She couldn't help but wonder who lived here. Superman's friend must be someone he trusted dearly.

She moved over to the living area, where a comfortable-looking couch faced a large flat-screen TV. A small stack of DVDs sat on a shelf under the TV; there were a few classic films that she recognized. On the couch, a blanket was draped over the back, adding to its coziness in the otherwise stark room.

As she walked back towards the desk, she glanced at a door slightly ajar, leading to what she assumed was the bedroom. Curiosity tugged at her, but she resisted the urge to peek inside. Instead, she returned to her computer, refocusing on the task at hand.

The screen showed Superman approaching Lexcorp's main building, his movements precise and calculated. She felt a ping of anxiety, knowing the dangers he might be in "Stay safe." she whispered, even though she knew he couldn't hear her.

She checked the security feeds again, ensuring that everything was still clear on her end. The guards at the main entrance seemed oblivious to the impending threat, casually chatting amongst themselves.

Superman spoke up again "I'm in position."

"Good luck." She watched as he descended towards the building.

Landing on the building silently, Superman moved swiftly. Y/n watched intently, her eyes darting across the various feeds she had hacked into. The guards were still at the main entrance, but now two patrolled the rooftop.

"Two guards on the roof," Y/n spoke up, watching the tracker. "Stick to the shadows on the west side; there's a blind spot in their patrol.""

"Got it," Superman Replied. She saw him crouch low, making his way stealthily across the rooftop.

Her computer screen flickered as she adjusted the feeds, switching between different cameras inside the building. She could see Lex's private office, dark and empty, and the main control room filled with computer monitors and blinking lights. She paused for a moment, taking in the complexity of Lex's operation that she hadn't noticed until now.

Just as Superman slipped past the rooftop guards and made his way to an access hatch, Y/n's screen filled with a new alert. She scanned it and her eyes widened. "Superman, wait." She spoke urgently "There's a motion sensor on the hatch. Let me disable it."

"Understood, standing by," he replied stopping just in time.

Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she bypassed the security protocols. After a tense moment, she managed to disable the sensor. "You're clear," she exhaled a breath she didn't know she was holding.

Superman opened the hatch and descended into the building. He moved with a purpose, guided by Y/n's directions she kept an eye on the security feeds, alerting him to any potential threats.

Inside the apartment, Y/n 's tension grew with each passing second. She glanced around the room again, feeling a strange sense of isolation despite being surrounded by the familiarity of someone's home. The absence of personal items made the place feel sterile almost like a temporary refuge rather than a permanent residence.

She shook off the feeling and refocused on her screen. " You're close, the mainframe room is just ahead. The door requires a keycard, but there's a panel on the side you can bypass."

Superman reached the door and pried open the panel, revealing a mess of wires "Walk me through it,"

Y/n guided him step by step, once it was completed the door clicked open and he slipped inside. The room was filled with rosa of servers, humming quietly.

"Now find the terminal on the far end," Y/n instructed. "That's where you'll upload the virus."

Superman made his way to the terminal, inserting the flash drive Y/n had given him earlier "Uploading now," he confirmed.

Y/n saw the progress bar on her screen, willing it to move faster. just as it neared completion, an alarm blared on her computer. " Superman, they've detected the breach! You gotta get out of there, now!"

Before Superman could react, a beam of green light shot him down causing him to crash into the control panels. A figure walked up to the weakened Superman with a malicious laugh.

"Did you really think you would get away with breaking into my building without me knowing?" Lex sucked his teeth in disappointment. "You should know better by now, Superman."

On Y/n's end, the camera quickly disconnected and turned to static. "No, Superman!" she yelled, worry lacing her voice. She stood up abruptly, knocking the chair down. She quickly rushed out of the room and ran towards the front door, grabbed her coat, and left out the door.

The cold night air brushed against her flushed cheeks as she sprinted through the dimly lit streets, her mind filled with fear and determination. She didn't have a plan, but she couldn't just sit idly by. Superman was in danger, and she had to find a way to help him. She quickly called a cab and made her way to Lex Corp.

The cab driver stopped about a block away. Y/n paid him and got out of the car as a deep breath escaped her lungs. She made her way to a hidden entrance, prying open a rusty grate that led into the maintenance tunnels. When Y/n was still employed by Lex he and his goons would use this entrance a lot to get away from the press or anyone who would be looking for him at the time.

The air inside was damp and musty, and the dim lighting cast eerie shadows on the walls. Y/n found the ladder and climbed up, emerging into a small, dimly lit room filled with wires and control panels. She could hear distant sounds in the next room. Steeling herself, she crept toward the main control room, where she hoped to find Superman.

Peering through a crack in the door, she saw Lex standing over Superman, Who was still struggling to get up. Lex held up a kryptonite spear the gun he had previously used laid discarded on the floor.

With a surge of courage, Y/n burst into the room. "Leave him alone, Lex!"

"Y/n no," Superman managed to mumble

He just chuckled hearing her voice. "Ahh finally the woman of the hour," he started "I knew firing you was a good idea."

"Let him go Lex, I'm serious!"

"And what are you going to do if I don't?" he asked, knowing she couldn't do anything physical. He got a bit closer to her, and as he did, she took a few steps back. However, her back hit the wall leaving her with nowhere else to go. He was far enough that Superman could muster up enough strength to knock the kryptonite out of his hand, causing it to fall and shatter onto the floor. He grabbed the back of Lex's shirt and threw him overhead and into his own control panels.

Superman quickly and carefully examined her for any signs of injury, his concern evident in his furrowed brows. "Are you alright?' He asked urgently, his hand gently cupping her cheek as he searched her eyes for any hit of pain or distress.

Her reassuring words were accompanied by a gentle gesture as she placed her hand over his, offering comfort and reassurance. "Yes, I'm fine," she said softly.

Superman took one more look at Lex, who was passed out on the floor above the control panels he had been thrown into previously. He wrapped his arm around Y/n and held her tightly as they both ascended into the air and burst through the building, emerging into the cool night air.

"Hold on tight," Superman whispered, his voice gentle in her ear. As they soared higher, the city lights below twinkling like stars, Y/n felt the exhilaration for a moment as the wind rushed past them.

They soared over the city, the buildings and streets blended together. Their journey was peaceful, the world below was a silent testament to the chaos they had just overcome.

This is a little long—i apologize

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[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Chapter 1: Ghost In the Machine

The hum of the fluorescent lights in "Byte Me" IT Solutions was a monotonous drone against the backdrop of Gotham's usual cacophony. Rain lashed against the grimy window, each drop a tiny percussionist drumming out a rhythm of misery. Inside, however, misery was a bit more… organized.

I sighed, wrestling with a particularly stubborn strain of ransomware. "CryptoLocker v. 7.3," the diagnostic screen read. A digital venereal disease, if you asked me. Another day, another infected grandma's laptop filled with pictures of her grandkids and a crippling fear that hackers were going to steal her identity.

"Still at it?" My coworker, Mark, sidled over, clutching a lukewarm mug of something vaguely resembling coffee. Mark was a good guy, perpetually optimistic despite working in one of Gotham's less-than-glamorous neighborhoods. Bless his heart.

"You know it," I replied, jabbing at the keyboard. "Think I've finally managed to corner the bastard. Just gotta… there!" The screen flashed a success message. "One less victim of the digital plague."

Mark nodded, then his eyes drifted to the hulking metal beast in the corner, a Frankensteinian creation of salvaged parts and mismatched wiring. "How's the behemoth coming along?"

I followed his gaze. My pet project. My escape. "Slowly but surely. Got the cooling system optimized today. Almost ready to fire it up."

"Planning anything special with it?" Mark asked, his brow furrowed in curiosity. "You've been collecting scraps for months. It's gotta be more than just a souped-up gaming rig."

I shrugged, a deliberately vague gesture. "You could say I'm planning something… big. Something Byte Me isn't equipped to handle."

Mark chuckled. "Well, whatever it is, I'm sure you'll make it sing. You've got a knack for that sort of thing." He wandered off, whistling a jaunty tune that died a slow, agonizing death against the backdrop of the Gotham rain.

He had no idea just how much of a knack.

Mark bid me one final goodbye before pulling out an umbrella and disappearing into the night. No doubt he stops at Nero’s pizzeria before going home to his wife and kids. You watched through the shop window before he disappeared around the corner. Then, you locked the door and reached for the light switch. The fluorescent lights flickered a final, dying gasp before plunging the shop into darkness. I waited a beat, the city's distant sirens a mournful choir. Then, I flipped the hidden switch behind the breaker box, illuminating a small, secluded corner of the shop.

Rain hammered against the grimy windowpanes of my "office," a repurposed storage room tucked away in the forgotten bowels of the shop. The rhythmic drumming was almost hypnotic, a bleak lullaby for a city perpetually on the verge of collapse. I ignored it, fingers flying across the keyboard, the green glow of the monitor painting my face in an unsettling light. Outside, the city's distant sirens formed a mournful choir. Here, the air crackled with a different kind of energy.

"Almost there," I muttered, the words barely audible above the whirring of the ancient server rack humming in the corner. It was a Frankensteinian creation, cobbled together from spare parts and salvaged tech, but it packed enough processing power to crack even the most stubborn encryption algorithms. Laptops with custom OSes, encrypted hard drives, and a tangle of wires snaked across the desk. This was Ghostwire Solutions, my little side hustle. My… outlet.

Tonight's victim, or client – depending on how you looked at it – was a low-level goon. One was a two-bit thug named "Knuckles" Malone; the other, a twitchy character smelling of desperation, Frankie "Fingers" Falcone. Malone's burner phone, or Falcone's data chip containing an encrypted message, was now on the screen in front of me, a jumble of characters that would make most people's eyes glaze over. For me, it was a puzzle. A challenging, if morally questionable, puzzle.

My service, "Ghostwire Solutions," was discreet, to say the least. No flashy neon signs, no online presence, just word-of-mouth referrals whispered in dimly lit back alleys. I was a ghost, a digital shadow flitting through the city's underbelly, connecting people. That's how I liked to justify it anyway. I cracked my knuckles and went to work. My fingers danced across the keyboard, feeding the encrypted text into a series of custom-built algorithms, each designed to exploit a specific vulnerability. Hours melted away, marked only by the rhythmic tapping of keys and the soft hum of the custom-built rig in the corner, its processing power gnawing away at the digital lock.

The encryption finally buckled. A cascade of decrypted data flooded the screen. I scanned through it, a jumbled mess of texts, voicemails, location data, or a simple message detailing a meeting point and time. Mostly dull stuff about late payments and turf wars, the mundane reality of Gotham's criminal element. I extracted the relevant information.

"Alright, Frankie," I muttered to myself, copying the decrypted message onto a clean file. "Just connecting people. That's all I'm doing."

I packaged the data into a neat little file, added a hefty markup to my initial quote, and sent it off via an encrypted channel. Within minutes, the agreed-upon sum, a few hundred cold, hard dollars, landed in my untraceable digital wallet. I saved the file to a new data chip and packaged it up. Another job done. Another night closer to sanity's breaking point.

"Just connecting people," I repeated, the phrase tasting like ash in my mouth. The lie tasted even worse. I knew what I was doing. I was enabling crime. I was greasing the wheels of Gotham's underbelly. But bills had to be paid. It was a convenient lie, a way to sleep at night knowing I was profiting from the chaos. But tonight, it felt particularly hollow. And honestly, did it really matter? Gotham was already drowning in darkness. What was one more drop?

Gotham was a broken city, a machine grinding down its inhabitants. The system was rigged, the rich got richer, and the poor fought over scraps. I wasn't exactly helping to fix things. But I wasn't making it worse, right? I was just a cog in the machine, a necessary evil. I was good at what I did, damn good. I could see patterns where others saw chaos. I could exploit vulnerabilities, both in code and in the systems of power that held Gotham hostage. It was a skill, a talent, and in this city, unique talents were currency. I was efficient and discreet. But every decrypted message, every bypassed firewall, chipped away at something inside me. It hollowed me out, leaving me a ghost in my own life, a wire connecting the darkness.

I leaned back in my creaky chair, the rain still pounding against the window. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and melancholy. Another night, another decryption, another small victory against the futility of existence in Gotham. The flicker of conscience, that annoying little spark that refused to be extinguished, flared again. Was I really making a difference? Or was I just another parasite feeding off the city's decay?

I closed my eyes, trying to silence the questions. Tomorrow, there would be another encryption to crack, another connection to make. And I would be ready, Ghostwire ready to disappear into the digital ether, another ghost in the machine, until the next signal came. As I waited for the morning, for the return of the fluorescent lights and the mundane reality of "Byte Me" IT Solutions, I wondered if one day, the darkness I trafficked in would finally claim me completely. Because in Gotham, survival was a code all its own, and I was fluent in its language. And frankly, some days, that didn't seem like such a bad deal. For now, that was enough.

[amaris-whisperer]

Redacted l Bucky Barnes x Reader l Part 3

Genre: Slow burn, angst with comfort, friends to lovers, team meddling, Soft!Bucky, bittersweet-to-sweet resolution

Setting: Thunderbolts AU

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 (complete)

—

The safehouse was too quiet.

Too still.

The kind of quiet that didn't feel like peace—it felt like goodbye.

You sat alone at the rickety desk in the corner, the dim glow of a cracked laptop screen illuminating the shadows under your eyes. Rain tapped relentlessly against the warped windowpane, soft at first, then sharper, like a warning. The storm outside mirrored the one inside you—wild, relentless, impossible to calm.

Your hands hovered over the keys. You hadn't typed anything in minutes.

In the next room, Bucky slept for the first time in two days. He hadn't meant to—he'd been trying to stay up, waiting for you to finish decrypting the final files. But exhaustion finally won. You'd tucked a blanket over him the way you always did, careful not to wake him.

He looked peaceful like this. Unburdened. For a moment, he wasn't the hunted, the ex-assassin, the man with blood on his ledger and steel in his spine.

He was just... Bucky.

The man who held you too tightly when he came back from missions. Who whispered apologies in your ear even when you told him there was nothing to forgive. Who kissed you like he didn't believe he'd survive the next day, but hoped to god he would if only to see you again.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and looked back down at the screen. The decrypted files glared up at you—line after line of names, dates, bodies that had disappeared under the guise of "oversight." The real Thunderbolt missions. The dirty ones.

It was all here. The evidence. The key to dismantling Valentina's operation, to tearing her from the inside out.

And it was enough to destroy you, too.

Because if you released this... if you went forward with the plan you'd mapped out in secret...

You'd have to disappear.

For good.

You leaned forward, hands trembling as you typed into the field labeled FINAL TRANSMISSION. Just eight words. Simple. Final. True.

"Trust me. I love you. I'm doing this to save you."

You stared at them for a long moment, blinking through the burn in your eyes.

Your breath hitched.

You didn't sob. You couldn't afford to. But tears slipped down anyway—uninvited, unstoppable.

You pressed your fingers against your mouth, trying not to make a sound.

I'm breaking your heart.

Just like you're breaking mine.

Because even though he'd never asked you to stay—he needed you to. And even though you'd never asked him to choose—you knew he would, every time.

You couldn't let him choose you again.

Not if it meant he died for it.

Not if it meant losing the only part of him that had survived everything he'd done: his freedom.

You closed the laptop gently, like you were tucking away a secret.

Then you stood and moved silently through the room—pulling on your coat, your boots, the small flash drive tucked into your inner pocket like a ticking bomb only you were willing to carry.

You paused by the bedroom door. He was still asleep, arm thrown over the edge of the mattress, one scarred hand relaxed and open.

You wanted to kiss him goodbye.

You almost did.

But you knew if you touched him, you wouldn't leave.

So you turned away.

And walked into the storm.

Alone.

—

By the time Bucky returned, the safehouse was silent.

Too silent.

He stepped through the door with the usual tension in his spine, scanning the perimeter like muscle memory. He was holding a paper bag, the edges soaked from the drizzle outside, full of whatever food and parts he could barter for.

He called out your name once.

Twice.

No answer.

The chill didn't hit him all at once. It sank in slowly—like frost creeping through cracks in concrete.

The cot was cold. The coat you always wore was gone. The encrypted files on the laptop were missing from the terminal. No duffel bag. No coffee cup still warm.

No note.

No whisper of goodbye.

Just the soft hum of static from the power source under the table, and the echo of his own breath.

He dropped the bag on the floor without realizing it, heart pounding as he checked every corner, every blind spot, as if you were simply hiding—playing a cruel game of ghost.

But when he finally looked at the laptop, his knees almost buckled.

The screen glowed dimly in the dark, its flickering blue light illuminating just one message:

"Trust me. I love you. I'm doing this to save you."

His hand hovered over the keyboard, shaking.

He read it again.

And again.

As if repetition would change the words. As if it would summon you back into the room.

His voice cracked, low and broken as he whispered:

"I'll find you. No matter what."

Then silence swallowed him whole.

—

Days bled into weeks.

Bucky Barnes became a ghost.

Not to the public—he still wore the mask when he had to. Still fought, still hunted the people who deserved it. But something in him had shifted.

A man who had already lost too much had now lost something he wasn't sure he could survive without: hope.

He followed every lead. Burned through safehouses and whispers on the dark net. Shook down old contacts, traded favors, watched security footage in alley basements until his vision blurred.

Sometimes, he'd find a trace—a name that resembled yours, a CCTV snapshot with your frame blurred in motion, a rumor from a street vendor in Macau or Istanbul.

Always a step behind.

Always too late.

But he never stopped looking.

And you?

You saw him.

Once in a while.

On screens in underground cafes. On news clips, grainy and edited by a government still trying to decide if he was a hero or a weapon.

But the public had chosen. They called him a savior.

The new face of something clean.

Something good.

The soldier who turned his back on war.

You watched it all from the shadows, wearing new names, living half-lives, pretending you didn't reach out toward the screen when his face appeared.

You'd see him holding the shield, jaw set with conviction, surrounded by people who believed in him.

You were proud of him. Prouder than he'd ever know.

Because you had disappeared to protect that version of him—the version who could live without looking over his shoulder for you.

And still, some nights, when the city lights faded and the silence pressed in, you whispered into the dark:

"I love you. I'm still here."

Because love like yours—

Like his—

Doesn't end in silence.

It waits. It fights. It burns.

—

Five years.

That's how long it had been since you vanished from the world that nearly devoured you whole.

No more encrypted bunkers. No more cold war in alleyways. No more late nights drenched in adrenaline, your skin sticky with sweat and someone else's blood while you whispered secrets between broken kisses and bandaged wounds.

Just quiet now.

A tiny walk-up apartment above a sleepy coffee shop in the older part of Busan. Your name wasn't your own anymore. Your passport said you were someone else entirely—someone with no history, no affiliations, no war trailing behind her like smoke.

The streets here didn't know your face. And that was the point.

You worked in a bookstore tucked between a bar and a noodle house. You smiled politely at regulars. You made tea for your landlady, a sweet, wrinkled woman with a cane and no curiosity. She never asked about the scars on your arms, or the nights you cried out in your sleep, or why you flinched when the news played anything with military footage.

She simply brought you fresh gimbap and let you be.

You liked her for that.

Most days, you could almost pretend the life before had never happened.

Almost.

But there were still the souvenirs of your truth.

A flash drive, hidden under the floorboards, wrapped in cloth and memories. Containing what was left of the report—the one that had shattered Valentina's empire, splintered the Thunderbolts from within.

A scar, deep and pale near your right hip, the kind you earned in missions that never made the news. A memory sealed under skin.

And then... there was him.

You still kept Bucky Barnes.

Not physically, not in any dangerous, tangible way. But in the quiet moments. In the way you'd sometimes find yourself reaching for the space beside you in bed. In the dreams that bled into morning, full of metal hands and the feel of his breath at your throat.

In every ache that lived in your chest like something vital had been carved out and never stitched back in.

You missed him.

Every day.

Every damn day.

But you'd done what you came to do.

You'd saved him.

The day you leaked the report, you knew the target would shift. You knew Valentina would scramble, burn everything, dig for the mole—and never find you.

Because you were the ghost they made you into.

And the fallout had been beautiful.

Her power collapsed like rotten scaffolding.

Her secrets spilled into public record like bile.Thunderbolts defected. Whistleblowers surfaced. Nations pointed fingers. The task force was dissolved, rebranded, repurposed—until it was nothing but a cautionary tale in a high school civics class.

And Bucky?

He hadn't gone down with her.

He didn't just survive—he rose.

You watched from your laptop, your TV, your phone—streaming news clips and low-res bootlegs of international broadcasts.

He stood in front of the United Nations in a suit that didn't fit quite right, flanked by heroes, testifying on the misuse of post-blip military units.

He led raids against black ops ghost cells Valentina had left behind.

He rebuilt what she tried to turn him into.

He didn't rejoin the Thunderbolts.

He helped end them.

And then—against every odd stacked against him—he helped build something new.

They called it The New Avengers.

And for once, the name didn't feel like a gimmick.

He stood beside Yelena Belova, Red Guardian, Ghost, and U.S. Agent on magazine covers. Streaming ads showed him training recruits, smiling in glimpses that looked so genuine you couldn't believe they were real.

He was still Bucky.

But different.

Lighter.

There were toys now. T-shirts. A breakfast cereal with his face on the box, silver arm glinting under the words:

"THE SOLDIER WHO CHOSE PEACE."

It made you laugh the first time you saw it. A full, broken laugh that slid into a sob halfway through.

Because you were proud of him.

God, you were so proud.

Proud of what he'd become.

And proud that you had helped him get there—even if he'd never know how much it cost you.

You smiled every time you saw him on a screen, in a magazine, on a billboard in the subway.

But the smile never quite reached your eyes.

Because your chest still ached in that hollow place where he used to be.

You missed him like a limb.

And even though you knew leaving had been the right thing—

You never stopped aching.

You never stopped hoping.

—

That morning, the sun was kind.

Warm light poured gently through the buildings, softening the edges of the crowded Busan street market as it stirred to life. Vendors opened metal shutters, laid out rows of fruit and grilled fish, chattered with familiar customers. You knew most of them by name now. You blended here.

You liked the noise, the rhythm. It helped you forget you were still hiding.

The little corner shop on the end of the street was one of your quiet favorites. The shelves were cramped and overstocked, but the owner always gave you a nod and a discount, and never commented when you wandered in wearing dark glasses and a scarf, even in the heat.

Today, you moved through the aisles absentmindedly, a list in your pocket you hadn't bothered to look at. You stopped by habit in front of the cereal boxes.

Bright colors, mascots, sugar in every direction. But your hand didn't reach for the rabbit or the tiger.

Your fingers brushed a familiar shade of navy blue.

A bright box with bold lettering. A smirking man in a silver arm and tactical gear.

Bucky.

Grinning in his uniform. Holding Steve's shield—his shield now.

The "Avengers Breakfast Fuel" tagline curved above his image, ridiculous in a way that made your throat tighten.

He looked proud. At peace. The kind of peace you never thought he'd find.

God, you missed him.

Your fingers lingered on the box. You smiled to yourself—small, private, aching. One of those moments you let yourself have every once in a while.

And then—

A hand reached past your shoulder.

Long fingers closed around the box and plucked it from the shelf, swift and quiet.

You blinked, startled, turning halfway in a reflex that had never fully left you.

And then you froze.

Your breath stopped. Your body forgot how to move.

Because standing there—box in hand, in a plain black coat, dark cap pulled low—was him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Older now. Just a little. There was gray at his temples, a deeper crease between his brows, the weight of the years etched into the corners of his eyes.

Eyes that had seen too much.

Eyes that were locked on yours like you were the first good thing he'd seen in a long time.

Neither of you moved.

The world went quiet, as if the city held its breath.

You couldn't speak. Couldn't blink. Could barely stand.

He looked at you like he'd spent every day imagining this exact moment—and still couldn't believe it was real.

He held the cereal box between you, his voice low, a touch hoarse:

"Still eating junk, huh?"

That broke the silence.

You laughed. Or tried to. It came out as a choked, shaky sound, half a sob, half a memory.

Your throat tightened, and your lips trembled as you whispered:

"You found me."

His nod was slow. Deliberate. His eyes never left your face.

"Took me long enough."

The cereal box fell to the floor between you, forgotten.

Then he stepped forward.

You didn't move.

Couldn't.

Your chest ached with something sharp and unbearable as he reached up—gentle, cautious—and touched your face.

His palm was warm against your cheek, the rough pads of his fingers skimming your jaw like he wasn't sure you were real.

You leaned into it before you could stop yourself.

Bucky's breath hitched.

"I thought you were dead."

"I almost was," you whispered. "But I couldn't let them take you down with me."

His jaw clenched. His hand slid behind your neck. You saw it in his eyes—the grief, the fury, the overwhelming relief.

He pulled you in.

And for the first time in five years, you felt like you could breathe again.

The street noise returned like a slow wave behind you—vendors shouting, scooters zipping past, a dog barking somewhere across the block.

But in that small corner of the cereal aisle, time stopped again.

Because you were here.

Together.

Still alive.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered.

[adddddiiii]

Crimson Eclipse

4. Beneath The Mask

The Red Hood's apartment wasn't as bare as you expected. It was sparse, sure. Functional, practical, but there were signs of a life hidden beneath the cold efficiency. A coffee mug sat abandoned on the counter, with a logo fading from use. A heavy leather jacket hung over the back of a chair. A bookshelf in the corner held more dust than books, but the ones there weren't random — you could tell they were read. Their spines were cracked and their pages were worn at the edges. Classics and philosophy. Not exactly light reading, but they told a story.

This wasn’t just a vigilante's war bunker. It was a place where they existed in the quiet moments between fights.

And for some reason, that unsettled you more than an empty space would have.

You leaned against the wall with your arms crossed, tension thrumming in your veins. Red Hood sat at his desk, back turned to you. His fingers tapped the keyboard as he scanned through encrypted files and surveillance feeds. The silence between you stretched taut, almost unbearable.

"I need answers," you said, breaking the quiet. Your voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. "Why is this drive so important to you? Why are they so adamant on hunting me when I haven't even done anything with what I found?"

He didn’t turn around. "I told you all you need to know: you stole something from them and now they want to kill you."

"Yeah, I got that part," you snapped. "But you said you've been after Serpentis for months. Batman has moved on, Superman has moved on. They're practically impossible to find. But you're still searching. Why?"

There was a beat of silence before he finally responded, his voice low. "Because they took something from me. Someone."

His words hung heavy in the air. You wanted to press further, but something about his tone stopped you. Instead, you focused on the drive burning a hole in your pocket.

"I wasn’t even supposed to keep it," you admitted, voice quieter now. "I was hired to steal it, but the buyer never showed. I knew it was big, but... I didn’t know it would put a target on my back."

He finally turned to face you, and for a moment, you swore you caught a glimpse of something unexpected — a lock of long, dark hair peeking out from beneath his mask, swaying as he moved. It was barely a flicker, but it made your breath catch. It was so at odds with the brutal, armored figure in front of you.

You swallowed hard, pushing the thought aside.

"So, what now?" you asked. "I just stay here?"

"No." His shoulders tensed. "We'll need to move soon. They must be getting closer."

Almost on cue, a nearby monitor flashed red. Your eyes darted to the screen and your heart was pounding. Surveillance footage showed figures moving through the alley behind the building. Men in dark tactical gear, sweeping the area with precision.

"Crap," you muttered.

"They must have tracked your signal when you hacked their server last night," Red Hood muttered, already moving to grab his weapons. "We don’t have much time."

"Where are we going?" you asked, grabbing your bag.

"A friend’s place," he replied curtly.

"A friend?" you echoed. "You have friends?"

"Funny," he shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You don’t need to introductions right now. Just trust me."

You followed him out into the cold night, tension coiling in your chest. Behind you, the faint sound of boots on concrete grew louder. They were closing in.

——————————————————————

By the time you reached the building Red Hood led you to, your lungs burned, and your heart was a hammer in your chest. It wasn’t what you expected. Not some hidden bunker, not another grimy safe house.

It was a penthouse.

A ridiculously expensive one. The kind of place someone lived when they had more money than sense.

You barely had time to process it before Red Hood was banging on the door. "Open up," he murmured. There was no response.

You could almost picture the way his jaw must have ticked in frustration under the helmet. "I swear to-"

The door swung open before he could finish, revealing a man who looked like he had just rolled out of bed. White hair, loose silk pajama pants, and sunglasses.

You blinked.

He grinned.

"Suguru! You never call, you never visit. Starting to think you don't love me anymore."

You turned to Red Hood slowly. "This is your friend?"

He sighed. "Unfortunately. Meet Satoru Gojo."

Satoru tilted his head towards you. "Who's this?"

"Trouble," Red Hood said. He pushed past the white-haired man. "We need to lay low."

"Oh, so now you show up when you need something." Gojo leaned lazily against the doorway, smirking as you awkwardly followed Red Hood inside. "You’re lucky I consider you my best friend, Suguru."

You paused. Suguru.

His name!

You glanced at Red Hood, but he didn’t react. Just kept walking like nothing had happened.

Like you hadn’t just learned something you weren’t supposed to.

< prev | next >

Taglist: @uncalicous @a-lil-bit-nuts @celloccino @treeteaofversailles @promnightbinbaby @theroyalmanatee @rowannin @bungunz

[aspen78]

Chapter 6: How it all Byrnes

<<prev chp>>

--

Government buildings rarely whispered, but this one? The Pentagon? This floor of the Pentagon? 

It stopped whispering long ago. It held its breath.

Sound didn’t just fade here--it was put on mute.  

This was the kind of silence you didn’t break with a cough. The kind you didn’t fill with footsteps unless you knew where you were going. 

Everything was all steel walls and buried secrets. No windows. No clocks. Time moved differently here--like it could be redacted just like anything else.

Air down here buzzed with something more than fluorescent lighting--something buried beneath miles of earth and silence. Most people didn’t know this wing existed. Most who did pretended it didn’t.

And, for what goes on down here. It was probably for the best.

(Y/n)--Vireo, whatever you want to call her, all of her--had a bad habit of showing up in these sort of places. Places she technically wasn't cleared for.

Another set of mechanized doors swished open for the girl as she dropped the “borrowed” key card and the silicone swatch of an authorized fingerprint back into the pocket of her blazer. Even through leathered loafers, her steps plodded through the maze of halls inaudibly.

She moved through the system like a courier. Quick. Unimportant. Boring. Belonging.

Security cameras tracked her, but what were they going to do with footage of a person who so very much looked like another agent? 

Black blazer? Check.

Pressed button up? You know it.

Glasses? Exactly the kind you’d never notice.

Badge? Got it… stolen, but still got it.

Finger ready to be scanned? The wonders of 3D printing are truly amazing.

People didn’t question confidence in this place. They questioned mistakes. Glitches. Broken lines of protocol. They looked for the hacker in the hoodie, the grunt with the sweaty hands. No one looked twice at an unmemorable face.

(Y/n) passed another checkpoint like it was just a suggestion. She didn’t smirk. But she wanted to.

Cecil was going to be pissed.

But she was already pissed.

Her taking their defense system for a joyride was the start of making things even. 

A few turns later, and she was standing in front of a vault-grade door marked with no nameplate.

It slid open before she could even attempt to rewire it.

“Come in, Byrnes.”

She sighed. “You’re no fun anymore.”

Cecil’s office was less of a room and more of a cold war command center dressed like a broom closet. Low lights. One-way mirrors. A single screen flickering static-blue across his desk. And the man himself, standing behind it like he hadn’t moved in hours.

(Y/n) stepped in, slow, deliberate. She didn’t take off the glasses. Didn’t drop the mask--not the real one. 

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”

She remained standing.

Cecil didn’t push it. He didn’t need to. 

“You’re not subtle,” he said, adjusting a file on his desk that wasn’t really a file. Just a thin stack of hollow pages, light-reactive and probably encrypted six different ways.

“I was,” she said flatly. “You’re just not normal.”

“You broke in through seven layers of biometric security and knocked one of my guys out.”

(Y/n) folded her arms. “You say that like it’s impressive.”

“It is,” Cecil admitted. “Still doesn’t mean I like it.”

She shrugged before reaching into her pocket. “You’re still alive after your late-night talk.”

Her eyes narrowed to hone in on the faint bruising around his neck. “I take it that it went well.”

He just rubbed his jaw with a sigh like he hadn’t slept. “Define well.”

“You’re breathing.”

“Barely.” He glanced up from the terminal embedded in his desk. “Nolan doesn’t like being questioned. And he's on edge right now.”

Her fingers grazed a small flash drive, letting her thumb run across the smooth surface of it. Thinking. Debating.

To her credit, this was quite a decision to make. It was essentially synonymous to hovering over the button that would nuke the world.

She rolled the flash drive between her fingers once, then twice more, like it might decide for her.

Then she set it down on the edge of his desk. Soft. Final.

It made no sound. But the weight was there.

He looked at it, eyes glaring. He didn’t reach for it yet.

“And what’s on this that I haven’t already seen?”

“Proof,” she murmured, cautious of how loud she spoke this into existence.

Cecil slowly picked up the drive, turning it between his fingers. “Of what?”

(Y/n) met his gaze, somewhat amused, but mostly annoyed. “How long are we going to play 20 questions, Stedman?”

Cecil didn’t answer right away.

He stared at her, like he was searching for the catch hidden in the words she hadn’t said yet. Then he looked at the drive again, almost like it might burn a hole through his hand.

Finally, he sighed and slotted it into the reader embedded in his desk.

The lights dimmed slightly as the screen lit up--not a clean data stream, but a patchwork of spliced footage, metadata, satellite timestamps, and audio pulled from black box files that were never supposed to exist.

And there he was.

Nolan Grayson. Omni-Man.

Not just standing. Not just moving.

Killing.

The Guardians.

No interference. No defense. No unknown third party.

There was only him. And them. And red.

The footage wasn’t long. It didn’t need to be. You didn’t need ten minutes of betrayal to know it happened. You only needed one frame.

As the room came back to a still quiet, both of them sighed.

“Why bring it to me now?”

She shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. “Because I’ve been called a lot of things, but not suicidal.”

Cecil allowed himself a bitter smirk. “Yet you broke into my base to hand me the trigger we’d have to use on the most powerful man on Earth.”

His eyes lingered on the screen for a long time, even after it darkened again. His fingertips tapped the desk--once, twice--then went still.

“I already had Darkblood sniffing around,” he said after a long beat. “He’s been circling the edges of this. Hasn’t found this yet, though. But he’s still… pushing too close.”

(Y/n) watched his face scrunch up in annoyed frustration. “You don’t like him?”

“I don’t trust him,” Cecil corrected. “But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

“He isn’t,” she confirmed, her eyebrow raised. “It’s plugged into your computer now. It’s not a theory anymore, Stedman. It’s not ‘he’s off.’ It’s not ‘he’s hiding something.’ It’s him. In that room. I can ID the timestamp, the body language. I watched him crack Red Rush’s skull on repeat just to be sure I wasn’t projecting.”

It was a long second of just eye contact. Scrutinizing. Uncomfortable. Eye contact.

“You realize what happens if we move too soon, right? No backup plan. No replacement. No safety net. If we spook him-”

“We all die.” She said it like she was stating a grocery item. “I know.”

“And if we wait too long-”

“We still all die.”

Cecil nodded grimly. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

“I don’t think glad is the right word,” (Y/n) scoffed at that. “And I didn’t bring this to you for you to give me orders on what to do and what not to do.” 

“What are you doing in preparation for this.”

Her mouth pressed thin when he didn’t have a response. “You’re waiting for the perfect checkmate while Omni-Man is already moving pawns,” she said, voice dropping lower. “You think he’ll slip. That you’ll come up with a plan so airtight, you can tip the king with a smile on your face.”

“In an ideal world, that would be the plan. But I think we both know ideal is so far from reality now.” She leaned closer across the desk--not threatening, but unwavering. “Stop waiting for ideal. Or you’re gonna be the director who let the world burn while he waited for it.”

“I know,” he finally said, quiet. Not reluctant. Just weighed. “I know.”

He sat back in his chair like it aged him. The static-blue monitor dimmed. The flash drive still blinked at the base of the desk like a tiny red eye.

She could see it behind his tired eyes. The rotations of a dozen emergency scenarios. The unspoken calculations about damage, fallout, and what--if anything--could stop Omni-Man.

(Y/n) watched him. Not like an ally. Not like an enemy. Like someone who refused to be either.

“Whatever you’re thinking? It won’t be enough,” she sighed. Deeply. “There isn’t going to be one perfect play. We’re going to need play after play. Hit after hit.”

“We can’t be stupid enough to delusionize a win. We’re here to buy time.” Running a tense hand through her hair, she tugged on the very ends of it like they could anchor her, stressed. Distraught. Scared. “For him.”

Cecil watched her for a moment, then looked past her. Maybe at the wall. Maybe through it. Then, he closed his eyes. “You saw the file.”

“I saw the file.”

He tried justifying himself, “Mark is the only one who stands a chance-” 

“I know, Stedman,” (y/n) cut in.

Her voice didn’t spike. It dropped. Soft. Dangerous. Like she was tired of repeating herself but still doing it anyway--because no one else would.

“I know what he is. I know what he could become. I know what he might have to become.” 

For the first time since she stepped down here, she let go of her facade. 

The edge in her voice dulled, not from weakness but from wear. The glint in her eyes faded, no longer pretending she was only a third party. The rigidity of her posture loosened under the weight of sentiment. A quiet kind of resignation.

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

The moment didn’t last. It never did.

(Y/n) ran a hand down her face, reeling in whatever was left unsaid, before her spine reset into something colder--straighter. She gave one last glance to the blinking drive.

“You’re the director,” she muttered, already prepping to leave. “Direct.”

His mouth twitched, barely. An unrestrained movement breaking through. “Watch it.”

Her brow arched, just slightly. “Or what? You’ll assign me more teenagers to babysit?”

Cecil gave her a dry, unenthused look. “You’re exhausting.”

“So are you. What’s new?” She rolled her eyes with a small smirk. 

She finally took a step back, her stance loosening by degrees. “I’m thinking with you. But y’know, you get paid for this.”

His eyes bored into her, and he deadpanned--yet again, “Exhausting.”

Her smirk grew enough. And, the door behind her hissed open again for her to turn to leave.

“But Byrnes?” his voice hooked in the air, catching her right before she stepped out of the frame.

She paused. 

“If something happens to you before we act--”

“Don’t pretend you’ll avenge me,” she cut in, calm but cold. “You’re not that sentimental.”

Cecil didn’t deny it. Just tapped the desk once more. “Fine. Then try not to die. I’m short on people who actually get it.”

(Y/n) gave no reply. Only a faint lilt of a chuckle as she disappeared into the corridor.

Still the same steel-and-silence tomb they’d always been, but she now felt heavier walking through them this time. Like the walls had swallowed her voice whole. Like the decision she’d just made had soaked into the soles of her shoes.

She passed another security junction, nodded at a guard who didn’t look twice, and slipped into a nondescript elevator bound for the upper floors.

She adjusted the blazer again. Straightened her cuffs. She didn’t need to, but it helped. Rituals did. Something to focus on besides the knowledge she’d just handed the end of the world to a man with a scar and a death wish. 

The Pentagon aboveground was louder--barely--but even this high up, the silence dragged behind her like a shadow.

The elevator doors dinged open.

She stepped out into a sterile hallway--bright, bland, somewhere between reception and regulation. Not her style. Too clean. Too conscious of itself.

And then she turned a corner--and collided with someone.

Hard enough that the wind almost knocked out of her. Not from the impact. From the recognition.

“Whoa--sorry, I didn’t see-” A voice halted mid-apology.

His hands had automatically caught her shoulders. Gentle. Familiar.

His fingers froze.

Her eyes snapped up. Met his.

Brown. Wide. Familiar.

Mark Grayson.

Oh, great. 

Impeccable timing as always. Just what she needed after pawning off a flash drive labeled "End of World, Probably."

She didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Not at first.

Because she knew he was already squinting.

And not in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way. The I-know-you’ve-kicked-someone’s-ass-in-front-of-me-before kind of squint.

The blazer. The glasses. The hair. She still looked like someone he should walk past in a hallway. But her eyes?

He’d seen them behind a visor. Under smoke. Just before the sword moved. 

And he watched them move over him. The way she looked at him made him nervous, self-conscious even. Made him automatically look down at his suit for any oddly placed tears. Made him fix his windassaulted hair. Made him grip his mask even tighter. Made him sweat.

He may not be squinting in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way, but he sure was fidgeting in the normal awkward-teenage-boy way. 

Meanwhile, she was facing the quiet internal siren in her head screaming at her to switch from contain nuclear secrets mode to oh no, social interaction mode.

“Uh…” Mark blinked. “Hi?”

(Y/n) adjusted her glasses--not because they’d slipped, but because she needed a second. Maybe two. Maybe a decade.

“…Hello,” she said, cool and even. Polite. The way school acquaintances say it when you spot them in public.

He squinted again.“Wait a second...”

“Nope,” she said immediately, backing out of his hold. “Wrong person. Very flattering though.”

He frowned. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You were about to.”

“Was I?”

“You always are.”

 “Okay, that sounds like something someone who knows me would say,” he spluttered with a half-hazardly thrown finger gun, confident he was fully caught up with the scene now. 

(Y/n) groaned under her breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. And her stomach did a slow, sarcastic spin. Of course. Of course.

This was not on the agenda. Not after footage. Not after war prep. Not after giving Cecil the flash drive of doom and telling him to think faster.

And now she was arguing with a half-sweaty teenage hero in the middle of a hallway that probably had thirty surveillance cameras.

Whiplash.

Absolute whiplash.

“Your eyes give you away,” Mark said, like that settled it. And settled himself against the wall, arms crossed and teeth smiling.

“That’s creepy,” she deadpanned, her face pinched to show her distaste--amused distaste, but still distaste. 

“Is it?” he asked, smile widening like he thought he was winning something. “Because I think it’s poetic. Like--Shakespeare-level poetic. Or at least early Poe.”

She let a long sigh through her nose. “Grayson.”

He grinned. “Wow, last name. I must really be getting to you.”

(Y/n) scrunched those eyes he was so very familiar with, apparently.

“C’mon,” he said, taking a small step closer, tilting his head like he was trying to line up her current form with the battle-ready image in his memory. “You think a pair of glasses and a blazer are gonna throw me off?”

“They usually do,” she muttered. “That’s half the point.”

“Well, they don’t. I’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re saying it like you’re in a cheesy romcom.”

He chuckled. Real. Stupid. Warm. His smile was crooked now. Warm. And it hit her in a way it absolutely shouldn’t have. Not right now. Not when she still felt the blood pumping cold from her last conversation.

(Y/n) stood there a beat longer than she meant to. Her shoulders were still squared like they hadn’t realized the war room was gone. Her mind was still back on the screen. The footage. The future.

But Mark? Mark was just there. Waiting. No knives. No suspicion. Just the same awkward warmth that had somehow become familiar.

She opened her mouth. The beginnings of a sentence tried to leave her, but then stopped. It swerved into a breath, and she pressed her lips together. Then, she tried again. 

“I’m going now.”

She took a step back. He took one forward.

(Y/n) narrowed her eyes. 

He saw it, because of course he did. 

“I’m not- I’m not following you,” Mark spluttered, unconvincingly, still with a smile. “I’m just… walking the same direction at the same time. Like a coincidence. Or fate.”

She quickened her pace slightly, but he matched her again, too persistent for someone who was just “walking the same government hallway.”

(Y/n) huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face as her shoes mutely hit the sterile tile. “You’re unbearable.”

Mark didn’t miss a beat. “You say that like it’s a new development.”

“It’s not.”

“Well, then, at least I’m consistent.” He grinned at her like that was a badge of honor.

She finally cracked--air that almost became a laugh escaped her nose. And she hated how easy it was. How damn fast he melted the steel she hadn’t even unclenched since the sublevels. The shift in her tone, her spine, her pulse--it was too fast. Too much. Whiplash.

She immediately covered it with a cough. And, Mark pretended not to notice, but his teeth shone even brighter than the white lights.

“You are the only person who talks to me like this,” she tried to scoff.

Mark grinned like that was the entire point.

“Yeah, well--maybe I’m just the only one who knows how,” he said, easy, shrugging one shoulder.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible, but she didn’t stop walking. Didn't tell him to leave. Didn't tell him not to follow, either.

They walked in silence for a few steps. Or rather, they moved in parallel--(Y/n) all control and solitary, Mark more of a friendly orbit, like a moon too interested in a planet that very clearly did not want to be the center of anything right now.

It should’ve been irritating.

It was irritating.

But it also wasn’t.

Because he wasn’t asking. He wasn’t pressing. He wasn’t even demanding she confirm who she was, despite the fact he clearly knew. He just walked with her, making the atmosphere lighter whether she wanted it or not.

…She hated him a little for that.

Not real hate. Not the kind that sticks. The kind that flares when someone makes it too easy to breathe after you’ve nearly drowned.

“Do you always do this?” she asked after a moment, gaze forward, voice low.

He tilted his head. “Do what?”

“This,” she motioned vaguely with a hand. “Miraculously time it so you catch me at my worst moments and use that to try to be my friend.”

Mark smiled. Not like before. Just simple. Like the kind of smile you pull on when you don’t know how to respond. 

“...Aren’t we friends?”

She stopped walking.

Not with some dramatic skid or gasp or swing of the arms--but like a machine whose program had hit a wall. Like the word itself broke a cog inside her head. Friends.

Her jaw didn’t drop. Her breath didn’t catch.

She just paused.

Long enough that Mark realized he’d said something heavier than it sounded.

He blinked. “I mean--I thought we were. Or at least heading that way? I mean, I hoped-” He was doing that thing again. Rambling. Filling the air. Hands trying to catch his own words as they tripped over each other. “It’s not like I have a quota or anything, I just--well, you’re you, and I like being around-”

“Mark.”

She said it like a pressure valve.

He shut up.

The hallway, the lights, the sterile silence--all of it blurred for a second.

She wasn’t looking at him.

Her posture was still straight, still calculated. But something in her face--something in the space just beneath the skin--looked tired.

Not from walking. Not from running.

From carrying.

“…Aren’t we friends?” he asked again, a little more carefully this time. A little less certain.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away.

She stared down the hallway instead. Like she might find the right words hidden between fluorescent hums and security cameras.

Then she said, “You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to,” he said, quiet.

That got a glimpse of something behind her eyes. Not warmth. Not cold. Something unfinished.

She looked at him fully now, and it hit harder than it should have--how much was behind that expression. Grief. Steel. Hesitation. All fighting for the same square inch of space.

“You’re not supposed to,” she said.

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

She gave a breath of something like a laugh, but it didn’t reach very far. “Because if you do, it gets harder.”

“For who?”

“For me.”

That landed with more weight than either of them expected.

Mark’s mouth opened--some clumsy kindness ready to leap out--but her look stopped it before it formed.

She stepped back once. Not far. Just enough to reset the space between them.

“You’re… good,” she said. Like it hurt to admit. “And I’m trying to keep you that way.”

Mark swallowed. “…You don’t have to protect me.”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I do.”

She didn’t say it like a martyr.

She didn’t say it like someone brave.

She said it like it cost her something.

It hung there.

Simple. Unadorned. Heavy in a way that made the silence around it feel thinner, stretched like glass.

Maybe it was in the way she avoided looking at him. Or maybe it was in the way bits of guilt and sadness peeked out.

But he understood something now--something he hadn’t put words to until this second.

She wasn’t pushing him away because she didn’t care.

She was doing it because she did.

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking to her hands, her shoulders, her jaw--every part of her holding still like movement would make everything spill out.

“You always do that,” he sighed, shaking his head the way you do in every frustrating argument. 

It took a beat of hesitation for (Y/n) meet his prying stare. “Do what?”

“That thing where you decide everything for everyone. Like if you hold the weight long enough, the rest of us get to keep pretending this is… normal.”

She flinched. Barely, but enough. 

He saw it.

And, she had to look away for her next words. 

“Well, that's sort of the point.”

Mark’s brow creased. 

“If I hold it,” she mumbled, steadily. Almost eerily so. With that hollow undertone of someone reciting something implanted deep within them. “Then maybe you don’t have to. Maybe you still get make your stupid jokes. Still worry about that test you forgot about. Still flail at every attempt to impress the girl. Still wake up and want something.”

He couldn’t respond to that. Not right away.

Not because he didn’t have something to say--god, he had too much to say. Too many arguments, too many reasons she was wrong, or brave, or unfair to herself. 

But none of it would’ve mattered. None of it would’ve reached her the way he wanted it to.

Because she wasn’t asking for comfort.

She was explaining her logic.

And that’s what bothered him the most.

“…You think that’s what I want?” he asked finally, his voice lower now. “To be protected from the world like I’m still some kid who doesn’t get what’s coming?”

“No,” she stated, softly. “I think it’s what you deserve.”

That undid something in him.

Because there it was. Not pity. Not distance. Just… belief. In him, more than she let herself believe in anything else.

He stepped forward--not to grab her, not to reach, but to narrow the space again. Make it real.

“I don’t want to deserve normal if it means you don’t get to have it too,” he said.

Her voice came out barely above a whisper now, but it was still the loudest thing to him. “That’s not how this works.”

She looked at him then, and it almost ruined him.

Because it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t armored.

It was sad.

Not the kind of sadness that breaks down crying--but the kind that’s lived in someone’s bones so long, it’s just part of how they move now.

“You think I don’t want it?” she asked, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “You think I don’t lie awake wishing for something as simple as a bad grade or an awkward party or a real conversation that doesn’t come with collateral damage?”

She didn’t wait for him to answer. He didn’t try to.

“I want normal more than anything,” she said, voice flat--not because she didn’t feel it, but because she felt it too much. “I don’t even get to pretend to have it as ‘me.’ I don’t go to school anymore. I head a company. I argue with men twice my age. I date to keep the tabloids distracted. I flirt when I’m supposed to, smile when it’ll make a better headline, and leave before anyone can ask a real question.” 

Finally, (y/n) met his eyes. Tired meeting pity. 

“And everyone keeps telling me I’m impressive. That I’m composed. That I’m handling it.” She paused, her jaw clenching. 

“I’m already fighting to keep two lives.” She looked away again. “I can’t handle adding a normal one.”

Mark didn’t back off. No, he stepped closer. Grazed his hand on her shoulder enough to get her attention again.

“Maybe…” he started, not sure and full of uncertainty, but earnest. “Maybe you don’t need another life.”

She didn’t move, but something in her eyes flickered. Caution. Skepticism. Bracing for some hollow reassurance.

“You can take--you’re allowed to take a moment for you. Just five minutes? Where none of that matters. Not the headlines, missions, or- or anything,” he smiled, asking for any form of consideration. “The world won’t fall apart that quickly, right?”

She stared at him like he’d just spoken in a language she hadn’t heard in years.

Five minutes?

Her throat tightened around the idea. Not because it was absurd.

But because it was dangerous.

Because it sounded a little too much like hope.

(Y/n) didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped--not out of guilt, not even hesitation, but calculation. Like she was weighing the cost of softness in a life that had no room for it.

He wasn’t asking for forever. Wasn’t asking her to tear down everything she'd built just to let him in.

He was asking for five minutes.

And she didn’t know how to say yes to something so simple.

Because if she said yes now, what would happen the next time someone needed her?

What if five minutes turned into ten? Turned into a habit?

Turned into her wanting more?

And want was dangerous.

Want was weakness.

Want was how people got kill-

Shit. How did it get this bad? 

Even when someone is asking for five minutes where you don’t spiral into your responsibilities, you still were.

(Y/n) shut her eyes, letting a new breath cycle through her lungs. She let herself breathe. Just once. Fully. 

Then it came out as a curt huff. Just like the ones when you can’t believe how stupid you were.

Her (e/c) met his patient brown ones and a small, pressed smile was willed into existence. Not a smartass smirk. Or that photo perfect grin. 

Just her smile.

“...Well,” she said, her tone somewhat neutral. “You got time for a coffee? Or should we keep standing here making eye contact until one of us combusts?” 

Mark’s grin was immediate. Stupid. Earnest. Real. 

Very Mark.

(Y/n)’s was tentative. Uncertain. But cracked open enough to be real.

Possibly (Y/n).

--

*bonus scene (b/c i felt like writing it but the chapter officially ended above :] )

The overhead lights in the break room buzzed with the faint flicker of neglect. One of them stuttered every now and then like it was trying to start a conversation. But it doesn’t. Because even the lights know better.  

Everything was beige or gray. Tables were bolted down. Chairs were stackable. Coffee machines looked like they have been through war.

Still, there was something oddly comforting about it. 

Maybe it was because no one spared the brightly colored hero or the ‘intern’ a second glance. In the eyes of everyone else, they simply just got another two bodies in the bureaucratic purgatory. 

The pair stood at the far end of the self-serve station. Mark stared at the array of options like it was a minefield. (Y/n) watched him with a vague sense of amusement, still trying to unclench the knot between her shoulder blades.

“So…,” he gestured with both hands, eyes squinting at the row of burnt carafes. “Do I risk the ‘hazelnut’ or the mystery third pot?”

She picked up a paper cup and lightly snorted, “I think you’ll regret either.”

He nodded solemnly, watching as she picked up the safe pot in the middle. “Cool, cool. Regret it is.”

Grasping the third pot, Mark watched the dark liquid slosh around the glass and swallowed. He filled the cup halfway and immediately winced at the scent that hit him. 

“Holy shit,” he groaned, shoving the cup away from his face. “That smells like battery acid and depression.”

(Y/n) hid a shit-eating grin behind her own cup, sipping at the bland, watered-down black coffee to cover a laugh. “That’s actually the Pentagon house blend.” 

He gave her a sidelong look, lips quirking. “I forgot you could joke.”

She gave him a look over the rim of her cup. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m hilarious.”

Mark let out a soft snort.

“You’re just never in the crowd,” she finished, deadpan.

He chuckled as they walked their drinks over to a corner table tucked between a vending machine and a bulletin board littered with outdated training memos.

(Y/n) sat with her back to the corner. Old habit. Strategic. Eyes facing the room. One foot hooked around the leg of her chair like muscle memory never quite let her go.

Across from her, Mark plopped down ever so gracefully, staring at his cup like the coffee might melt through.

Still, he, of course, sipped it. Grimaced at it. And, immediately regretted it.

“I’m ninety percent sure this is paint thinner,” he muttered.

She finally let the smile fully break through. Not wide. Just... unguarded. “You’re the idiot who picked the mystery pot.”

He leaned on one elbow and pointed at her, mock-offended. “Excuse you, I was misled. You told me I’d regret both. That made this sound like a fun gamble.”

(Y/n) arched a disapproving brow at him, but the tilt of her lips gave her away. “So it’s my fault you chose to melt your tastebuds.”

Mark threw both hands up, still grinning. “Hey, I take responsibility for most of my terrible decisions. This one’s only, like… seventy percent mine.”

“Generous.”

“You’re welcome.”

She shook her head at his attempts of getting her to laugh, but she didn’t cover the tiny grin on her face.

Mark set the cursed cup down like it might explode if provoked further. He leaned back in the chair and glanced at her again, letting the grin settle into something softer. 

Seeing her in this light felt illegal for him. Not that she wasn’t allowed to be normal… adjacent. But with how she usually moved through the world, this felt new. And rare. And kind of good in its own weird, quiet way. 

She wasn’t armored up. Not fully. Not right now. No bird-mask. No shield. No mission reports or tactical evasions. Just her. Shoulders still a little tense. Foot still wrapped around the chair leg like she was expecting a breach. But her mouth? Still tilted in something that looked dangerously close to relaxed.

Mark tried not to stare. He did a bad job.

“So…” he started again, grasping at straws for a normalish topic. “No school?”

(Y/n) squinted at him as if asking “really,” but answered with a shrug anyway. “Not anymore.”

His eyes bore into her when she didn’t explain further, almost daring to pour his coffee in her watery one.

Snatching her cup from him, she gave a light glare. “I-um I graduated already.”

Mark blinked. “Wait. Really?”

(Y/n) took a swig from his coffee cup purely out of spite, grimaced, and set it back down like it personally offended her.

“Yeah,” she confirmed, voice recovering around the aftertaste. “Graduated.”

“High school?”

A quiet sip of bland chaser filled the air for a drawn out second. She gazed into the murky brown like it might offer a better way to say what came next. Because how do you admit to this without sounding pretentious? Or… like a government science experiment with a student ID.

“Um. Yeah, high school…” she started carefully. “And, uh. College.”

She could feel him trying to pry more out of her, but she didn’t look at him. Just sipped again.

“Wait.” Mark blinked like his brain was buffering. “College college?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re joking.”

She shook her head, the tiniest twitch of her mouth made a smirk. “I really wish I was.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again--this time with something that sounded like a confused half-laugh, like he wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned.

“Hold on,” he said, holding out a hand like he could physically stop the revelation from snowballing. “You’re how old again?”

She leaned back slowly in her chair, arms crossing loosely, smirk already spreading. 

“Older than you,” she said, annoyingly smug.

He squinted harder at her. 

And, as if it actually managed to pull a real answer from her, she gave in. “...by a few months.”

“You’ve got that much mysterious aura and you’re barely older than me?”

“Some of us peak early,” (y/n) shrugged, smug still intact. “Besides, it’s not hard when you don’t sleep and already know half the curriculum because you’ve been hacking into government databases since middle school.”

Mark blinked again. “...What.”

She handed his cup back with a faint, innocent shrug. “What?” 

He waited for her to crack and admit it was all a bit. She didn’t. 

She smiled. “Is this really what you want to spend five minutes of normal wrapping your head around?”

He made a face. “Okay, fine, but if this is you being normal, I want a refund.”

Clicking her tongue, she put her cup down and corrected him like she was reading the fine print of a contract, “Five minutes of normal. Not five minutes of ordinary.”

"Right, my bad," He huffed a laugh, sinking into his chair like the weight of the day finally remembered it existed. His hand toyed with the edge of the coffee cup, rotating it slowly. “Y’know, for what it’s worth… I don’t think normal’s all that great.”

(Y/n) tilted her head--subtle, questioning.

“I mean, sure, it’s nice,” Mark continued, eyes still on the cup. “Simple. Safe. But--I don’t know. It’s hard to pretend I still fit into that.”

He glanced at her again, searching. Not pushing--just looking. Like he wasn’t sure if what he’d said made him sound ungrateful or just honest.

She didn’t give him an immediate answer. But she didn’t look away, either.

So he took that as permission to keep going.

Mark cleared his throat, “I keep trying to pretend I still care about pop quizzes and gross cafeteria food. But then there’s this whole other life I’m living that I’m not supposed to tell anyone about.”

He paused, swirling the coffee again like it might say something back this time.

“And, then I finally asked out this girl I like,” he said, almost as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or wince. “You saw how that went.”

The girl across from him just sat with him. Listening without interruption. Letting him have the air, because he needed it too.

“It was great for the most part. She was great. But I kept having to lie to her, or just leave stuff out,” he admitted, words slowing like they were dragging more weight than expected. “I mean, it was the first date… it’s the first try at getting to know someone you like, and I was already leaving out half my life.”  

He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers tangling slightly in his hair. “I want to be normal for her. I really do. But trying to just made me understand what you meant at the bench.”

(Y/n)’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it softened--but not in a way most people would notice. Just enough for someone who knew how hard she worked to keep things out of reach.

“You said it,” he added, voice a notch softer. “That’s not how this works when your life becomes fragments.”

She looked down at her hands. One still circled the rim of her cup like it was muscle memory. The other flexed slightly, resting against the edge of the table, fingers twitching like they were fighting the urge to hold something real.

“…Yeah,” she said after a long moment and then she let go of an admission. “I tried to give you a little buffer from that realization.”

His eyes flicked up only to see she wasn’t meeting his but her cup’s.

“Stedman said you were taking a night off so I picked up the alert for you,” she half shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t think you should have to get electrocuted and broken up with in the same hour.” 

Mark let out a quiet breath, somewhere between gratitude and humor. “I was wondering how you showed up that fast. Don’t you live in New Jersey or something?”

“Stedman kidnapped me, so I was in the area,” she muttered with a grudge.   

He raised both eyebrows. “Like… literally kidnapped?”

She sipped her coffee again like it was a legally binding NDA. “The man has a teleporter at his disposal.”

“So… yeah. Literal kidnapping.”

“Technically, he asked first. I just didn’t realize ‘for what?’ was legally binding.”

He chuckled, a small, disbelieved one. 

“But, thanks…” he said quietly. “For taking the alert.”

(Y/n)’s eyes snapped to him for a half-second before she brushed the thanks off with a wave of her hand. “It wasn’t charity. You were busy. I wasn’t.”

“That’s the same tone Cecil uses when he wants me to think he’s not being nice.”

She scoffed, “Well, you both complain the same amount, so.”

“Still,” he said after a beat. “It helped.”

“Sure,” she offered an ounce of acknowledgement through a quirk of the lip. 

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just let the scent of the--pathetic excuse for--coffee fill the air between them. No one else was in the room but them now. Two teens who didn’t feel like teens. Sitting across from each other--not like it was normal, but like normal didn’t matter. 

(Y/n) tapped her finger lightly against the rim of the cup again. A rhythm, faint and even. Mark watched the motion--not because it was loud, but because it was grounding. The kind of thing people did when they were still working out if they were allowed to be at peace.

“You think there’s anyone out there who doesn’t care about the ‘normal’ part?” he asked, faintly, almost like he didn’t want her to hear it.

A pause. Measured. Careful.

“Someone who gets it.”

That landed between them like a quiet echo. Not loud enough to demand anything--but not soft enough to ignore, either.

(Y/n) looked at him fully now, the weight of that last line filtering through her in real time. Something passed behind her eyes--quick, quiet, not quite visible. But it was there.

A flicker of recognition.

Of warning.

Of want.

She swallowed once. Then shifted an inch apart from him, gaze narrowing just slightly--not cold, but sharp. Assessing.

“Someone who gets it,” she echoed, carefully.

Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just… weighing it. Like she was trying to decide whether he even knew what he was asking.

Mark didn’t flinch under the scrutiny. He didn’t double down either. He just held the question where it was. In the air. Waiting.

“You’re looking for the wrong person then,” she said, voice quieter now. Less clipped. Less armored.

Mark tilted his head. “Yeah?”

She looked down again, like the words had to be mined from somewhere deeper than she was used to digging. Her next sentence came out like a confession whispered into a storm drain.

“You don’t want someone who gets it,” she said, voice lower. “You think you do.  But it’s a different kind of weight when someone understands exactly how much you’re carrying.”

“They don’t say, ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this.’ They say, ‘Yeah. Me too.’ And that’s worse, ” (Y/n)’s voice softened, somewhere between apology and resignation. “Because it’s not just shared. It’s mirrored. And sometimes, you don’t want a mirror. You want a window. A door. Something that opens out instead of in.”

Her eyes flicked back to his then--cautious, a little raw, but direct.

“That’s what normal people give you. Even if it’s fake, even if it’s fleeting. The chance to look at the world like you’re not trapped in it.”

She didn’t say "someone like me can’t give you that."

She didn’t have to.

It was written in the space between her posture and the tired set of her shoulders.

“I think you should give an actual shot with her.”

He could’ve said okay. He could’ve said maybe. He could’ve said nothing at all.

Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the table, and said:

“But she doesn’t know this part of me.”

“It didn’t feel real.” His fingers tapped against the side of the cup again, mirroring her rhythm without realizing it. 

(Y/n) noticed. She always noticed. And for a moment, she said nothing.

Then--softly, without lifting her gaze-- “Maybe that’s why you tried.”

Mark tilted his head. “Because it wasn’t real?”

“No,” she said. “Because it could be.”

There was a pause.

Just long enough for the weight of it to settle between them. Not heavy--just exact. Measured. Like the moment had stopped pretending it was just casual.

Then his voice cut back in, low but sure.

“You think this--” he gestured between them, between the silence and the rawness and the edge of a conversation that wasn’t supposed to happen, “--feels fake?”

His tone wasn’t biting. It wasn’t dramatic. It was… quietly daring. Like he was offering her a way to deny it—if she needed it. But hoping she wouldn’t.

“No.” (Y/n) gave the smallest laugh. The kind that had too much honesty in it to be sarcastic. “But it’s messy.”

“It always is,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it has to suck.”

“It kind of does, though,” she said. “If it didn’t suck, we wouldn’t be here drinking coffee that tastes like liquid regret pretending we’re allowed to have five minutes to feel human.”

She bit her lip, thinking. “Look, just try for the door before you’re stuck without an exit.”

Mark’s brow furrowed, lips pressing into something between a smile and a frown.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “But what if the door is locked?”

(Y/n)’s eyes flicked to him, guarded. “Then find another one.”

“And if I still end up circling back to the same room?”

“Then you’re not looking for an exit. You’re just stalling.”

His mouth quirked, more wry than amused. “Maybe. Or maybe…” he leaned in slightly, just enough to shift the air between them. “Maybe some rooms are worth getting stuck in.”

Exasperation filled her face. “Mark.”

She said his name like a warning. Like a sigh. Like a bruise she didn’t want him pressing on, even if part of her didn’t mind the weight.

“I don’t…” she hesitated. Then met his gaze--really met it, like she was pleading with him to let it pass through his thick skull. “I don’t want to be the reason you get stuck… Please, just try.”

“Okay,” he said again. Not flippant. Not blindly hopeful. Just steady. Like he understood what she meant, even if he didn’t agree with all of it. “I’ll try.”

(Y/n) exhaled. Not dramatically. Just enough to loosen the breath she’d been holding since the moment got too close.

A beat passed. They sat there, two weapons forged too early in the fire, trying not to need things they couldn’t name.

Then she glanced at the clock. Five minutes had long since passed.

And yet--

She didn’t move.

Didn’t push away.

Didn’t reset.

Instead, she nodded toward the cup he’d been rotating this whole time.

“Drink that again,” she said, deadpan. “Let’s make sure you suffer enough to remember me in a bad light.”

Mark laughed--actually laughed this time. Not the awkward, teen-fumbles kind. The real kind. Like something in his chest loosened.

And when he lifted the cup again in mock salute, (Y/n) laughed with him--moreso at his immediate gag. Letting another five minutes slip through her clock.

--

<<next chp>>

<3 -> @jiyeons-closet @heiankyonoeiyuukun

[theonottsbxtch]

SKYFALL PT.2 | OP81

an: i don't know how many parts to make this but i'll see how much i can split this into. anyway, author advice - don't run through paris barefoot and if any of you work for the CIA or MI5, i really apologise for how weak i've made you guys sound by turning this into a silly little romance.

wc: 3.8k

part one

The dim light of the chandelier glistened off the rim of her champagne flute as she moved through the crowd, her practised smile firmly in place. The black cocktail dress she wore clung to her in all the right ways, elegant but understated. It was the kind of dress that made people notice her, but not ask too many questions. Perfect for slipping in and out of high-profile events like this one without drawing too much attention.

She was supposed to be just another guest tonight. A socialite, out with friends, blending into the glamour of the evening. But beneath the facade, Her senses were sharp, her mind working faster than the champagne bubbles that tickled the inside of her glass.

The mission was simple enough: infiltrate the private auction, locate the encrypted flash drive, and get out. It should have been straightforward, but nothing ever was when Oscar Piastri was involved.

The instant she had walked into the grand ballroom, she had felt it—that familiar prickle at the back of her neck. She didn’t need to see him to know he was there, moving through the same crowd, playing the same game.

And then she spotted him.

Oscar stood near the bar, his tall, lean frame blending seamlessly into the sea of tailored suits and elegant gowns. He was dressed to kill—literally, if it came to that. His dark suit fit him perfectly, the open collar of his shirt giving him a casual yet dangerous allure that made her pulse quicken against her will.

He hadn’t seen her yet, or if he had, he was pretending not to. But she knew better than to underestimate him. Oscar never missed anything. He was scanning the room, and when his gaze eventually landed on her, she knew it would be deliberate.

She sipped her champagne, making a show of laughing lightly at something one of the other guests had said, all while keeping Oscar in her peripheral vision. She couldn’t let him know she was watching him—not yet.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him casually turn, making his way toward the auction display, a briefcase in hand. That’s when she saw it—the subtle, almost invisible exchange. Oscar's hand slid into the pocket of a passerby’s jacket, retrieving something small and slipping it into the inside of his suit pocket as he spoke to the man beside him. It was quick, precise. The intel.

He had it.

Her heart thudded in her chest. This was it. The flash drive she needed was already in his possession. She had to act fast, but she couldn’t afford to spook him. If he thought for a second that she was after the same thing, he’d disappear into the night, and she’d lose her chance.

She let a slow smile spread across her face as she turned toward the bar, deliberately walking in Oscar’s direction. He was only a few steps away when his eyes finally met hers.

There it was. The moment of recognition. The silent understanding that passed between them was like a spark in the air. Oscar’s lips curved into that infuriatingly smug smile, the one that always set her teeth on edge—and sent a pulse of heat through her veins.

“Angel,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth as velvet when she stopped beside him at the bar. “Should’ve known I’d find you here.”

She arched an eyebrow, keeping her expression light, playful. “You sound disappointed, Oscar.”

His eyes flicked over her, lingering for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the curve of her dress, the way it hugged her figure. “Not disappointed,” he said, leaning against the bar. “Just... curious. You don’t exactly strike me as the type to spend your evenings at charity auctions.”

She chuckled, waving her glass lightly in the air. “And you do?”

Oscar tilted his head, his smile widening. “Touché.”

She leaned in slightly, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “So, what brings you here, then? Trying to take a night off from... whatever it is you do these days?” Her tone was casual, flirtatious, as though they were just two old acquaintances catching up. But she knew he could hear the subtext beneath her words. The real question. What are you after?

“I could ask you the same thing.” His gaze remained locked on hers, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as if he was enjoying the game too much. “But I’m guessing you’re not here for the champagne.”

She gave him a sly smile, leaning closer, just enough that her breath brushed his cheek. “I’ve always preferred something stronger.”

His eyes darkened, the banter between them thick with tension. They both knew what was really happening here—this was a dance. A dance of words, of power, of control. And they were both good at it.

But she needed more than his banter tonight. She needed the flash drive.

As she pulled back slightly, she let her fingers graze his arm, a touch so light it could have been mistaken for accidental. She glanced around, lowering her voice, just enough to make the moment feel more intimate. “Care for a little privacy? All these eyes make it hard to talk freely.”

Oscar’s smile didn’t falter, but his gaze sharpened as he studied her, clearly weighing his options. He knew she was playing at something, just as he was. But he was intrigued, she could see that much.

“Lead the way,” he said smoothly, his voice a little deeper now.

She turned, guiding him toward a secluded balcony that overlooked the city. The soft hum of the party faded behind them as they stepped outside, the cool night air brushing her bare shoulders. The soft glow of Parisian lights stretched out before them, casting everything in a golden hue.

Once they were alone, she turned to face him, her heart pounding in her chest as the reality of what she was about to do set in. This was more than just a mission now. This was Oscar Piastri—her enemy, her rival, and the man who somehow always managed to get under her skin.

“I have to admit,” Oscar said softly, stepping closer, his gaze locked on hers, “I’ve missed this.”

She raised an eyebrow, ignoring the way his nearness made her pulse race. “Missed what, exactly?”

“This,” he murmured, his voice low, his hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his touch warm against her skin. “The chase. The game. You.”

She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to back away, to keep her distance. But she couldn’t afford to. Not if she was going to get what she needed. Instead, she let her body relax, let her smile soften. “Careful, Oscar,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You almost sound sincere.”

He chuckled softly, but his eyes didn’t leave hers. “Maybe I am.”

For a moment, everything between them went quiet, the tension thick and palpable. His hand slid down her arm, resting lightly at her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer. It was dangerous—this proximity, this heat. But it was exactly what she needed.

“Is this the part where you kiss me?” she teased, her voice light, even as her pulse hammered in her ears.

Oscar’s gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest second, and her breath caught in her throat. She could see the war in his eyes, the pull between their shared history and the present, where they stood on opposite sides of a dangerous line. But then, as if deciding something, he leaned in, his breath warm against her cheek.

“Only if you want me to,” he whispered, his voice sending a shiver down her spine.

She had him. Just a little closer.

For a moment, the world fell away. The soft murmur of the city below, the distant clink of glasses and low hum of conversation inside, even the mission—it all blurred into the background as she stood on that balcony, Oscar’s eyes locked on hers.

She could only feel the feel of his hand on her waist, the heat of his touch seeping through the thin fabric of her dress,the weight of his gaze, heavy and intense, as if he were trying to read every thought racing through her mind. But she was a master of the game, just like him. She’d learned long ago to never give anything away.

Except tonight, she would. Just enough.

She leaned in, letting the distance between them melt away, her lips a breath from his. “Maybe I do want you to,” she whispered, her voice soft, inviting.

Oscar’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous and electric passing between them. He hesitated for the briefest moment, as if weighing whether to take the plunge, then closed the gap, capturing her lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

The force of it surprised her—his hand tightening on her waist, pulling her flush against his body, his lips moving against hers with a heat that sent a thrill rushing through her. Sheresponded in kind, her fingers sliding up his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt as the kiss deepened, more urgent now. It was everything she needed—passion, heat, distraction.

She could feel him leaning into the kiss, his grip on her possessive, as though he wanted to consume every part of her. And that was exactly what she had hoped for. She pressed closer, letting the kiss take her under, her hand slowly drifting toward the inside of his jacket, inching ever closer to her real goal—the flash drive.

Just as her fingers brushed the cool fabric of his jacket lining, ready to slip inside and make the grab, Oscar’s hand shot up, quick as lightning, and closed around her wrist.

He broke the kiss, but didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her lips as he held her wrist in place, his grip firm but not painful. The glint in his eyes was both amused and dangerous.

“You always were good at mixing business with pleasure,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. “But you didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?”

Her breath caught, her heart pounding as her plan unravelled in front of her. Damn him. He had known the whole time. The kiss had been a game—a game she had thought she was winning. But now, here she was, caught with her hand inches from his jacket, fingers hovering over the flash drive she so desperately needed.

She clenched her jaw, irritation flaring in her chest, but she couldn’t afford to lose control. Not now. Not with him watching her so closely, reading her every move. She forced a smile, letting out a soft, breathless laugh, as if the whole thing were just a joke.

“Can’t blame a girl for trying, can you, sweetheart?” she whispered, her voice playful, though the tension in her body said otherwise.

Oscar’s lips twitched into a smirk, his thumb brushing lightly against her wrist as he kept her hand in place. “Oh, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he replied, his tone lazy, almost admiring. “But you’re going to have to try a little harder than that.”

She gave him a look, letting out a low, frustrated breath as she eased back just enough to regain her composure, though his hand never left her wrist. “You’re infuriating, you know that?”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “I’ve been told.”

Her frustration was real, but she knew better than to let it show fully. She let her body relax against him, playing it off as if she wasn’t bothered by being caught, though her mind was already working through her next move. Oscar was toying with her—holding the cards just out of her reach, daring her to try again. And a part of her hated how much he enjoyed this, the way he could spin the situation back in his favour.

But there was another part of her—the part that had always thrived on this dangerous back-and-forth—that couldn’t deny the heat between them. The tension.

She leaned in again, her lips brushing his ear, her voice a sultry whisper. “I guess that means the night’s not over yet, then.”

Oscar's grip loosened slightly on her wrist, his amusement clear as he let her pull back. “Oh, it’s far from over,” he murmured, his dark gaze locking on hers again, the smirk playing on his lips as though he was challenging her to try again.

She flashed him a coy smile, her mind already spinning, recalculating. She’d let him think he had won this round—let him enjoy it. But she wasn’t done yet. Oscar might have gotten the upper hand for now, but she wasn’t walking away empty-handed.

Not this time.

With one last, teasing brush of her lips against his, She pulled back, slipping her wrist from his grasp. The game wasn’t over. It was just getting started.

She felt the grip on her wrist loosen slightly as Oscar held her gaze, that infuriating smirk still on his lips. He thought he had won this round, that he was still in control of the situation. But she wasn’t finished. Not yet.

She moved her free hand up to his cheek, her fingers gentle as they traced the line of his jaw. She saw his eyes darken, and for a second, his playful arrogance faltered. His lips parted slightly as he exhaled, the warm breath brushing against her skin. There was the faintest sound—a soft, almost imperceptible moan—escaping his lips as her fingers slipped up into his hair, tugging lightly.

He wasn’t expecting that.

For a moment, she felt him surrender, his body pressing closer to hers, his guard dropping just enough. Just enough for her to make her move.

She didn’t hesitate.

In the split second of his hesitation, her right hand shot forward, fingers deftly slipping into the inside of his jacket and closing around the flash drive. She felt the hard, cold metal against her palm as she yanked it free, the adrenaline spiking through her veins like a lightning bolt.

Oscar’s eyes widened in realisation, but it was too late.

With a sly smile, she spun on her heel and bolted toward the edge of the balcony. In one fluid motion, she vaulted over the stone railing, her cocktail dress fluttering around her legs as she plummeted toward the ground below. The wind whipped through her hair as she dropped, adrenaline roaring in her ears, and she heard the unmistakable sound of Oscar’s curse behind her.

“Fuck!” he growled, his voice sharp with frustration.

She hit the ground in a crouch, her knees bending to absorb the impact. Without missing a beat, she straightened and broke into a run, her heels clacking against the pavement for a brief moment before she kicked them off mid-stride. She could hear Oscar’s footsteps behind her, the thud of his body landing on the ground with the same fluid grace that had always made him dangerous.

She didn’t need to look back to know he was right on her heels.

She grinned to herself, the thrill of the chase coursing through her veins. Oscar was fast, but she had the lead. She just needed to make it to the rendezvous point—somewhere she could slip into the shadows, disappear, and leave him empty-handed.

“Nice try, sugar!” she called over her shoulder, her breath ragged but exhilarated as she sprinted down the narrow alley leading away from the building.

“I swear if you think you’re getting away with that—” His voice was closer now, but she could hear the mix of amusement and frustration in it.

He was enjoying this, just like she was.

The streets of Paris blurred around her as she sprinted barefoot through the maze of narrow alleyways, her heart hammering in her chest. She ducked and wove through the scattered pedestrians, the cobblestone cool beneath her feet. But she wasn’t just running—she was looking. Scanning every face, every figure until—

There.

A flash of recognition, a subtle nod exchanged in the crowd. Lewis.

He stood there in a grey hoodie, the kind you’d see on any city commuter, his hands stuffed into his pockets and a pair of cheap earbuds dangling around his neck. He moved with an easy, aimless gait, blending into the flow of the crowd perfectly—just another stranger out for a walk. No one would look twice.

She adjusted her pace, falling in step beside him as if they were two strangers passing each other on a busy street. In a move so smooth it seemed effortless, she slipped the flash drive into his waiting palm.

“Go,” she murmured under her breath, not even glancing at him as she continued forward, her pulse still racing.

Lewis barely nodded. He slipped away into the crowd without so much as a backward glance, disappearing like smoke in the night. She knew he’d make the delivery; she trusted him with her life. But her job wasn’t done yet.

Now she just had to buy him enough time.

She veered left, ducking into a narrow alley between two buildings. The shadows swallowed her up as she pressed herself against the brick wall, trying to catch her breath. She only had a few seconds, maybe less, before—

Oscar’s silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alleyway.

She swore under her breath, heart leaping into her throat. He stalked toward her with a predator’s grace, his eyes locked on hers, dark and intense. Even in the dim light, she could see the frustration—and the flicker of something else, something dangerous—burning in his gaze.

“Lost your nerve, angel?” he called out, his voice low and taunting as he closed the distance between them. “I thought you liked to play.”

She smirked, ignoring the frantic thudding of her pulse. “Just wanted to give you a fighting chance, darling.”

He chuckled softly, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. “Funny. Because you’re about to lose this one.”

Before she could react, Oscar lunged. His body slammed into hers, pinning her against the rough brick wall, one arm braced beside her head, the other gripping her wrist and pinning it to her side. The sudden impact stole her breath, but she forced herself to keep her expression calm, her smile defiant.

“Caught me,” she breathed, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze even as her heart raced wildly in her chest. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, the hard lines of his body pressing against hers, trapping her against the wall.

“Did you really think you could just slip away like that?” he murmured, his voice a low growl. His free hand moved slowly, deliberately, trailing down the length of her arm, his touch almost lazy. “You should know better than to run from me, sweetheart.”

His hand skimmed lower, brushing her waist, then her hips, before sliding back up her side in a way that felt far too intimate for a pat-down. His touch lingered just a moment too long, his fingertips grazing the curve of her waist, the dip of her back, before tracing up toward her chest.

She clenched her jaw, fighting the shiver that threatened to betray her. Damn him. Even now, even when he was searching her like this, he made it feel like a game—like he was savouring every second of it. And the worst part was, he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

His hand slid up, brushing over her collarbone, and she bit back a gasp as his fingers trailed along the neckline of her dress, his eyes never leaving hers. His touch was light, teasing, as if he were daring her to react.

“Where is it?” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Her heart pounded. She should push him away, fight back, but she forced herself to stay still, to hold his gaze, even as his hand drifted lower again, fingers skimming her bare thigh as he searched for the drive. Every movement of his was slow, deliberate, sensual. The tension coiled tighter and tighter between them, until she thought she might snap.

But she couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not now. Not when she had already won.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her voice breathy but steady. “I thought you just wanted to get your hands on me.”

His gaze flashed, a hint of frustration creeping into his eyes, but he didn’t stop. His hand trailed lower, brushing along her leg, then up again, his thumb tracing the line of her inner thigh as he searched every inch of her dress.

Nothing. No flash drive. No intel.

His jaw tightened, his grip on her wrist flexing just slightly. “You—”

“Looking for something?” she asked sweetly, arching an eyebrow as she leaned into him, her lips curving into a slow, wicked smile.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed, his gaze dark and dangerous. “Where is it?”

She laughed softly, the sound breathless, but triumphant. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

For a second, everything stilled. He was so close—close enough that she could see the frustration simmering in his eyes, the way his chest rose and fell with each laboured breath. His hand still rested against her leg, his fingers gripping her thigh just a little too hard. And then, slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, his voice rough and edged with something dark.

“I always do,” she whispered back, meeting his gaze with a smirk. “And guess what? This time I’m winning.”

For a moment, she thought he might kiss her—his lips hovered just inches from hers, his breath hot against her skin. But then he let out a low, ragged exhale, his grip on her thigh tightening.

“Fuck you,” he growled, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “You already handed it off, didn’t you?”

Her smile widened. “I told you, darling. I always win.”

His eyes blazed, and then—abruptly—he released her, stepping back with a sharp curse. The loss of his warmth was almost jarring, but she forced herself to hold her ground, her smile still firmly in place as she straightened, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress.

Oscar raked a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at her. “This isn’t over,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

She shrugged, giving him a mockingly sweet smile. “I didn’t think it would be.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away, her heart still racing, her pulse still thrumming with the thrill of victory. Oscar’s gaze burned into her back, but she didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

She’d won—for now.

part three

[notinthislife50]

Chapter 15

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

A few weeks later you sat hunched over a desk in some forgotten outpost on the edge of Romania, half buried beneath snow.

The Hydra base had been long abandoned, or so they claimed. The flickering screen in front of you told a different story.

Lines of code streamed past your eyes. You barely blinked your fingers flying over your keyboard. This was where you thrived in the hum of machines.

A soft click echoed through the dark.

You didn’t flinch you just paused and reached slowly for the sidearm holstered at your thigh your eyes still on the screen. “Not now,” you muttered annoyed. “I’m in the middle of something.” nothing answered back, thank god.

Then static danced through your earpiece. Tony’s voice crackled in.

“Y/N, do you ever sleep, or do you just snack on encrypted firewalls and rage?”

You smirked. “Mostly rage., I’ve got Nat and Clint heading to Base 9. You sure you don’t need backup?”

“No,” you said firmly. “I’ve almost got it. This is the last piece. Then we hit them hard.”

“You alright,?” Tony asked, noticing you were quietter than usual or in general.

You sighed. “I’m good.” You didn’t tell him you still dreamed of Bucky’s voice snarling behind you. Or Loki’s soft, cruel smile. You didn’t tell him about the ache in your chest every time you thought of them how you wanted to go back, but you couldn’t. Not until this was over.

You were brought out of your daze by a Sudden click.

The screen lit up green. ACCESS GRANTED.

Your heart jumped and you leaned in.

A full Hydra drop-site list. Encrypted comms. High-level internal logs and a transfer schedule. But This wasn’t just another patrol. They were planning something big. You quickly began the download.

Then..

A creak.

Behind you.

Barely audible, but definitly there.

Your eyes darted to the corner mirror you’d wedged up hours ago, just in time to see a flash of black.

You grabbed the drive, and threw it across the floor, and went for your gun but it was Too late.

A sharp crack of electricity sounded your spine arching in agony.

Your fingers scrambled for the comms in your ear.

“Tony” you gasped.

Another surge your knees hit the ground.

“Tony, they found me!”

The scream echoed down the comm line just before the connection cut

Tony Stark stood frozen not known what his next move was going to be

@staley83 @missvelvetsstuff

[mice-and-moonbeams]

Hi yes I would like to start down this rabbit hole please because I'm totally normal about this ... I am convinced Jon and Martin are part of a tape drive. It links with the tapes from TMA and the trailer for TMP especially with the opening computer screen (I already posted about my thoughts on that).

What is a tape drive?

A tape drive is a device that stores computer data on magnetic tape, especially for backup and archiving purposes. Like an ordinary tape recorder, a tape drive records data on a loop of flexible celluloidlike material that can be read and also erased.

Tape drives differ from hard disk drives (HDDs) and solid-state drives (SSDs) in the way data is read and written to the storage media. Tapes store data sequentially, whereas HDDs and SSDs use rotating disks with rapidly moving seek heads, nonmoving flash memory or similar technology to transfer data.

Drives come in many sizes and capabilities. They are sold as standalone units or stacked in data center racks, creating tape libraries. The tapes themselves are often housed in sealed cassettes that can be inserted into the drive and activated.

There are several benefits to using tape drives, particularly for backup and archival uses. They include the following:

Capacity. Tapes have a large capacity for storing data when compared to HDDs.

Low cost. They are economical when compared to other storage media.

Life span. Tapes stored in a suitable environment can last for decades, an important factor for archival storage.

Transportable. Tapes can be easily moved from one location to another and are considered off-line storage.

Disaster recovery. Tape is often the storage medium of choice for data backup and DR. Storing critical systems and data on tape creates an air gap between systems that are at risk from cyber attacks simply by removing the tape cassette from the drive.

Security. Today, tapes support encryption such as Advanced Encryption Standard-256 and provide varying levels of data protection.

[sissylittlefeather]

I done did it again, y'all.

Suspicious Minds: Part 1

A/N: I watched the movie Argylle and was hit with some insane inspiration and I just couldn't control it. So, please enjoy the first part of this modern AU spy!Elvis x reader fic. I really wanted this to be a one-shot, but I hit 5k words at what I think is the halfway point and had to split it. I'm really excited to write part 2 for this one...

@ccab You know I love you so much. Thank you for screaming about this with me.

Warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, this is intense, gun violence, espionage, cussing, an erection, masturbation (female), kissing, oral sex (f receiving), p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, I hope that's everything

Word count: ~5.5k

You adjust your glasses and look back at the computer screen. Your mom is always on you about not staring at a screen in the dark. She's convinced you'll ruin your eyesight, but it's not going to get any better, so why worry? Instead, you focus in again and go back to the hacking you've been working on for the past twelve hours. When you get in this mode, you don't sleep. For you it's like a game. You have a mission and you won't stop until you manage to finish it. You mainly do contract work for government agencies, cracking encryptions and writing code to secure against other hackers. But this was a private contract for a company you didn't recognize. Still, the money was unbelievable, so you took the job just as seriously, put on your EDM music, and got to work.

Now, 12 hours later, you throw your hands in the air in celebration. You finally got to what you were trying to get to. Your assignment is to download what you found onto a flash drive and deliver it to a lock box. But instead, you decide to take a peek at what you've uncovered.

It's maps. But they're maps with what look like targets and information that you're pretty sure you shouldn't see. This appears to be information that is vital to national security. You've done this kind of work before, but never for a private contract. You start to wonder if you should give it to the people who have asked for it. The flash drive blinks red to indicate that all of the information is saved. You eject it and hold it in your hand. Then, you set it on your desk and head to bed. It's 3am and the sunrise will be here before you know it.

******

You wake up with a hand on your mouth and scream into his palm.

"Sh sh sh... I'm the good guy. You're okay, honey, hush." You stop screaming mostly out of shock and he takes his hand off of you slowly.

"Who the fuck-" He puts his hand back over your mouth. Your eyes meet his blue ones and he's shockingly reassuring.

"My name is Elvis. I'm here to protect you. So please stop making noise." His southern drawl is comforting, for some reason. He moves his hand off of your mouth again. You whisper.

"Protect me from what? Or whom, I guess?"

"Where is the flash drive?"

"What?" Just then you hear your front door bust open.

"Goddamnit." He stands up away from your bed and you sit up frantically. "Get dressed, but don't make any noise."

He walks into the living room and you slide out of bed to the floor and crawl over to your closet. You grab some jeans and a bra and get dressed as quickly and quietly as you can, purposely ignoring the sounds of the struggle coming from the living room. But when you hear what sounds like a silenced gunshot, you gasp and run to the doorway. Elvis turns to you, having just shot a man who lays on your carpet bleeding.

"Go back in your room!" The other guy grabs him and punches him in the face, causing him to drop the gun. They trade hits back and forth and you watch. At one point, Elvis kicks the gun and it slides over and hits your feet. The other guy gets him in a headlock and he hollers to you.

"Throw me the gun!"

"The what?" You're so in shock that you can't understand the words he's saying.

"The gun! At your feet!" You look down and see it there, but your brain has a hard time making sense of what's happening. "Just pick it up and throw it to me!"

You pick up the gun and hold it in your hand. You've never held a gun before. It's heavier than you expected.

"Honey, throw it!" You look up at Elvis and he's struggling with the guy wrapped around his neck. You toss it gently and it lands about a foot away from him. He shakes his head at you and then grunts, throwing the guy over him onto the floor. You gasp as he grabs the gun and shoots the guy in the head. As the blood spreads over your floor, you inhale sharply and start to pass out. Elvis catches you and shakes you.

"Not yet, baby. Where is the flash drive?"

"The what?"

"The flash drive! With the information you downloaded from earlier!"

"Oh! It's on my desk." You walk to it and grab it, holding it up for him to see. He snatches it away from you.

"We need to hide this somewhere they'll never expect. Go get your dildo."

"My what?!"

"Your dildo, I'm going to-"

"I do not have one of those."

"Yes, you do. It's pink."

"How do you-"

"Not important! Go get it!" You purse your lips and run to your nightstand.

"It's a vibrator, not a dildo."

"Okay, whatever. Lemme have it." You hand it to him and he opens the end, dumping the batteries on the ground. He slides the flash drive into it and then closes it again.

"Wait... will I get it back?" He walks to you and put his hand on your cheek.

"Honey, stick with me long enough and you won't need it anymore." You blush. He's unimaginably attractive, but you try to ignore what he just said. "Pack a bag. We need to go."

You grab a duffel bag and throw some clothes and toiletries in it as fast as possible. Before you zip it up, he tosses the vibrator in the top and lets you close it.

"Wait. Why should I trust you?" He stops and turns back to face you, running his hand through his black hair in exasperation.

"Honey, I just killed two guys to protect you. You really need to ask that?" You shrug your shoulders and look up at him.

"I don't know you." He grabs your shoulders and looks into your eyes.

"My name is Elvis Presley. I'm an agent for the good guys. I'm here to take care of you and make sure no harm comes to you or that flash drive of information you collected. I promise you can trust me. Now, we need to go. Are you coming?"

You look into his face for half a second and then nod. You're not sure where this is going or even how you got here, but you have no choice other than to trust this man.

You run down the stairs of your apartment building with him close behind you. He puts his hand on the small of your back and practically pushes you toward his car. When you get to it, your mouth drops open. It's a 1970 Stutz Blackhawk.

"Isn't this a little conspicuous?" You ask as you slide into the passenger seat. He gets in and closes the door, starting it up.

"It's too conspicuous. No one would ever think it's mine. What kind of spy drives a car like this?"

"Are you James Bond?" He laughs as he pulls out onto the street.

"No. Bond is British." You think it's interesting that that's what he chooses to prove his difference. Like everything else about them is the same. You look out the window as buildings flash by. The sun is starting to peek over the horizon and it hits you that you've only had a couple of hours of sleep.

"Where are we going?" You ask sleepily, yawning.

"Somewhere safe. But we won't be there for a while. You can go to sleep." You shake your head and try to stay alert.

"No. I'm okay." But you're not. Not at all.

"Honey, this is going to be a long road. You should rest while you can. I won't let anything happen to you." He reaches out and pats your knee softly. You look down at his hand. It's an unexpectedly kind gesture. The exhaustion sets in and you decide to trust that you're safe with him, for now at least. You lean your head against the window and close your eyes, sleep setting in before you have time to think of anything else.

******

You wake up and stretch. That was the strangest dream. It feels like you're on a couch though. You don't remember it, but you must've fallen asleep in the living room after finishing your work.

"You're awake."

You sit up suddenly. It wasn't a dream. He's real. You look around the room and try to figure out where you are, but your surroundings are completely unfamiliar.

"Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe. Are you hungry?" The smell of bacon makes your stomach growl.

"Yes."

"I'm not much of a cook, but I made some peanut butter and banana sandwiches, if you want one." You frown.

"Why do I smell bacon?" A wide smile spreads across his face and a boyish charm shines through that you didn't expect from a hot shot agent.

"C'mere." You walk to the table and he sets a plate in front of you. On it is a sandwich with peanut butter, bananas, and bacon. You wrinkle your nose. "Just try it before you make that face."

You cautiously take a bite. It's better than you expected. Much better. You look up at him surprised and he holds his hands out.

"See! It's good!"

"It really is." He sits down next to you and you both eat your sandwiches. After a few more bites, a thought comes to you. "How did I get in here?"

"I carried you." He says it matter-of-factly like it's something he does all the time.

"Oh. What time is it?" You look around the room for a clock and realize for the first time that you don't have your phone. You must've left it in your apartment.

"It's a little after 2pm. You slept for a while."

The conversation continues and you make small talk. Once you finish eating, you work together to clean up the kitchen and then settle on the couch. It's very small, so you have to sit pretty close together. He turns on the TV and you spend the bulk of the afternoon there. For dinner, he orders a pizza and you sit together and eat awkwardly again. The evening passes in front of the TV and before you know it, it's time for bed. He stands up and walks from room to room.

"I'll be damned." He shakes his head frustratedly.

"What?"

"There's only one goddamn bed in this house. I'll have to sleep on the couch." You both look over at the tiny couch. It's essentially a love seat, so there's no way he will fit on there comfortably.

"Or I could?"

"No, you need to be in the bed behind a door, in case someone comes in during the night." You swallow deeply. That prospect is terrifying.

"O-okay, then. Goodnight..." He nods and you take your bag into the room with the bed. Once you have your pajamas on, you settle into the bed and the reality of your situation hits you. It's like the adrenaline from the day wears off and it becomes clear to you just how scary things are right now. The tears gather in your eyes and then start to slide down your face. Will your life ever go back to normal? What happens if these guys catch up to you? Before you know it, you're crying pretty hard, holding yourself and trying to breathe.

Elvis sits on the couch in the living room and tries not to hear you crying. He's been assigned to protect plenty of women, but there's something about you that makes him a little crazy. He shouldn't even think about what he's considering right now. Still, he considers it as the sounds of you crying come from the bedroom. It's torture for him to know how scared and alone you must be in there. He lays back on the little couch and tries to get comfortable.

"Goddamnit."

You're in the bed with tears on your cheeks when you hear the door open. You sit up quickly and see Elvis in the doorway.

"You alright?"

"No. Why the fuck would I be alright?! My life is literally in shambles. And I'm stuck here with..."

"With me?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I just mean... I'm scared. And I have no one." He sits down next to you on the bed. He almost whispers.

"You have me." You look up at him and he reaches out and wipes the tears off your cheek with his thumb. You're not sure why he's being so sweet to you, but it's exactly what you need right now.

"Will you... will you stay with me?" He clears his throat and pulls his hand back.

"Oh... you know..."

"Never mind. It's okay." You look down at your hands in your lap and try to ignore the lump in your throat.

"Yes. I'll stay in here with you. It's probably better that I stay close to protect you anyway. And there won't be any sleeping on that couch. The bed is the better option." You look up at him and nod.

Yes, he's sleeping with you because the couch is too small. Not because he can't stop wondering what it would feel like to wrap his arms around you. You lay down and he lays down next to you without touching you. You reach over and turn the lamp off.

"Well, goodnight." He looks over at you in the dark.

"Goodnight, Elvis."

You both lay there silently trying to fall asleep. It takes a while, but eventually you drift off.

******

In the morning, you wake up with your back pressed against him and his arm around you. You don't think anything of it really until you feel him. He has a massive erection and it's currently pushing up against you. You start to giggle uncontrollably and your movement wakes him up.

"What's going on? Why are you laughing?"

"Y-you..." You get out in between giggles. "I can feel you..."

"Fucking hell." He rolls away from you quickly, but it's even more obvious when he's on his back. "Goddamnit. I'm sorry."

He sits up on the edge of the bed facing away from you.

"I'm sorry. I just... it's morning... God..." You're laughing so hard that you can hardly breathe. He stands up and walks quickly to the door, muttering as he goes. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

He leaves you in the room laughing and hoping that he doesn't sleep on the couch.

The day passes slowly and awkwardly with the two of you eating sandwiches and watching TV again. Around noon, you decide to take a shower.

"I'm not sure that's smart."

"Why not?"

"I can't protect you if I can't see you." You roll your eyes.

"I've been fine this whole time. I think I'll be okay for a twenty minute shower." He thinks for a minute.

"Leave the door cracked."

"What? No!" He sighs, exasperated.

"I won't look. I'll just be able to hear you and get in fast if anything happens. Otherwise, no shower."

"Okay, fine."

You leave the door cracked and get into the shower, looking in the mirror to make sure he isn't watching. He's nowhere to be found, so you relax and let the hot water wash over you. It feels so good running down your skin, cutting hot pathways on your shoulders and thighs. Suddenly, a thought wriggles its way into your brain and won't go away. You imagine him in the shower with you, pressed up against your back. What you felt this morning is hard to ignore and you wonder what he looks like without his clothes on. You think about his hands running over your body and before you know it, it's not the shower making you wet. You peek in the mirror again to make sure Elvis is still not looking. When you're satisfied he's not there, your hand slides down the front of your abdomen until your fingers find your clit. You begin to make circles and think about his mouth. He has a beautiful mouth and the thought of it pressed to you as his tongue makes circles on you just about drives you wild. You slide a finger into yourself and pump it in and out as you continue to rub over and around your sensitive bud. Then, you imagine him on top of you, slamming his cock into you and without thinking, you moan.

"Elvis..." You say it quietly, but it's loud enough for him to hear it with the door cracked. He stands just outside and looks in the mirror to make sure you're okay. He can see the outline of your body through the foggy glass shower door. That's when he realizes what you're doing and swallows hard. When you cum, hard, on your own hand and say his name again, he almost loses it.

He cannot be having these thoughts about you. Sure, he's had sex with girls on missions before, it's practically his trademark, but something about this feels different. He doesn't want to fuck you. He wants to make love to you. And that thought terrifies him. He peels himself away from the door and goes to sit back on the couch. His erection is back, but there's not much he can do about it right now, so he tries to think of anything else to make it go away. He's dying to go into the other bathroom and do exactly what you just did, but he can't leave you alone. Instead, he tucks himself up under his belt quickly when he hears the water turn off.

"FUCK." He hits the couch next to him and then sits with his head in his hands. This cannot be happening.

"Are you okay?" He looks up at you quickly, standing there with your hair wet.

"Mhmmm. Yep, I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." You think to yourself that he looks like he's about to cry.

"Well I am. Let's just... watch TV, okay?"

"Okay..." You sit down on the couch next to him and spend the rest of the afternoon watching TV. What you don't know is that Elvis is in misery being so close to you without touching you. And what he doesn't know is that you want him to touch you more than anything in the world.

******

Finally, evening comes and you start to get hungry.

"What's for dinner?"

"Well. I'm kind of a one-trick pony in the kitchen. I don't think you want another sandwich." He seems to have relaxed after whatever happened earlier.

"I can cook."

"Or we can just go get something."

"No, I'd like to cook for you. As a thank you for protecting me." He tries not to give himself away by how he looks at you, but the tension between you is palpable. "Can we go to the store? Is that allowed?"

"Yes, that should be fine. If they knew where we were we'd know it by now."

You get back into the Blackhawk and make your way to the grocery store. You're in a small town away from where you live, so there's only one store. Elvis stays close to you as you wander the aisles for what you need to make dinner. You also grab some essentials. He's not sure how long you'll have to be at the house, so you get food to keep you sustained for at least a few days. Once you've gotten everything you need and checked out, you make your way back to the house and get to work in the kitchen.

He watches as you move around gracefully and longs to put his arms around you. You notice him staring and decide he needs a task.

"Get over here and chop something."

"Yes ma'am." He salutes you jokingly and you set him up with some peppers.

"Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"My grandmother. She was an amazing cook. I spent summers with her when I was a kid, so she was able to teach me."

"That's nice."

"What was your family like? Or can't you tell me?"

"I probably shouldn't." You nod. It makes sense that he can't divulge any personal secrets. But he just can't seem to tell you no. "Fuck it. I was very close to my mother growing up. There were a lot of times when it was just me, her, and the shirts on our backs. My father worked a lot. And then she died when I was 23. I had just joined the army."

He gets very quiet and looks down at the vegetables he's chopping intentionally. You walk over and put your hand on his arm gently. The contact makes his heart jump.

"I'm sorry for your loss." He looks down into your face, his eyes flicking between yours and then down to your mouth momentarily. It takes everything in him not to lean down and kiss you.

"Thank you. Anyway I joined the military and was recruited by... who I work for now... and the rest is history."

Finally, the food is ready and you sit down to eat together again. He's impressed by your culinary skills and spends the next few minutes gushing about how good dinner is. The conversation continues and you talk about everything and nothing. Somehow, you make your way around to talking about music.

"Here's a fun question: what do you like better, singing or dancing?" He asks you as the meal comes to a conclusion.

"I'm not much of a singer, but I also don't dance, so I'm not sure how to answer that question." You respond and he laughs.

"You don't dance?"

"Well, I never really have before. Haven't had much opportunity. I was too big of a nerd to go to high school dances and in college I pretty much kept to myself."

"Then, it's not that you don't dance, you just haven't yet. We need to fix that." You're surprised by his enthusiasm, but he's eager for an excuse to touch you. He turns on the radio and finds a station with a good song.

"Really, it's okay. I don't really want to dance."

"C'mon, it's not hard." He puts his arm around your waist and pulls you in close to him. You both breathe deeply and he takes your hand in his. He moves you around the room effortlessly and your embarrassment melts away. The feeling of his arm around you is enough to distract you from anything. He dips you and spins you and before you know it you're both laughing. Eventually the song ends and he holds you close to him and looks down into your face. The next song is a slow one, so he begins to sway gently.

"See, dancing's not so bad."

"No, it's fun with you." You look up at him and his eyes flick down to your lips. He wants to kiss you. You can tell. And you want to let him.

He slowly leans forward, hovering above your mouth with your noses touching. It seems like he's trying to decide something. Eventually, he moves the slightest bit forward and presses his soft lips to yours. The kiss is a sweet one, and he kisses you again like this several times. The fourth time he kisses you, though, he parts your lips with his and dips his tongue into your mouth. By this point you've stopped dancing and both of your arms are around his neck, with both of his around your waist. The heat between you picks up as your mouths move together in a rhythm.

Suddenly, he stops and pulls away from you. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs.

"Y/n, I can't. I can't do this."

"Oh... okay..."

"I'm sorry. You should go to bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Okay. I'm sorry if I-"

"You didn't do anything wrong. It's me." You nod your head and walk away from him to the bedroom. After closing the door, you change into your sleeping t-shirt and crawl under the covers. The bed seems lonely without him.

In the living room, he paces back and forth, sitting down periodically. He's going through everything in his mind and trying to convince himself that there's nothing there for you. That he can reasonably fuck you and then move on like he always has. But these thoughts are invaded by other ones: the sound of your laugh, the softness of your smile, the grace with which you moved around the kitchen, and your voice saying his name in the shower. He's never been so frustrated by a woman. He starts to get a little angry. What is it about you anyway? Who are you to come into his life and interrupt it like this? He has a job to do. You're the one being all distracting and unprofessional. He needs to set you straight. You need to know that this is completely inappropriate.

You're almost asleep when the door opens dramatically. You sit up on the side of the bed and Elvis stomps over to you and sits next to you.

"You know why I can't do this, right?" He asks aggressively. You're not sure where this anger is coming from.

"Yeah, it's your job-"

"It is my job! My job is to protect you, not... this... whatever this is..." He gestures frantically to the space between you.

"Elvis, I'm not sure why you're yelling at me." He yells even louder.

"Because! You're making me feel things I don't want to feel!" He looks at you desperately, chest heaving. Your heart is pounding.

"I'm-"

His lips crash into yours with a feverish need. Everything he's just said goes out the window as his hands run over your body and he kisses down your neck. You whimper and he groans with the intense passion. He pulls your t-shirt up over your head and off, tossing it to the side. One hand immediately goes to your breast while his mouth explores the opposite nipple. Your hands are in his hair as he works, your head thrown back in pleasure. The sensation of his lips on your breast is exquisite and you moan as he lightly pinches your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Your fingers go to the buttons on his shirt and you fumble with them for a while before he just rips it open and lets you push it backwards off of his shoulders.

He lays you down on the bed surprisingly gently and kisses down your stomach. The only thing separating you from him is your white cotton panties. He sits up on his knees, erection stretching the fabric of his pants, and hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. His eyes search yours for permission and you nod slightly as a smile spreads across his face. He pulls your panties down your legs and off and then presses his lips to your ankle. Pushing your legs open, he drags his finger up your slit to the bundle of nerves at the top.

"Can I make you feel good, baby?" He asks as he makes circles on you.

"God, yes, Elvis, please." You whine as he settles between your legs. He starts by pushing his tongue into you and then licking up either side of your sensitive bud. You need him to touch the right spot with his tongue so badly it almost hurts. Your legs shake with desire and he hovers about an inch away from you. You feel his breath on you and it feels like you might die with how close he is. Then, he very softly flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue. "Fuck! Elvis, please!"

Your back arches and your hips buck as you practically beg him. He continues to flick your clit with his tongue, though, adding a little more pressure each time. With each flick of his tongue, the blood rushes to your core and you feel your climax building. Finally, when you're about to scream and your orgasm is just seconds away, he dives in fully, licking your pussy with the entirety of his tongue.

"OH FUCK, ELVIS!" Your orgasm hits you like a runaway train, setting off fireworks all over your body as the pulsating waves of pleasure crash into you. He licks you through your release until you come back down to earth. Then, he sits up and wipes his face with his hand.

"I want- no, I need to make love to you. Please let me make love to you." You sit up and unbutton his pants, pushing them down to free his cock. He grunts as you take him in your hand and pump him, gently moving his foreskin back and forth.

"What are you waiting for?" You whisper. He moans deep in his throat and leans forward on top of you, kicking his pants the rest of the way off. Holding himself in one hand, he teases your clit with his tip and then lines up with your entrance. He begins to push into you slowly, giving your body a chance to adjust to his size. You feel every inch of his cock as he enters you and it fills you up perfectly. Once he's pushed into you fully, he slides almost all the way out and with a slow, deep roll of his hips fills you again. He continues to thrust into you, slow and deep, over and over. His rhythm is steady, his pace dramatic and soulful. You begin to moan softly each time his hips meet yours and he grunts in reply. There's something overwhelmingly sexy about how he's taking his time, filling you, pulling back, and then slowly filling you again. Sweat drips down his face, gathers on his chest, and wets his hair on his brow, matching your own. The feeling of him inside you is unlike anything you've ever experienced before. He reaches down to hold one of your hips, thrusting somehow even deeper than he already was. With every pump, his dick rubs against your g-spot and the slow pace has you dancing on the edge of another orgasm. Just when you think the lovemaking can't get any sweeter, he leans forward and captures your lips in a deep kiss. Then he presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. All the while, he's still sliding in and out of you, pushing deeper with each thrust.

"Goddamnit, baby. You feel so good." He kisses you again and his pace speeds up the slightest bit. Every time your hips meet, it feels like the next thrust will send you over the edge.

Without pulling out, he rolls over on his side and brings you with him, throwing your leg over his hip. He goes back to thrusting, increasing his speed, but not changing the depth of his strokes. Your eyes meet and his blue ones search yours for something. You're not sure what he's looking for, but you hope he finds it.

"Y/n, I- FUCK." He's interrupted when the coil of his orgasm snaps and he cums hard inside you, closing his eyes and shuddering against you. His release pushes you over the edge and you tumble into oblivion with him, pulsing and fluttering around him. He presses his forehead to yours again as he pumps weakly a few more times and then pulls out of you. Kissing your lips, he rolls over on his back and pulls you onto his chest.

"What were you going to say?"

"Hmm?"

"Right before you came. You were saying something."

"Oh, it was nothing." He thinks to himself that it absolutely was not nothing, but he was probably just caught up in the moment. It doesn't need saying now.

You nod and snuggle into him, hoping he doesn't try to go sleep on the couch. He doesn't, thankfully. He stays right there in the bed with you. He knows it's stupid and inappropriate, but he no longer cares. Maybe you'll be stuck together in the safe house for a long, long time. This is his last thought before you both drift off to sleep.

******

You wake up to the sound of birds chirping and the feeling of Elvis wrapped around you, both of you still naked. You're just about to revel in the closeness and daydream about what you'll do stuck in the safe house today, but Elvis sits straight up in bed.

"What-?"

"Shh, honey, hush." He says it quietly and you start to get scared. "Someone's in the house."

He jumps out of the bed and grabs his pants, pulling them on without buttoning them, and gets his gun from the nightstand. You don't even remember him putting it there.

"Get dressed, quickly and quietly." You nod and slide out of the bed, gathering your clothing and slipping it on silently. He positions you so that you can't be seen from the door and then opens it, gun in hand.

"Ah, Agent Presley. You're awake."

******

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