#red-string-assassin

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

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

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

Wordcount: 13.8K

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

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

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

Previous Chapter: Till Death Do Us Part

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

And at the heart of it all: an arsenal.

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

He holds up a new M1911 with a low whistle.

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

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

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

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

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

Mingyu’s been following her around ever since.

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

Instead, you turn toward the weaponry again.

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

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

A beep cuts through the room. Then another.

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone watches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wave of muttering breaks out across the feeds.

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

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

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

The silence that follows is suffocating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

A long silence.

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

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

The war room comes alive.

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

It’s like HQ—only grittier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push away from the table and begin pacing.

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

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

You nod slowly. “That’s the one.”

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

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

“Add it to the board,” you say.

One by one, the map fills in.

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

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

Then Woozi finally says what everyone’s thinking.

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

Seungcheol’s voice is calm. Final.

“We kill them. All of them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

Seungcheol laughs under his breath. Just once.

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

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

Everyone waits, watching the screen update line by line.

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

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

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

The team nods.

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

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

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

The silence stretches.

Then Samira speaks.

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

Everyone turns to her.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

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

You freeze. Your mind starts spinning.

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

They’re already typing.

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

Seungcheol speaks then. “Can you reactivate it?”

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

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

Everyone falls silent again.

Then Seungcheol looks up. His voice is low.

“Let’s go to work.”

Bucharest is colder than expected.

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

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

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

She’s now patching in from his personal terminal.

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

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

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

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

Now all you need is the target.

“Any movement yet?” you murmur.

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

You wait.

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

Then—footsteps.

You freeze.

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

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

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

Jiwoo’s voice crackles in your ear.

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

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

There’s a pause.

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

You draw your karambit.

Light floods faintly from beneath the hallway door.

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

The Vasile triplets.

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

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

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

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

Silence falls again.

Blood pools quietly between broken cracks of flooring.

Then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me three,” you respond.

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

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

He walks. Alone. No security. You smile.

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

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

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

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

He passes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk away without looking back.

The first head has rolled.

Dubai is a city that refuses to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

“Woozi?”

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

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

VIP booth. Surrounded by women.

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

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

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

He shakes the thought away.

Focus.

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

Bathroom break.

Seungcheol downs his drink and follows.

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

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

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

The moment of recognition is quick. Seungcheol is quicker.

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

“Goodnight,” he mutters coldly.

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

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

He turns right.

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

The chain yanks.

He rolls—just in time.

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

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

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

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

She slams her fist into his ribs.

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

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

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

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

They lunge at the same time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

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

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

The second head has rolled.

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

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

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

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

“Good,” you reply, voice soft.

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

“That where we regroup?”

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze, head tilting slightly.

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

A pause.

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

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

Your blood runs cold. Then hot.

Varsha.

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

And apparently, your husband’s slept with her.

Your jaw clenches.

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

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

Safehouse reached.

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

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

His eyes light up the second he sees you.

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

God, he’s alive.

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

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

And then—

The name echoes again.

Varsha.

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

And then you slap him. Hard.

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

You don’t even let him recover.

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

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

You slap his hands away.

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

“Babe—”

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

He tries again, grabbing for your arms.

You swat at him like a feral cat.

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

“...what?”

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

You stare at him, blinking.

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

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

He smirks.

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “I’m not jealous.”

“You literally said you’d kill her.”

“That’s not the same thing—”

He laughs again.

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

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

You sigh, letting your forehead press to his.

“Good,” you whisper back.

And then he kisses you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

“Baby, what—”

“Shut. Up.”

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

You don’t tease. Not yet.

You lean in and envelop him in your mouth.

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

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

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

You take your time—too much time.

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

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

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

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

“Baby—shit—I’m close—”

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

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

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

You smirk. “And yet, you married me.”

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

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

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

You stop. Again.

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

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

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

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

“Shut up and take it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lean in close again, lips brushing the tip.

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

You lick your lips. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“But you love it.”

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

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

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

You lick it clean, smiling.

You don’t expect him to move that fast.

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

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

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

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

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

He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, brain fogged with heat.

“What…?”

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

That finally snaps you out of it.

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

He smirks. “Good choice.”

And then your world flips on its axis. Literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

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

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

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

Your core clenches wildly around him.

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

You can only cry out ‘Yes’ in response.

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

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

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

“Suck.”

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

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

“Cheol— oh god—fuck—”

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

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

Seungcheol doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Game time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wonwoo went off.

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

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

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

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

A flash drive.

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

Your eyebrows lift. “The hell is this?”

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

“Yeah—hello?”

You narrow your eyes. “...You okay?”

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “That’s… impressive.”

“I know,” Reina says smugly.

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

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

More silence.

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

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

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

“Back at you.” You hang up.

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

“What?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

It’s go time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Visual on Kang?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“North tower first,” you whisper.

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

You shift slightly. “Southeast tower.”

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

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

Seungcheol nods, already sliding down the hill.

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

You move fast and low.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you reach the top floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then silence.

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

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

He freezes.

“Seungcheol?” Kang rasps through the smoke.

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

He stiffens instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirk.

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

Kang glares. “What do you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

The system chimes.

Voice scan accepted.

He places his hand on the scanner. Another chime.

Fingerprint accepted.

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

Access denied. Retinal match not found.

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

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

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

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

Retinal scan accepted.

Access granted.

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

“Bounty logs,” Seungcheol says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The progress bar reaches 100%.

Final confirmation: Bounty Deactivated — Market Update Complete.

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

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

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

“Let’s go,” Seungcheol says.

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

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

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

01:45.

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

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

01:02

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

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

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

00:54

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

“There!” Seungcheol shouts behind you, pointing.

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

He speeds up. You do, too.

00:32

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

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

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

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

He curls around you, breath hot against your ear.

“Hold on,” he whispers.

You shut your eyes. You feel his heartbeat.

00:01.

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

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

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

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

Then—

Silence.

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

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

Seungcheol lifts his head first.

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

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

Neither of you speak.

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

Then you mouth it:

Thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause, eyes narrowing slightly. “Lim?”

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

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

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

Seungcheol listens, his jaw tight.

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

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

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if we win?”

You don’t answer him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more chances after this.

No more exits.

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

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

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

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

The forest is silent. Still. Too still.

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

After nearly an hour on foot, there it is.

Lim’s estate.

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

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

Nothing. Complete blackout.

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

You nod once, tension coiling low in your stomach.

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

“But everything else?” he asks.

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

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

You both recognize it instantly: your window.

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

The guard never sees it coming.

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

The door creaks open with a soft hiss.

And then you’re in.

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

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

No alarms. No reinforcements. No Lim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A deep, impossible darkness yawns within.

You don’t move. Neither does Seungcheol.

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

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

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

And then—

Bang.

“Agh—!”

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

“Cheol—!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t do this.”

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

The lights flicker to life.

And there she is.

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

Atop it: a single, silver revolver.

Your stomach drops. Lim smiles slowly.

“You remember how this works.”

You stare at the gun. At the chairs.

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

Russian Roulette.

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

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

The chair is waiting. Empty.

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

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

“Welcome home, darling,” she says smoothly.

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

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

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

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

One bullet.

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

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

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

She pauses, lips curling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s begin,” she says softly.

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

The handle points directly at you.

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

Click.

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

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

Click.

Still nothing. Your turn again.

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

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

You ignore her. Gun to your temple.

Click.

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

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

Gun raised.

Click.

Still nothing. Now you know. This is it.

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

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

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

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

Click.

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

Because that was the fifth shot.

And everyone in the room knows what that means.

The sixth belongs to her.

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

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

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

The virus deploys.

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

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

No more empires. No more Lim.

Your victory tastes like ash.

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

“Cheol…” you whisper, approaching him softly.

That’s when it happens.

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

Bang.

You freeze. But the pain never comes.

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

Madame Lim.

Shot through the chest.

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

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

“No— no, no, no, baby, stay with me—”

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

His skin is clammy. Pale.

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

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

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

You grab your comms, tears streaking down your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been six months.

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

And now—this. The boat. His boat.

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

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

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

Then— A creak of wood.

Bare feet padding across the deck.

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

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

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

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

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

A shadow moves at the stern of the boat.

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

Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beep.

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

Your heart stutters.

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

There it is.

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

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

The screen flickers to life. Code scrolls. Then—

A name.

Target: Kim Mingyu.

Alias: Fireball.

Bounty: 3 Million.

Your blood turns to ice.

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

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

You turn the screen toward her.

She sees the name. And freezes.

“What the hell did that idiot do now?”

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

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

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

[mrpenguinpants]

Golden Apple [ Commissioned ]

Word Count: 13.1k

— Phainon, Mydei + Anaxa

Request: [ A Modern AU with each character as a mythological figure/being. Phainon as a guardian angel, Mydei as an undying demigod, and Anaxa as a cosmic horror parasite. ]

Note: Liberties were taken with each character's cultural/mythological backgrounds. More information at the end.

[Masterlist]

Back at it again for another season, baby! Thank you so much for commissioning me, and I hope you like it!

Phainon

Daemon (Daimon / Δαίμων) — A spirit or semi-divine guide, neither good nor evil, acting as a quiet protector or inner voice. Unseen but ever-present, it might steer fate, whisper advice, or guide you toward your destiny.

ACT I, SCENE I

FADE IN:

EXT. DINGY ALLEY BEHIND A RESTAURANT - NIGHT

A flickering neon butterfly sign buzzes overhead, sputtering in embarrassed shades of pink and red. Its failing light spills across a grease-stained back door—the kind that hasn’t closed properly in years. Rain slicks the pavement, pooling into oil-slick puddles that shimmer with distorted reflections. The air reeks of old gasoline, wet cardboard, and something burnt-out and electrical. Trash bags slump against the faded red brick walls, both deflated and bloated. You wonder if there are any dead bodies inside, just waiting to be discovered, then ignored.

And there’s the knife at your throat.

Not an assassin. Not a business deal gone wrong. Not even the aftermath of someone’s drunken spiral. Just a man—desperate, hollow-eyed, with hands that won’t stop shaking. A ratty ski mask clings to his head, threadbare and sagging, worn past the point of dignity. His jacket is soaked and sour with mildew. Cracked fingers clutch a rusty blade too tight, one wrong breath away from splitting your skin. He reeks of cheap liquor, bile, and something sweet that’s been dead too long.

“Money,” he hisses, voice brittle and raw, “Now.”

It's all so...

disgustingly boring.

What happened to the gunmetal briefcases and monogrammed bullets? To assassins who glided over wet pavement without a sound, slipping through shadow and silence with practiced ease? What happened to the paper-screen duels, where silhouettes clashed in ghostly choreography—every movement a whisper before the final blow landed in a burst of stylized violence? Even the black-and-white mafia films had flair: steel-toed boots, pinstripe suits, cigar smoke curling around sneers and snub-nosed pistols. They kicked down doors with bravado, spilled in with bad accents and worse metaphors, and died in poetic slow motion—white rose pinned to their chest, black blood on their cuffs.

But this?

No drama. No build-up. No artistry. Just another man at the end of his rope, waving a blade in the dark, praying fear would do what fate never could. The whole scene screamed low effort—like a student film with no budget, no vision. Pig slop. Bloated. Overdone. You’d seen better tension in a toothpaste commercial. It felt like every review you’d ever gotten: flat direction, overwrought, emotionally shallow. You could practically hear a snide critic’s voice echoing in your skull as your eyes rolled so hard they nearly got stuck.

“Wow. Really phoning it in tonight, huh?” you mutter, voice dry as sandpaper, “Seriously? You think I’m worth mugging? I don’t even have a coat.”

You slump against the rain-slick brick, the mortar biting through your thin button-up. Cold seeps straight into your spine as the knife presses harder—not deep enough to break skin, just enough to remind you this scene isn’t over yet. The mugger’s hands tremble like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

You sigh—long, theatrical, like a curtain call no one asked for.

“Come on. Where’s the emotion? The stakes? You’re desperate—show me that. Cry a little. Maybe scream. I’m all for authenticity, but you’ve got to rehearse your lines before curtain. This kind of improv?” You wag a finger, “It throws everyone off. Wrecks continuity. Makes for very angry sponsors.”

One hand lifts in mock surrender, the other gesturing vaguely, “Honestly, if I were running this scene, I’d cut you entirely. Maybe replace you with a mute clown. At least that’d be memorable.”

“I said money!” His voice cracks—thin, frayed, angry.

“Alright, alright—no need to get moody,” you say, lifting your hands like you’re trying to soothe a diva mid-tantrum, “I’ve got some cash. Right side, pants pocket. Not a lot, but hey—supporting roles don’t pay like they used to.”

The mugger steps in, close enough for you to smell the sour rot of his breath. The blade catches a flicker of neon as he moves. One hand drops from your collar, trembling fingers inching toward your pocket, greedy for the crumpled bills stuffed inside.

Then— A stutter. A splat.

He drops like dead weight.

You blink. You really hope he's not dead. Police on your set doesn't make for great paparazzi.

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly mediocre Tuesday night, yeah?”

The voice cuts clean through the alley’s tension. Behind the crumpled body, a man stands framed in the dim glow of the restaurant’s now-open back door. It swings lazily shut behind him, sighing on its hinges. A sliver of warm kitchen light spills into the dark, casting him in sharp streaks—city haze curling at his shoulders like smoke, neon lights stuttering across the shock of white hair. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He wears a chef’s coat, still dusted with flour. Oil stains splatter faded patterns across the front, abstract and familiar—like he’s been through worse than grease fires. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Forearms lean, marked by old burns and kitchen scars that tell their own stories.

But it’s his eyes that freeze the moment: too calm. A bit cheeky actually.

And then—he smiles.

“You alright?” he asked, voice warm and casual, as if this were all terribly normal.

You exhaled—finally. “No. Worse.”

His grin widened—easy, lopsided, a bit cute, “Oh?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing, amusement curling at the edge of your exhaustion. Slowly, deliberately, you raised your hands, fingers forming two sharp “L”s in front of your face like a makeshift director’s frame. He blinked, puzzled, but didn’t move. Just stood there in his flour-dusted chef coat, letting you silently finish your odd little ritual. In the cooler light, his messy white hair almost shimmers, catching the moonlight like a soft halo. Those cyan eyes—no colored contacts could ever match their intensity—hold you with a magnetic calm. His features are sculpted—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, the clean lines of someone carved rather than born—but softened around the edges by something subtler. A kind of gentleness. There's an almost feminine grace to him, and androgyny like that is rare in this line of work.

Not bad. Not bad at all. He's got leading man energy. Stupid nickname pending already.

“Alright, you’re hired,” you say, lowering your hands with a satisfied smile, even snapping your fingers together. You reach into your pocket and fish out a slightly crumpled business card, the edges softened from wear. Holding it out with a slow, deliberate gesture, you meet his eyes, “Come to this location at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Do not be late.”

The man takes the card between his fingers, pale light glinting off its glossy finish. He doesn’t even glance at it but nods once in acknowledgment. You catch the faintest flicker of curiosity—or maybe confusion—crossing his features. Fair enough. The last few minutes have been strange. Without another word, you pivot on your heel and vanish into the wet night. The neon sign above buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over the slick pavement. Rain continues to fall in a soft drizzle, its quiet patter blending with the distant hum of the city.

Phainon stands for a moment, eyes lingering on your retreating form. Then, he tucks the card into the pocket of his chef’s coat and slips back through the swinging kitchen door. Inside, the kitchen bursts with life—the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the hiss of steam and the sharp calls of the night crew. The air hangs heavy with the scent of garlic, hot oil, and sweat. Phainon weaves through the cramped space with practiced ease, sidestepping a precarious stack of dirty plates and a boiling pot. He spots Mydei leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, furiously wiping down the stainless steel surface.

“Mydei!” Phainon calls out over the clatter, bursting through the swinging kitchen doors with the kind of urgency usually reserved for grease fires or health inspectors. His voice cracks slightly—a blend of panic and poorly hidden excitement, “I need to use my vacation days… like, right now!”

Mydei looks up from wiping the prep counter, rag frozen mid-swipe. He blinks slowly, a slight twitch in his eye, “…What? Why all of a sudden?”

Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his shoes squeaking faintly on the slick tile. His hands hover in the air, fingers twitching as if trying to physically pluck an explanation out of thin air, “I got hired for a new job!”

There’s a beat of silence before Mydei sets the rag down with exaggerated care, eyes narrowing, “A new—what the fuck are you talking about, Phainon? What job?”

“Uh… I don’t know yet?” Phainon says, scratching the back of his neck, white hair mussing even more. His cheeks flush pink under the harsh fluorescent lights as he avoids Mydei’s gaze. Mydei stares at him. Then, with the dead-eyed precision of someone who’s endured Phainon’s nonsense one too many times, he balls up the rag and chucks it at his face. It hits with a wet smack.

Phainon takes it in stride, sighing dramatically as the rag slides off his cheek and flops onto the floor. That one actually kind of hurt.

FADE OUT:

ACT I, SCENE I

CUT

---

ACT II, SCENE VII

FADE IN:

INT. OFFICE - MORNING

“Phainon,” he says, “Chef, part-time dishwasher. Full-time… problem-solver.”

You didn’t like working with new talent. They were either too chatty, jabbering when silence was gold, or too violent, quick to throw fists instead of listening. Too flashy, desperate to be seen and heard, or too late, showing up after the damage was already done. You’d burned through three rookies this month alone. One choked on his own ambition, pushing too hard to prove he belonged. Another took a contract that nearly tore your lungs out—an amateur mistake you barely survived. The last one vanished without a trace—along with your favorite coat, a souvenir from better days. But every now and then, you find a diamond in the rough. A raw edge of talent, hidden beneath the grime and mistakes, waiting for someone to buff, cut, and polish it until it catches the light just right. It’s a gamble, sure, but when it pays off? The spotlight shines brighter than any artificial light, and it’s worth every scar.

This one was different. For starters, you were pretty sure his name was fake—because seriously, what kind of name is Phainon? Even a pen name wouldn’t be so pretentious as to literally mean “bright” or “shining.” It sounded less like a real name and more something a self-important poet might invent during a late-night epiphany.

And the second part… well.

He was perfect. “Phainon” had no visible character flaws, on or off the set. On set, he delivered his lines flawlessly, every word crisp and natural, as if he were born to deliver. The perfect actor, as if the Grandfather of Cinema himself had accidentally dropped the wrong copy of the script straight from the heavens and placed Phainon in your lap. You’d heard of extreme method actors, but you weren’t sure you’d ever seen anyone quite his caliber. Phainon carried that same cheery, placid smile everywhere—never cracking, never faltering. It was almost eerie, as though he was permanently stuck in character, perhaps a little too comfortable living in that perfection.

It began with a crew light—an aging floodlight mounted too high, groaning under its own weight—teetering dangerously during the shoot. You caught the shift from the corner of your eye, but just a fraction too late. The metal rig wobbled precariously on its worn stand, bolts frayed and rusted from years of use. Its spotlight began a slow, deadly tilt. One more second and it would’ve come crashing down onto you. Maybe on someone else’s head too. Definitely on your budget.

Then: Action.

A flicker of white darted past the edge of the frame. A hood caught in the breeze, revealing a sun tattoo peeking just above the hem—faint, golden, a quiet hum of warmth on an otherwise cold, gray day. The hand that reached up moved with unhurried calm, catching the heavy light with ease and steadying it as if soothing a spooked animal. No grunt, no stumble—just a solid arm. You didn’t even get the chance to ask if he was okay before Phainon turned his head slightly, voice low and soft enough for only you to hear.

“Don’t flinch. You’ll ruin the shot, Director.”

There was a smile in his voice—faint, teasing, but never mocking. A soft flutter of wind caught at his coat as quiet footsteps faded away, carrying him back to his mark as if nothing had happened. You stood frozen for a moment, your throat tightening somewhere between a thank-you and a curse. Then your brain snapped back into motion.

“Places!” you bark, louder than necessary. “Everyone, back to one. Reset the track. Lights, tighten your rigging!”

The crew scrambles, rushing to their positions. The light is back where it belongs. The shot is saved. But your heart keeps hammering, a cold knot tightening in your chest. And Phainon? He never looks your way again.

It happened again on the third day of shooting, past golden hour and well into the frayed edge of everyone’s nerves. The air on set hung heavy with heat and halogen, buzzing lights above throwing sharp-edged shadows. A missed prop cue. A wardrobe malfunction. Too many takes are bleeding into each other. Tension layered thick as smoke.

Then the sponsor snapped.

“You want to run this circus? Then maybe act like it!” he barked, his voice cracking across the soundstage. You stood rigid in front of the monitor, clutching the camera like it might anchor you. Your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. Around you, the crew shifted—some pretending not to notice, others casting you wary or sympathetic glances. No one said a word.

Your knuckles were bone-white.

Then—quietly, steadily—someone stepped up behind you. Not intruding. Just… present.

“Don't be so wired,” said a low voice near your ear. Smooth. Steady. Certain.

Phainon.

You felt him before you saw him—the calm weight of his hand closing gently over yours, adjusting your grip on the camera. His fingers were cool, the pads calloused but exact, like a pianist’s—or someone used to handling delicate machinery. Probably a knife. You keep forgetting he used to be a chef. The tension in your shoulders began to unspool, though you didn’t loosen your hold just yet.

“They can yell all they want,” he said, his eyes on the chaos unfolding ahead like it was nothing more than set dressing, “But you’re the one holding the lens.”

You blinked.

The words landed somewhere beneath your ribs, quiet but steady—reminding you what mattered. What was still yours to hold.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Are you saying I should throw it at them?” you muttered, eyes forward.

A pause. Then the faint tug of a smirk at his lips.

“Respectfully,” he said, releasing your hand with the same lightness he’d arrived with, “I don’t think you’ve got the arm strength for that.”

A breath caught in your throat—then slipped out as a crooked laugh. Small, but real.

Your shoulders eased. You raised the camera again, adjusted the lens with new focus, and called out to the crew, “Reset. We’re going again.”

No one argued.

And when you looked back, Phainon was already across the set—sleeves rolled, calmly discussing lighting with a grip. Just another cog in the machine. Seamless. Unbothered. But you knew. He’d been there—in a moment no one else had dared to step into. Quietly, without fanfare, he’d drawn a line around you. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just enough. Just present.

Another time, it was water.

The shoot had dragged into its twelfth hour. Your eyes were dry from staring at monitors too long, your neck stiff, brain fogged over. You hadn’t moved from your chair in what felt like days. Around you, the set buzzed with quiet urgency—stagehands murmuring, the distant clatter of equipment, the steady hum of overhead lights. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching. You barely noticed anything anymore. Then, as quietly as a breath, a bottle of water landed beside your elbow. Cool against the warm metal of the table. Condensation slid down its side, catching the light. The cap was already cracked open, like someone knew you wouldn’t have the energy.

“You forgot to hydrate again, Director,” Phainon said—his voice barely rising above the ambient buzz. Not a scold. Not exactly concern. Just… not letting it slide. He didn’t wait for thanks, didn’t even look at you. Just placed the bottle there like it belonged, lingering a moment longer before turning away.

You blinked down at it, then up at him—already halfway across the set, his white sleeves a blur in the chaos.

“Thanks… Phainon,” you called after him, his name slipping out like an afterthought, a little awkward on your tongue. He didn’t stop walking, but the corner of his mouth tilted upward. And you swore, even without turning back, he looked pleased all the same.

And in the quiet, long after the shouting had died down, the lights had dimmed, and most of the crew had gone home, you sat alone, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the monitor. The same take played for the fifth time. Then the sixth. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for anymore. Every shot blurred into the next. Maybe it had never been good. Perhaps none of it was working. Your hands hovered near the controls but didn’t move. Self-doubt crept in like mold—slow, patient, and relentless. Then, a soft shuffle of footsteps—quiet, not meant to be noticed. But you noticed anyway. Phainon paused behind you. No grand entrance, no forced comfort—just the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in slightly, arms crossed.

“It’s starting to feel real, Director.”

His voice was gentle, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. It cut through the fog in your mind sharper than any shout ever could. Never intrusive. Never loud. But always there—flipping the switch, setting the shot, grounding the chaos—until, without meaning to, you realized: your story was unfolding.

“Don’t look away now.”

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. First, it was the way the sunrise hit the coffee steam just right during a late rewrite session. Then, how an offhand line an actor improvised during rehearsal rang louder than anything you wrote. A casting mishap landed you a last-minute extra whose face—wrinkled, worn, honest—became the heart of the scene. The rain started the second the camera rolled, unplanned but perfect. The crescent moon in the sky reflected in the growing puddles. A location scout tripped into a forgotten alley that looked exactly like the one from your dreams. A song on the radio—static-filled, half-familiar—stitched your ending together like thread through old film. And somehow, by the time the final cut played in front of a blinking crowd, you realized you’d made something. Something real. Not just a movie. A moment. Yours.

Your short film, after more than a decade of nothing, was an instant success.

ACT III, SCENE X

FADE IN:

EXT. OAK FAMILY BUILDING BALCONY - NIGHT

“Isn’t this a non-smoking area?” Phainon asked, his tone light as he watched the rumpled man in a too-tight dress shirt, a wine-red tie slung loosely over one shoulder, spark his lighter and take a long drag from a cigarette. A puff of smoke curled slowly into the air as the man—Gallagher, if Phainon remembered correctly—threw him a sideways glance.

“You gonna tattle on me, boy?” The man’s voice was raspy, but not as deep as Phainon had expected. He chuckled, shaking his head.

With Gallagher positioned right out in the open—perfectly visible from both the celebration hall and the balcony—Phainon figured the old man’s employer, the grey-haired patriarch of the Oak family, had a clear view of him lighting up. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Gallagher wanted to get caught. The man took another drag, the cigarette burning low. Smoke curled around his fingers, lazily drifting upward like something alive and indifferent. His gaze flicked to Phainon again—sharper this time—not just annoyed or amused, but knowing.

“You’re a long way from your post, halo-boy,” Gallagher mutters, exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nose, “Daemons don’t usually hover around like lost puppies. Unless you’re planning to break the rules.”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. His hands slip into his coat pockets—those subtle pockets the waitstaff never quite notice. His stance is too casual for someone standing so openly exposed. But his eyes-those unnervingly still cyan eyes—remain fixed on the city beyond the balcony, as if he’s watching the future unfold frame by frame.

“I didn’t break any rules,” Phainon says softly, voice steady as ever, hands folded neatly behind his back, “Not yet.”

The smoke curling from Gallagher’s cigarette wavers. He lets out a low, wet chuckle—gravel and tar caught in his throat.

“Yet,” he repeats, amused. His sharp teeth flash beneath the city’s sodium haze, “So it’s true. You’re attached to them. The ‘Director.’”

He drags the title through the ash with mock reverence, “What’s the game here? Some divine redemption arc? Guilt? Or just bored of the clouds and decided to babysit a trainwreck?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch but he exhales slowly through his nose, thoughtful. The damp night wind tousles loose strands of his white hair. There’s a flicker in his eyes—not irritation, not offense—but something older. Resigned. He hums softly, tilting his head as if Gallagher’s question were nothing more than a passing breeze instead of a loaded jab. His gaze drifts past the demon, toward the ballroom doors, where your silhouette slips out of sight, shoulders heavy but still moving forward.

“Is it so wrong...” Phainon says at last, voice dipped in something quiet and certain, “to have a little hope?”

For a beat, Gallagher goes still, the ember of his cigarette burning just a little too bright in the dark. He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils, “Doesn’t sound like a good ending.”

The wind tugs faintly at their coats. The city hums below the balcony—distant honks, the low thrum of a passing tram, neon reflected in puddles like half-forgotten memories. Phainon doesn’t answer at first, only glancing over with that strange, unreadable stillness about him. A ghost of a smile, barely there, plays on his lips. Not joy. Not mockery. Something in between.

“It never is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, as if the truth might shatter if spoken too loud.

Gallagher’s jaw works. His fingers twitch, the cigarette burning dangerously close to the filter. He doesn’t look at Phainon—just stares out into the night, as if searching for answers buried in the rain-slick skyline. The weight of those words settles between them, heavier than the smog hanging in the air. A silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, only witnessed. Gallagher flicks the cigarette over the railing. Sparks trail behind like dying fireflies.

“Hope your miracle’s worth it,” he says, quieter now. Not a sneer. Almost… reverent.

Phainon doesn’t respond.

His eyes are already elsewhere, drawn past the smoke, the streetlamps, and the flickering signs, back to the celebration hall doors. The faintest hint of movement. A silhouette. You. His charge. His burden. His reason.

And he watches, as if you’re the only real thing in this world of false lights.

Mydei

Warning: It's quite brief, but just in case: Guns, death, fighting, mission gone wrong, PTSD, panic attacks, and blood.

Apotheosis ( ἀποθέωσις ) — The process by which a mortal is elevated to divine status, becoming a god or a divine being. This transformation often occurs after death or as a reward for extraordinary deeds, heroism, or favor from the gods.

/////CONFIDENTIAL MILITARY REPORT

REPORT #: 0319-AMPH/CK DATE: 08 APR 2X25 TIME: 15:01 LOCATION: Outpost 7, Sector 9A, Hospital Room 201 REPORTING OFFICER: CPL. [REDACTED], CALLSIGN: TRIGGER ASSOCIATED PERSONNEL: LT. MYDEIMOS, CALLSIGN: LIONHEART STATUS: SURVIVAL / EXTRACTION COMPLETE CASUALTIES: KIA (8), SURVIVORS (2)

HEPHAESTION [REDACTED], PERDIKKAS [ REDACTED], LEONNIUS [REDACTED], PTOLEMY [REDACTED], PEUCESTA [REDACTED], LEONIDAS [REDACTED], CLITUN [REDACTED], HYLES [REDACTED]

DETAILS TO FOLLOW IN EXTENDED REPORT/////

The sterile white walls closed in around you—a cold, suffocating cage. Your ribs throbbed painfully with every shallow breath, each inhale sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. A persistent beep echoed steadily from the heart monitor—an unrelenting reminder that you were alive, but barely. You sure didn’t feel like it. Your fingers twitched restlessly beneath the thin hospital blanket, the fabric rough against your skin. Your mind churned with memories you dared not speak aloud.

The door opened abruptly with a sharp knock. For a moment, you were terrified it was Jing Yuan—but a stranger stepped inside, eyes sharp and unwavering. His uniform was crisp, his presence commanding, as if the weight of the entire military bore down on his broad shoulders. A few other men flanked him quietly, their hands folded behind their backs.

“What happened out there?” he demanded, his voice cold and unyielding. You’d never seen this man before, but just from his tone alone, you knew he held a higher rank—probably a corporal. Your throat tightened painfully. The truth felt like a heavy stone lodged in your chest: Mydei falling, the battlefield descending into chaos, and something impossible stirring beneath it all. Swallowing past the lump, you forced your voice into a steady calm. You were secretly relieved it wasn’t Jing Yuan—he would have known you were lying just from your breathing.

“It was bad. Worse than anything I’ve been through. We were pinned down, outnumbered,” You paused, biting back the urge to spill everything, licking your dry lips, “But Myd- Lieutenant Mydeimos- he… he took care of it. Made sure I got out… He saved my life, sir.”

The corporal’s eyes narrowed, sharp and piercing, as if trying to slice through the walls you’d built, “Your mission was intel-gathering on the Titans. Our transcriptions show there was a deliberate shutdown of your recording equipment for 33 minutes and 46 seconds, right when the fire team went dark. Care to explain that?”

You clenched your jaw, mind racing as you scrambled for the right answer—the truth carefully hidden beneath layers of omission.

“No excuse, sir. We’d been compromised, and in my panic, my hand caught the wire…” You trailed off, unsure what more to say. Lowering your head, you let the silence fill the room. The corporal’s gaze lingered, suspicion flickering beneath his disciplined exterior. Yet he said nothing further. The faint scribble of his pen on paper marked every word you’d spoken. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

“We’ll verify your story. Any inconsistencies won’t be tolerated. Rest easy.”.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you swallowed by silence. You let out a shaky breath, the weight of your secret crushing your chest like a vice.

No one could know what you’d truly witnessed.

You closed your eyes and saw it again — the battlefield torn apart, the eerie stillness that had swallowed Mydei’s form, the unnatural twitch that defied every law you’d ever known.

Your fingers curled tightly, knuckles white against the sheet.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The silence of the hospital room pulsed like a second heartbeat. You blinked slowly, still seeing the afterimages — his silhouette against firelight, still standing after everything.

He should’ve stayed dead.

///// 03 JUNE 2X21 /////

You’d only been in the military for three months. Fresh out of basic training. Your boots still looked too clean. Your shoulders ached under the weight of gear that didn’t quite feel like yours yet. Your weapon was standard issue, gripped tightly in nervous hands, and your stomach knotted with the thrill of deployment and the terror of screwing up. You were running drills in a scorched training field, smoke and noise everywhere. A hail of bullets cracked through the air, and your fingers moved on instinct — pull, reset, pull—

Click.

A high, empty click.

No bang. Dead air. Just silence.

Then— Metal screamed. Something jammed. Heat surged. Your hand jolted back—

Too late.

The gun backfired. A strong hand on the back of your collar, before you felt weightless. Another hand, ripping the gun from yours.

A sudden boom. A fire of bullets rained down on the sand all at once.

Someone’s shouting. Someone thinks you fired intentionally. You didn’t. But in the silence that follows, no one cares what you meant to do. You hit the dirt with a solid, ungraceful thud—ears full of static, smoke curling off your gloves. The scent of gun oil and burnt polymer flooded your nose.

Your weapon skittered across the ground, like it wanted to run away from you.

Then: boots. Heavy. Sure. Grounded like bedrock. A shadow loomed over you—massive, broad-shouldered—his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears like gravel under steel.

“You alive, rookie?”

You blinked through smoke and pain, heart hammering against your ribs. You looked up—and that was the first time you saw Mydei. Everything about him seemed larger than life. Broad chestplate scratched from years of fieldwork. His face is somehow still youthful yet serious, and his pupils almost look like cats. You scrambled to sit up, humiliated, your fingers shaking as you reached for your weapon.

“I—my gun—I'm sorry—sir—” you choked out. He crouched beside you, fingers already moving with expert precision. In less than a second, he popped the jammed receiver and tilted it toward you.

“Double-feed. Barrel overpressured. Could’ve taken your head clean off,” he said evenly.

You couldn’t breathe. You almost died. His voice was calm, almost bored, but the words dropped like lead in your stomach. You glanced down at your rifle—the twisted mess of jammed brass, the blackened edge of the barrel still warm from near-disaster. You hadn’t even realized your hands were still clenched until they started to shake.

You swallowed hard. Ah, crap. This was it. You were done.

They’d kick you for this. Discharged. Maybe even court-martialed. That kind of mistake—you’d be lucky if they didn’t strip your rank before lunch. Your throat burned. You thought about your father’s voice when you told him you’d enlisted. You thought about all the instructors who said you’d never hack it. You thought about how your superior was staring down at you like he was already writing the report in his head.

But he didn’t move to confiscate your weapon. Didn’t call for an officer. Instead—

“But that’s not your fault,” he continued, “Factory flaw. The 8T series has a bad batch.”

You blinked. “…Sir?”

“I’ve seen two of these explode this month,” he said, standing. His armor creaked as he straightened—a towering presence, expression unreadable under the shadow of his helmet, “Not a rookie error. Just a damn bad roll of the dice.”

He held out his hand. Gloved. Firm. Steady. Not a hint of judgment in it.

“Well, Cadet Trigger,” he added with a faint smirk, “you’ve got a guardian angel somewhere. Or maybe just dumb luck.”

“…Trigger?”You stared up at him, still frozen on the floor. Your ears were still ringing from the close call. Sweat clung to your back, but the tension began to loosen—just a little—as your fingers curled around his and he pulled you to your feet.

He gave you a once-over. Not suspicious. Not cold. Just… amused.

“Guns don’t just go off like that,” he said, walking past, “Unless the trigger’s cursed.”

A pause. A glance over his shoulder, “Or the trigger’s you.”

The other cadets were still staring. Some muttering. Some snickering. But he walked away without another word, and suddenly, you didn’t care about your brush with death.

That nickname stuck.

And so did he.

---

Two days later, you were still tasting gunpowder. Your arm was in a sling, fingers scratched and stiff. The medics had said you were lucky—nothing broken, no burns deep enough to scar. “Close call,” they said, like it wasn’t already replaying in your skull on a loop. But your rifle was toast, and so was your confidence. Jeez, you wanted to put your head in your hands and scream like a little girl. Luckily, they let you sit out the next field rotation, but you weren’t allowed to sit still. You cleaned. You logged ammo. You memorized spec manuals until the text started swimming. Anything to stop thinking about the moment that weapon nearly took your life.

That, and the man who’d stopped the storm like it was nothing.

Mydei.

You hadn’t seen him since. Just the image in your head—boots in the dirt, that low voice like gravel and thunder. You thought maybe you'd hallucinated it. Maybe your brain had dreamed up a perfect soldier to soften the fact that you'd almost eaten your own gun. But, because the Aeons were cruel, suddenly it was as if that was all you could hear.

“Hey, Trig.”

The voice came from two bunks over—casual, half-muttered around a protein bar and a yawn. It was that lean guy with the buzzcut, Marcus or Malin or something? Maybe Marcus was correct—always half out of uniform, always in everyone else’s business. You looked up from your cot, still rubbing the dull ringing out of your ears. Your hands itched—ghost memory of the rifle’s weight, the near-silent click before chaos. Your pack sat half-unzipped at your feet. The gun was long gone to diagnostics, but your heart hadn’t stopped racing since they pried it from your hands.

Marcus tilted his head, that loose, crooked grin plastered on his face.

“That was some shit, huh?” he said, nodding toward you like you’d just won a bar figh, “They’re saying the Lionheart pulled your ass out?”

You hesitated.

The cot creaked beneath you as you sat up straighter, biting back the lump of uncertainty in your throat. The name—Mydei—still echoed in your head. You could see him, glove extended, voice calm, while you drowned in embarrassment and adrenaline.

“…I guess,” you said finally.

Marcus let out a low whistle and slapped his thigh.

“You don’t even know, man,” He leaned in, like he was telling you a secret not meant for green ears, “That guy—he’s like a fucking cryptid. You’ve heard the stories, right?”

You blinked.

You hadn’t. Not really.

You’d heard instructors mention him with that weird mix of respect and wariness. Some called him a relic. Others said he’d been transferred so many times that no one knew where he’d actually started. You remembered someone once joking that Mydei didn’t even have a last name—just the call sign and a body count. You thought it was just mess hall gossip.

Now he had a face. A voice. A hand that had pulled you off the floor.

Another voice chimed in—older, gruffer, “Heard Lionheart once got shot in the neck and still held his breath long enough to drag a pilot out of a downed jet.”

“B.S.,” someone muttered. “I heard he went MIA for five days and showed up with five enemy tags and no backup.”

“Five? I heard it was eight.”

“You’re all wrong,” said the lean guy again, eyes gleaming. “He’s not even supposed to be alive. They say he died once. Heart stopped—flatlined in the middle of a rescue op. The whole unit saw it. Then—bam. Woke up. Stood up. Finished the mission like nothing happened.”

You stayed silent.

That last story always stuck to your ribs.

Dead. Then not. Woke up.

You shook it off.

What mattered was the memory: his hand pulling you up. His voice not blaming you. The fact that he noticed the malfunction before anyone else did—and comforted you when he had no reason to.

Whatever else he was—ghost, monster, soldier—He was kind.

“You alive, rookie?”

Yeah. You were. Because of him.

///// 17 MAY 2X23 /////

Your transfer papers came through. You stared at the orders like they might vanish if you blinked too fast.

“Effective immediately, reassigned to Special Task Unit 0-9. Handler: Mydeimos "Lionheart".”

The room spun for a second. Or maybe that was just the five hours of sleep you hadn’t gotten. Special Task Unit 0-9 was a name whispered between barracks with reverence and disbelief. The kind of team they pulled together for missions that never made it to public reports. You weren’t even sure it existed until now. Your palms went slick as you tucked the papers under your arm and headed toward Deployment Hangar C—the one with reinforced walls, heavier security, and the unmarked transport ships that came and went without manifest.

You didn’t feel ready. But you weren’t about to turn it down.

The elevator groaned as it descended into the lower decks. Your reflection in the chrome panel was pale, jaw tight. You adjusted your uniform for the third time before the doors hissed open. The task force’s prep bay was silent. No shouting. No clatter. No wasted movement. Just a group of soldiers in matte black gear, moving like a well-oiled machine. And at the center—

There he was.

Mydei.

He hadn’t changed. Broad shoulders framed by heavier-grade armor. Helmet clipped to his side. Same calm presence—like standing near a thunderstorm that hadn’t decided whether to break yet. He looked over when you stepped in, and your chest locked up. Was he going to remember you? That moment when you were just another green recruit with a broken rifle?

He stared for a moment. Then gave a nod—a small, sharp one.

“Trigger.”

That single word landed like a stamp on your bones.

You straightened. “Sir.”

He handed you a tablet, “Loadout briefing’s inside. Mission clock starts at 0700. Get acquainted with the others.”

And just like that, you were in. No ceremony. No welcome speech. Just his quiet voice, the smell of oil and metal, and the heat of pressure beneath your skin. But even that was more than enough. You followed the others through orientation drills. They were tighter than any squad you’d worked with. Efficient. Sharp. Not a lot of talking. Not a lot of room for mistakes. But nobody doubted Mydei’s commands when they came. Nobody hesitated. And slowly, you found your rhythm.

The first op went smooth. The second, less so—a recovery run that turned into an ambush. You got clipped. Not bad, but enough to knock you off your feet. Mydei was the one who dragged you to cover, kept pressure on the wound while giving orders to the others.

“You alright, Trigger?” he asked, voice low but steady. You nodded, even though your ribs screamed.

“Good,” he said. “Next time, don’t let ’em flank you. You’re sharper than that.”

He didn’t say it with anger. Just certainty. Like he knew you could do better. Like he expected you to. And maybe for the first time, you believed it too.

///// 23 JULY 2X23 /////

That night, you caught him in the makeshift kitchen at the back of the mobile command unit. He was baking. Baking. A giant, undying soldier with hands like thunder—gently stirring batter in a cracked metal bowl. The whole room smelled like cinnamon and almonds.

You blinked, “...Sir?”

“You like cookies?” he asked. He didn't even look up.

“Uh. Yes? I mean—yes, sir.”

He tossed you one without looking. Perfect arc, landed in your palm like he’d done it a thousand times.

“I always bake after missions,” he said. “Keeps the team human.”

Not sure what else to do than stare like a creep, you bit into it and nearly melted on the spot. It was warm. Sweet. A little chewy around the edges. Comforting in a way that hit harder than it should have. You could see why the team loved him. He didn’t keep the people he trusted at arm’s length. Not like some legends did.

There was that time he asked how your side was healing after that shrapnel hit. Offered you water after long marches. Taught you how to disassemble your rifle faster when no one else was watching. Always subtle. Always patient. He showed you how to tell weather shifts by the weight of the clouds. Let you taste his drink choices, pomegranate juice with a splash of milk, because Mydei loved the colour pink. Once, you helped him prep a care package for an orphanage his squad had supported during deployment cycles—baked goods, canned supplies, a letter written in his clean, precise hand.

“You always send them stuff?” you asked, folding socks for the bundle.

“Every quarter,” he said. “And every time I survive something I shouldn’t.”

“Why them?”

Mydei paused.

“Because they’re small. And soft. And the world forgets soft things exist unless someone reminds it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So, you just nodded and helped pack.

You started watching him more closely.

How his movements were deliberate—always precise, as if every motion had been calculated a thousand times before. How he always stood with his back to the wall, eyes scanning, never fully relaxed, as though the world outside his reach might turn on him at any second. How his jaw tightened when loud noises—especially the sound of distant gunfire or the crack of a falling object—cut through the air. It was a small thing, a barely perceptible flinch, but you caught it every time. He cleaned his gear longer than anyone else, sometimes hours after the others had turned in for the night. The clink of metal tools against steel echoed in the quiet. His hands moved methodically over the rifle, adjusting, re-checking, always making sure it was pristine, even if there was no immediate need. You wondered if he did it to fill the silence—or if, somehow, the repetitive action grounded him, kept him anchored. Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, you caught him staring out into the distance, eyes far away, lost in some thought or memory you couldn’t reach. The edges of his expression softened, and for a second, he didn’t look like the myth they spoke of. He looked human. Broken. You weren’t sure when it became a habit—this need to understand him. The way you found yourself tracking his movements in the corner of your eye, trying to piece together the cracks in his armor, wondering what made him tick. Maybe it was the quiet, patient way he led—always watching, always observing, as if waiting for you to figure it out for yourself. But it was more than that. It was a quiet curiosity, a pull in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

But it did. And it stuck.

///// 25 MARCH 2X25 /////

It was supposed to be clean.

Extraction. Quick in-and-out. A scattered outpost hidden in a valley of fog and wire, half-swallowed by terrain and time. Intel said there were no active combatants—just recovery, debrief, then wheels up.

They were wrong.

Your boots sank into the mud just as the first scream ripped through the comms.

Then, the line went dead.

“Guards up. Full spread,” Mydei ordered, voice sharp as always, already moving with purpose, “Trig, with me.”

The outpost was gutted, a carcass left to rot under the weight of time. No roof. No walls. Just broken floors sagging under forgotten weight, rusted tech littered in disarray, wires hanging from the rafters like old veins. Vines curled around shattered terminals, their damp leaves clinging to the remnants of a world long abandoned. In the periphery of your vision, something wet dragged across the floor—slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of dark against the gray concrete. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and rot. The hum of static from broken electronics buzzed faintly in the background, the only sound cutting through the oppressive silence—until the second scream cut through the comms, slicing through the air like a knife. Shadows pooled in the corners, lingering, moving in ways that didn’t make sense. There was no sun here, only the sickly glow from the dying lights above.

It didn’t feel like a mission. It felt like a trap.

One second, the squad moved forward in tight formation, boots silent on the cracked floor. Eyes darted, weapons held at the ready, and every footfall was calculated, precise. The next—an explosion erupted from beneath the ground with a violent, earth-shattering force. The world detonated around you. The floor buckled, throwing you off balance. The air was filled with dust and fire. You fired. So did everyone else. Rounds tore through flesh, the staccato rhythm of gunfire mingling with screams. Bodies fell, some in slow motion, some collapsing all at once. Panic began to creep in from the edges of your vision, as if the world was pulling away, stretching out of focus. But through the chaos, Mydei was at the front, as always—unshakable, unyielding. Weapon roaring, hands steady, posture wide and rooted, as if the storm of fire and death couldn’t touch him. You stayed behind him, as you always did—silent, watching, waiting for the next order.

Then it happened. A single bullet pierced the air, followed by another six, each one cracking the stillness with brutal precision.

“Mydei—!” you shouted, panic rising in your throat as you tore through the chaos, your boots pounding against the blood-soaked floor. You shoved bodies aside, desperate to reach him, to see him move, to know he was still—

—he stopped moving. Not like a man ducking for cover. Not even like a soldier bracing for the next round. He went still. Too still. A sickening silence fell over the battlefield, sharp enough to cut through the ringing in your ears. Your breath caught, lungs frozen with disbelief. Something thudded deep in your chest. It wasn’t the pounding of your heart—it was something worse. Something cracking. Something breaking.

“TRIGGER—GET BACK—” someone shouted over the comms, the panic in their voice barely breaking through the fog of your own fear. But you didn’t hear them. You screamed his name again, the sound tearing at your throat, but it didn’t matter.

Mydei didn’t move.

And then—

He did.

Mydei stood.

But it wasn’t like before.

It was as if his body had forgotten how to move with purpose, how to follow the instincts that had always been so sure. His legs locked, muscles stiff, dragging him upright with a slow, unnatural jerk. The space between his movements seemed to stretch, as if time was slipping through the cracks of his body, leaving behind a brittle shell. Blood soaked his side, dark and pulsing through the torn armor, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch the wound.

His eyes—

They didn’t blink.

The way he stared—hollow, unseeing—made your stomach twist. Something was gone, something you couldn’t put your finger on. He was there, but he wasn’t. A presence that should’ve been solid, comforting, was now a gaping absence, standing in front of you like a phantom. You could barely breathe. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against your chest as if the very atmosphere around you had solidified. Mydei’s gaze shifted toward you, slow and deliberate. For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second, but it felt like an eternity. There was nothing in them. No spark. No recognition. Just an endless, blank void that swallowed every shred of comfort you’d ever found in those eyes. Mydei had always been a rock—steadfast, unwavering, a man you could trust without question. But now? The eyes staring back at you weren’t the same. They were distant, vacant. A shiver crept down your spine as the seconds stretched out between you. You felt it in the pit of your stomach—a weight, heavy and cold, pressing against your ribs, making it harder to breathe. His movements were too mechanical, too deliberate, his features frozen in a way that made your skin crawl.

And then, as though he was snapping back into place, he spoke. The words were cold, flat, devoid of the usual authority you’d come to rely on. They hung in the air, hollow and strange, as if they’d been ripped from his mouth rather than formed with intent.

“Leave. Now.”

The command was clear. It should have been enough. You should have been fine. But the voice—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t carry that familiar weight, that subtle but undeniable presence that had always kept you steady in the most chaotic of moments. This was something else. Something distant. Mechanical. You nodded, the motion automatic, a reflex born of years of training. And you moved. You obeyed. Of course you did.

---

There was no squad to regroup with. It felt more like a funeral procession than a recovery mission. You limped your way through the remnants of the outpost, the echoes of gunfire still faintly lingering in the back of your mind. Every step was a reminder of the brutality of what had just happened, but somehow, nothing felt real. The stench of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, but there was an odd emptiness, too, as if the space itself had been hollowed out.

Radioing for evac, you could hear the static crackle, the distant hum of machinery trying to piece together the reality of what was unfolding. Silence slowly closed around the outpost again—an unnatural stillness that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Every corner seemed to hide something else. You couldn't shake the feeling that the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for something else to happen.

You reached the evac ship. They pulled you aboard, your body barely holding together, every muscle screaming as they wrapped your arm and pushed adrenaline through your veins. The world became a blur of flashing lights and the steady pulse of heartbeats, both yours and theirs, too loud in the confined space. The scent of antiseptic cut through the stale air, sharp and foreign. And when they asked you what happened, all the words in your throat turned to stone. Your mind scrambled, trying to make sense of what had just occurred, but the truth—the truth—was too twisted to spit out. How could you explain it? How could you tell them that Mydei had been broken and whole, shattered and moving, all at once?

So you lied.

///// 10 APR 2X25 /////

“You’re saying the enemy forces ambushed your unit mid-recon?" Jing Yuan's voice was cool, methodical, and for the first time, his face was serious, sharpened, and guarded, "And you're saying only you and Lieutenant Mydei made it out?"

You gave a single, sharp nod. It wasn’t a full motion; more like a reflex. A response you’d practiced—taught yourself—to give when it was time to speak. The edge of your jaw ached as you clamped your mouth tight, resisting the urge to chew the words over. You didn’t let yourself breathe too deeply, didn't let your chest rise too much.

“Yes, sir," you said, the words leaving your throat faster than you could stop them. "He didn’t go down.” The lie felt heavier than it should, but you kept going. “Mydei pushed through. Got me out. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

The room felt smaller now, the air thicker. You couldn’t see the sterile walls, the machines blinking faintly, or the dim blue glow of the overhead light without feeling a sense of suffocation. The medical bay’s antiseptic smell of bleach and plastic seemed to crowd in around you, pressing on your temples, suffocating your thoughts. You tried to focus on the General's face, but all you saw were those memories—the twisted image of Mydei standing, bleeding, unblinking—and the words caught in your throat, threatening to spill out, to unravel everything.

Jing Yuan’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. The way his eyes lingered on you made your skin crawl, though you kept your posture straight. The silence stretched for a few seconds too long, but he didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he scribbled something down on his clipboard, the sharp sound of the pen against the paper like a gunshot in the stillness. The small movement seemed to draw his focus back to you, the weight of his stare pressing down harder than before.

“You’re certain?” His voice was just as calm, though now you could hear the subtle edge of doubt seeping through. He wasn’t asking because he thought you were lying. He was asking because he needed you to say it again. To make sure you were as certain as you claimed.

The temperature in the room seemed to dip lower. Your throat tightened, the heat of your earlier lie still clinging to your words. You swallowed, a dry, painful motion, "Yes, sir. I’m certain."

But the words felt hollow.

Jing Yuan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. The dull hum of the lights, the beeping of machines, the faint shuffling of the medics behind you—it all seemed to fade into the background, as if this moment, this question, was the only thing left in the universe. He watched you too long after that. Pen tapping against the corner of the datasheet like he wanted the sound to dig into your skull.

"Are you sure there's something you don't want to tell me?" Jing Yuan’s voice cuts through the silence once more. He’s set his pen down, fingers now laced together in a slow, deliberate motion. His chin rests on top of his hands, and his eyes—sharp, analytical—never leave you. It's not just a question anymore. It's a statement, a challenge, an unspoken demand for truth.

In that moment, you feel it.

Something clicks into place inside you. Not loud. Not dramatic. But there, all the same. A shift. A decision. Solid. Unyielding. You swallow against the knot in your throat, the taste of steel creeping up again. Your pulse quickens, but you hold firm, your gaze steady despite the chaos still swirling in your chest.

You’re not going to tell him. Not about what happened, not about the things you’ve seen, not about Mydei—about what he had been, what he still was, even if no one else could understand it. You can’t. You won't. Because whatever Mydei was now… whatever the truth really was, in that moment, when the blood was thick in the air and the odds seemed impossible, he’d still looked at you the same. Like a man who trusted you.

Still pulled you to your feet. Still saved your life.

If command ever found out — if they started probing, picking apart every detail, treating Mydei like some kind of asset to be dissected and analyzed — you didn’t know what would happen. And honestly, you didn’t want to know. The thought of them poking and prodding at something that, in your mind, still felt like your responsibility.

“…He saved me,” you said, the words slipping out with a finality you hadn't expected, "That’s all that matters."

Jing Yuan didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He studied your face, and his eyes narrowed just enough to make you feel like he was weighing the truth in you — maybe seeing something you weren’t saying, some subtle shift behind your words. He didn’t press, though. Not this time. He didn’t call your bluff, even though the tension between you seemed to thicken. Maybe it was the paperwork he was avoiding, or maybe there was something else in the way he was reading you.

Maybe — deep down — he already knew what you were protecting.

The click of his pen as it snapped shut felt like a verdict, sealing this moment, the weight of unspoken words between you both.

“Dismissed.”

Anaxa

Alogon (ἄλογον / A-logos) — A concept meaning “without reason” or “irrational.”.

[ "The performance of life, too, must eventually reach the curtain call." ]

“The students this year are all cotton-brained and leaking spinal fluid from their ears.”

“Good morning to you too, Doctor.”

Veritas—better known as Dr. Ratio—barely glances up at your snarky quip, probably because he gets more than enough sass from a certain blond-haired man who lives to test his patience. He pulls the staff chair across from you and takes a seat, already holding a stack of papers dripping with red ink.

Ouch. Those poor students. It must be their first class—there’s a whole checklist of requirements just to qualify for Ratio’s lectures, and even then, half of them probably walked in thinking they were smarter than they are. You recognize the pattern: wide eyes, overconfidence, and the slow withering of hope by the second week.

“It’s the first week. I think it’s fair to give everyone at least one morning of rest before they hit the ground running,” you hum, poking at your lunch. The colder mornings have been killing your appetite lately—everything tastes like cardboard and regret—but with Veritas parked across from you, you doubt you’ll get the chance to sneak off to the coffee machine without earning one of his patented glances. Not all of us are built like a brick house, Doctor. Seriously, what does he even need all those muscles for? Shoving copy machines? Launching chalk at students like bullets?

“If you’re that lax with students on the first day, they’ll take it as the standard and stay complacent forever,” Veritas says, crossing his arms in that dramatic, exasperated way of his. You can practically hear the quotation marks around the philosophical nonsense he just dropped. Then he levels you with a stare, “Do you even have your syllabus completed?”

Ah—caught. Better to look the other way; it makes that infamous glare feel a little less like walking barefoot over spikes and thorns.

“You always did leave things for the last minute.”

Veritas’s gaze shifts past your shoulder just as the sharp, deliberate click of heeled boots echoes across the staff room floor.

“Anaxagoras,” Veritas greets, tone flat but unmistakably acknowledging.

“Veritas,” Anaxa replies just as evenly, as if they’re exchanging chess moves instead of pleasantries.

The staff room hums with quiet tension, the only sound the faint, rhythmic scratching of Veritas’s pen carving through a stack of papers. His eyes flick up, catching you in a glance before passing over, “Still treating clocks like polite suggestions instead of hard rules.”

Anaxa responded with a casual shrug, slow and unconcerned, as if the concept of time were an amusing joke meant for someone else. A faint flicker of amusement played at the corner of his eyes when they met Veritas’s—a subtle challenge cloaked in indifference, “Didn’t realize I was missed.”

“You weren’t. But your absence was certainly quieter,” Veritas didn’t look away this time. He flipped a page with a crisp snap that punctuated the silence, the red ink staining the margins like fresh wounds—harsh and unforgiving. You couldn’t help but think the only reason these two tolerated each other was because Veritas was one of the few who actually used his full name.

"Alright, ladies, you're both beautiful. How about we settle down now?" you laugh easily, getting matching frowns from the two men.

It’s a nice morning, and the first day of classes unfolds in its usual slow, methodical rhythm. The staff room isn’t crowded—no one scrambling over the microwave, no complaints about the eternally broken coffee machine that’s been out of order as long as you’ve worked at Paperfold University. The hum of distant footsteps and low murmurs barely fill the space. Nearby, your closest work colleague and Anaxa exchange words under the thinnest, debatably professional pretenses—half casual banter, half veiled challenge. Their voices are low, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Yes, everything feels normal. As it should. Right down to the man you mourned all summer, sitting across from you like he never left—like the months since his death never happened, and nothing has changed.

[ I gained inspiration from death, and should repay as such. ]

Grief is sticky, like humidity.

You stand at the podium, gripping your notecards upside down, your fingers trembling just slightly. You’re wearing black this morning. Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, splashing shards of color across the room—but stabbing your eyes with its brightness. Everything feels soft and warm. Outside, summer rages on—the kind of summer Anaxa hated: sweltering, sticky, and alive with the relentless chorus of cars honking, buzzing in the heat.

“Anaxagoras was my best friend,” you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper.

That part is true. You were four when you picked up a smooth stone and threw it at the bully who called a boy a “nerd” for asking why lizards couldn’t fly. The question had seemed strange then, but you didn’t care—because even at that age, you knew some things deserved defending.

You were twelve when you watched from the back of the classroom as that same boy got kicked out for questioning a classmate’s religious beliefs. You’d snickered with the others, trying to be liked and avoid being ostracized, hiding the sting in your chest behind a half-smile.

At sixteen, you found yourself scribbling his name in the margins of your notebooks—small marks of presence, of connection, when words felt too fragile.

At twenty-one, it hit you with the sharp clarity of a late winter morning: the shape of your misery perfectly mirrored the shape of your love, and if he ever left, both would hollow out the same space inside you.

You are thirty-one now.

Anaxa lies in a coffin.

Around him, asphodels and myrtles are arranged with quiet care. The white flowers lend an impossible purity to the man who was anything but pure.

The single red pomegranate flower clutched in his hands only makes the stillness feel lonelier.

You don’t remember the rest of the speech. The words blur and fade into a dull hum beneath polite clapping. Aglaea squeezes your hand gently in the aisle—steady, grounding. The coffin lowers slowly, like a magic trick in reverse: now you see him, now you don’t. Faces around you crumble into tears, but you sit still, the weight of everyone else’s grief pressing down. Not that you don’t feel it—you do. You just don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, your fingers crush the cold metal of the ring he slipped onto your finger—the only thing keeping you afloat. Because if you let go, you know the scream trapped inside you would tear everything apart.

You don’t cry until three days later.

You’re curled up on the cold bathroom floor, wrapped in Anaxa’s ridiculous lizard onesie—the one he never wanted to admit he liked the most. His room has become a museum of ghosts—not the kind that haunt, but the kind that linger in memories. Chipped coffee mugs left half-full. An unfinished book on Yaldabaoth, the bookmark still folded into its pages. A burnt-out candle, faintly scented with juniper and smoke. The old flip phone, blinking with an unread message from you, frozen in time, waiting for a reply that will never come.

And then he’s standing there in your hallway. Paler than you remember—almost translucent—his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Skinnier, as if life itself has been siphoned from him. One eye hidden behind a patch, the other sharp and watchful. Still taller than you, looming despite his fragility. And that smile—wide, too wide; full of teeth. But it’s not the smile you once knew. It doesn’t reach his one remaining eye, which flickers with something unreadable.

You don’t scream. You don’t even flinch. Your breath catches, and your eyes blink slowly, disbelieving.

“Anaxagoras?”

“In the flesh,” he says, his voice low but familiar, almost teasing. He steps forward with unsettling calm.

You want to shout at him: You’re dead. I watched them lower your body into the dirt. I still have that gaudy black-and-white capelet that I hated so much. I wear it when I’m alone, like a fragile shield—like some broken, abandoned thing.

Instead, you say:

[ I am incredibly happy now. ]

Veritas was right. The students this year are performing far below average. You’re not sure how half of them even managed to submit their applications, let alone meet the qualifications. During one lecture, you thought you overheard a girl whispering to her seatmate, nervously asking for advice on how to take proper notes, as if that were some foreign concept. It’s reached the point where you find yourself bending the usual boundaries between professor and student, nudging and prodding more than you probably should, because you’re genuinely worried some of them might just roll over and pass out under the pressure. Your lectures and labs are mostly in the mornings, and while at least one student usually answers back to your cheerful “Good morning!”, the majority shuffle in like half-brained zombies. Their glazed eyes stare blankly ahead, as if their spines were leaking fluid that numbs their senses, and they meander toward the nearest seat with all the energy of a fading candle. You suppress a sigh. This won’t fly—there’s a teacher conference next week, and you’re already drafting your points in your head.

“You think loudly.”

You blink, shaken out of your spiral, and glance to the side. There’s Anaxa—your dead husband, a truth you have to repeat to yourself over and over—sitting there, relaxed and almost casual, behind the wheel as snowflakes drift lazily past the window. In the overexposed gray light filtering through the windshield, his skin looks even paler and malnourished: the kind of white you see before blindness, the light inside a star just before it collapses.

“Just thinking about what Veritas said is all…” Your voice trails off as your thoughts drift away again. Your mind screams at you to be afraid. To recoil. To run. Because what you’re seeing defies everything you know about life and death. A corpse—your husband’s corpse—is supposed to lie six feet underground, wrapped in linen and wood, cold and silent. But here he is instead, breathing, blinking, alive, driving you both home through the thickening snow.

“Veritas always has a way of making things sound more incontestable than they are,” Anaxa’s eyes flicker toward you from the driver’s seat, calm and unreadable behind his half-lidded gaze. You grip the edge of the seat, willing yourself to stay grounded. You are not hallucinating. You are not dreaming. You are not losing your mind. You believe in the science of dreams, in the logic of REM sleep cycles—but this feels like neither.

You glance at him, the weight of your thoughts pressing down, “It’s not incontestable. You’ve seen the students... everyone acts like they’re on autopilot. I’m concerned.”

He smirks—a slow, almost lazy curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his one good eye, “Life’s exhausting, isn’t it? Especially when people keep insisting on making it harder.”

You remember the nightmare you never wanted to relive: the shrill ring of your phone during lecture, the way your heart dropped as you answered, the trembling voice on the other end delivering the worst news—the news that your husband was dying.

“That sounds like something you’d say just to avoid talking about what really matters,” you almost laugh, though it comes out as a breathy exhale.

You left the classroom without a word, your students’ confused whispers fading behind you as you raced through rain-slicked roads. You reached the hospital, breathless and trembling, only to be told the truth you could barely face—he didn’t make it. You remember standing there, frozen, clutching the ring—the only piece of him left in your grasp. And now, as your eyes meet his in the car, a strange mix of fear, disbelief, and something darker curls in your chest. He’s here. Alive.

Anaxa shrugs, his eyes briefly glinting with amusement, “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’ve learned that sometimes, talking about it doesn’t make it better. Just louder.”

The car hums along, tires crunching softly over the snow.

[ Do not fear blasphemy— ]

Winter has made the house feel colder than it should, even with the heater murmuring steadily in the corner. The radio plays a song about “Penrose”—something you’ve never heard before. You shift in your chair, the wooden legs creaking against the floorboards. Your hands are stiff from clutching the fork and knife too tightly, and your plate glares back with its bland stir-fry of wilting vegetables and reheated rice. Thrown together from whatever you could salvage from the fridge, it tastes like nothing. A purely functional meal.

Across the table, Anaxa sits in silence. He eats slowly, chewing each bite with mechanical precision. The overhead light is harsh—it spills over him, casting every sharp angle into stark relief. Hollow cheeks. Gaunt skin. The eyepatch still wound tightly around his head—the same fraying strip of white cloth he’s worn since he came back. It might have once been clean, but it isn’t anymore. You’ve offered him fresh fabric, but he always declines. His ribs show even through the oversized sweater—something you used to wear. His collarbones jut out like they’ve been carved from stone. Yet he chews, swallows, and raises the fork again. A small mercy, you think. He’s eating. He didn’t use to. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to. Not because of how strange he looks now, but because some part of you is still waiting—waiting for him to twitch wrong. To move in a way no living man should. You hear your own breath more than his. You’ve been counting the seconds between each of his, unsure if that’s even necessary anymore.

He hasn’t said a word all evening.

Neither have you.

Not really.

You want to ask him a hundred questions, but your throat feels dry, words lodged somewhere between hope and fear. Instead, you settle for watching him—the slow rise and fall of his chest, the shallow rhythm of his breath. The way his one visible eye blinks spreads tears across the eyeball, cleaning and moisturizing the surface. They aren’t dead or glazed over. In fact, they almost look brighter than before the accident.

He turns his head up slightly, just enough to meet your eyes from beneath the faint shadows cast by the kitchen light. His movements are slow—deliberate—as if lifting his gaze costs more than it used to.

“You’ve been watching me.”

The words come out flat. Not accusing. Not defensive. A simple truth laid bare—like a bone left out in the snow. You nod once. There’s no point pretending otherwise. No use untangling the silence with lies. His stare doesn’t break. It feels heavy, not with anger, but with knowledge—like he already knows what you’ve seen and is only asking to hear you admit it.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” you say, voice even but low, “I’m scared. But not of you.”

He shifts; the creak of his chair sounds almost too loud. The overhead bulb flickers once, faint and insect-like. A flicker of something—something almost like a smile touches his lips.

“Funny,” he says softly, “I never thought I’d be the one to terrify you.”

You swallow hard; your mouth suddenly goes dry. The heater in the corner hums uselessly. The warmth it gives off doesn’t reach you—not here, not now. The room feels small, suffocating almost, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. You shift in your seat, fingertips twitching against your knees, unsure whether to fold inward or reach across the table. You want to touch him—anchor yourself to what’s left of him. But something stops you: an invisible barrier you can’t quite name. His eye remains fixed on you, unblinking.

“Why won’t you take it off?” you finally ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, “The patch.”

His eyes flicker away, dark lashes brushing his cheek, “Some things are better left hidden.”

“But it’s been days,” you press.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, the thin fabric slipping slightly to reveal the gaunt outline of his collarbone beneath the threadbare shirt. The sight makes your chest tighten—in that awful, breathless way you still haven’t learned to control.

“One step at a time,” he says at last.

The clock ticks loudly in the silence, each second stretched thin, taut as wire and just as ready to snap. You glance at the eyepatch, at the knot securing it in place, and your breath catches. You know the truth is waiting beneath it—silent, patient, watching—until the moment you’re brave enough, or desperate enough, to look.

[ It is already a sin to transcend the gods, so what if you become a god!" ]

You never meant to open Pandora’s box.

Okay—maybe you did. A little.

But it was coming from a place of concern. People are supposed to take care of their eye sockets, especially when one of them is hidden beneath that ratty white eyepatch. He never takes it off. Not when he showers. Not when he sleeps. Not even when the faintest flicker of movement catches your eye—something writhing, alive, beneath the fragile fabric like a restless parasite. You tried to convince yourself it was your imagination, a trick of shadows and exhaustion. But the truth gnaws at you like a bone you can’t stop gnawing. You remember the first time you noticed it: a barely perceptible twitch beneath the fabric, a faint pulse that didn’t match any normal heartbeat. It made your skin crawl. You wanted to ask. You wanted to pry and demand answers. But Anaxa’s eyes—well, the one you could see—always held that same apathetic calm, as if whatever was happening underneath didn’t bother him one bit.

You told yourself: If it’s infected, he could die. Again. You told yourself: It’s not Anaxa. Not really. Not entirely.

But also: What if it is? You'll be alone again.

It’s 2:59 a.m. The air conditioner hums softly, its steady drone blending with the distant wind sweeping the remaining dead leaves, like a restless insect trapped in the night. He’s stretched out on the bed, limbs loose and limp like a scarecrow abandoned in a forgotten field. The thin sheet draped over him barely reaches his chest; now he’s wrapped in twice as many layers, the winter wonderland outside reflecting through the window. His breathing is shallow, too even, too controlled—a carefully rehearsed performance. You move cautiously, the worn socks you borrowed muffling your steps on the creaky floorboards. Your heart pounds violently against your ribs, threatening to break free and leave you behind.

You kneel beside the futon, every muscle tense, every breath caught.

Your hand hovers, hesitant, trembling slightly as it reaches out.

The eyepatch—frayed and stained from too many nights—clings to his face, held by a crude knot tied at the back of his head. You tug gently, careful not to wake him, just enough to loosen the fabric, just enough to lift the edge.

Just enough to see—

“That’s not polite.”

You freeze.

The voice is low, dry—smooth like cracked leather. Not angry. Not startled. Just… amused. You glance up, meeting his one exposed eye, which glints faintly in the dark, alive with that same crooked humor you thought you’d lost forever

"To know it is to cease to know. To see it is to never see again in straight lines."

Your breath catches, the air growing inexplicably colder as shadows stretch and twist, reaching toward you with silent hunger. You remain frozen, unable to tear your gaze away, even as the patch slips from your fingers, compelled by some unseen force—beckoning you to witness what lies beneath.

And then you see it.

Not an eye.

An abyss yawns open where one should be.

A hollow carved impossibly deep, devoid of blood or bone. Pure emptiness—an endless void swallowed in darkness darker than night itself—a cavernous gulf where life should have been. That void shifts, inhales, and exhales with a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if breathing with a life all its own. Within the darkness, something coils and writhes, its shape fluid and ominous, like smoke caught in a slow storm.

Then, without warning, it turns its gaze toward you. The abyss looks back—its presence a heavy weight pressing deep into your bones, a silent promise of secrets too vast to comprehend. A color out of space.

“So you’re the reason he clings to this meat. How unexpected.”

The voice is curious. Not cruel. Not kind. You want to say something—anything. But all you can do is stare into the depths where his eye should be and feel it stare back. Your hands tremble, but you haven’t screamed yet. You’re not running either.

“This body remembers your voice. It twitches when you laugh. It cried when you touched it.”

And then, Anaxa blinks. The patch is back in place. You don’t remember putting it there.

He exhales—slowly, tired.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t look,” he says. The real him, or something close enough.

You swallow hard.

Because despite this impostor pretending to be your Anaxa, you feel… relieved. You don’t have to stay stuck in the grieving widow phase for the rest of your life. You don’t have to endure the pitiful stares from everyone except Veritas. Most importantly, you don’t have to imagine what your life would be like without Anaxa—because he’s here, in some form. Even if he’s lost the muscles in his arms, even if you can practically see his ribs beneath the heavy layers of clothing, his face sunken and hollow.

“You should clean that,” you whisper.

“It’s not infected,” he says.

“It could be.”

He laughs—quiet, rough. Close enough.

“And you’re not afraid?”

You study him—the hollow cheeks sunken deeper than you remember, skin so white it makes you think of hospital tiles and the static noise between radio stations. His thin frame barely fills out the threadbare clothes. He looks like a ghost tethered to this world—someone who died but didn’t quite come back right.

Still, your voice is steady when you say, “No. You came back. That’s enough.”

The room holds its breath. Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating—like the space between heartbeats. Then, slowly, almost painfully, he turns to face you. His eyes—one real, one an empty void—search yours, as if trying to remember how to exist in this fragile body again.

“You’re either very brave,” the thing inside him murmurs, voice low and rough, “or very foolish.”

The clock’s hands don’t move, but the ticking continues—as if counting something else entirely. Your hand moves on its own, reaching out to his. The coldness of his skin prickles against your palm, a reminder of everything lost and everything still somehow here. It’s cold. But it squeezes back.

[ — One of the echoes in Anaxa's memories after the Grove had fallen, which vanished because nobody discovered it. ]

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*slaps this fic* And that's a wrap! Thank you once again for commissioning me and for being so patient. I hope you all enjoyed this. I don't want to clog this already long fic up too much, so below I've only written research/references in order of appearance. If you're interested in the writing/thought process, I'll be reblogging this with further notes.

Cut Content/Writing Process Note: Here

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Golden Apple

It is most famously associated with the Apple of Discord, which represents:

Conflict born from vanity or favoritism (since it was labeled "To the fairest")

The catalyst for larger consequences (such as the Trojan War)

Temptation and choice (as seen in Paris having to decide which goddess deserved the apple)

Phainon

Daimon

In ancient Greece, it was believed that each person had a personal daimon, assigned at birth or death, which influenced their fate and guided them during crucial moments. The daimon didn’t dictate actions, but acted as a subtle force, especially in times of crisis or important decisions.

Socrates famously spoke of his daimonion, a divine voice that warned him against certain actions but never told him what to do. As he put it in Plato’s Apology: “The sign is a voice which comes to me and always forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never commands me to do anything.”

In Plato's Republic and Timaeus, daimones are described as mediators of fate, guiding souls in their choices and destinies, ensuring a cosmic balance without direct interference in individual decisions.

Voicelines

While not directly stated in the fic, these are the voice lines that stuck when writing this particular Phainon:

"Accepting others' wishes and turning them into his own wishes — not all heroes are such blank canvases as him, and that is why the world places such great hopes on him." - Aglaea

"Lord Phainon is kind and friendly to all his companions, but there's always a sliver of pain in his smile... He must have lost something very dear to him." - Hyacine

"Snowy... It always feels like he's carrying too much. Not just his own wishes but also the hatred and expectations of others... Though we all have our own missions, I still get worried... Bearing everything alone is not a good habit." - Tribbie

Symbolism in Numbers (Act + Scene Numbers)

1 (Monad) - Unity, origin, the divine, the source of all things.

2 (Dyad) - Duality, division, balance of opposites (light/dark, male/female, good/evil).

7 (Heptad) - Mystery, initiation, spiritual perfection.

3 (Triad) - Harmony, balance, completeness.

10 (Decad) - Totality, divine perfection, return to unity (1+0=1).

Butterfly (The neon sign in the beginning)

The butterfly was often used as a symbol for the soul or daemon, especially in art. Psyche, the Greek word for "soul," is sometimes personified with butterfly wings.

Masks

A symbol of duality or hidden truths. Daemons could "wear" personas or guide others through identity.

Phainon's Greek Name

Phaenon (Phaínōn / Φαίνων) derives from the Ancient Greek verb φαίνω phaínō, meaning "to shine." The form φαίνων phaínōn is its present participle, meaning "the one who shines."

Crescent Moon (Stroke of luck during filming)

In various cultures, the moon is linked with divine protection, especially maternal or lunar goddesses like Artemis.

"Is it so wrong...to have a little hope?" (Phainon's reasoning to Gallagher)

[ "That person alone will witness the miracle" doesn't sound like a good ending, does it? Why did everyone choose to become demigods even after knowing the price? ]

-(excerpt from Phainon's text messages to the Trailblazer)

Mydei

Apotheosis

While the Olympian gods are immortal by nature, apotheosis suggests a pathway to immortality for mortals. Some famous Greek examples are Heracles and Psyche.

My knowledge of the military is incredibly low, so if there are any inconsistencies, please ignore them. I'm trying my best. I did try to get some of my facts straight, but I used U.S military as a guideline since that's the one I'm most familiar with. My Google searches were wild on this one, baby.

Military Report (I put a lot of effort into it, you people need to know this)

Report # - 0319 (Mydei's release banner date) Amphoreous / Castrum Kremnos (CK) Date - Mydei's banner end date Time - Version 3.1 (Mydei's banner release version) Associated Personnel: Lionheart (Taken from his banner's event name "Fiery Lionheart") Casualties KIA: Taken from the past NPCs from Kremnos (specifically the ones that were warriors)

Trig/Trigger (Reader's Call Sign)

A call sign is a unique identifier, often a nickname, used to identify a unit or individual during radio communications. Personal Callsigns are generally given by members in your unit when you do something that makes you stand out, be it good or bad.

I'm not gonna lie. I needed to have some term to use to refer to reader, and my friend is in love with Trigger from Hoyo's other game, ZZZ. This one's for you (I hope you never find my tumblr)

Time Line

U.S. Task Forces / Special Ops (e.g., Delta Force, SEALs, JSOC Task Forces)

Minimum Time in Service: 2–4 years, usually, depending on MOS (military occupational specialty).

Total Time: 4–7 years on average, but again, fast-tracking is possible for exceptional performance, critical skillsets (e.g., languages, cyber, demolitions), or under urgent need.

Recording Equipment (Corporal asking why there was a shutdown)

Special Operations typically don't use body cams since their missions are highly classified. But they might use recording equipment if it's for training, target observation, or accountability-driven operations (e.g., raids with media or political oversight).

In most modern military systems, cutting off or tampering with communication or recording equipment can often be detected, logged, or at the very least suspected, depending on the gear and the system it's connected to.

"Green"

In the military, when someone is described as "green," it means they are new, inexperienced, or untested — often fresh out of training and just starting in the field. Usually considered "green" for 6 months to a year, or until they've had real combat exposure.

Anaxa

Alogon

Anaxa's prompt wasn’t directly inspired by Greek culture or mythology. The basic premise was to portray him as a cosmic horror parasite, and the closest parallel I found was the concept of the “Alogon.” (So no, unfortunately, there aren't any eldritch H.P. Lovecraft entities in Greek. Honestly, I think I went more domestic horror.)

In Orphic mythology, the term alogon [ τὸ ἄλογον (a-logos) ] —meaning “irrational” or “without reason”—is not a distinct deity or mythological entity, but a philosophical concept representing the chaotic, unformed state of existence prior to creation. It serves as a symbolic contrast to Phanes (also known as Protogonos), the primordial being who emerged from the cosmic egg at the dawn of time. Phanes introduced light, reason, and structure into the universe, transforming the alogon into an ordered cosmos.

Quotes

The first quote line is from Anaxa's lightcone, "Life Should Be Cast to Flames." The rest is what was written in Anaxa's character story, part IV.

Asphodels, myrtles, and pomegranate flowers (The flowers in Anaxa's coffin)

Aspodels: Considered the "death flower" by the Greeks, believed to be the flower of the afterlife

Myrtle: This plant was a symbol of eternity and was often used in funerary arrangements.

Pomegranate Flower: Tied deeply to Persephone, who ate pomegranate seeds in the underworld and is forced to return each year, creating the seasons.

The passing of seasons (Persephone)

Persephone, daughter of Demeter (goddess of the harvest), was abducted by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Grieving, Demeter caused the Earth to wither, bringing on winter. When Persephone was allowed to return, life bloomed again—spring and summer. But because she ate pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, she had to return each year, leading to autumn and winter.

Yaldabaoth (The half-finished book Anaxa left behind)

Also known as Ialdabaoth or Jaldabaoth, Yaldabaoth is a central figure in Gnostic theology, depicted as a false creator who traps souls within the material world.

Juniper (The candle scent Anaxa left behind)

A genus of coniferous trees and shrubs, most notably known for its berries used in gin. Used in purification and protective rituals, especially in ancient Greek and Roman practices.

Penrose (The name of the song on the radio station)

The name "Penrose" is from the Penrose Triangle and Stairs. Two famous impossible objects.

Pandora's Box

A myth from Greek mythology where Pandora, the first woman, was given a sealed jar (later called a box) and told not to open it. Curiosity got the better of her, and when she opened it, all the evils of the world escaped—leaving only Hope inside. It explains the origin of suffering in the world.

2:59 am (The time reader goes to remove Anaxa's eyepatch)

Hecate’s hour is traditionally considered to be between midnight and 3 a.m., often called the witching hour or the hour of the night witch. This time is associated with magic, spirits, and the supernatural—when Hecate, the Greek goddess of magic, crossroads, and the underworld, is believed to be most powerful and present. In folklore and later occult traditions, this period is thought to be when the veil between worlds is thinnest, making it a prime time for rituals, visions, and encounters with otherworldly forces.

"A colour out of space." (The void in Anaxa's eye)

A reference to Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space" for my literature fans.

Fun Fact: That line about a girl asking how to take proper notes is real. I was the seatmate.

[kissingraine]

would u ever consider writing for the stealth yautja from Killer of Killers?👀

TAKE THIS AND RUN—

No proofread (bcs I can't afford a proofreader) also, multiple parts! I reached the word limit😬💔

CONTENT WARNING; 18+, xenophilia, scent marking, oral (f receiving—yes he has a tongue), size diff, overstim, belly bulging, Oni protecting you (read: stalking)

First Love/Late Spring — Oni x Geishaf!Reader

• Shadows have long since followed you ever since you became a geisha. Other girls praised you for learning the shamisen quickly and often joked that it made up for your lack of conversational skills. It's not because you can't talk, you have countless topics for conversation starters. No matter how weird they may seem to the customers. It's because you have no idea how to react to the want of a young lord or the fact that they would want you for your body. Your earlier years were spent under the berating words of your drunkard father who reminded you daily that no one ever wanted you. Not even him. You had grown used to words like knives that cut emotional scars into your chest then.

• When he sold you to the Kurogane teahouse in late spring to earn money, fully intending for you to become a yujo—the madam mentioned that such a frail body wouldn't be cut out for that kind of work so she turned him away. She turned him away and took you in. That was the first time you ever felt wanted by someone other than your alleged father. Now he's just another man to you. People like those didn't deserve names or be remembered, the madam of Kurogane house would tell you nightly.

• The nearby daimyos preferred you and other courtesans when it came to entertainment. You played the shamisen well though not one of his colleagues could ever hold a conversation with you, your head always lowered as you strummed the strings carefully. Their lord preferred that. Until one day you witnessed a scene that no one should ever have. The quest for land and power had grown stronger each day. So too did the bodies. You didn't mean to exist there in the right place at the wrong time. Where other girls have fled, you remain frozen in place and your face nearly pressed into the tatami matted floors.

• Maybe the daimyo didn't see you. Or pretended not to. The only thing that snapped you out of that fear-stricked haze was the sound of the door sliding open then close. You were spared, but not for long.

That's when you'd first met him.

• A failed third attempt at your life and you mourned it with a single red camellia hairpiece situated in your hair. The air thick with fog and moonlight, your geta shoes resounding against stone steps with each movement forward. A lantern being your only source of light. You had ran from the teahouse, unsure if you should even return and risk the entire establishment. Thinking maybe you should've been struck by that sword that night. Those short endeavors by assassins ruined by a mysterious force. At first you were thankful for luck siding with you. Until the second one came and this time in a display so gruesome it took you and the girls weeks just to scrub everything out.

• They surmised a murderer had been set free. A bloodthirsty killer with an obsession for spines. They moved you to another room then, turned the old one into a storage closet. It could have been a ronin because cuts so clean like those didn't belong to something so simple as a knife-wielding man. Then: a soft thud makes itself known to you. A gurgle. A wet sound before silence ensues.

You turn and see it.

Blood splatter that hovered in midair.

• It defied reason. A spatter suspended in the night, floating before you as though the air itself had bled. Like a will-o’-wisp. Made of crimson. Your breath caught. Taking a step closer, heart pounding in your throat like a drum. That light of the lantern flickered against it—ruby droplets glistening over... nothing?

No. Not nothing. Something.

• The blood had stuck to a shape. A silhouette in the air. Faintly shimmering. Massive. Towering over you while its presence hummed, like the low resonance of a thunder held in check. Never had you been more resentful of your instincts until now. But it's like you're possessed when your hand lifts before you can think. Slow. Reverent. You reached out and touched it. The smear of blood is warm under your fingertips. Moving, it smears across skin? Not flesh, however. Something tougher. Hot, ridged, almost armored. Even though your hand trembles, you continue to feel.

• Feel until the shape inhales and so do you. More out of shock than an unconscious movement. A patch of color begins to spread under your hand, spreading across a surface and in multiple places. The light catches on plated muscle, tarnished silver armor—one you've never seen before, and thick strands of hair decorated with rings that sprawl across broad shoulders. Ending just below its collarbone. Its gaze glared right down at you through a steel mask. A man- no. Evil spirit? An eight-foot-tall demon? Whatever it was, your fingers were still pressed against its chest. Heel of your palm to midriff.

• You didn't scream. Couldn't. But you flinched when its head moved. Staring up at him as your palm remained slick with blood and rested on the strange, mesh covered torso of something utterly not human. This... being, never shared a word with you but it would listen. Intently. To every word you spoke as if entranced. Was this the one who had been chasing off your pursuers? All ending in a bloodbath whose process you didn't want to know? You wiped down the smear with a handkerchief and he let you once you apologized for touching him so carelessly. Not that he seemed to mind.

“I've known many hunters,” you said, eyes fixated on that strange mask. “But none who watched from the trees like a kami.” A few clicks was all you got. Low. Almost a purr.

• That night your cheeks flushed from reasons unknown, just that the proximity of this beast and you felt like something deep inside your chest was finally waking up. No matter how ugly it was, you didn't have the strength to push it back down. Not when he lowered himself on one knee just to meet your gaze. He could've killed you. But didn't and instead decided to protect you. Not one man had kneeled for you like he did and maybe it was wishful thinking but you finally felt like someone else. You know who you were. A performer. A listener. Keeper of too many secrets. A woman whose value was often misjudged—and whose dignity had angered the wrong man.

• But that fateful evening, under the witness of clear starry skies. You were just you. You returned to the teahouse eventually and confined yourself to your room. Looking back on that moment once every few moments. What if he had killed those men to save you for the last? For reasons you don't know. And you know there must be something very wrong with you to wish that he had. That's why you offered to leave a light every time he'd hunt your shadows. Under the pretense that it was to thank him, not so that he'd find your room quicker.

• It was foolish to think that a single meeting would render you so smitten. Even the thought made you recoil. But what word would be able to describe the way you stand under the old plum tree nightly? As if waiting for someone. You convinced yourself at one point that it's just to bask in the evening breeze. After all, the moon was exceptionally beautiful these past few nights. And just when you thought you had been able to regularly meet clients, his presence comes back to haunt you. The grass barely stirs as a presence stands behind you.

• You look over your shoulder and there he was. Heart nearly leaping out of your throat, sleeves lifting to shield his shape from the veranda's view. “You shouldn't be here,” you whispered urgently. “Someone might see—” He leans in and your breath catches. The long armed weapon in his grip placed against the trunk of the plum tree. It does little to distract you when he lowers his head to your throat. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just deliberately controlled. You hear the hiss of something opening and then you freeze. The sensation of his breath, hot and even, ghosting along your jaw.

• Hands curling in your sleeves. You can hear his nostrils flaring. Smelling you. Scenting you. Could feel as he dragged his face just above your skin, from beneath your ear to the curve of your throat. Slow and possessive. You stiffen at the thought—then trembled. The contact indirect, his skin never touched yours but it didn't have to. You didn't know when your hands were finally lowered towards his shoulders just shy of resting them on him. He presses something against the side of your neck and you swallow the squeak that threatens to leave your lips. It's not a weapon. But it excreted heat and a thick musk. A subtle, but alien fluid that brushes against your skin in a quick swipe.

• The scent immediately struck you with a gasp. Rich. Dense. It made you slightly stagger back with parted lips. “You... marked me?” He pulls back—mask clicking into place and tilts his head in that same curious manner, stance unwavering and tall under the tree. Fully visible under the moonlight filtering through the leaves. A predator laying claim. You swallow.

“I'm not your prey,” you insisted but your voice betrayed you. Soft. Throat-tight.

• He steps forward again, slowly. Shadow stretching over you due to his towering figure. Another click. Not a warning or a threat. An affirmation. That, yes, you aren't prey. You were never supposed to be. Asking him if he was trying to protect you only made take another step until your back was pressed against the plum tree. You had to tilt your chin up to keep looking at his face. Or a lack thereof. Trapped. But you didn't resist. A low purr rolling off him in waves when your breath hitches.

• Low, thrumming, barely audible to people who weren't within three meters from him. But you felt it in your chest. Body answering with a flutter you hadn't expected. Your knees weakened, a wetness forming between your thight and heat pooling low within your stomach. This time, he leaned so close your breaths mingled. Forehead brushing against yours while your breathing stuttered. The intent behind his actions was searing. With parted lips, he steps back and the pressure vanishes. With him alongside it. He was cloaked in a shimmer of refracted light, leaving only the deep musk on your throat and the ghost of his warmth.

• And you stood there for what seemed like a long time, you hadn't noticed you'd been barefoot in the grass, body flushed and trenbling. You lift a hand and brushed the back of your knuckles to inhale the scent on your skin. Owned. But not broken. Claimed yet not lessened. Next time, you'll leave the door open.

Next

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Yelena X Reader: Mission:Sleepover

Warnings: fluff, mentions of the red room, traumatic childhood (nothing that bad but still), Yelena missing out of stuff, a little angst, happy ending, no use of y/n, reader and Yelena like each other.

Word count: 1,2 K

“Wait, hold on. You’ve never had a sleepover?”

Yelena looked at you, brows slightly raised.

“Child assassin.”

She pointed at herself as she said it—like it was obvious. Because it was. And yet, you still found yourself forgetting from time to time.

“Oh no, we’re fixing that. Tonight.”

“I do know what they are—sleepovers, I mean. I’ve seen movies.”

“Okay, valid. But have you ever laid in bed wearing some stupid pajamas while binging snacks and talking shit about people you don’t like?”

Yelena stared at you.

“No…”

You let out a victorious smile.

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother hiding the small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Fine. You win.”

Maybe you’d exaggerated a bit. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. It had been years since your last sleepover, and you missed the experience dearly. More than that, you wanted Yelena’s first time to feel as authentic as possible.

Okay, so it wasn’t a real sleepover—you both lived in the same place—but she’d be sleeping in your room instead of hers for the night, and that was good enough for you.

You’d told Yelena to wait until you said the room was ready. Now she stood outside your door, dressed in her pajamas with a pillow tucked under one arm. She looked at the chaos that had become your room, brows lifted slightly as she took it all in, clearly wondering how you’d managed to find half this stuff on such short notice.

The truth? Being an Avenger came with some perks, and you had absolutely no shame in using them.

Yelena stepped cautiously into the room, her eyes scanning the string lights you’d pinned up across the ceiling, the pile of mismatched pillows and blankets in the middle of the floor, and the collection of snacks you’d artfully dumped into bowls like you knew what you were doing.

“You are dangerously enthusiastic about this.”

You grinned. “This is serious business.”

She placed her pillow in the center of the blanket pile you’d made, settling down beside it. You watched Yelena continue to take in her surroundings. She grabbed a handful of pretzels you laid out, shoving them in her mouth. You grabbed a soda from the mini fridge you’d dug out of Alexei’s merch room. Bucky’s eyes stared blankly at you from the door as you closed it. You moved to sit by Yelena, handing her a soda can.

“That’s unnerving.”

You knew exactly what she meant—the “Bucky fridge.” It was a little unsettling, but honestly, it was just a picture. You saw the real thing daily, which somehow made it funnier.

“Just be glad I didn’t get the one with your dad’s face on it.”

Yelena visibly shuddered, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

After a while, the two of you settled in, the movie you’d thrown on earlier playing quietly in the background—more ambiance than entertainment. You both picked through the snacks, occasionally tossing popcorn into each other’s mouths and failing more often than not. You were both laughing so hard at one point, you had to pause the movie. It felt nice. You and Yelena had grown closer with every mission you went on. But it was hard to have moments like this. When the fate of the world rests on your shoulders, it’s hard to find the time to just exist with each other.

Yelena had her head turned toward you, arm lazily thrown behind her. She’d stopped paying attention to the movie a while ago. Your eyes remained glued to the screen, like you hadn’t seen this one a thousand times before.

“People really stayed up all night doing this as kids?”

You turned your head to look at her as she talked, the movie now completely forgotten.

“Yeah. It was always about stretching the night out as long as possible. Like... if you stayed up talking long enough, nothing bad could happen.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“We weren’t allowed to talk at night.”

Your chest tightened.

“I’m sorry.”

Yelena just stayed quiet. You could tell her brain was running over all the bad things she’d done. You could see her mourning the life she could have had if she hadn’t been raised in the Red Room. You placed a hand on her arm, pulling her attention back to you. You wouldn’t let her drown in her regrets.

“Can I ask you something?”

Yelena nodded.

“What did you think this would be like?”

She looked away, thoughtful.

“I figured it would be boring. Maybe a little awkward. But it’s... not. It’s nice. Calmer than I expected.”

Yelena let out a sigh, eyes closing. Your grip on her tightened, silently grounding her. You wanted her to know she could be vulnerable with you. She didn’t have to handle the pain alone; you were willing to share the burden with her. Yelena opened her eyes, shifting her body so that she was lying on her side, facing you completely.

“I think I wanted it to be bad.”

She paused, waiting for you to show that you were hurt by her confession. When you didn’t, she kept going.

“I missed so much of it. Sleepovers. School dances. Friends. Crushes. Silly little fights that didn’t involve weapons. I understood it all from afar, but I never got to live it. I guess I wanted it to be bad. Because if it was…” She sighed. “Then maybe I wouldn't feel so bad for not getting to experience it, you know?”

You moved your hand so that you were holding onto hers instead of her arm. Yelena let your fingers push against hers, hands wrapping around each other. She looked at you, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Thanks for doing this,” she murmured. “Even if it’s silly.”

“It’s not silly,” you said. “Plus, I had fun. I’d love to show you what you missed. If you want that.”

“I’d like that.”

Soft silence filled the room. You continued to gaze into Yelena's eyes. She stared at you like she was memorizing you. Her thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slowly, testing the waters. Your gaze moved from her eyes to her lips. You could feel her hot breath on your face as she breathed softly. Without noticing it, you’d inched your face closer to hers. You swallowed, heart pounding a little faster.

“Can I—”

“Yes,” she said, not even letting you finish.

You leaned in, and she met you halfway.

The kiss was soft. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to break the moment, or the space you’d created between shared laughter and half-eaten snacks and dumb movies. When you pulled back, your foreheads stayed pressed together.

“Is this a normal sleepover thing?” she murmured.

You let out a soft laugh, hand moving to hold onto Yelena's face.

“Only the really good ones.”

Yelena smiled at you, leaning over to give you another soft kiss.

“Do people cuddle? In these ‘really good’ sleepovers?”

You shrugged.

“I don’t know. But we can, if you want to.”

“I think I want to.”

You smiled, shuffling closer to her. Yelena turned onto her back, allowing you to mold your body against her back. You let out a satisfied sound, nose nudging against Yelena's neck as you settled into her. She let out a deep breath, body relaxing in your hold.

“We should do this more often.”

You smiled at her words.

“I’d like that.”

And with that, the room fell into a peaceful silence, the movie long forgotten, the world outside the glow of the fairy lights fading into nothing. Just you, Yelena, and the warmth of something new beginning.

[st3f13ily]

Reverse Romance Trope

(Found this and I decided I should write some of this, blue lock version)

• Dating The Impossible

Instead of Fake dating, everyone is convinced you aren't dating.

Itoshi Sae x Influencer Cheerful Reader

• (Un)Married

Divorce Of Convenience

Kaiser Michael × Reader

• Our Failed Plan Vacation

Too Many Beds

Nagi Seishiro × Reader

• Mission Failed

Accidentally Kidnapping A Mafia Boss

Mafia AU

Mafia Boss Mikage Reo x Agent/Spy Reader

• Exception To My Kindness

Really nice guy who hates only you.

Mikage Reo x Reader

• The Killing Threads

Soulmates who are fated to kill each other.

Red String AU

Assassin AU

Assassin Itoshi Rin x Assassin Reader

• Her Innocent Remedy

Billionaire Bad Girl

Bachira Maguru x Rebel Billionaire Reader.

• Extra Credit

Academic rivals except it's two teachers who compete to have the best class.

English Teacher Rin × Mathematics Teacher Reader

Request

(More soon!! if I got any ideas)

➽ I can't think of anything else. If you guys have some ideas, please just message me or make some requests. I will make Jujutsu Kaisen version, once I have finished this all.

@pinkymangacaps

[diamonddaze01]

Bound by Blood and Fate

pairing: hong jisoo x f!reader | wc: 9.9k genre: assassin!shua, hacker!reader, red string of fate au warnings: close encounters with death, blood, weapons, injuries a/n: for @ddeonghwa-s secret cupid collab! this fic is for the wonderful @uhdrienne i hope you enjoyyy <3 // enormous thanks to @ylangelegy helping me flush this idea out and to @okiedokrie @chugging-antiseptic-dye and @chanranghaeys for beta-ing <333

check out the masterlist for the collab here!

summary: “Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

Joshua always thought dying would feel quieter.

But the city roars around him: the hum of neon lights, the shriek of sirens in the distance, the metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth. He’s lying on the ground, spine pressed against the cold, wet asphalt, staring at a sky he barely recognizes. The weight in his chest isn’t just from the bullet—it’s from the thought of you.

The red thread around his pinky is taut, glinting faintly in the chaos. It’s not supposed to fray. It’s not supposed to break. But as his vision blurs and his pulse stutters, he wonders if fate has finally run out of patience.

They say the last seven minutes of your life are a highlight reel—a 420 second long tapestry of moments unraveled, thread by thread, until only the essence of you remains. Joshua doesn’t see his childhood, or his family, or the countless lives he’s taken. All he sees is you.

And as the thread tugs, dragging him deeper into the past, he knows it’s not his life flashing before his eyes. It’s his mistakes.

420 seconds…. 419…. 418….

Joshua feels the world slipping away in pieces, the edges of his vision fading to static. The asphalt beneath him is slick and sticky, blood blooming out in slow, deliberate pulses, like an hourglass emptying grain by grain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows how this ends. He’s seen it too many times before.

His hand twitches toward the gun holstered at his side, instinct overriding logic. There’s no one left to shoot. Not now. Not anymore. But the weight of his Glock is familiar—steady in a way that his body isn’t, unlike the wavering thread tied to his finger.

The thread glints under the fractured glow of the streetlights, bright enough to mock him. Bright enough to remind him of what’s still out there, waiting. He feels it more than sees it: taut, fragile, pulling faintly in a direction he can’t follow.

Joshua forces his head to turn, every muscle in his body screaming against the effort. The pain is sharp, biting. Somewhere beyond the flicker of broken neon signs and the hum of distant sirens, he hears the faint echo of footsteps, slow and measured. They’re retreating. Whoever pulled the trigger isn’t sticking around to watch him bleed out.

Coward.

The word sears through him, but it doesn’t feel satisfying. He isn’t sure if it’s meant for them—or for himself.

The thread burns against his hand now, its crimson glow cutting through the haze like a knife. It’s not slack. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? That the connection between him and you isn’t broken. That maybe, if he can move, if he can crawl his way out of this alley, he can still get to you.

But it doesn’t tug. It doesn’t pull him toward safety. It sits there, unmoving, as if waiting. As if mocking.

The sound of the gunshot echoes again in his head, sharper this time, louder. He tries to place it—tries to grab hold of the pieces slipping through his fingers—but his thoughts fracture before he can make sense of them.

All he knows is the voice he heard before the shot. Low. Steady. Unshaken in a way that cuts deeper than the bullet ever could.

"You should’ve stayed in line."

Joshua’s breath hitches, a broken sound that’s more of a  gasp than an exhale. His chest tightens, and the thread yanks hard, as if trying to rip him out of the present entirely.

The asphalt disappears. The sirens fade.

And suddenly, it’s raining again.

360 seconds…. 359…. 358….

The sound comes first, the patter of raindrops on glass, a dull rhythm that seeps into the silence of his memories. Joshua doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is—it’s etched into his mind like a scar.

A car. A stakeout. The dim glow of a streetlamp haloed by mist, barely piercing through the rain-slicked darkness. The memory is so vivid it almost feels like he’s back there, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the Glock resting in his lap, his breath fogging the window. The dull hum of a police scanner crackles from the passenger seat, and across the street, a single light flickers in the third-floor apartment of a crumbling high-rise.

That’s where you are.

He hadn’t known your name then. Not your face, not the way your voice could twist words into knives or lullabies. All he’d known was your alias—Nyx, a ghost in the wires, a shadow who’d dug too deep and found something that should’ve stayed buried.

Erebus.

Even now, Joshua feels the weight of the name, the way it sank into his chest the first time he heard it whispered by his handler. A database so encrypted, so labyrinthine, that even his organization only spoke of it in fragments. And yet you, a hacker originally hired to expose the rot of corporate corruption, had stumbled upon it like you’d tripped over a landmine.

The details were sparse then. A whistleblower had paid you to scrape dirt off the edges of one of the conglomerates tied to Joshua’s organization. You’d gone deeper than they ever intended, though, uncovering shards of Erebus—just enough to understand its value and the danger it posed.

Joshua hadn’t been sent to kill you that night. Not yet.

The organization wanted to know who you were working for. If you were working alone. And more importantly, what you’d uncovered about Erebus.

The first time he saw you, it was through the crosshairs of his rifle, the rain streaking across his scope. The building you’d chosen was a hacker’s dream—tucked away in the middle of nowhere, just off a grid dense enough to hide you for a while. He’d been told you were smart, but that didn’t quite prepare him for the sight of you, illuminated by the pale blue glow of multiple monitors.

You’d been working on something—typing so quickly it looked like you weren’t even touching the keys. There was nothing remarkable about the way you looked, and yet he couldn’t stop watching.

Joshua didn’t know it then, but he already hated how the thread around his pinky seemed to hum. He thought he’d imagined it—the faint pull, like it was tethered to something in that room, even if he couldn’t see it.

His comm crackled to life, interrupting his focus.

“Got eyes on the target?” It was Sangyeon’s voice, low and unbothered. He was in the adjacent building, watching from another angle.

“Yeah.” Joshua had kept his tone neutral, even though he hated that Sangyeon was there at all. The mission was observation. That’s what they’d told him. But he knew better than to believe in simplicity when it came to his line of work.

Across the street, you paused, tilting your head as if you could feel him watching. His hand instinctively moved to adjust the rifle, finger brushing against the trigger, but he froze when he saw what you were holding.

A USB drive. Plain. Ordinary. And yet, even from this distance, he knew what it was.

Erebus.

Your gaze flicked toward the window then, just for a moment, and though it was impossible for you to see him through the rain and shadows, Joshua swore you were looking directly at him.

“Target’s on the move,” Sangyeon’s voice came through again, sharper this time.

Joshua blinked, the spell broken. He watched as you stood, shoving the USB drive into your pocket and grabbing a bag from the floor. You glanced toward the window one last time before disappearing from view.

“Stay put,” Joshua said, already moving.

He didn’t know why he said it, or why his pulse had quickened at the thought of losing you in the rain-soaked streets. All he knew was that the thread tied to his fingers felt tighter than it ever had, and no mission briefing had prepared him for that.

The first time you spoke was the second time Joshua saw you.

He tracked you through the rain, his footsteps silent against the slick pavement. The USB drive—Erebus—burned in his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to lose it, but there was something more than protocol driving him forward. He told himself it was just the mission, but every step had felt heavier, weighted by that invisible thread coiling tighter with every second you stayed out of sight.

You slipped into an alley, a narrow cut of darkness between two forgotten buildings. Joshua followed, his Glock raised, the streetlight behind him casting his shadow long and sharp against the brick wall. You hadn’t flinched when he rounded the corner, gun trained on you. Instead, you turned, slow and deliberate, your expression calm, as if you’d been expecting him all along.

For a moment, there had been only the sound of the rain dripping from the eaves above, pooling around your feet.

“Well,” you said, your voice low but cutting, “they sent someone fast.”

The words hung in the air, but Joshua hadn’t responded. His aim was steady, but his pulse betrayed him, thrumming too loud in his ears. You hadn’t looked like someone running for their life. You had looked composed, calculating, almost amused.

“Go ahead,” you continued, taking a single step forward, daring, reckless. The glow of the streetlight had caught in your eyes, turning them sharp and bright. “Pull the trigger. But I’ve already copied Erebus. Killing me won’t stop what’s coming.”

The threat in your tone was subtle, but it was there, wrapped in defiance. You were testing him, weighing him against whatever expectations you had built in your head. And for the first time in years, Joshua’s finger hesitated on the trigger.

“Who are you working for?” he asked, his voice quiet, a sharp edge beneath the calm.

You had tilted your head, a smile ghosting across your lips—barely there, more of a challenge than an answer. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you said, and there had been something bitter, something wounded, in the way you had laughed after.

The thread coiled around his pinky had tugged sharply, and he hated it. Hated the way it pulled him toward you even when every logical part of him screamed to put a bullet in your chest.

The sound of footsteps cut through the tension—a deliberate, heavy cadence. 

Sangyeon.

Joshua’s mind sharpened, instincts kicking in. He knew the second Sangyeon rounded the corner, he would shoot first and ask questions later.

Joshua acted before he could think it through. He lowered his gun, the decision instinctive, a betrayal of everything drilled into him.

“Get out of here,” he muttered, his voice cold to cover the inexplicable tightness in his chest.

You blinked, surprise flickering in your eyes for just a second before you recovered. Then, you smirked. The expression had been infuriating, and yet it had rooted him in place, as if the thread between you had knotted tighter.

“See you around, soldier,” you had said, your voice dripping with mockery and something more dangerous—promise.

Joshua hadn’t watched you leave, but he had felt it, the absence of you almost as heavy as your presence had been. He had clenched his jaw, forcing his grip to relax on the Glock. When Sangyeon appeared moments later, Joshua had already stepped out of the alley, shoulders tense.

“Lose her?” Sangyeon asked, suspicion lacing his tone.

Joshua hadn’t looked back. “No. She’ll resurface. They always do.”

But even as the words had left his mouth, Joshua couldn’t shake the way his pulse had quickened at the sight of you, the way your voice had wrapped around him like a noose. He had told himself it was just the mission. Just Erebus.

But the thread knotted on his finger had hummed, and deep down, he had known better.

300 seconds…. 299…. 298….

The third time Joshua saw you, the fluorescent lights in the cold, windowless interrogation room cast sharp, unforgiving shadows. It felt as though the world had been stripped of color and warmth, leaving only stark grays and the faint hum of tension in the air. You’d been brought here under orders—captured during a raid on one of The Syndicate’s safehouses.

He hadn’t been the one to catch you. No, it had been a lower branch of the organization, an overeager unit that had stumbled across your location by sheer luck. The details of your capture had been messy: a shattered window, a scuffle in the dark, and your wrists bound with rough rope that still left faint marks on your skin. By the time you’d arrived at their facility, you’d already outsmarted half the guards with a sly smile and a sharp tongue, making them regret underestimating you.

And now, here you were.

Joshua sat across from you, the assigned interrogator, chosen for the job by someone higher up who’d claimed he had the right temperament for extracting answers. He’d been told you were dangerous—The Syndicate’s rising star, a name whispered in intelligence reports and backroom briefings. He’d expected you to be cold, calculating, maybe even desperate.

But you were none of those things.

You sat in that metal chair, your arms tied behind your back, the cuffs biting into your skin, and somehow, you still looked untouchable. A faint smirk curled at the edges of your lips, your confidence an act of rebellion all its own.

“Is this the part where you torture me for answers?” you teased, leaning back in the chair like you were perfectly at ease.

Joshua’s jaw tightened, his gaze flitting to the chains binding your wrists, then to the cut on your forehead that was still oozing blood. The sight of it filled him with a sudden, inexplicable rage. It wasn’t logical—he barely knew you beyond the file he’d been handed an hour ago. But seeing you restrained, sitting there with your arms pulled behind you as if you were a threat to be neutralized, made his chest twist with a fury he couldn’t name.

The thread tying him to you seemed heavier than ever, an unbearable weight that tugged at something deep inside him. He stayed silent, his gaze flickering down to it almost unconsciously.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. The flicker of his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides—all of it gave him away.

And for the first time, your smirk faltered.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you asked softly, the amusement in your tone giving way to something sharper, quieter. “The thread. It’s fate, isn’t it?”

Joshua stiffened. His first instinct was to deny it, to scoff at the idea of threads and fate, but the burning weight on his pinky betrayed him. He stayed silent, and his silence spoke louder than words ever could.

You leaned forward, the motion deliberate, the cuffs digging into your skin as you closed the distance between you. There was a gleam in your eyes now—not of defiance, but something more dangerous. Something that made Joshua’s pulse quicken.

“Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

The question hit harder than it should have, knocking the breath from his lungs. Joshua’s throat tightened, the thread burning hotter, twisting tighter. He hated it—hated how you could cut him open with words as sharp as blades, hated the anger bubbling beneath his calm exterior. But most of all, he hated the truth in your question, the way it echoed the thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to confront.

He didn’t get the chance to respond.

The door creaked open, and Sangyeon strode in, his boots echoing sharply against the tiled floor. The cold presence of his commanding officer shattered the fragile intimacy of the moment.

Joshua rose instinctively, his body moving faster than his mind. He stepped between you and Sangyeon, his arm outstretched to block the path.

“We’re not done here,” Joshua said firmly, his voice steady even as his pulse thundered in his ears.

Sangyeon raised a brow, his expression colder than the room itself. “The prisoner doesn’t decide when we’re done,” he replied curtly. “She’s being transported.”

Joshua bristled. He couldn’t explain it—not to Sangyeon, not to himself. But something about this moment, about you, felt like a line he wasn’t ready to let anyone else cross. He could feel your eyes on him, steady and unyielding, burning into his back.

And for the first time in years, Joshua hesitated. 

He didn’t meet your eyes when Sangyeon all but dragged you out of the interrogation room. 

The transport convoy had been tense from the start. Joshua sat rigid in the lead vehicle, his jaw set and his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You were in the back of an armored truck, hands cuffed behind you, your expression unreadable. The radio crackled with static, the air heavy with a silence that pressed on his chest like a weight. His orders had been simple: ensure the prisoner—you—made it to the facility alive.

But the moment the first gunshot rang out, everything spiraled.

The Syndicate moved like ghosts in the night, their ambush precise and ruthless. Bullets ricocheted off metal, shouts filled the air, and the stench of gunpowder clouded the chaos. Joshua leaped out of the vehicle, his weapon drawn, scanning the darkness for threats. Amid the frenzy, his gaze found you.

You stood in the middle of the chaos, unarmed, your hands still bound behind your back. And yet, you weren’t panicking. You weren’t cowering. You were watching him with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

Your eyes locked with his, and in that moment, the world seemed to slow.

“Come with me,” you pleaded, your voice raw and almost lost amidst the gunfire. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, unyielding person he’d faced in the interrogation room. There was no mockery now, no edge to your words—only trust.

Joshua hesitated. His grip on his weapon faltered, the weight of his loyalty pressing against the thread on his pinky, which burned with an almost unbearable ferocity. He felt it pulling him toward you, urging him forward, and for a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it—letting go of the lies, the bloodshed, the endless cycle of orders and betrayal. Letting himself be with you.

But the spell broke as quickly as it had been cast. Before he could respond, you turned on your heel and ran. You vanished into the shadows, slipping through the chaos like smoke.

Joshua stood frozen, the thread tugging so hard it felt like it would snap. He should have called for backup. He should have tracked you immediately. Instead, he lingered in the wreckage, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every passing second.

By the time he’d made up his mind, you were long gone.

It took him hours to track you down. The thread burned hotter with every step, guiding him to a decrepit safehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building leaned precariously, its windows cracked and its walls streaked with grime. He stepped inside cautiously, his weapon drawn, every muscle in his body tense.

You were waiting for him.

The safehouse smelled of damp wood and dust, the faint hum of the laptop filling the silence between you and Joshua. You leaned against the edge of the table, exhaustion etched into the lines of your face, but your eyes remained sharp, unyielding. The pistol sat within reach, a quiet reminder of the life you lived—a life Joshua should want no part of.

“Took you long enough,” you said when he finally stepped through the broken doorway, his silhouette outlined by the dim glow of a street lamp outside. There was a bite to your tone, but it wavered just enough to betray the relief hiding beneath it.

Joshua hesitated. He didn’t know what he expected to find—maybe a trap, maybe nothing at all. But here you were, waiting for him like you knew the thread had left him with no choice.

He nodded toward the pistol on the table. “You expecting someone else?”

You smirked, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. But not you.”

The weight of his steps seemed heavier as he crossed the room. His presence was quiet but impossible to ignore, like a storm brewing in the distance. He stopped a few feet away, just close enough for the tension between you to spark.

“They’ll kill you,” he said, his voice low, steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to worry.

You laughed, bitter and tired, the sound almost foreign in the stillness. “And you’re here to, what? Warn me? That’s rich. What’s next? You’re going to tell me to turn myself in?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. You didn’t need him to answer; the hesitation in his silence was enough.

“You’re swimming in dangerous waters,” he said finally, his tone quieter now, less an accusation and more a reluctant observation.

“Then teach me how to stay afloat,” you shot back, meeting his gaze head-on.

The words hung between you, heavier than the air in the room. His eyes flicked over your face, cataloging the shadows beneath your eyes, the faint bruise on your cheekbone, the cut just above your eyebrow. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the cut. You flinched, inhaling sharply like the touch burned you.

He pulled his hand back as if scalded, the thread on his pinky burning like it had come alive, searing his skin with every beat of his heart. The pull was unbearable now, as if fate itself had decided to wrap its unyielding fingers around his throat.

“Fate’s a cruel mistress,” you murmured, almost to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper.

Before he could reply, your hand was on his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw with a softness that shouldn’t have belonged in this world of violence and lies. He froze, caught between instinct and the undeniable gravity pulling him toward you.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice steady even as your eyes searched his face. “You don’t have to keep fighting against it.”

Joshua’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch. Just for a moment. Your hand was warm against his skin, grounding him in a way he couldn’t understand but didn’t dare question.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said quietly, his words faltering as his gaze dropped to the thread burning bright red between you.

“I know enough,” you replied.

It wasn’t a confession. Not exactly. But it was enough to make his resolve splinter.

He stepped back, the moment breaking like glass. The room felt colder without you in reach, the distance between you suddenly unbearable. Joshua turned toward the door, his jaw tight, his hands trembling with something he didn’t want to name.

When he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back at the table. The pistol still sat where you’d left it, untouched.

“If they come for you, run,” he said without turning to face you. “Don’t wait for me.”

You didn’t respond, but when the door closed behind him, the pistol remained exactly where it was.

He was sure he would never see you again. 

240 seconds… 239… 238…

Months slipped by, but the weight of you never did. 

Joshua buried himself in missions, but each one left him more fractured than the last. The Organization sent him from one corner of the world to another—extracting assets from hostile territories, infiltrating Syndicate bases, and dismantling black-market operations. The missions were a blur of violence and precision. A high-stakes extraction in Prague left him dangling from a helicopter over the Vltava River. In Istanbul, he spent weeks undercover in a Syndicate safehouse, passing information to the Organization while pretending to be one of them. In Bogotá, a firefight in a crumbling warehouse left his shoulder grazed by a bullet, the heat of it a reminder that he wasn’t invincible. 

You, meanwhile, had gone dark. No trail, no whispers of your whereabouts. He told himself it was for the best, that this was what survival looked like. But the truth twisted inside him like a knife: he wanted to find you, even if it meant breaking everything he’d built.

So in every city, in every crowd, he found himself scanning faces for yours. It wasn’t just  habit—it was compulsion. He looked for you in reflections, in the muted buzz of computer screens during late-night debriefings. It was irrational, foolish, and entirely unavoidable. You had taken root somewhere deep inside him, and no matter how many miles he traveled or how many agents he eliminated, you remained.

You were in the quiet moments between missions, in the brief silences before sleep claimed him. In the hum of static on his comms, he thought he heard your voice. And in the shadows, he sometimes swore he saw the outline of your figure, only to blink and find you gone. When the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion crept in, he caught himself tracing the thread on his wrist—the one that connected him to you. He hated it. He hated you. He hated himself for not hating you enough.

When he saw you again, it wasn’t planned. He told himself that, over and over, like a mantra meant to absolve him of guilt. 

The café was crowded, its warmth a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside. He’d come in for a quick reprieve, seeking caffeine and anonymity. But there you were, sitting by the window with your laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. The light from the screen cast a faint glow on your face, and he stopped in his tracks.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His heart thundered in his chest, and his mind screamed at him to turn around and walk away. But his feet refused to listen.

You noticed him before he could decide. Your eyes flicked up from the screen, narrowing slightly in recognition before your lips curved into a smirk. You stood and approached, your movements so casual it made his stomach twist.

“Following me now?” you asked, sliding into the chair across from him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I should be,” he admitted, his voice low.

Your laugh was soft, disbelieving. “You’ve got other things to worry about, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But you have a habit of making yourself hard to ignore.”

You arched a brow, amused. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want.”

The edge that usually laced your conversations was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate. The café buzzed around you, but the noise faded as you fell into a rhythm, a shared bubble that felt fragile and fleeting.

You talked about nothing and everything. You mentioned a book you’d been reading—something about espionage, fittingly—and he countered with a story about a mission that reminded him of it. You argued over music, his disdain for synth-pop clashing with your guilty admiration for it.

“Places you’ve never been?” he asked at one point, watching as your fingers traced idle patterns on the rim of your coffee cup.

“Japan,” you said softly. “I’ve always wanted to see Kyoto in the fall. The colors, the temples… it feels like a dream.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d hate the humidity.”

“And you’d hate the crowds,” you shot back, grinning.

It was dangerous, this fragile intimacy. Joshua felt it with every word, every moment that passed. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to someone like this, like the world outside didn’t exist.

When his hand accidentally brushed against yours, the thread ignited, searing into his skin with a heat that made him pull away too quickly. You noticed, your gaze flickering between your own hand and his, but you didn’t comment.

He was about to say something—he didn’t know what—when his instincts screamed at him. 

Syndicate operatives. Their movements were too deliberate, their eyes scanning the room too carefully. Joshua’s hand went to his Glock, hidden beneath his jacket, and his body tensed.

“Get down,” he said under his breath, but you were already aware.

The fight was quick and brutal. He moved like a ghost, his Glock barking twice before the café erupted into chaos. People screamed and scrambled as tables overturned, coffee spilling like blood. Two agents fell, their bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds, and Joshua didn’t give the others a chance.

By the time the last operative dropped, the café was eerily silent, save for the panicked whispers of bystanders.

You stared at him, your chest heaving.

 “You just killed Syndicate agents,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I know,” he said, his voice tight. He reached for your wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. “We need to go. Now.”

The rain outside was relentless, soaking you both as you ran. He didn’t let go of your wrist, and you didn’t pull away. The thread between you felt like a live wire, sparking with every step.

 210 seconds… 209… 208…

The motel room was a piss-poor excuse for shelter - it was suffocatingly small, air thick with the dampness of your rain-soaked clothes. Joshua’s hair clung to his forehead, water rolling down his sharp jawline. He paced the room like a caged animal, his movements sharp with anger.

“You’re too reckless,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the still air. “Do you even understand what you’re doing? What you’re risking?”

You crossed your arms, defiant despite the chill that had seeped into your bones. “I know exactly what I’m playing with. This flash drive? Erebus? It has the names of every agent in your Organization. Every. Single. One.”

His jaw tightened, and he stopped pacing to glare at you. “The Syndicate isn’t just some petty operation. Erebus has everything—data on every agent in the Organization, their families, their locations. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out you have that?”

“What they’ll do to me?” you shot back. “What about what they’ve done to everyone on that list? I’m not just going to stand by and let them—”

“This isn’t some noble crusade!” he interrupted, his voice rising. “This is suicide.”

“And what’s your solution? Pretend it doesn’t exist? Turn me over? Let the Organization do what they want with me while the Syndicate kills every last one of you?”

The argument escalated, voices overlapping, words cutting deep. But beneath the anger, there was something else—fear. Fear of losing, of breaking, of being undone.

When Joshua finally stopped pacing, you realized how close he had gotten. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his breaths, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though he were holding himself back.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice low and strained. “If they catch you, they won’t just kill you. They’ll make you wish they had. And I can’t—” He cut himself off, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Can’t what?” you demanded, your voice softer now but no less insistent. 

His nails cut into the meat of his palm. The thread tugged, searing against his skin as he exhaled defeatedly. 

“You need to leave,” he said, his voice raw and quiet.

“Why?” you demanded, refusing to look away.

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up to your eyes. “Because if you stay, I won’t let you go.”

The air between you was heavy, suffocating. Neither of you moved, but the tension pulled taut, the thread between you burning like fire against his skin.

And then it snapped.

He kissed you like a man unraveling, his mouth desperate and unrelenting against yours. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though proximity could fix whatever was broken inside him. You melted into him, matching his hunger with your own, your fingers tangling in the soaked fabric of his shirt.

Time blurred after that. The world outside ceased to exist, the rain pounding against the windows the only reminder that it hadn’t stopped spinning.

By the time dawn broke, the room was silent save for the faint sound of your breathing. Joshua stood by the door, fully dressed, his back turned to you. He didn’t look back as he stepped out into the rain, but the thread knotted around his finger burned brighter than ever, searing his skin with a pain he refused to acknowledge.

You woke to find the bed empty and the USB drive still clutched in your hand. He was gone, but the faint imprint of his touch lingered—on your skin, in your chest, and in the hollow ache he left behind.

 180 seconds… 179… 178…

The present clawed its way back to him in sharp, agonizing bursts as Joshua lay sprawled on the rain-slick asphalt. Pain tore through his side, hot and searing, every breath shallow and wet. The alley spun in shades of black and gray, the rain streaking his face like tears he’d never shed. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and warm against the cold, uncaring ground.

And yet, it wasn’t the physical pain that consumed him.

It was the mistakes—the ghosts of every choice that had led him here.

They unraveled in his mind, one by one, sharp-edged memories that wouldn’t let him rest. The mission in Berlin: Joshua had been too slow, a fraction of a second of hesitation that had cost his partner a bullet to the leg. He could still hear the crack of gunfire, the way his partner’s shout of pain cut through the chaos, and the look of betrayal that followed. He’d apologized—of course he had—but in their line of work, an apology wasn’t enough. The Organization didn’t care about remorse; they cared about results.

Then Madrid. Joshua had miscalculated the Syndicate’s response time, thinking he had ten minutes when he only had five. The extraction had turned into a massacre, the Syndicate responding with brutal efficiency. Civilians—people with nothing to do with their mission—had been caught in the crossfire. Joshua had stayed up that night, staring at his trembling hands, the smell of blood still clinging to him. He hadn’t spoken about it, hadn’t dared to, but the faces of the innocent haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Seoul had been worse. The Syndicate asset had been within his grasp, mere feet away, but Joshua had underestimated their desperation. They’d slipped through his fingers with a single, calculated move, leaving him standing in an empty apartment with nothing to show for weeks of planning. He’d reported the failure with a steady voice, but inside, he felt the crushing weight of disappointment—the Organization’s and his own.

He could name every mistake, every failure, each one etched into his mind like a scar. And yet none of them—none of them—compared to the monumental fuck-up that had shattered everything.

Telling Sangyeon about the thread.

140 seconds… 139… 138…

It had been during a debrief, just days after the café incident. Joshua had killed two Syndicate operatives in broad daylight to protect you. The aftermath had been a whirlwind of blood and chaos, and somehow, through it all, he’d managed to get you to safety. He swore up and down he hadn’t seen you since. 

But the Organization demanded answers.

He could still see the stark room where it happened, its fluorescent lights humming overhead. Sangyeon sat across from him, his expression cold and unreadable. The air between them was heavy with tension, suffocating in its intensity.

“You killed two Syndicate agents,” Sangyeon said, his tone sharp, cutting. “In public.”

“They were going to kill her,” Joshua had replied evenly, refusing to flinch under Sangyeon’s glare.

“Her.” The word lingered, dripping with accusation. “Nyx.”

“She’s not a target,” Joshua said, his jaw tight.

“No,” Sangyeon agreed. “She’s a liability. She holds the very thing that could kill us all.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Joshua could’ve deflected, could’ve buried the truth like he had so many times before. But the thread burned against his fingers, the weight of it too much to bear.

“It’s not just her,” Joshua said, his voice low. “It’s... the thread.”

Sangyeon’s brow furrowed. “The what?”

“The thread,” Joshua repeated, leaning forward. “It’s real. It’s... fate. It connects us.”

For the first time, Sangyeon faltered, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker. He leaned back in his chair, the lines of his face hardening. “You’re saying you’re tied to her. That you’re bound to her.”

Joshua nodded once, the motion stiff. “It doesn’t change anything. I’ve kept my work separate—”

“It changes everything,” Sangyeon snapped, slamming a hand on the table. “You’ve compromised yourself. You’ve compromised us.”

“I haven’t,” Joshua shot back, his voice rising. “I’d never betray the Organization.”

But Sangyeon’s laughter was cold and cruel, a sound that made Joshua’s stomach twist. “You already have,” Sangyeon said.

And then he reached into his jacket, pulling out a Glock. He placed it on the table with a slow, deliberate motion, the click of metal against wood reverberating in Joshua’s ears.

“Prove it,” Sangyeon said, his voice unnervingly calm. He gestured to the gun, his eyes piercing. “Prove your loyalty right now.”

Joshua froze, his pulse hammering in his ears. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air too thick to breathe.

“Kill her,” Sangyeon said, his tone colder than ice. “If the thread is nothing, if fate is meaningless, then prove it. Take the gun. End it.”

The words sliced through Joshua like a blade. His hand hovered over the weapon, trembling, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to move.

His mind betrayed him, flashing with images of you—your defiance, your laughter, the rare moments of vulnerability you’d shared. He thought of the thread on his finger, burning with a purpose he couldn’t deny.

“No,” Joshua said finally, his voice breaking.

Sangyeon’s jaw tightened, his disappointment a palpable weight. “I knew it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re weak.”

Now, lying on the asphalt, Joshua clenched his jaw, the memory of Sangyeon’s words echoing in his head.

“You’re weak.”

The thread pulsed faintly, a cruel reminder of the one thing he could never sever, no matter how much he tried. Rain soaked through his clothes, his blood washing away in rivulets, but he clung to the memory of you.

The only thing he’d ever chosen over the Organization.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a ragged breath lost to the storm.

120 seconds… 119… 118…

It took him days to find you again. The string tugged him south, sharper and more insistent than it had ever been before. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t slept in three days, that his ribs ached from a Syndicate operative’s well-placed kick, or that Sangyeon had started leaving bodies in his wake just to bait him. None of it mattered. The thread knew where you were, and Joshua had learned—finally, painfully—to trust it.

He found you in a dingy motel room in Bangkok, the kind of place where the sheets were stained and the walls were peeling, the fan overhead spinning lazily against the heat. The sight of you hit him like a punch to the gut. You were alive, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a laptop open, a half-eaten bowl of noodles on the nightstand. Relief surged through him so violently that he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself.

The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, there was silence—just the sound of the rain pattering against the cracked window and the faint hum of the overhead fan.

Then you moved.

Your hand flew to the gun on the nightstand, your instincts honed from years of survival. Joshua's hands shot up, palms open in surrender. “It’s me,” he said quickly, his voice low and soothing.

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the grip, before your eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you shouldn’t still be in Bangkok,” he retorted, his words sharper than intended. “Do you have any idea how close they are?”

You glared at him, your expression hardening as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Close enough that you’ve led them straight to me?”

It was a low blow, but Joshua swallowed the sting. He stepped closer, shaking the rain from his jacket. “I didn’t lead them here. I came because I—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. “I came because you need to leave. Now.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. If anything, your glare hardened. “Big talk from someone who left me in a shitty motel room.”

“I did it to protect you,” he countered, his voice breaking on the last word.

The argument spiraled quickly, your voices rising to fill the tiny room.

“You think I don’t know how to handle myself?” you snapped, your body tense, ready for a fight.

“Handle yourself? You’re a walking target, and you know it!” he fired back, his voice rising. “They’ll drag you back in chains if they don’t kill you outright.”

“And what’s your brilliant plan, huh? To swoop in and save me like you always do?”

“I’m trying to save us both!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

You stared at him, your chest heaving with anger, and then shoved him, hard. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Joshua!”

He stumbled back a step, more stunned by the fury in your voice than the force of the push. But when you tried to step past him, he grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You yanked your arm free, your eyes blazing. “You don’t own me.”

“I never said I did,” he shot back, his voice trembling. “But damn it, I—” He paused, running a hand through his soaked hair, struggling for words. “I can’t stand the thought of them getting their hands on you.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, but when he reached out to touch your arm, you didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “This thread, this... connection. But I know that every time I think of you  in pain, it kills me. And the thought of you in their clutches…” He shook his head, his hand tightening around your arm. “It makes me want to tear the world apart. So please, for once, just run.”

90 seconds… 89… 88…

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, and the room fell into silence.

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, before tilting your head. “Run where?”

“Anywhere,” he pleaded. “I’ll keep them off your trail. Just... go. Disappear.”

Your gaze softened ever so slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might relent. But then you asked quietly, “And what about you, soldier? Will you come with me?”

70 seconds… 69… 68…

The nickname hit him like a blow, dredging up memories of whispered conversations in coffee shops and fleeting touches, of a time when things had been simpler. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, the word a vow.

You nodded, swallowing hard, and moved to open the door.

That’s when you both saw him.

Sangyeon.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, but his expression was anything but relaxed. His eyes were cold, calculating, as they flicked from you to Joshua. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

Joshua’s heart sank.

60 seconds… 59… 58…

The rain came down in sheets, each drop striking your skin like tiny needles. Sangyeon’s voice echoed behind you as he shouted orders to his men, his tone sharp and commanding. He was close—too close. The three of you had been darting through the maze of alleys and narrow streets, but every turn seemed to bring his shadow closer. Joshua’s grip on your wrist tightened as he pulled you along, his pace relentless despite the exhaustion that clung to both of you. “We can’t outrun him forever,” you panted, glancing over your shoulder. The sight of Sangyeon’s silhouette closing in made your stomach twist.

Joshua didn’t respond, his jaw set in determination. His eyes darted around, scanning for an escape route. Finally, he spotted a low wall covered in ivy and debris, just high enough to give Sangyeon trouble but not impossible for the two of you.

“This way,” Joshua muttered, pulling you sharply to the left.

You reached the wall first, your breath hitching as you realized what he intended. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you hissed.

“No time to argue,” Joshua snapped. He bent slightly, locking his fingers together into a makeshift foothold. “Up.”

You hesitated, but the sound of Sangyeon’s boots splashing through the puddles behind you left no room for debate. Gritting your teeth, you stepped into Joshua’s hands, using his strength to launch yourself up and over the wall. You landed awkwardly on the other side, the USB clutched protectively in your hand.

Joshua scrambled up after you, his movements less fluid but just as urgent. As soon as he hit the ground, he grabbed your arm again, tugging you forward. “Keep moving,” he said, his voice low and urgent.

The two of you ran, weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways, but Sangyeon was like a wolf on the hunt, his presence a constant pressure on your backs. You could hear him yelling into his radio, summoning reinforcements.

Joshua’s steps faltered as he realized the inevitable: there was no escaping Sangyeon together. His lungs burned, every breath a knife in his chest, but he pushed through the pain, his mind racing.

45 seconds… 44… 43…

“Stop!” he suddenly barked, pulling you to a halt.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice rising in panic. “He’s right behind us!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to memorize every detail. His hair was plastered to his forehead, rivulets of rain carving paths down his cheeks.

“I know,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, even as his eyes searched yours desperately. “I know, but listen to me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped you cold.

“I need you to run,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back. No matter what you hear, just keep running.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping his jacket. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” he insisted, his thumbs brushing the rain from your cheeks. “I’ll find you, I swear. But if Sangyeon catches you…” He trailed off, his voice choking on the thought.

Your lips parted, words hovering on the edge, but he didn’t let you speak. Instead, he kissed you.

33 seconds… 32… 31…

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—this was the kind of kiss born of desperation, of finality. His lips crashed against yours with an urgency that left you breathless, his hands sliding to the back of your neck to hold you close. The rain slicked your skin, mingling with the tears you didn’t realize you’d shed.

His kiss was everything he couldn’t say.

I’ll protect you. I’ll find you. I’ll love you, one day. When we have time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I’ll find you,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Before you could protest, he shoved you away. “Go!”

For once, you listened.

You stumbled, your heart twisting as his hand slipped from yours. For once, you listened. You turned and ran, clutching the USB to your chest, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Joshua stayed frozen, watching until you disappeared into the darkness. Then he turned, his hand dropping to the knife at his side as Sangyeon stepped into the alley.

25 seconds… 24… 23… 

“Well,” Sangyeon drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “I didn’t think you’d stoop this low, Joshua. Running off with her? Betraying everything for—what, love?”

Joshua didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, he lunged.

The fight was brutal from the start.

Joshua lunged first, catching Sangyeon off guard with a shoulder tackle that slammed him into the wall. But Sangyeon recovered quickly, driving his elbow into Joshua’s ribs with enough force to make him stagger.

“Still as reckless as ever,” Sangyeon sneered, dodging a wild swing and countering with a sharp punch to Joshua’s jaw.

Joshua spat blood, his eyes blazing as he charged again. This time, he feinted left and struck right, his fist connecting with Sangyeon’s temple. The blow sent Sangyeon reeling, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he kicked out, catching Joshua’s knee and sending him to the ground.

Sangyeon didn’t waste a second. He grabbed Joshua by the collar, hauling him up and slamming him against the wall.

“You’d throw everything away for her?” he hissed, his breath hot against Joshua’s face.

Joshua snarled, shoving him back with all his strength. “You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

Sangyeon’s laugh was cold, cruel. “Oh, I know enough. And when I bring her in, I’ll make sure she’s in chains. You can watch every second of it.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Joshua froze, his blood turning to ice.

20 seconds… 19… 18… 

That moment of hesitation cost him.

Sangyeon drove his fist into Joshua’s stomach, doubling him over, and then swept his legs out from under him. Joshua hit the ground hard, the asphalt tearing at his skin.

Before he could recover, Sangyeon pulled out his gun.

The muzzle flash lit up the rain.

10...Joshua's eyes fluttered open, barely. The pain—the sharp, blinding agony in his chest—wasn’t there anymore. It was strange, almost peaceful. His body felt weightless, as if the rain had washed him clean of everything, even his senses. So this is it, he thought. This is where it ends.

9...Out of the corner of his vision, the red thread glimmered faintly against the darkness, slick with rain but unbroken. He had forgotten about it until now, a lifeline he hadn’t dared to hope for. It felt absurd, this fragile thing tethering him to someone in a moment like this. And yet, without fully understanding why, he reached for it. His fingers were trembling, weak, but they managed to curl around the string.

And then, he tugged.

8...The thread pulsed, faint and distant, like a heartbeat far away. Joshua blinked through the haze clouding his vision, confusion prickling at the edges of his fading mind. Was it always this warm? The rain poured harder, soaking him to the bone, yet the thread seemed to thrum with something else entirely—something alive. He could feel it pulling back, gentle but insistent.

7...Images began to flicker in his mind - a life that he so desperately wished to be his: your laugh echoing on a summer night, your hand in his as you pulled him through a crowd, the softness of your gaze when you thought he wasn’t looking. Each one burned brighter than the last, brighter than the rain-soaked world around him.

6...He heard it then—footsteps. They were frantic, splashing through puddles, growing louder with every heartbeat. His grip on the thread tightened instinctively, the pulse of it quickening in response.

Was it you?

5...“Joshua!”

Your voice cut through the storm, raw and desperate. His heart lurched at the sound, even as his body refused to move. It was you—he knew it was you. He wanted to call out, to tell you to stop, to stay back. But no words came.

4...The thread flared, glowing like fire, as your hand found his face. The warmth of your touch spread through him, chasing away the cold, the darkness, the fear. It was grounding, anchoring him to the world he thought he was leaving behind.

3...“Joshua,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. He felt the hot sting of your tears against his skin, mingling with the rain. “You need to fight. Do you hear me? You need to fight!”

His lips parted, but no sound escaped. He wanted to say your name, to tell you he was trying. He wanted to tell you everything.

2...“Soldier!” you screamed, your voice fierce and trembling all at once. “Wake up!”

Something inside him stirred—an ember reigniting. The thread between you burned white-hot, a tether he wasn’t ready to let go of yet. Not now. Not like this.

1...Joshua felt your hand shake against his face, your tears slipping over his lips as they parted slightly. He wanted to answer, wanted to give you something—anything—but his body betrayed him. The warmth of your hand began to fade, the glow of the thread flickering like a dying lightbulb.

He tried to move, to hold onto you, but everything felt heavy, as if the earth itself had decided to bury him in its arms. Your sobs were the last thing he heard clearly, breaking apart with a rawness that pierced deeper than the bullet ever could.

“Joshua,” you choked out one last time, his name a plea, a prayer, a demand.

But the world was already gone.

Joshua’s eyes flutter open, the harsh fluorescent lights above blinding him for a moment. The world is blurry at first, a smear of color and sound, like he’s waking from some fevered dream. He doesn’t feel the weight of pain anymore. In fact, he doesn't feel much of anything, save for a subtle warmth spreading across his palm.

The thread.

The faint pulse against his skin is all it takes to bring him fully back to reality. It burns, but in a way that makes him feel alive—makes him feel like he didn’t just escape death. Like he’s been given another chance.

He turns his head slowly, wincing at the movement, and there you are. You’re slumped in a chair next to the bed, your head resting against the edge. Your fingers are intertwined with his, holding on to him with the kind of tenderness that feels unreal. His heart beats faster, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. Is this real?

He squeezes your hand instinctively, half because he’s convinced he’s dreaming and half because he’s sure he’s entirely undeserving of this second chance.

The moment his fingers tighten, you stir. Your eyes flicker open, disoriented at first. Then you meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moves. It’s like time itself is holding its breath.

But then, without warning, you lunge forward, your hand flying out to smack him across the face with a force he didn’t know you had in you.

“If you ever,” you hiss, your voice low and threatening, your eyes sharp with something that could easily pass for murderous rage, “do some stupid shit like that again, I swear to God I’ll kill you  myself.”

Joshua blinks, stunned into silence for a moment. He half expects you to break down in tears, but instead, you're breathing hard, your face flushed with fury.

A chuckle escapes him, soft at first, but it grows, shaking his chest, almost delirious with the relief that floods him. The laughter feels like freedom. Like the sun breaking through clouds. And that’s when you breathe out, your body visibly relaxing. You lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply, as if letting go of a breath you’d been holding for far too long.

Then, without missing a beat, you smile—wide, so wide, that Joshua is certain the sun couldn’t compete. It’s pure, unbridled joy, the kind of smile he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever.

You lean down, kissing him softly, the kiss tender and sweet, as if he’s fragile, as if the world could break him again at any moment.

“Welcome back, soldier,” you breathe against his lips, your voice warm with affection.

He smiles faintly, the corners of his lips curling up. "Where are we?" he asks softly, his voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep.

“Some hospital in Bangkok,” you say, your hand sliding to his cheek, gently cupping it as you meet his eyes. “Pretty sure I scared the staff half to death when I dragged you in here.”

He laughs quietly, his body still too sore to do much else. “I’m sure you did.” He pauses, something lingering between you both. He studies the way the light from the window catches the strands of your hair, the way you seem so alive, so full of strength despite everything. "What do we do now?"

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you pull out a set of passports from your bag, holding them out to him. The photos are undeniably of the two of you, but the names... they’re someone else’s. The last names match.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving up in a teasing smile. “Are we brother and sister?” he asks, his voice light.

You smack him again, but it’s gentler this time, laced with affection. “If you want to keep joking, I’ll slap you again,” you warn, but there’s a warmth in your eyes.

“Then what do you say, soldier?" you ask with a grin. "Wanna see Kyoto in the fall?"

Joshua leans back, chuckling, despite the sore ache in his body. "I told you, you’d hate the humidity."

"And you'd hate the crowds," you tease right back. "But is that a yes?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he hums against your lips, the sound full of quiet amusement. He pulls you in for another kiss, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you closer.

Later, after a few quiet hours, once you’ve crawled into bed beside him, Joshua’s hand rests against your waist, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The heart monitor is the only sound in the room, its rhythmic beeping the only proof that he’s still here, still alive.

“You asked me once,” Joshua says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If my fate felt like a noose.”

You nod slowly, tracing the outline of his hand with your fingers. “And? Does it?”

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, lost in thought. Then he turns his head, looking at you with a quiet intensity. “No,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “It feels like life.”

You don’t speak right away, letting the words sink in, letting them settle between you like an unspoken truth. Then you smile, a soft, knowing smile, and kiss him once more, gentle and full of promise.

And as you close your eyes in the silence of the room, the only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting up slowly, a reminder that time, even after everything, keeps moving forward.

1... 2... 3...

tagging: @ottersmind @blvenote @kyeomsworld @cookiearmy @armycarat2612 @rjea @xylatox @flwrshwa

@christinewithluv @headlockimnida @letwiiparkjay @cherr-y-eji @codeinbelle @baguette-atiny @whoa-jo @noiceoofed

[heytheredelulu]

Hey i hope you’re doing well i have an idea for a one shot and was wondering if you could write it.

So basically Bucky hears the reader talking to Natasha or anyone that she thinks she’s too heavy for any partner and that she has given up on dating for a while because of that, and of course Bucky hearing that he starts lifting heavy stuff such as weights, machines or even Steve😭 around the reader to show her he can easily lift her weight as well because he has feelings for her and you can add or change whatever you like and make it smutty idk whatever you think is right i trust your skills.

Hi! I’m doing good, how are you?

This request? Uh, YES. 🙌🏻

I love this idea!

I wrote this fully intending on Steve being like, “She ain’t lookin’, Buck. Lift me.” and then changed my mind and rewrote it when it took on a life of its own. 😂

I live and breathe smut so I definitely threw that in there in the form of Bucky needing to blow off some steam when he thinks about the reader. 😉

Anyway, thank you for the request and I hope it’s what you were looking for!

💋Sj

Bucky Barnes x Plus!Size Reader

18+

Word Count: 2.9k

CW: Male masturbation while fantasizing about oral (f receiving) and sex

“Bullshit.”

Bucky’s ears perk up as he passes the garage and hears Natasha fussing at someone in a string of curses, but it’s your voice that has him peering around the concrete wall with interest.

“I ain’t lyin’ Nat.”

You’re bent over the open hood of an old hot rod, your ass accentuated by the denim jeans hugging your curves. You blindly reach out towards the red headed assassin wiggling your fingers at her that are blackened with grease. Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the wall and picking up a socket wrench that she holds just barely in your reach. You let out a sigh, standing upright and snatching it from her.

“Look.” You tell her pointedly, blowing a loose piece of hair back from your face with a huff from your pouty lips. “It’s been months. I’m sufferin’, I am, really. But I’m just over it, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” She replies, leaning her hip against the side of the car, watching you with a skeptical frown. “If you’re suffering, just come out with me. We can hit up that rooftop bar downtown. Have a couple drinks, dance a bit, pick up some hot strangers and scratch that itch. Come on.”

Scratch that itch?

A muscle jumps in Bucky’s jaw at Nat’s comment and he can feel his jealousy simmering low in his gut.

He’s been pining after you damn near since you’d arrived at the compound. The sweet little engineer Tony brought on to help take on his workload was only supposed to stick around and help out for a few months but when the team expressed their disappointment in you leaving and Tony realized despite his astronomically sized ego that he could get twice as much done with your help, giving him the opportunity for more free time with his family- you were brought on full time.

“I can scratch my own itches, thanks.”

Your curt reply to Nat brought Bucky’s attention back to the conversation he was eavesdropping on while the implication caught the attention of his cock, his jeans suddenly feeling tighter as he continued to listen.

“You’re crazy. You need to get laid.”

“Nat.” You warn and turn your back to her to grab a hand towel.

“Come on.” She pleaded, crossing her arms. “You’ve been so wound up. Nothing loosens you up better than a big, thick-“

Nat’s cut off by the hand towel being tossed in her direction and she catches it with a chuckle.

“I don’t understand why you’re so hung up on this.”

“I don’t understand why you’re so afraid to get laid.” She counters.

“I’m not afraid.” You protest, raking a hand through your hair. “I’m just- I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.”

Nat’s expression softens as she hangs the hand towel over the open hood. “Try?” She asks. “We’re friends, you know you can talk to me.”

Bucky watches you shift uncomfortably and for a moment he feels guilty for listening in, as it’s clear you’re debating on confiding in Natasha and it feels wrong to eavesdrop on something so private. But as soon as you let out that defeated sigh and begin to explain yourself, he’s so goddamn grateful that this was the conversation he had a chance to overhear.

“Men just don’t know how to handle me.” You admit, leaning back over the car and pretending to inspect something to avoid eye contact with Natasha but she isn’t having any of it, bending down to hold your gaze. “How so?”

“They just-“ You huff out a breath of annoyance, bracing your palms on the front of the car and standing upright. “I’m curvy, yeah? And I want a man that’s gonna pick me up, toss me around, hold me up and fuck me on a wall or somethin’ but the last couple guys I went home with they’re so.. boring. Missionary. Doggy. Like for once, would it be too much to ask for a dude to want to, I dunno, have me sit on their face? I swear, it’s like they’re afraid. I ain’t ashamed of my body, I like the way I look but shit, Nat. It really fucks with a girls head to feel like she’s too heavy or something to really be satisfied.”

Natasha’s moving closer to you, beginning to say something about ‘weak men with noodle arms’ but Bucky can’t hear it over the steady thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears.

He can’t believe that your experiences have been so lousy that you won’t even entertain the idea of going out with Nat if she was wanting to pick up guys. Honestly, he’s relieved by that, since the idea of you hooking up with anyone has the knuckles of his flesh hand bleached white with how hard he’s clenching his fist. He flexes his fingers, trying to relax his hand as he feels a wave of embarrassment wash over him. How could he be angry or even jealous when he’s been too shy to make a move?

C’mon Barnes, grow a pair.

She wants strong? You can show her strong.

He sucks in a breath, steeling his nerves before rounding the corner and strolling into the garage with his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Hey Nat.” He says with a friendly nod before slowly swinging his gaze over to you. “Doll.” He drawls. “What are you ladies up to this morning?” Your cheeks heat under the warmth of his cerulean eyes roaming over your body and you fumble the socket wrench, earning a lopsided grin from the handsome brunette. “Just- just workin’ on my project.” You stammer, bending down to pick up the tool. Damn, one flash of this man’s pearly whites is all it takes for you to lose control of your fine motor skills? Maybe you do need that itch scratched more than you’ve let on to your best friend and she can tell too, her brow lifting as she watches the scene unfolding.

“Mustang?” He asks, planting his hands on his hips. His eyes follow you as you bend over and reach for the socket wrench that’s just out of your reach underneath the car. When you stretch, your baggy t-shirt rises up your midriff, giving him a glimpse of that cute little pooch tucked into the dark-wash denim jeans that are deliciously hugging your hips and thighs.

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “1960’s?” He asks, leaning down behind you. God, what he’d do to bring his palm down hard on your perfect, round ass and watch the flesh redden with each swat of his hand.

“‘62.” You grunt, your fingertips brushing the tool that’s just barely out of reach. Bucky shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it lazily over the workbench before stepping in even closer to you. “Here, lemme get that for you, doll.” He murmurs, his vibranium hand settling on the underside of the Mustang. Before you can eke out a reply, he’s lifting the vehicle off the garage floor like a goddamn carjack with enough ease that it makes the 3500 pound car seem as if it were cut from styrofoam. You’re frozen in place on your hands and knees from the show of brawn so it’s Natasha that crouches down and quickly grabs up the socket wrench before you snap out of your trance and scramble to your feet.

Nat presses the tool firmly into your palm while giving you a look that screamed, ‘do not fuck this up’ and saunters backwards admist the low groan of your car being set back down on its tires. “I gotta meet Steve for a briefing.” She tells you, which you know is a damn lie- but you nod nonetheless and stutter out a, “Y-yeah, yeah. Catch you later.” She gives you a little wave and jogs off, her red waves bouncing in stride. When you turn back around, Bucky is leaning against the car with his arms crossed, his biceps testing the integrity of his black tshirt.

Goddamn, that’s some quality fabric.

His gaze is locked on you, making you sweat a little under the intense stare so you awkwardly begin picking up the rest of your tools and putting them back in their rightful place at your workbench. A strong arm comes into view in your periphery as Bucky plucks up his jacket and you nearly lose your breath at the scent of cedarwood and leather. He slings the coat over his right shoulder, holding it with his flesh hand, his vibranium hand reaching up to rake through his cropped hair. “Finished so soon?” He asks. “You ain’t gotta quit workin’ just ‘cause I stopped by.”

“Oh, no. No, I-“ You swallow thickly at the way the corner of his mouth twitches up into a smirk. “I actually was just getting to a stopping point.” You tell him, absentmindedly pulling your hair up into a ponytail. With your neck exposed, he wets his bottom lip at the thought of dragging his teeth across the skin and that little glimpse of his tongue flicking out has you struggling to focus anywhere but his mouth. “Got somewhere you gotta be?” He asks, his voice low and gruff.

Fuck, this man is sex on legs. On two thick, strong legs.

You nod quickly. “Yeah, I got a meeting with Tony about a new project.” You explain, though it comes out an octave higher than usual. He quirks a brow. “Yeah? You got a new project?”

“Yep. Yeah. I better get going.” You teeter on your heel, ready to flee.

Chicken shit.

“Hey, wait. Hold on.” He says gently, reaching to grab your wrist and setting your skin ablaze with the touch. You glance over your shoulder at him. “Hm?”

“What’re you doin’ tonight, doll?”

“What am I..?”

Holy fucking shit. Is he gonna-

No, no way. This is Bucky fuckin’ Barnes. You two are friends. He’s your friend. Your insanely hot friend that you’ve definitely had some filthy, sinful thoughts about, but he’s never led you to believe that he’s ever thought of you as more than a friend.

Or has he? I mean, you’ve caught his eyes lingering on you on a few occasions but that doesn’t mean-

“Lemme take you to dinner.”

Oh. Oh.

It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re staring at him like an idiot with your mouth agape before you click your jaw shut and nod. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, alright.” You manage.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Yeah? I’ll pick you up at 6?” He asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets as tries to reign in his eagerness.

“That sounds- that sounds great.”

“Great.” He repeats, toeing the ground with his boot before taking a step backwards towards the open garage door. He sweeps his eyes over you one last time. “It’s a date, then.” And he ducks out of the garage back toward the compound.

You said yes.

You said yes.

He slips into his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him and he falls back onto his bed, letting out a breath of disbelief. He’s taking you out. He finally fucking asked.

Laying in silence for several minutes he replays the interaction over in his mind like he typically did after he was around you. He had a tendency to over analyze your body language, your expressions, hang on to your every word like it kept him afloat in his sea of anxiety; though sometimes, most times, he let himself drown. He drowned in the worry that maybe he was imaging the way your voice caught around him. The way you tensed when he got close.

But you said yes.

You wouldn’t have said yes if he was just imagining it, right?

He lets out a huff, scrubbing a hand down his face as your words to Nat echo through his head like a shout in a cavern.

“Like for once, would it be too much to ask for a dude to want to, I dunno, have me sit on their face?”

And there’s his cock again, straining against his jeans just from the thought.

He groans softly, flicking the button open and unzipping his fly to give himself some relief from the pressure as he stares at the ceiling, watching the fan spin round and round and..

It takes all of the self control he can muster not to reach into his boxers so his hands fist in the sheets in restraint.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked his fist to the thought of you. Hell, it wouldn’t be the 2nd, 5th or even 10th time he’d done it.

He lets his eyes slip closed, imagining your plush thighs straddling his head as you smother him with your pretty, wet cunt. His aching cock twitching with need from neglect as he focuses all of his attention on delving his tongue into your tight, warm, hole.. closing his lips around that swollen button that makes you writhe in pleasure.. your puffy pussy lips grinding against his face as you use him to chase your release .. your sweet, sweet slick coating his chin and-

Fuck it.

He shifts his weight on the mattress, tugging his jeans down enough for his erection to spring free, spitting in his flesh hand and slowly stroking himself. He groans, squeezing the crown of his cock, a bead of pearly precum gathering at his slit that he rubs roughly with his thumb. Bucky can imagine you on top of him, your pouty lips parting with a soft gasp as you sink down onto him, maybe even a hiss or shit- a whimper from the stretch when he splits you open. He knows he’s thicker than most men, a side effect of the serum- everything about him is bigger, thicker, better. Fuck those other men who couldn’t satisfy you. Fuck them. He strokes himself faster, the thought of you bouncing on his cock making his toes curl. Your tits, those big beautiful tits, swinging, slapping together with every thrust.

He’d reach up and pinch one of your pebbled nipples, rolling the sensitive peak between his fingers, cupping the other with his hand to give it equal attention. It’d be heavy in his palm, he just knows it. Heavy, warm and filling his whole fucking hand. He imagines yanking you forward and burying his face in those perfect breasts before trailing sloppy, open mouthed kisses up through the valley of them. He’d trace the tip of his nose across the swell and sink his teeth into the supple flesh, soothing the sting with a lave of his tongue, making you collapse forward against him as you cry out in pleasure. He could fuck up into you deeper at that angle, feel the tip of his cock kiss your cervix over and over until you see stars and lose your rhythm as your orgasm tears through you.

Yeah, he’d make you come so hard you’re limp on top of him and he’d reach behind you, grabbing a handful of your plump, round ass and taking control, moving you up and down the length of him at a frenzied pace until he-

His fantasy fades as his climax crests and he grunts, thick ropes of come spilling over his fist and onto his pubic bone.

He lies still and silent, his heartbeat a metronome in his ear, keeping time of the minutes that stretch on while he steadies his ragged breathing. With a sigh he sits up, looking down at the mess in his lap as his euphoria dissipates and the shame starts to creep in.

He’s certain of two things in that moment-

One, he needs a goddamn shower and two, this will be the last time he fantasizes about fucking you.

Pulling himself to his feet, he glances over at the clock.

14:17.

He smiles to himself, crossing the threshold into the bathroom and twisting the shower on. His flesh hand tests the water, the warm spray cleaning the sticky release from between his fingers before he steps in, letting the water cascade over him.

Less than four hours. He thinks to himself.

In less than four hours he’ll be sitting across from you in a dimly lit restaurant, watching your eyes sparkle in the candlelight as he prompts you about your favorite things just so he can see the way you light up when you talk about your passions. He smiles to himself at the image of your hands gesturing wildly as you talk, the sound of your infectious laugh and the way your breasts bounce when it bubbles up from your chest.

He begins to stiffen again at the thought.

Goddamnit, his cock just won’t quit, will it?

He turns the knob, the water quickly growing ice cold and he grits his teeth at the temperature change, cursing the serum for making his refractory period so short. He’s grateful for it in the proper circumstance, but when he’s alone it’s a fuckin’ nuisance.

Bucky’s eyes slip shut, focusing in on the feeling of the frigid water splashing against the top of his head and rolling down the taut muscle of his back. Eventually the ache ebbs and he cranks the temperature back up, reaching for his shampoo. The cedarwood fragrance clings to the steam, filling his nostrils as he massages it into his scalp. Tipping his head back under the steady stream, he sighs contentedly.

Tonight’s the night he finally gets his girl.

[devotedfem]

Isn't a threat a promise? - Part I

Synopsis: Where you're an assassin hired to finish the mysterious and poweful gang of seven eccentric men, but you're oblivious of how unpunishable and untouchable they were. You were bred to kill, but they were bred to rule over the mafia. They will break little by little your mind, reminding you that not even a hired assassin can beat them.

BTS OT7 x f. Reader

4.8K words.

Genre: Mafia and hitman au | Enemies to lovers | yander-ish.

Tags and TW: Organized crime, mafia BTS, hired assassin reader, german reader, hidden identity, a lot of lies, fake identity and name, fierce and intelligent reader, really sassy and brave reader but Bangtang will slowly break her mind and turn her into a fragile mess (you've been warned), adrenaline rush, murder, typical criminal violence, unhealthy relationships, unhealthy coping mechanism, they're all morally ambiguous, a lot of death, past traumas, manipulation, obsessive tendencies.

Series masterlist.

Navigation Masterlist.

Chapters: I, II, III, IV.

FIRST BULLET:

. . . . .

Your heels clicking were the only noise in the huge living room. You hummed a song walking towards the luxurious bathroom, washing the blood off your hands. You always have your nails painted red, so the blood won’t stain under them. And red looks so good on you, so it's like killing two birds with one stone.

You took your phone to make a call, fixing your hair and your maroon lipstick that was smudged on the corner of your lips.

“Yes?” Greeted the husky voice.

“Work’s done, I want my money in cash. I also want to go to Paris this weekend, so I’ll need a new passport.” You said removing your red lipstick, concealer and black eyeliner, putting some gloss on your lips instead.

You look cleaner with your face bare. Less messy, less suspicious. More innocent.

The man at the other side of the phone sighed deeply, as if he was dealing with a spoiled brat.

“Y/n, we can’t give you a new passport every fucking week. You’re too messy and too attention seeker. Learn to be more discreet and you’ll earn your little trips.” The broken English of the man made his words sound angrier.

You snorted at him. Learn to be more discreet? What would be the fun of that?

“Can you not be a boring prick for five minutes? All of my targets always get killed and the police’s incompetence never fail to be on my favor. Doesn’t it?”

You said with your also broken English. You cleaned the doorknobs with isopropyl alcohol, and burned your target’s slit neck with a lighter, to erase any kind of fingerprints. You also cleaned the bathroom sink and the floor where the corpse lay with acid.

You felt like the cleaning lady of the house, vacuuming the floor to collect hair and clothing fibers. Every detail must be taken care of.

“Y/n,” the man warned, with that tone of voice that was supposed to intimidate you, but the both of you know that it never works. “You have a new target, so move your trip to Paris to another day.”

You stopped vacuuming with a gasp.

“You’re giving me more work!? But I just finished killing this one, and he was so annoying,” you whined, looking at the corpse of the old man with disgust. That man was a sexist sexual predator and a pain in your ass.

“Oh but you’d like this one. They’re seven men, a secretive gang, pulling all the strings from the shadows. It took us years to find their whereabouts. They’re a big deal in this business.”

Business. Big deal. That took your attention very quickly.

You said nothing for a couple of seconds. He knew that you were considering it, he knew that you love challenges.

“Prize?” You asked, checking your red nails out.

“Five.”

“Five fucking what? Dollars? Hundredths?”

“Millions.”

Oh. You hummed to yourself.

“How dangerous?”

“Very dangerous. In fact, the odds of killing them are very low. You’re more likely to get killed instead of them.”

You bit your bottom lip trying to stop your mischievous smirk from curling in your lips. You tasted the sweet savor of challenge in your tongue, imagining yourself spending those 5 million on trips in Europe.

“You’re so mean, giving me such a difficult task. You’re not trying to get rid of me, aren’t you Bruderherz?” You purred, grinning like a starve wolf. You took your Birkin bag and switchblade with you, walking out of the mansion towards your sport car.

“Oh, I would never my Schwesterlein. How could I lose my golden star? You’re irreplaceable.”

“Good to know that we’re on the same page, after all, it’s going to cost you more than seven men to get rid of me,” you hummed, lighting a cigarette, driving away. “I want vacations after I finish this target by the way, long vacations.” You made him sigh again.

This is going to be so fun.

|||||||||||||||

NEW YORK STATE

LAST NAME: NOVIKOVA

FIRST NAME: ANN

COUNTRY OF BIRTH: RUSSIA

DATE OF BIRTH: 15 AUG ****

SEX: F

CARD EXPIRES: 05/08/2034

RESIDENT SINCE: 01/12/2024

You pursed your lips reading your new fake id card. He always makes you Russian, you think you can hide very well your broken English, you weren’t that obvious. But in this kind of business, it’s pretty common to see Italians and Russians, no matter how stereotypical it sounds. You were proud of your German roots, but it is in fact stupid to let people know where you came from.

Your targets were Korean, you don’t see a lot of Koreans in this business, they were ruthless. That’s why you have to be even more careful.

You can do a lot of things wrong, like wasting your money in bags and shoes (not in your rent and bills), or playing a little with your targets, testing how quick they found out they’re falling into your trap. But the one thing you prohibit yourself from is to underestimate your prey, oh boy, that’s a huge mistake. You always have in mind the possibility of them outsmarting you. So, you do a long list of 100 ways they could find out who you are, and a quick plan to solve each one of those outcomes.

You weren’t the golden star of your Bruderherz for nothing.

You pin your hair up away from your face, securing it with grips, putting on a short wig that reaches your jaw. Wearing a dark trench coat and red lipstick.

Your new identity this time is a Russian heiress of a gang located in many countries of Eastern Europe. You’re supposed to be rich, spoiled, a little dumb and ruthless. Your daddy’s money gives you all the wonders in the world, even if the money it’s stained in blood.

You’re supposed to meet the Bangtang gang to “talk” about business. Convince them to unite both gangs for their best interest. You wanted to live in New York, but you couldn’t without the protection of your daddy’s men, so you’ll give him a good deal in this city. In your opinion, it’s a good drive for your character.

Your siren’s charm this time won’t be your body. Bangtang were young and rich, used to women throwing themselves at them expecting something in return. This time you’re the one with the golden bait.

The greed for money and power is stronger than temporary lust or infatuation.

That’s what you thought, watching Bangtang’s mansion from the car, the driver leaving you in front of the huge place.

You grinned to yourself, already smelling the scent of the five millions of dollars, in cash of course.

You walked towards the entrance of the mansion with your heels clicking, your chin was up and your gaze fixated on the big doors. You weren’t surprise when three men armed to the teeth and dressed in black stopped you.

“Wait here.” One of them said rudely, making you arch a brow.

“I’m not waiting outside the doors like a fucking dog. I have a business appointment with Bangtang, so if you don’t want to end dissolved in acid, I suggest you to take me inside to them.” It was and order and a threat. Your voice didn’t quiver and your gaze was steady, burning on the man. You were dressed in expensive clothes, all of you screamed luxury and power.

Fear flashed the guard’s face for a moment, nodding at your words and leading you into the mansion.

The decoration and furniture were classic, all here screamed old money; discreet but expensive.

You stopped when the man halt in front of a mahogany door. He looked nervous for a second, but his face turned expressionless again, opening the door and bowing to the men inside of the room.

It was an office, very chic and expensive-looking. You could smell the money.

There were seven men watching you both with frowns, looking almost startled at your presence. A tall man with bulky body and nice clothes looked at you from head to toe, arching a brow and crossing his buff arms.

“Who’s this? And why is she in my office, without my permission? I gave strict orders to make any guest wait.” The man’s jaw was clenched, and his words were grunted between teeth. He looked beyond displeased by your presence.

The guard at your side flinched a little by the cold stare of the other man, clearly intimidated by his boss scold.

“I-I, I uh, i mean, she-she said it was… She looked important…”

You felt a pang of guilt and pity by looking at him, the poor guy was about to piss himself.

“I am indeed, very important. Let me introduce myself; I am Ann Novikova, heiress of the Eastern Europe biggest gang. And please, don’t be hard on the guard, although it isn’t clever to ignore your boss orders, I wasn’t very easy on him either.” You said with a charming smile and a wink towards the guard, standing tall in your spot, watching all of them in their eyes. You can’t show an ounce of insecurity.

They were wolves, but you were a panther, circling their den from the distance.

“You’re fired. Get out of my sight.” Barked the bulky guy, looking straight into your eyes while speaking.

The guard’s face fell, turning around to leave you alone in the wolves’ den.

“You have 5 minutes to explain why you think you’re important enough to come here, to our house, almost breaking in, and clearly uninvited.” Another tall man stands up from a couch, nursing himself a glass of whiskey without averting his gaze from you. He has such plump lips, but an arrogant presence.

“Hurry up!” Thundered another one when you kept silent. His hair was black, curling at the nape, he was so handsome and so fucking rude.

You blinked, clenching your fists with fire rising to your lungs. You never let anyone speak to you in such way, not without consequences. But you have to keep calm, a prize is sweeter with a good chase.

Breathe. Act. Kill. Easy Peasy.

“Important? I have the blood of one of the most powerful and ruthless men of Europe. One call to my daddy and all of you are going to literally war,” you phrased calmly, even when your words were shot to kill. “But I don’t want to. My time is too precious to waste it on war gangs just because. I came here with a proposal, one that will benefit us all.”

And there it was, the golden bait.

The room fell silent for a moment, there was a growing tension and interest.

“Tell me, why a girl like you, that came out of nowhere, that is rich and spoiled would want to make business with us of all people?”

That was a great question, one you anticipated.

“I want to give my daddy a good deal here in New York, a good reason for him to send his men to this city so I can have their protection, he’s very protective of me. You guys are very discreet and also my dad is enemy with half of American gangs, so I don’t have many options.”

There was silence again, and then a giggle from the pretty blonde boy looking at you with mischievous eyes.

“You’re doing all of this just because you want to live in New York? I mean there’s nothing special here. There are a lot of rats though, nothing you don’t have in your homeland.” He sneered, running slowly his eyes on your body from head to toe, but unlike the buff guy, the blonde’s stare glinted with interest.

“Well, what can I say, I like New York and I want to live near my new friends. I’m bored in Russia.” You shrugged, as if your answer was enough reason to convince them.

“It’s so fucking disrespectful to have a spoiled brat thinking she can waste our time.” Growled a deep voice, catching your attention. It came from a cat-eyed man with raven hair. His face was pale and his gaze burned on you, full of contempt.

At least they believe you’re just a spoiled rich girl. That’s good.

“I said I came here with a proposal that will benefit us all. Don’t you want to hear it? If so, I’ll find another gang. Time’s money.” You stand your ground, hoping they fall for your act. It will make your job easier.

Uncomfortable and deep silence surrounded the office again.

“Let the girl speak.” Said gently a man with a heart type of smile. He seemed nice, too nice. You noted to be careful around him in the future.

“Continue.” Ordered the buff man with a sigh.

You started to explain the fake but very well thought out plan. You gestured while explaining the details, pacing around the office as if it belongs to you; as if you were one of them.

But beyond your act, you were scared. Your stomach churned, your heart beat increased and your hands sweat and trembled, that’s why you hid them inside your coat’s pockets. You can’t show them fear, you can’t show them insecurity.

Predators smell fear.

The buff guy’s name was Namjoon. He stared piercingly at you while you were talking, leaning on the edge of the desk. His brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, nodding slowly to himself at your words. The drumming of his fingers on the desk made your heart beat spike.

The other tall man, named Seokjin, has his steady dark eyes fixated on you. He was straddling a chair, with a glass of whiskey in one of his hands. You tried not to look at him for too long, getting distracted by him drinking whiskey and keeping the liquor swimming in his mouth, tasting it slowly, while looking straight into your eyes.

Braced himself against the wall was the handsome boy with dark hair curling on his nape. His name was Taehyung, and he has his arms crossed defensively over his chest, glaring at you with his jaw clenched. You didn’t know why your presence pissed him off so much, he looked like a wolf on the defensive, ready to pounce and kill at any sign of danger.

You were a threat for him, that means that your acting skills aren’t that bad. Because if he knew how powerless you actually were, he would devour you whole.

Jimin, the pretty and mischievous blonde, was sitting cozily on the couch. He looked up at you through his beautiful eyelashes, smirking and tilting his head at your words. He seemed innocent and dangerous at the same time, you knew his kind very well. He’s a snake charmer.

You can’t be charmed by him, or you’ll get eat.

And the cat-eyed man named Yoongi, resembles Taehyung’s posture, although he seemed colder and calmer than the other. He was sitting on the arm chair of the couch, with his arms crossed and his deep and intense gaze studying you. He was just watching you intently, with analyzing eyes drinking in every detail of your posture and choice of words.

You have to be careful with that one, the dullness and lack of shine of his eyes tells you that he has too much experience.

Hoseok. The smiling and gentle guy that was sitting on the edge of the couch beside Jimin, stared at you with his eyes sparkling with curiosity and something else. His elbows rested on his knees, smiling every now and then but never looking away from you.

Something about him made you feel shivers, because his smile felt a little bit fake. You knew damn well that the smiley ones are the most dangerous.

And then, there was Jungkook.

It surprised you how quiet he was, sitting in the desk chair behind Namjoon’s body half hidden from your view. But you observed him in detail anyway. He was a buff guy, not as buff as Namjoon but bulky enough. He has piercings and tattoos all over his arm, dressed in baggy black clothes. He looked like a biker guy, and that didn’t take you by surprise, what you didn’t expect was to see such big doe eyes looking at you with pure innocence sparkling in them.

His eyes took your breath away, and you tried to hide it. It was so rare to find people with clean eyes in this type of business, in this type of world. Everyone has some darkness staining their eyes, but not this one. He looks kind-hearted, not faking it like Hoseok and not using it as a weapon like Jimin. He just seemed genuine.

That’s why you mentally noted to bond with him later, to find out what is he doing here. Maybe he is Bangtang’s weakness. Their Achilles heel.

You finished talking with your hands behind your back, rubbing them in anxiety and adrenaline. You felt your heart beating fast against your ribcage and your senses getting sharp as if you were fighting a dangerous predator. It was just your anxiety talking, but you knew damn well that you were playing with fire.

There was silence. Deep, uncomfortable silence.

And then Seokjin stands up from the chair, walking towards you with his squared shoulders and firm steps. You hold his gaze, not showing fear.

You got your gun hidden in your hip, ready to risk it all if you’re forced to.

He stood inches from your body, making you look up at him. His eyes dropped heavily on your lips and then back up to your eyes again, watching you intently.

“I like you. And that’s worse than my dislike. I supposed your daddy already warned you about big bad guys like us, but I’ll warn you anyway; you better not be disloyal to us, because you’ll wish to die before getting into our bad side.” He threatened lowly and fiercely, curling a lock of your hair in his finger, staring down at you like you were an insignificant bug under his shoe.

But you knew you weren’t harmless, and he knew it too despite his indifferent façade. They will have their eyes on you, watching your every move.

“Don’t worry, I’m more than used to threats,” you hummed, smiling at him and holding your head high.

Seokjin widened his eyes for a second, and then he clenched his jaw, getting out of the office without another word.

You watched Namjoon, Yoongi and Hoseok walking towards you, feeling a rush of distrust.

“You heard him loud and clear, don’t test us, and you’ll stay with all of your limbs intact. We don’t care about your daddy’s power, as long as you’re working with us, under this roof, you’ll follow our rules.” Said calmly Namjoon, with his hands in his pockets, watching your every expression.

“Guys come on, stop being so dense with the poor girl. I mean, she has more balls than all of our guards and enemies together, she came here alone looking so… strong and pretty,” Hoseok paused to drop his gaze on your body, and then he looked up at your eyes with a smile, “I must say that you took me by surprise, I like your boldness.”

“You mean audacity.” Interrupted Yoongi with his arms crossed. His cat eyes were calculating over you. “I don’t know if your little act it’s brave, stupid or suspicious, but I do know that you have a hidden intention, and it better don’t affect us, or you’ll pay the price.”

Yoongi’s voice was deep, and his gaze dull of light. He knew you were hidden something; he has the experience of a veteran written on his face. But he doesn’t know what you’re hiding exactly, so his wariness didn’t bother you too much, at least not for now.

“If I were you, I’d be unsure too. I promise that the only person I want to bother it’s my daddy, with a new penthouse on New York,” you grinned mischievous.

“God, I love her,” purred Jimin behind the three of them, devouring you with his gaze.

The four of them walked away towards the door, but Jimin stopped at your side, leaning close to your ear, as if he was about to tell you a secret.

“Be careful little bunny, I can see right through your tough girl act.” He mouthed lowly and quietly near your ear, chuckling before getting away from you, disappearing as smoke air.

You blinked, gulping your anger and fear.

Fear? You never felt fear in your life. You were ruthless, your Bruderherz teach you better than to let some gang guys get into your head. You had face worse than them.

You were alone with Taehyung and Jungkook, the latter walked towards the door but you stopped him.

“Hey, what was your name again?” You faked confusion, making Jungkook bite his inner cheek.

“Jungkook,” he said, his voice deep but quiet.

He seemed pretty shy.

“You didn’t say much while I was talking about my plan, what do you think about it?” You asked with a soft smile and gentle tone.

Jungkook stared at your smile before looking up into your eyes, something glints in them.

“I’m not sure what are your… intentions, but if my hyungs agreed to your plan, then you must worth the… risk, I guess. They know better,” he shrugged, throwing glances at the door.

“Right, can I have your number? Just in case Namjoon doesn’t pick up his phone so I can speak with one of you in an emergency.”

Jungkook raised his eyebrows taken aback, closing and opening his mouth, looking unsure if it was okay to give you his phone number.

“You’re quite direct, aren’t you?” He said with a timid smile, giving you his number.

“What can I say? You look trustworthy,” you smiled triumphant.

“Let’s hope I don’t disappoint you,” he muttered before walking away, leaving you puzzled by his words.

Your gaze followed Jungkook’s body walking away, frowning by his cryptic response. Maybe you were misjudging him?

You startled when you turned around facing Taehyung’s body too close for your comfort. He was staring at you with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t let Jungkookie fool you, he’s not that innocent.” He remarked, stepping closer to you, inches from your face. You can feel the warmth of his body and his hot breath brushing your cheek.

“I think you’re too close for my like,” you said about to move away but he didn’t let you, gripping your waist with his hands and pulling you roughly against his chest. You gasped with surprise, not knowing if you should laugh at his audacity or punch him in his face.

But before you could do anything, he put his hand inside your coat, with his fingers brushing and running slowly your hips. You stayed freeze in his grip, with your heart beating wild.

His hand found your gun, taking it away and putting it in his pocket.

Your mouth was parted and your heart was pounding in your ears, you look up at him with fury. He didn’t release his grip on your waist, tightening it instead.

“Give me back my gun, and let go of me,” you warned, but your voice quivered a little, making Taehyung smirk like a wolf.

“Or what? In this house, our guests aren’t allowed to carry weapons,” his lips were too close to your face. You felt his hot breath brushing your lips.

You broke free from his grip, leaving a big space between you two.

“You don’t want to get on my bad side so quickly, Taehyung,” you said, trying to compose yourself.

“Oh, isn’t this your bad side already? I think you’re not that scary.”

His mocking words made your heart stop, you didn’t like how this conversation was going.

“No. But my daddy is, so watch your mouth,” you spat before walking away from the office, feeling Taehyung’s gaze burning on your back.

Your phone rang in your pocket, you looked at both sides before answering it.

“Y/n?” Asked your Bruderherz.

You bit a smile at the sound of his voice, finding it comforting after dealing with wolves.

“Who’s that? I’m Ann Novikova, remember?” You teased, getting out of the mansion to wait for your driver to pick you up.

You heard a laugh on the other side of the phone.

“Did you convince them?”

“Did it,” you crooned lightly, breaking a proud smile on your face.

A muffle sound took your attention from the call. You frowned watching your surrounds with your senses heightening.

“Make the driver hurry,” you ordered before hanging up the phone.

You followed the odd noise coming from behind a bush.

And then, your heart stopped and your eyes widened at the sight before you.

The fired guard lay on the floor with his neck slit, drowning in his own puddle of blood. But that didn’t disturb you, you were used to death. What you didn’t expect was the perpetrator behind the kill.

Jungkook looked at you with his face sprinkled with blood.

“I-“ you didn’t know what to say. You were taken aback.

Jungkook grinned with his nose wrinkling, resembling a bunny.

“Why you look so… surprise? Doesn’t your dad kill in front of you?” He asked with his head tilted to the side, frowning at your shocked expression.

There it was again, that glint of innocence flashing his doe eyes. But the fact that those eyes belong to a murderer, fucked up a little your mind. But it shouldn’t surprise you that much, after all, he was part of a criminal organization.

But still, it was confusing.

“No, you’re right, I am… used to death,” you said, watching the guard’s eyes lose the spark of life.

“Did I disappoint you?” Jungkook’s desperate voice startled you. He walked towards you with crazed and worried eyes, making you take some steps back.

Before you could say or do anything, Namjoon’s voice stopped Jungkook from coming closer to you.

“Jungkook, get inside. You did a good job,” he dismissed the bunny boy.

Jungkook glance between you two, looking indecisive. But he chose to follow Namjoon’s orders and leave you two alone.

“Do you need a ride?” Asked Namjoon, making you blink.

“No, my driver is on the way. Thank you though,” you said, averting your eyes towards the gates when you heard a car nearby. “And there he is, goodbye Namjoon, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

Before you could turn around to leave, he stopped you grabbing you by your arm.

“Are you sure you want to do this? You can change your mind right now, because the moment you’re out of those gates, there will be no turning back.” His eyes were intense and fixated on you, expecting an answer.

You won’t dare to say that he was worried about you, because you were a stranger to him, one that can even be considered a threat. But a tiny bit of concern did flash his gaze. Maybe because you looked like a naive woman, one that acted like a spoiled kid, not mature enough for this world and for this deal.

He didn’t know you, but you knew him well.

“I am sure, don’t worry about me,” you said smiling at him, holding his gaze.

He blinked taken aback, and then his grip on your arm tighten.

“I have this odd feeling since you came to our office, that my boys will bond with you very quickly, they already like you too much. That’s why you better not play with their trust, no tricks or games. Am I being clear?” He growled lowly, his features hardening at the thought of you betraying them.

The driver honked the car’s horn behind you, you glanced back at him and then back at Namjoon again, grinning wider.

“And you?”

Namjoon frowned at your words.

“What about me?”

“Do you trust me? Would you ever bond with me like your friends?” You asked leaning towards him, biting your bottom lip with Namjoon’s dark and heavy gaze following the movement.

He let go of your arm as if the touch of it burned his hand.

“I don’t trust you, not now and sure not ever. You can keep your performative charms to yourself when you’re with me, I won’t fall that easy.” He said lowly, like a promise, like a threat.

Excitement and adrenaline rushed to your veins. That sounded like a challenge.

“You said it; not that easy but not that impossible either, let’s see what happens Namjoonie,” you purred, turning around to walk towards the car. Feeling Namjoon’s eyes burning on your back.

You watched from the car Namjoon standing tall at the entrance of the mansion, with his hands in his pockets and the breeze moving his hair.

You recognized that glint in his eyes, he saw a challenge, he saw a threat, but also a chance to success in this business.

He bit the bait, as you planned.

But you felt something odd too, a little voice at the back of your head whispering a warning.

You’re playing with fire, says the voice, you’re not in a wolves’ den; you’re in a nest of starved python snakes.

But a catch is sweeter with a dangerous chase, isn’t it?

Taglist:

@demonshauntingthedoves @pynkgothicka @itlover8000 @monochromaticfawn @devilzliaison @11thenightwemet11 @deluluisdasolulu @shailari @queenc22x

[shlxvq]

Red strings.

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Warnings: Violence/Injury Mentions, PTSD/Trauma Themes, Strong Language, Explicit/Suggestive Content (NSFW)

One shot

Word count: 509

Reading time: 2 minutes 30 seconds

Summary: After a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha find solace in each other, no longer able to deny what's been simmering beneath the surface.

♦️─────────༻🕷️༺─────────♦️

The safehouse was quiet, too quiet.

You sat on the worn-out couch, still in your tactical suit, fingers trembling as you wiped away the blood smeared across your hands-some yours, some not. The mission had gone sideways, the kind of disaster that left ghosts clinging to your skin. You were alive, but the adrenaline was still coursing through your veins, making it impossible to calm down.

A door creaked. Soft footsteps approached.

"You okay?" Natasha's voice was low, careful.

You looked up to find her standing in the dim light, her red hair disheveled, cuts littering her arms.

Even like this, she was breathtaking.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" you countered, trying for a smirk but failing.

Natasha stepped closer, crouching in front of you, her green eyes scanning your face with something unreadable. "I meant in here." She reached out, brushing her fingertips against your temple.

You swallowed. "I don't know."

It was the truth. The mission had been hell, and one wrong move could've meant never seeing her again. That thought had gripped you so hard it left a bruise on your soul.

Her hand moved to your cheek, her touch hesitant but warm. "I thought I lost you," she whispered.

Your breath caught. Natasha never let people see this side of her-the cracks, the fears, the raw vulnerability beneath the assassin's mask. But with you, she did.

"You didn't," you whispered.

Her thumb traced your bottom lip, her eyes flickering down to your mouth.

Then she kissed you.

It was desperate, hungry, filled with everything unspoken between you. She kissed like she was trying to memorize you, to anchor herself in the fact that you were still here, still breathing, still hers.

You gasped against her lips, and she took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, her tongue sliding against yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. A moan slipped from your throat as her hands found your waist, pulling you onto her lap, pressing you flush against her.

"Nat-" you started, but she silenced you with another kiss, her fingers slipping under your torn shirt, skimming over bruised skin. She groaned at the feel of you, warm and soft beneath her touch.

"You have no idea," she murmured against your jaw, lips trailing downward, "how long l've wanted this."

Your fingers tangled in her hair as she nipped at your pulse point, sending shivers through you.

"Then don't stop."

Something snapped in her.

She pushed you back against the couch, covering your body with hers, her thigh slotting between yours. The friction sent a wave of pleasure crashing through you, and you gasped, arching into her.

Natasha smirked against your skin. "That's it, baby."

Her hands roamed lower, sliding over your hips, gripping you possessively. Every touch, every kiss, was a promise—a silent vow that she wasn't letting you go.

Your breaths mingled, bodies tangled, the heat between you unbearable. The world outside didn't exist. Not the mission, not the blood, not the ghosts.

There was only her.

And you were never letting her go.

♦️─────────༻🕷️༺─────────♦️

[fushiguruuzzzz]

xx ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Not a Lot, Just Forever

Series mlist

Tags — possibly offensive humour, my heart hurts as I’m writing this omg it’s over

Words — 1.6k

“You dick!” you squealed, giggling as you haphazardly launched a pillow at your boyfriend. He simply ducked out of the way, the action simple yet all the more irritating. Of course you were mildly annoyed that he’d assassinated your stuffed animal, but the concept of it all was just too amusing to be overrun by anger.

He scoffed and looked away, though the pink tint to his cheeks betrayed him. He was embarrassed, flustered even. He’d gotten so envious of a mere stuffed bear that in a moment of carefully concealed weakness, he’d chucked it into the bushes. Of course this couldn’t have just gone smoothly as he hoped it would, Yuji just had to be walking past your building at the perfect moment to see the little white blur traverse the area from your window to the greenery below.

You whined, moving the very few paces it took to be beside him. You leaned against him, mumbling under your breath about how cruel he was, but to him it was nothing but a string of unintelligible noise.

“You’re so mean, megs. What did he ever do to you?”

He stole my girlfriend, for starters, he thought. It was stupid and childish, that much he knew, but the information did little to help. His eyes would catch on you as you cradled the thing, its plush form crumbling beneath the force of your arms. It seemed to take up everywhere he should’ve been, as much as he’d loathe to admit it. Your lap, where on sunnier days he’d find himself lying, your fingers nimbly combing through his hair as you talked about everything and nothing. Your chest, where after long moments of him awkwardly shuffling towards you, you’d tug him down and let him rest there. Beside you, as he lied in the cold sheets and eyed your back, craving the warmth that the inanimate object had been thieving.

This realization had dawned on you the moment you learned of his precise action, and was probably the sole reason you hadn’t torn him apart. He was lucky it wasn’t a sentimental item, you held on to those much more dearly; but he knew that. He wouldn’t even dare to do such a thing, would barely think about it. He knew better.

It was a few more moments of grumbling and dramatic sighs met with flustered silence from Megumi when you pulled away, leaving him feeling awfully chilly. Your form hitting the bed forced a soft creak from the mattress, the springs aching as they thawed with the passing spring. The snow and ice had melted away, spots of colour and life beginning to spring up and cover the dull, grassy expanses. Shades of red and yellow bloomed all around, warmth returning to the plants as well as your eyes. He always preferred winter, but he was beginning to love spring far more; for your eyes never shone as bright as they did when they were set on the seasons first flower. Brighter than the sun itself, maybe. He couldn’t tell the difference all that well, his eyes didn’t bother peeling from you often. It was pointless, the both of you knew they’d only return soon after.

You let your cheek squish up against the softness of his pillow, a long deep breath exiting you. The pitch dark bliss of your closed eyes was a peaceful break, a moment away from the light and the chaos, just you and the scent of him on his bedding. It felt a little creepy, but you were far past the point of caring when it came to loving him too much.

Feeling the bed dip beside you, you shuffled to the side, giving the boy room to lie beside you. The subtle warmth radiating from him pressed against you, your skin growing less frigid and more comfortable.

Shifting to your side, you wish you were surprised to find that he was already looking at you. Those deep, sea-glass eyes boring into you with the loving intensity of a thousand suns.

You weren’t allowing the overlooking of the plushie incident, though. You pouted, though he could see the amused mischief lingering in your eyes. “Who am I supposed to sleep with, now?”

He gave you a look as if to say ‘are you fucking kidding me right now’, eyes narrowing just a fraction. You let out a low, soft chuckle, inching closer to him. The annoyance fell from his face, replaced by intent.

“Oh yeah…” you mumbled, and then his lips met yours.

Over the short time of the past few months, his kisses had grown softer. Like instead of trying to make up for lost time, he had all the time in the world. He had until your hair grew grey and your body slowed, grateful for the time it had spent loving him, and now giving that energy back to the earth that had blessed you with it. He kissed you like he would until his last breath, and he damn sure planned to. He didn’t mind how or when, he just knew that when the light left his eyes, he wanted the imprint of your face to be burned into them, forever marking him with your beauty. He was sure that any pathologist that carved him open and dared to reach for his heart would find your name engraved, his lungs filled with the petals of your favourite flower.

He kissed you with a gentle sort of passion, a hand cupping your jaw and the other tucked beneath his head. You pressed back with equal tenderness, your entire being feeling smothered by him. He enveloped every part of you, from your taste to your smell to every cell in your brain. The taste of your chapstick was sweet on his tongue as it dragged over your lower lip, and he suppressed the hum that itched to fall from his mouth. He knew you, he knew you didn’t bother using flavoured products on normal days. It was just for him. Peach had never stuck out to him, but the moment the tang of it came over his senses, he’d decided it was the best fruit.

He shifted, using his free arm to prop himself up, hovering over you and only letting your lips part for a moments breath.

Much to his dismay, your attention was quickly drawn away. Something cold and metallic brushed over your exposed neckline, hair on the back of your neck becoming prickly from the chill. You opened your eyes and caught the shine of the material, sunlight bouncing off of it. The two of you seemed to come to the realization at the same time, because his eyes widened and he made a sudden attempt to conceal it. Your curiosity had been heightened by then, though, it would nag at you if you didn’t just reveal it to yourself now.

Your hand took hold of it before his could, and it was easy to recognize what was in your grasp. A thin chain dangling from his neck, a silver ring hung on it like a pendant. At first you thought it was just some jewelry, maybe a family heirloom. Megumi didn’t mind accessorizing, after all, he did have a decent lineup of holes pierced in his skin. Then, you realized.

You realized why his face heated up, why he seemed almost nervous as you observed the object. You’d gifted him this—so long ago that you hadn’t even recognized it at first glance.

“Is this…?” you asked, hesitant, just in case you were hallucinating.

“…yeah,” he nodded, face still only inches away from your face. You could see the small details on his face from here. Every individual, ridiculously long eyelash, every speck of blue and green littering his irises, the soft rose that had brushed over the bridge of his nose as he realized his secret had been found out.

“Megumi,” you breathed, slightly astonished but so in love. “I gifted this to you in middle school.”

“You did.”

He paused, a subtle grin quirking his mouth. “Doesn’t fit anymore.”

You almost laughed. What was an awkward, quiet boy who kept everyone at arms length had also become your Megumi. Still quiet, but the tension in his shoulder eased and his breathing even as he snuggled against your skin. Because he wasn’t afraid, not anymore. He was sarcastic and sassy at times, but those were the moments you relished in most, because that wall of seriousness had been chipped away to reveal what he really was: a boy. He couldn’t even legally drink yet, he deserved the freedom and bliss that was love; that was you.

“You’re insane,” you rolled your eyes, playful affection dawning over your features.

“Mm,” he seemed to mull it over for a moment. “Maybe. But from what I hear, you like them that way.” He let his head fall to the crook of your neck, and even if you hadn’t felt it against your skin, you could feel his smirk from a mile away.

Not long ago, Megumi had thought you were parallel, doomed to an eternity of short distance and the longing for touch. He realized how stupid that was, utterly idiotic. How stupid had he been to not understand that yes, you were always moving in the same direction, always catching the other’s eye over a sea of people. But that wasn’t because of paralleling, no. It was because you were one, one being, one life, one line. He made sure of it, and he made sure that it would stay that way in this life and every next one.

Taglist !¡ —

@1l-ynn @meowymeowbreow @missunrise @kiss-my-asscheeks @starrysho @gumims @good-mourning0 @beaniesayshi @mrowwww @luvvmae @megumislovedoll @azharyy @starsryi @tibibibi123 @idkidk32 @dazaisfavgf @tlissablr @vi0let-writes @walllflowerrrsss @sh0ot1ngst4r @blubearxy @tvnamayo @san-it-is-i-guess @harryzcherry @vivienne-jo @anotherwriternamedclara @adoresia

will you laugh at me if I say I cried ITS OVER. WHAT THE FUCK also I’m writing this on 10/27 so I’m experiencing the grief long before you feel bad for me IM GONNA KMS IM GONNA MISS BTTOH SO BAD on a real note tho this was my first fic and I appreciate the love it’s gotten sosososo much, especially considering these are all a little rushed and silly :((( I wasn’t expecting this ilysm ew im getting sappy anyway… got some fics coming… then Inumaki smau… and then I think imma do another Megumi smau… oops i just can’t leave that boy alone ig…!!!!!!! (Motorcycle megumi watch out imma pounce on u) wow I’m never serious am I. AAANNNYYWAYYYYY maybe epilogue/bonus chaps later when I’m bored and feel like it :) if ur on the taglist you’ll see (don’t expect anything tho… prolly won’t be for a hot minute…) okay that’s yn and megumi signing off. Goodbye. I love u.

[ddeonghwa-s]

「 ♥ 𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐰𝐚-𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛 ♥ 」

𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓥𝓪𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓮'𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮𝓵; if you don't have a Valentine's date, don't worry you're not alone! regardless, grab a drink and settle in this Valentine's week because I am thrilled to present my first ever collab: Secret Cupid!

Secret Cupid is an event dedicated to gaining new community and interactions. Within this event I have assigned each writer a random fellow writer to curate a fic around. They were given some guidelines, such as what their giftee's favorite tropes were, but other than that were given full creative freedom. So you can expect to enjoy a wide array of stories, from smut to angst to romance.

This project was launched back in November to help expand community, to interact with writers you wouldn't have interacted with otherwise. And so please take advantage of the variety of stories below and enjoy!

The fics will be released during the full week of Valentine's. Each fic will be added to the masterlist below as it is released. If you would like to be tagged with each addition, please leave a comment below!

Thank you, and have a happy Valentine's!

𝓭𝓭𝓮𝓸𝓷𝓰𝓱𝔀𝓪-𝓼

「 ♥ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ♥ 」

✎ @bitchlessdino for alta 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: good roommates don't ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― xu minghao x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: meet-ugly, strangers to roommates to lovers, college au, barista au, down bad!reader, mentions of band, brief bdsm, mc fell first he fell harder, cum swapping, spitting, oral (giving and receiving), face riding, unprotected sex ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: Xu Minghao had been the most ethereal being you've ever laid your eyes on to the point being unable of functioning like a normal person, but now you're roommates. Only time will tell when you lose your mind keeping your hands to yourself, so there needed to be a list of things you don't do if you wanted to be a good roommate.

✎ @chanranghaeys for lexi 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: complementary wavelengths ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― chwe vernon x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: professor vernon x teacher reader, non-idol au, distant college friends to -, first love ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: wouldn’t falling in love with your research partner compromise the integrity of the research study? you had no idea. but if that were the case, then you were in for some major trouble.

✎ @ddeonghwa-s

✎ @diamonddaze01 for adrianne 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: bound by blood and fate ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― joshua hong x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: assassin!shua, hacker!reader, red string of fate au ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: “Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

✎ @gyuhanniescarat

✎ @haologram

✎ @heechwe for ally 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: anything for you ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― jeon wonwoo x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: smut n romance, best friends to lovers au, drunk confession ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: Wonwoo has been your best friend forever. And maybe something more could be in the cards with a mature, sophisticated confession. Or a lot of alcohol.

✎ @jenoslutie

✎ @kpopflowerfield

✎ @kwanisms for cherry 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: HELP! My Neighbor is an Alien a Porn Star ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― hong jisoo x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: fluff (in the form of comedy), smut (hella); sex work, porn industry, neighbors to lovers; non idol au, alien au, porn star au ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: Neighbors come and go and for Y/N, this is inevitable. Which is why she never bothered to get to know her neighbors. She owns her townhouse while the two on either side of her are rentals. When a new neighbor moves in, she doesn’t think much of it until she sees the extremely attractive and single man moving in next door. She learns his name is Joshua and that there’s more than meets the eye; a whole lot more.

✎ @lovetaroandtaemin for bambi 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧��� title: team building ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― kwon soonyoung x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: Smut, angst, fluff, some crack ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: When Y/N and her annoying coworker Soonyoung are forced to share a hotel room during a business trip, tensions are high.

✎ @nebulousbrainsoup

✎ @seokgyuu for eunha 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: hate u love u ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― choi seungcheol x f!reader x yoon jeonghan ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: smut, comedy, established relationship, enemies/rivals to lovers, academic rivals ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: Before you started dating Seungcheol, you had been best friends with him for all of your life. Simultaneously, Seungcheol has been best friends with Jeonghan - whom you despise. He has been your rival since first grade and not just in terms of Seungcheol’s friendship but everything else too. Academics, sports, and now the attention of one very special professor who could open every door you ever wished to open…

✎ @shuadotcom for jessi 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: strawberry sunday ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― yoon jeonghan x fem!reader x kim mingyu ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: smut, best friend’s brother, fuckbuddies (is this a trope???) non!idol au, pwp ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: When your best friend is away, you and Jeonghan always find time to play. This time he invites his friend to play along and things get a little messy - in the literal sense.

✎ @soongyeopsal for sky 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: friends & family ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― chwe vernon x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: humor, smut, pwp / best friend’s brother, friends to lovers ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: Hansol gives you a deal that you didn’t even need to bargain for.

✎ @strxwberry-skiess

✎ @svtiddiess for hanuel 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: the fae in my heart ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― xu minghao x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: fae husband hao, fluff, hurt/comfort, slight angst, happy ending, established relationship, non-idol! au, fantasy! au ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: Overwhelmed with work, you begin to neglect your husband without realising it. Ignoring his quiet efforts to care for you and accidentally destroying something he poured his heart into creating, you wound him deeply. Can you mend the rift, regain his love, and earn his forgiveness?

✎ @tusswrites

✎ @uhdrienne for jasmine 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: the embodiment of grace and deviousness ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― choi seungcheol x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: sfw, fluff, angst, mafia au, soulmate au ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: as an author, it's almost poetic that your soulmate tattoo would be a flower. actually... half a flower. a snapdragon, to be exact. the petals on your arm, the vines on seungcheol's. it's even more cliche when you meet him on valentine's day. to you it means grace, but for seungcheol, he still has zero idea on what flower his tattoo is. he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious at all, but during this season of love, you're about to figure out exactly what this all means for you and him, the leader of the city's most dangerous mafia.

✎ @yoonguurt for rachel 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚

˚ ⋆ ୨୧― title: shit, i'm a simp too ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― lee jihoon x fem!reader ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― tags: fluff, smut, friends to lovers, idiots to lovers ˚ ⋆ ୨୧― synopsis: Jihoon always joins in when his group of friends makes fun of Mingyu for being a simp for his girlfriend. It isn’t that he thinks that a man shouldn’t go above and beyond for their significant other, it’s just that he hasn’t had a girlfriend that makes him want to go that far. Maybe one day, though.

[shiorihyugawrites]

Masterlist

My original account got randomly terminated 🙃 so here we are building from scratch guys!

Backup account incase Tumblr acts a fool again and terminates me here: @shiorihyuga

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Join my Patreon! Note: I am four chapters ahead :)

All of my works are 18 + Only | Minors DNI

Currently Working On:

The Legendary Black Cat: Selena de la Rosa, known across Marley as the Legendary Black Cat, is the world's deadliest assassin—a master of agility, precision, and deception. When Marley turns against her, she is shipped to Paradis as a living weapon, chained and drugged, with her survival all but assured to be short-lived. But Selena is no ordinary prisoner.

Bound by no one, loyal to none, Selena plots her next move, determined to seize her freedom by any means necessary. Yet, her plans are complicated by the Scouts who captured her, particularly Captain Levi Ackerman—the so-called Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Selena is intrigued by his strength and reputation, but her pride refuses to acknowledge him as her equal.

Caught between Levi’s unrelenting gaze, Selena plays a dangerous game of manipulation. She’s biding her time, but when the moment comes, will her calculated escape bring her freedom—or will her path collide violently with Levi’s unwavering resolve?

The Black Cat has always landed on her feet, but for the first time, she might meet her match. (Levi x OC)

Red Regrets: Twelve years ago, Levi Ackerman made the hardest decision of his life—he left behind the only woman he ever loved, believing it was for her own good. But fate is cruel, and when a fiery redheaded boy with a familiar scowl crosses his path, Levi is forced to confront the past he abandoned. The truth he never knew. And the woman whose heart he shattered. (Levi x OC)

The Soldier & The Daisy: Raised in the protection of her father, Lady Daisy Lenore lives surrounded by luxury and sheltered from the turmoil outside the walls. But when the war with Marley heats up and the secrets of the world beyond Paradis begin to surface, Daisy’s life is turned upside down.

Levi is assigned as her personal bodyguard, tasked with keeping her safe from the dangerous forces lurking in the shadows. However, the more he spends time with her, the harder it becomes to ignore the undeniable attraction between them. Levi, a man who has never let anyone get close, struggles to protect his heart while safeguarding the woman he’s come to love. (Levi x OC)

Damaged: Before the fall of Wall Maria, a string of brutal murders grips Wall Sina—noblemen found strangled, their mouths stuffed with drugs, and not a trace of the killer left behind. The Military Police call him “The Spider Killer.” But he's no man. She's a ghost in silk and shadow. A master assassin hiding in plain sight. When the Scouts get involved, Levi Ackerman begins to suspect that catching her won’t be so easy… especially when she starts hunting him too. (Levi x OC)

Throne of Flowers: In the opulent court of Valoria, Emperor Solomon and Mikasa Ackerman fight to rewrite a 300-year-old law demanding four noble consorts, determined to make their love the empire’s heart.

As a foreign soldier turned ambassador, Mikasa faces nobles’ scorn and political schemes, while Solomon balances duty and devotion. With allies like Empress Dowager Solana and foes lurking in the empty Rose, Lily, Dahlia, and Peony houses, their bond is tested by tradition, ambition, and secrets.

Can they forge a future where love, not law, reigns supreme? Sequel to Diamond Of The First Water (Mikasa x OC)

The Devil In Your Eyes: In this modern AU, Eren, a magnetic political science major, and Aurora, a gentle pharmacy student, find each other in a world untouched by war. Their soulmate spark ignites at a chaotic college dinner, a fleeting moment that feels like destiny where their instant connection proves they’re meant to be, no matter the timeline, in a tale as tender as it is electric.

Spinoff Sequel to The Devil's Bride (Eren x OC)

Coming Soon:

Nothing....for now 😉

Completed Stories:

A Soft Place: (Levi x Plus Sized OC)

Tides of Fate: (Eren, Levi, Floch, Jean, Armin, Connie, Bertholdt, Reiner x OCs)

Steadfast Hearts: (Levi x OC)

The Ballad Of The Magenta Witch (Eren x OC)

Diamond Of The First Water (Levi x OC)

The Devil's Bride (Eren x OC)

One Shots:

Eren x Reader

The Dumpster Behind The Club

Karma

Power Trip

Owned: Eren x Reader - AU Series

Levi x Reader

Letting Go

Heavy Lifting

Velvet Heat

Steamy

[scoutofmymind]

fratboy!Luigi x i-dont-wanna-be-here!Reader just randomly had the thought of Lu being a rowdy frat boy and got kinda Tingly

Divine Timing Bullshit { Luigi x Reader }

Content: pretty much SFW (if you read about an alleged assassin at work), kissing, existential crisis, Fratboy Lu is actually a sweetie

W.c: 2,485

Notes; Yeah he’s an aggro-frat boy, but he’s also a stoned philosopher, and you appreciate that, because you’re kind of losing it.

Ohh, oh, oh. Yes, yes, yes. Frat boy with a brain and heart, reader is lowkey Going Through It.

Second-year frat parties had lost their theoretical allure. Gone was that first-year thrill of living the quintessential college experience, of checking off every box in the collegiate party manual.

This year, though. This year felt different.

"Who's going to be there?" You mumble through a mouthful of scone, eyes fixed on your screen. The pastry, a hasty purchase between classes, sits half-forgotten in your cheek.

"Since when do you care?" Your roommate swivels from her desk—a chaos of textbooks, scattered lip glosses, an open laptop, and uncapped mascaras. She brandishes her lip pencil like an accusatory finger, eyebrows arched. "You're turning into such a second-year hermit."

You flinch at the accusation, phone dropping to your chest as you stop mid-chew. "Fuck," you mutter, brushing pastry debris from your hoodie — the same one you've been living in for... three nights? Four?

She doesn't need to spell it out. You've become a ghost haunting the same tired circuit: dorm room, library, labs, class. Any moment of freedom dissolves into endless study sessions or mindless TikTok scrolling until you drift off to the white noise of ASMR or satisfying slime crafts.

"Don't make me go alone." Her voice cracks with a plea you can't dismiss. "We're supposed to be doing college together. We promised."

The pact.

The fucking pact.

You'd both sworn, hands clasped under string lights in your shared room during orientation week, that you wouldn't let each other miss out on anything. Not the midnight donut runs, not the questionable decisions, not the memories that were supposed to make these years matter.

And so, it was settled.

•

The house loomed before you, nothing like the usual frat dungeons. This was old money — a sprawling estate with an infinity pool that cut into the manicured lawn like a slice of sky, and a home theater visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Bodies pressed past, each collision a reminder that you'd rather be elsewhere.

"Whose fuckin' house is this?" The words barely leave your mouth before your roommate's giggle floats up, her shoulder bumping yours as she shrugs.

The question evaporates into the thrum of bass and chatter.

You knew the drill by now.

She'd disappear into the crowd, hunting for tonight's conquest, while you'd drift through rooms like a wandering spirit in limbo — observing the drama unfold, helping yourself to whatever expensive snacks rich kids kept in their pantries, and sometimes, when the night got boring enough, investigating medicine cabinets.

Eventually, your travels lead you toward clusters of laughing girls, some familiar faces from lecture halls, others newly christened friends after thirty seconds of slurred introductions.

The living room couch has become your sanctuary, a perfect vantage point for the night's theater.

"God, he's fucking hot." Liz's whisper cuts through the ambient chatter, her eyes fixed on the kitchen where the imported marble island has devolved into a battlefield of red cups and spilled beer.

A tall figure commands the space, radiating the particular brand of arrogance that comes with being undefeated at beer pong for the past hour.

"Who?" Your eyebrows knit together before shooting upward in realization. She can't possibly mean -

"His name's Luigi." Her voice takes on that dreamy quality, like a third-grader confessing her first crush behind the jungle gym. "He's studying Computer Science."

Your face contorts into an expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

"I know," Liz breathes, mirroring your shock. Luigi wasn't unattractive — that was the problem. The universe had already dealt him the unfair hand of conventional beauty; the revelation of actual intelligence felt like cosmic overkill. "Wouldn't think he was aiming any higher than a business degree, huh?"

You watch him slam another cup, arms raised in victory, and try to reconcile this frat god with the same person who probably spent hours debugging code.

The image doesn't compute.

Every other CS major you knew was either passed out in the engineering building or mainlining caffeine in their dorm, not holding court over a beer pong empire.

"Just gives typical aggro frat vibes," you mutter, unable to tear your eyes away from the spectacle. He's exchanging those elaborate, ritualistic handshakes with his bros, throwing back shots like water. Your body instinctively recoils, but there's something magnetic about the train wreck unfolding before you — like watching a perfectly coded program crash in spectacular fashion.

He's performing, you realize — a master of his craft, painting broad strokes of the perfect college experience. Creating stories he'll tell at reunions and job interviews, memories that look better through the lens of a camera than they feel in real time.

You study Luigi's practiced grin, the way he looms over his temporary kingdom, and something shifts.

Does he have someone to call at 3 AM when the world caves in? Or are these connections as deep as the beer puddles on the marble counter — evaporating by morning?

The room tilts slightly, your earlier drinks and that passed joint finally catching up, making everything sharper and softer all at once.

Your gaze drifts over your own circle, these girls laughing and sharing secrets like best friends, some of which you'd only learned most of their names moments ago.

The thought hits you like cold water: who among them would you trust with your real stories? Who would pick up your call at 3 AM? Are you any different from Luigi — just playing your own part in this performance?

The night air slaps you awake before you even realize you've fled, your feet carrying you to a hidden corner of the garden where a stone fountain whispers secrets to itself. Here, the party exists only in echoes — distant laughter, scattered arguments, and drunken declarations of love or war floating across the manicured lawn.

You tilt your head skyward, searching for anchor points among the stars and the world narrows to just this: the cool stone beneath you, the rhythm of water, the infinite above -

"Hey."

Your body jolts to attention, the peaceful moment shattering like glass. Your eyes drop from the constellations to find a different kind of celestial body standing before you — broad shoulders blocking out stars, dark features caught in shadow, curls tumbling across his forehead.

Your mind scrambles for a name, like trying to catch smoke.

Luis? Lucas?

Luigi.

The beer pong champion himself, somehow materialized from your earlier observations like a summoned entity.

"Hey." Your body performs an awkward dance on the bench, caught between making room and trying to collapse into nothingness.

"What are you doing out here?"

The question, though innocent enough, triggers your defenses. Your response comes with teeth: "I could ask you the same thing." It's a warning label, bright and clear: Approach With Caution.

The garden's twinkle lights catch him in their amber web, transforming the beer pong champion into something softer — sweat-sheened skin, features gentled by shadow.

His posture reads like an open book written in a language you can't quite translate, neither defensive nor inviting.

Just curious.

"Well, you could." The words roll out with the same casual grace as the shoulder he shrugs, a yet-unlit joint dancing between his lips as his thumbs tap out a message on his phone's glow. "And I'd just say I live here."

The universe, it seems, has a sense of humor.

A groan slips past your defenses as mortification sets in. Of all the backyards in New York, you had to stake your claim in this one, then challenge its owner about his right to be there.

"To answer your question though-“ The words come filtered through the joint until flame meets paper. He exhales, and his next words ride out on a cloud of smoke: "I came out here to call my mom." His phone screen glows with evidence — his mother's contact photo, her name bookended by heart emojis and a simple Mama.

Something about Luigi — maybe the lingering beer pong bravado, maybe the way he wears this vulnerability so casually — still begs to be challenged. "Gotta make sure she doesn't suspect you have about one hundred NYU students in her home, hm?"

He shakes his head, the sound he makes sliding down the scale like lazy jazz. "Nah, she doesn't care about that shit." His thumb hovers over the keyboard, apparently deciding a text will suffice for tonight's check-in. "And there's definitely not a hundred people in there right now."

You study his posture — the way confidence and caution occupy the same space in his frame, like watercolors bleeding into each other. "Where's she?"

Luigi's eyes lift from his screen to find yours. "Seychelles." The message swooshes into the digital void before his phone disappears into his pocket. "Your turn."

The garden's ambient soundtrack fills the space between you, water music from the fountain where a bronze boy — who bears a suspicious resemblance to a younger Luigi — plays eternal lifeguard to the trickling streams.

Your eyes lock across the dim space, neither yielding.

"My turn to what?" The question is a stalling tactic, and you both know it.

"Your turn to tell me what you're doing out here."

Your gaze wanders the curated wilderness around you — the fairy-lit canopy, the fountain's eternal performance, the swimming pool framed by trees sculpted into shapes that belong in a vintage Playboy spread.

Everything here speaks of a life so different from yours, yet something about the engineering student standing before you, texting his mom from his own party, suggests a truth you hadn’t expected; the distance between your worlds might be shorter than it appears.

"Just needed some air." The lie falls flat, each word a domino tipping toward the truth you're trying to outrun—that existential spiral triggered by watching him earlier, wondering about the depth of his connections, only to find your own relationships reflecting back just as shallow.

Luigi claims his spot beside you, the bench suddenly alive with shared warmth. His knowing smirk and raised eyebrows speak volumes while his lips stay sealed, the silence between you stretching like taffy until -

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Getting some air." He mirrors your words back to you, a perfect echo with an undertone of challenge.

Your hands scrub across your face as if trying to erase something, and when you turn to face him, he's already there, matching your position like a choreographed dance. His eyes lock onto yours — steady, focused — as you stare back with the wild gaze of someone about to jump off a cliff.

"Do you ever think maybe you're just kinda... existing?"

There it is — your midnight confession spilling out into his garden, raw and unfiltered as the joint smoke curling between you.

Luigi catalogs you with the quiet satisfaction of someone who's just solved a puzzle — noting the timbre of your voice (hoarse from shouting over beer pong champions and top-40 hits), the way moonlight catches in your hair, how your eyes betray every thought. "I know that's what I'm doing," he nods, conviction steady as a heartbeat. "And that's enough."

"But what about the connections? What about true and real bonds?" The words tumble out as you watch him draw from the joint. He offers it your way — a bridge between strangers — but you wave it off, earning a laugh that somehow makes your existential crisis feel less like drowning.

"What about them?"

"Don't you miss having them?"

His shoulder grazes yours as he makes a face that suggests you're missing something obvious. "Existing doesn't mean I cease to create bonds or connections." His voice intensifies beside you, taking on the weight of someone that had something to convince you of. "They happen everyday."

The stare between you holds with magnetic force, compelling you to consider his truth: maybe you're the one who's been building walls instead of bridges, hiding in recycled hoodies and social media scrolls while real connections knock at your door.

"You think?" Your vision shifts, the aggressive frat facade dissolving to reveal something unexpectedly gentle around the edges.

"Well, what do you call this." His finger traces an invisible line between you, the gesture casual but weighted. "I think there's reason for everything, besides, like, cancer, or something." The statement perfectly gift-wraps his essence:

A walking contradiction — the frat boy who steps away from his own party to text his mom, a beer pong champion who philosophizes between 'likes,' an engineering major who can turn existential crisis into comfortable conversation.

"Well, it's interesting, to say the least." You're not sure if you mean this moment, this revelation, or Luigi himself. All you know is that Liz will either lecture you about garden rendezvous with her biggest crush, or demand a word-for-word replay.

Probably both.

"You think there's a reason we're both out here, then?" The question follows him as he leans forward, stubbing out his joint in a tray by the fountain. "Some sort of divine-timing bullshit?"

"I do." His conviction stands unwavering against your skepticism. "That's exactly what I think."

The sigh that escapes you carries the weight of self-awareness — maybe you're the one standing in your own way.

"Give me your phone." His shoulder nudges yours again, and you find yourself digging through your purse without hesitation, unlocking it before passing it over.

No questions asked — maybe you're already buying into this divine timing thing.

He returns your phone with a smile that seems to know something you don't. His own phone lights up with urgent news about a friend's overindulgence, likely greening out on the front lawn. "Gotta split."

You straighten your back, body still glued firmly to the bench beneath you, “Wait,” the request comes out steady, but hurried, afraid he might evaporate somewhere into the midnight air. “How - how do you do it, then?”

He settles back down, closer this time, “Do what?”

“Make it easier — connections, parties, being..” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “Present.”

Luigi considers this, his smile softening. "Maybe because I don't overthink it. Like right now — you're probably wondering if this is the right moment to ask the right question, when really..." He leans in slightly, voice dropping. "Sometimes you just have to let things happen."

The air shifts between you, heavy with possibility.

You're acutely aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your lips as he speaks.

"Is that what you're doing?" Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. "Letting things happen?"

"I'm letting myself do what I've wanted to since I saw you having an existential crisis by my fountain."

And then he's kissing you — or maybe you're kissing him — the distinction lost in the warm press of lips and the lingering taste of smoke. It's gentle at first, questioning, until you lean into it and his hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

When he pulls back, that knowing smile returns. "See? Divine timing bullshit."

His phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. "Duty calls," he sighs, standing. "But text me. We'll work on your overthinking problem."

Read pt 2 Here ☁️

[belovedivies]

Heyyy I love the killer Peter writing that you do it’s amazing🤩

Could I request relationship head canons for Peter like you did for Raphael but this time reader is an assassin like him

peter relationship headcanons

a/n: i'll be taking requests again now that i'm done with midterms (spoiler alert i got my ass beaten :3). this came out a little too long and specific for a hc but i plan to flesh this out on another oneshot- anw, enjoy anon!!! cw: minor spoiler, pre-canon, brief canon-typical cruelty wc: 1.26k m.list

IDEA

You met on neutral ground, mainly because his friend just wouldn’t shut up about this cute girl a few rooms down the hallway. You were three years older than Simon then, with a stature shorter than Peter himself.

Glory Club’s foundation is three things: violence, money, and ego. Assassins were pitched against each other on a daily basis, risking their lives to climb to the top where the Apostles rightfully resided. Where jealousy burnt red hot and became a driving force for success, the flame in you had long died out. Peter stared sometimes, and in your eyes, an ocean of arctic iciness stared right back.

He didn’t think much of it. He couldn’t begrudge anyone for it either. The paycheck was nice, and so was the control, the chokehold over others. Peter had and would play the part of an obedient puppet on strings to this organization as long as he drew breath, and as long it benefited them. Wouldn’t you do the same too? Downed a pill, cracked a skull, tossed and turned in a dusty corner later on because the dried blood felt so uncomfortably sticky on your nape, the scream of agony fresh on your mind. It wasn’t the nicest job out there, but it was for survival. A better cause. And Peter had thought about it rationally; he just owed that much to Father Gabriel.

It did get a little more complicated when you got roped in with them. Peter’s apathy had been evident while you stayed painfully austere, and Simon… was just trying his best to get both of you to talk. Five minutes in and a few hours after that afternoon, he couldn’t fathom why his comrade had thought it was a good idea for them to spar with not just a B-rank killer, but one whom neither of them had ever talked to.

OUTLINE

You really hated your job. Anyone would, at some point in their life.

Solo missions were a norm for Peter—things always worked out smoother and faster for the guy when he was on his own. On the rare occasion, he did get paired up with another person. Sometimes his fellow Apostles, the others a far too prideful assassin who chewed more than they could bite. But today there was you. And there wasn’t anything to go about besides a few surface-level exchanges and the silence in between. He couldn’t begrudge you. It’s only for survival.

A hit to the jugular and the job was done. Once out cold on the ground, the body wasn’t his responsibility anymore. Still, the boy watched with some amount of interest when you picked up the knife and poked around their insides. He left to light up a cigarette, took three brief puffs, and went back to the bedsheets covered in blood with the corpse nailed against the wall.

Sadism wasn’t intentional, but it was a running theme among the ranked Glory Club killers. The only collar made of metal and swine that bound them together by the neck. That you were so deep into the pit of insanity, you either shut off your emotions completely or learned to love the carnage.

Death reeked in every corner of the room, yet it was in you that Peter could tell the scent the clearest. You were there, so strangely out of the place, knees pulled tight against your chest. The look on your face was downright miserable.

When Peter made his way closer to inspect the scene, you tilted your head up to meet his face. The knife slipped, the moon shone, the rain tapered. Then you blinked, which was already so rare in itself. And Peter had blinked too, eyes widened, lips parted open just a fraction in surprise as tears welled up in your eyes. You sobbed and wept your dying heart out all the way until the cleanup crew showed up at the motel. One old lady, grey hair and croaked voice, held you in her arms. Months later when Peter finally asked again, he learned that it had hardly been the first. 

FIRST DRAFT

Just down the road, past the cut of dense trees leading to a lonely seashore, there was an orphanage tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Seoul. The kids always waved whenever Peter passed by during his morning run, a gesture that he had returned with equal warmth. Twice a week, the courtyard was lit up with colorful string lights and music, the mouth-watering scent of food wafting through the night air.

He had seen you outside of the Cathedral before, but not like this. The gentle fluorescents accentuated your features with a certain softness, like marshmallow, like the sea breeze carding through his hair. And you had talked, had smiled, had laughed along with them, had stared at Peter with eyes wide as saucers when one of the caregivers invited him in. You were in an apron with the children clung to your waist, vying for an ounce of your attention. It was a week after the mission and you two had rarely crossed paths. 

Peter wondered if you resented him for it; serving him a rather generous portion of seafood barbecue while dodging teasing comments from the kids through grinding teeth and knife-point smiles. But when your shoulders bumped against him on the bench, the tip of your right ear was burning red.

Simon ended up joining the week that followed, bringing more laughter to the shared space with his horrible singing and playfully flexing his swordsmanship. The edge of your smile grew softer and your shoulders more relaxed as you stuffed everyone’s plates with more food. Peter watched you through the rim of his cup with a tightness in his throat; you had only wanted to be normal. 

EDIT

“The kids are my rock.” You confessed a few months later when the ice wall between you and him finally melted. This late into the night, there wasn’t a wisp of cloud in the sky. The waves hit the shore every second, washing away the footsteps as Peter took a stroll with you along the beach.

You asked him about his dream. He didn’t know how to answer it. Taking away the cruelty and violence that made him the way he is today, what was left of the Apostle Peter? A caring brother to Simon and a good son to Father Gabriel. He might as well have been a husk before and a pretty face after, but there rarely had been anything in between for Peter to define himself. A label. A purpose.

Before he could say it, you gave his shoulder a gentle pat and chuckle, eyes glinting with mirth. “You’ll probably be a bookstore typa guy when you grow older.” And against all odds, the statement drew a chuckle from him too.

Maybe he would. Maybe if there was ever a disbandment order from the Cathedral and Peter had lived long enough to have a hunched back and a head full of grey hair, he would run a small bookstore on his own. Maybe the future Simon would drop by sometimes and tease him for his old-man look despite being older than Peter was.

Maybe the future you, still alive and kicking then, would also visit him, and the future Peter, older and wiser than he is right now, might have had the courage to ask you to stay.

But tonight, there was just the two of you. The moon hung high above the sky, the sea glistened with stars and mysticality. Peter watched as the white moonlight lined up the bridge of your nose and the curves of your cupid bow. The artificial heart inside your chest might not have a pulse, but his own did.

And it was very much beating for you.

[sweetromanova]

Off The Record: Part Eight🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Criminal Defense Lawyer!Reader

Summary: She’s built a career on keeping secrets and defending the worst with nothing to lose. That changed when Natasha Romanoff showed up on the other side of the courtroom.

Warnings: descriptions of violence, psychological manipulation, implied child abuse and trauma, emotional abuse, mentions of torture, human and sex trafficking, war crimes and murder, implied coercion, legal corruption, gun violence, secondary character deaths, power imbalance, blood and injury depiction

Chapter Eight

Avengers Tower, Upstate New York

April 3, 2022

The meeting room was quiet, except for the hum of tech and the faint wind outside the glass.

Steve, Bucky, Sam, Maria, Tony, and Wanda were already seated around the table when Sienna walked in, flanked by Natasha like a shadow. Her face was pale but dry, hair still damp, posture stiff like she was holding herself together with string.

She didn’t wait for questions. “I need to tell you everything.” She muttered.

They looked at each other, then nodded. Natasha pulled a chair out for her. Sienna sat but this time, her hands didn’t shake. She was ready to tell the truth.

She took a breath and began. “I wasn’t raised in the US like I said. Not at first. I was born in the north of Budapest, near the Slovakian border. Not even a proper town, just state housing, a checkpoint station and a lot of silence. Luka Blake is my older brother. Growing up. He was charming and brilliant. He used to protect me when we were kids.” She looked at the table, tracing invisible lines. “But our father wasn’t always… there. He worked for the state, not just in law enforcement but black-ops intelligence. He was part of a secret program meant to create assets, long before the Red Room came back into power. Things started changing, he started noticing the kids going missing and bodies kept turning up. When he started questioning his orders, he became a liability. He was in over his head and he didn’t understand what was happening. Young girls just like his daughter were being trained to be assassins, some taken and sold to never be seen again just because their dad made a bad decision. Once he realised, he stopped. When he started questioning the system, he made a mistake. He told Luka. Told him he might defect. That he wanted out. That he didn’t believe in it anymore. Luka had idolised him all of these years, seen him do things he thought was protecting his country. He was brought up alongside my dad and his colleagues, he was as loyal to the cause as my father was.”

A pause. She looked up, her voice hollow. “He was killed. Luka spoke to someone in the town about what my dad was planning and they came straight for him. That night as my mom cried over his body, Luka told me it was mercy. That our father had become a traitor. That if it hadn’t happened tonight then, someone else would’ve and they’d come and have killed me, too.”

Sienna looked up again, her eyes were glassy but no tears fell. “He was sixteen. He said I owed him. For my life. For keeping me safe.”

Gasps were barely stifled around the table. Steve’s brows knit and Tony sat straighter. “I was only just 12 and Luka? He said it was justice. That our father had betrayed his country. But it wasn’t about loyalty, it was power. Luka wanted control of the network our father had left behind. And he got it. He was 16. How does a 16 year old even understand that kind of thing, nevermind be consumed by it?”

Natasha leaned forward, arms folded. “So he built his own empire.”

Sienna nodded. “He deals in secrets, influence, political leverage. Everything from mercenaries to judicial bribery. He never did anything himself, he always used the criminals to do his dirty work. Maksim was going to be just another so when he got caught, I was brought in to clean him up.”

Sam spoke for the first time. “So how deep are you in this?”

Sienna looked at him, then everyone else. “I didn’t want this. I was a legal mind, a fixer. He used me as someone who could operate without suspicion. I thought that maybe if I worked from inside, I could keep him from going too far.”

Tony scoffed. “How’s that working out?”

Sienna’s jaw clenched. “Well considering he kidnapped Antonia because she testified in court to help you…”

Silence fell, heavy and brutal.

Maria broke it. “You tried to stop him?”

Sienna’s voice cracked. “I begged him. I begged him.” Her hands shook now. “He said it was my fault that my defense wasn’t strong enough, that I made Maksim look weak. That Antonia proved disloyal by being in court. He made me watch.” She paused. Swallowed. “She died in my arms tonight.”

No one spoke. Natasha’s eyes hadn’t left her once.

“So we’re believing this?” Sam spoke, eyeing up the room. “She just comes and tells us this story and we go with it…”

“I don’t expect anything, I don’t want protection or immunity. Tonight I didn’t see my brother in him, I saw something evil that I can’t stop alone.”

“Why did you choose to become a lawyer?”

“I wanted justice, for my father. He tried to get out of the dark business that he got wrapped up in and was killed for it. Executed and left because he wanted to do the right thing. I always wanted to fight for these people but Luka manipulated me. I figured I had the best shot still being connected in some way.”

“You’ve defended the same people that killed your father.”

“I know.” Sienna sighed. “But I’m the only one who can get close enough to Luka now. He still thinks he owns me. If I play along, if I keep pretending I’m on his side then I can feed you intel. We can take the whole operation down.”

Steve frowned. “That’s a massive risk.”

“Too massive.” Natasha snapped. “You’ve already been targeted once and now they’re threatening me.”

“I don’t care.” Sienna said. “I have to finish this.”

“Why?” Natasha asked, voice low.

Sienna looked her dead in the eye. “Because I couldn’t save my father. Or Antonia. But I can stop him from doing it to anyone else.”

Tony exhaled. “Well. Looks like we’re in it now.”

Steve nodded. “If we’re going to run a long con, we need a plan. Tight security, encrypted comms, dead drops-”

“And a hell of a lot of trust.” Maria added.

Sienna didn’t hesitate. “I’m in. Whatever it takes.”

Natasha looked at her, really looked at her.

She didn’t like it, not one bit. But she saw the resolve in Sienna’s eyes and the weight of a girl who had nothing left to lose.

“Fine.” Natasha said, standing. “But you don’t go dark again, you don’t lie to me and if anything feels off, I mean anything Sienna, you run and you call me. Understand?”

Sienna stood too. “I promise.”

And Natasha, though the fire in her chest told her this was madness, nodded.

Because if Sienna was walking back into the fire, she wasn’t walking alone.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Tower had gone quiet. The building still buzzed faintly with energy but most of the lights on the executive floor were dim. The meeting was over. Plans had been made. Contingencies drafted. The team had dispersed.

But Sienna still hadn’t left.

She stood near the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the skyline like the city might offer a better way. Natasha leaned in the doorway behind her, half in shadow, silent for a long time.

Then softly she spoke. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Sienna didn’t turn. “That’s not the plan.”

“No.” Natasha replied, stepping into the room, voice low and bitter. “But that’s what happens with plans like this.”

Sienna looked down at her hands. They were still shaking, even though she was doing everything she could to hide it. “You think I want to do this?”

“I think you’re scared out of your mind and trying to pretend you’re not.” Natasha moved closer, stopping just beside her. “And I think you’d rather die on your feet than admit you need help.”

Sienna’s throat worked around a tight swallow. Her voice came out barely audible. “I’m already dead to him.”

Natasha exhaled sharply, her expression raw. “So what? You’re just going to play sacrificial lamb until he finishes the job?”

“No.” Sienna whispered, finally turning toward her. “I’m going to make sure he pays for what he’s done. To Antonia. To me. To everyone else who never got a chance to fight back.”

Natasha searched her face. “You’re not a weapon, Sienna.”

Sienna’s jaw tightened. “Neither were you. Once.”

That hit harder than either of them expected.

Natasha blinked then gave a short, bitter laugh. “Cute. Trying to pull the Widow card on me.”

“It’s not a card.” Sienna insisted, voice firmer now. “It’s the truth. You got out. You made it mean something. And maybe this is my way.”

Natasha crossed her arms, visibly struggling. “That was different. I knew what I was. I knew how to fight.”

“You think I don’t?” Sienna’s voice cracked slightly. “I’ve been surviving Luka since I was twelve. I know every kind of quiet manipulation. Every threat masked as kindness. Every time he said he loved me just before pulling the rug out from under me.”

Natasha looked at her for a long moment then her voice dropped. “You shouldn’t have to survive anymore.”

Sienna’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But I do. And if I don’t do this… who will?”

Natasha didn’t answer. She stepped forward instead, slowly, and cupped Sienna’s face in both hands. Not rough or commanding, just a firm presence.

“You don’t owe the world your life just because someone tried to steal it from you.”

Sienna leaned into the touch, eyes glossy. “But I owe it to Antonia.”

“You owe her a future. Not a martyr.”

Natasha let the silence settle around them before finally pulling her close. Sienna collapsed into the embrace like she’d been holding herself together with wires and Natasha had just snipped the last one.

“I’ve got you.” Natasha murmured, voice rough. “I don’t care if you say you trust yourself, I’m not letting you walk into this alone.”

“I’m scared.” Sienna confessed into her shoulder, her voice only loud enough for Natasha to hear.

“Good.” Natasha said, her grip tightening. “That means you still want to live.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, just two women daring to believe that surviving could still lead somewhere worth going.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Sienna sat curled in the corner of the large sofa in one of the Tower’s quiet lounges, wrapped in a thick hoodie Natasha had tossed her, her now dry hanging loosely round her shoulders and the tea Natasha made had gone cold in her hands.

She hadn’t said much since their talk but she hadn’t needed to. Natasha hadn’t left her side, perched on the opposite end of the couch, legs pulled up beneath her, watching with the same fierce protectiveness she’d once shown her younger sister in a collapsing world.

Then the elevator dinged.

Fast. Purposeful steps. Heavy boots on polished floor.

Sienna flinched, her body instinctively curling in. Natasha rose immediately, shoulders tense. She didn’t need to ask who it was.

Yelena burst into the room like a hurricane, leather jacket half-zipped, hair wild, her eyes blazing.

“You.” She growled, storming toward Sienna.

Sienna stood, hands half-raised in surrender. “Yelena-“

But Yelena was already swinging. A clenched fist collided with Sienna’s shoulder, not enough to knock her down but enough to hurt.

“YOU LET HER DIE!” Yelena shouted, voice cracking. “You let her die and you didn’t even have the decency to tell-“

Natasha shoved herself between them, hand outstretched, voice sharp as a blade. “Yelena, stop!”

“She DIED because of her!” Yelena pointed over Natasha’s shoulder, fury distorting her face. “Because she didn’t tell us! Because she was playing spy games while Antonia was BLEEDING OUT!”

Sienna didn’t speak. She didn’t defend herself.

She couldn’t. Yelena wasn’t wrong.

Yelena took another step forward. “She lied to all of us! Lied to YOU!”

“I KNOW.” Natasha snapped, spinning to face her. “I know she did.”

From down the hall, Wanda appeared barefoot, quietly drawn by the storm. She took one look at the tension, the shattered look on Sienna’s face and gently approached Yelena.

“Come with me.” Wanda said softly, not an order but a kindness.

Yelena trembled, teeth clenched but something in Wanda’s voice reached her. She gave Natasha one last, pained look, then turned and let Wanda guide her away.

When they were gone, Sienna sank back onto the couch like her legs had failed her. She pressed her fists to her eyes, trying to hold it all inside but it was slipping through the cracks now.

Natasha sat down again, slowly this time, beside her.

Sienna didn’t look at her.

“I deserve that.” She whispered. “I deserve all of it.”

Natasha didn’t answer at first.

“I didn’t stop her because I thought you were innocent.” She finally said, her voice quiet. “I stopped her because I know you’re not okay. Because I know no matter what’s happened, you’ve never been the one to pull the trigger or draw a knife.”

Sienna let out a shaky breath. “Why are you still here?”

Natasha turned to face her, studying her like something fragile and wild. “Because I know what it’s like to live with blood on your hands that shouldn’t be yours. And I know what it’s like to keep going anyway.”

Sienna met her eyes finally and something in her broke. The flood Natasha had been waiting for.

“I didn’t want any of this.” She whispered. “I never wanted to be part of this world. I just… I didn’t know how to say no to him.”

“I know.” Natasha said, softly.

Sienna blinked hard. “If you hadn’t shown up when you did… I think I would’ve just let it happen. Let it consume me. At least then it wouldn’t hurt anymore.”

Natasha’s hand found hers without a word.

And for a long moment, they just sat like that. Sienna’s fingers trembling in Natasha’s steady grip, the Tower around them quiet again, the night heavy with all the things left unsaid.

Then barely above a whisper, Sienna asked. “Why are you being kind to me? You’ve been there for me since the start, checking in and lurking at the safe house. Why?”

Natasha looked at her, a faint, almost imperceptible softness in her eyes. “Because underneath all the mess, I think there’s a version of you worth saving.”

A long, charged silence passed between them. Sienna swallowed hard. Her voice was so small it pained Natasha to hear. “Do you really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Sienna didn’t answer but she didn’t pull her hand away, either.

And outside the window, the city just kept on burning, unaware of what was to come.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The Avengers’ training room was far from the usual chaos of clashing titans and raw power. Instead, it held a quiet intensity, the hum of strategy and caution palpable. Sienna moved with a practiced grace, her every step precise, every counter calculated. The group watched, more surprised with each motion.

Tony shook his head, half amused, half incredulous. “You’re hiding a serious secret, aren’t you? When did you get so good at this? I mean, I’ve seen lesser pros trip over their own feet.”

Sienna’s lips twitched into a half smile but her eyes remained steady. “I didn’t just wake up knowing how to fight. When your brother is an international war criminal, and you’re caught in his web, learning to defend yourself isn’t a choice. It’s survival.”

Steve folded his arms, admiration mixing with concern. “You’ve got discipline. This isn’t just self-defense, it’s tactical. You know what you’re doing.”

Natasha lingered nearby, her gaze sharp but laced with worry. “Skill isn’t the only thing that matters here. Luka’s not just some petty crook. He’s ruthless and has resources we can’t always control.”

Sienna’s expression hardened. “I’m going back to the safe house. No matter how dangerous it is. This trial can’t stop. If I back down now, everything falls apart.”

Natasha stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You think you can outsmart a guy who’s been in this game for decades? Who knows your every move?”

Sienna shrugged, the slightest edge of bitterness in her tone. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve already lost. But giving up means letting him win.”

“He’s might be your brother but these kind of people think putting a knife in your back or a bullet through your head is a kindness and a mercy. Remember that.”

Bucky, standing silently nearby, finally spoke. “Natasha’s right about the danger. You shouldn’t be alone out there.”

Natasha glanced at him then back at Sienna. “Bucky’s taking the first surveillance shift tonight. You’re not going out on your own again, not while this is happening.”

Sienna met Natasha’s gaze, a flicker of gratitude breaking through the exhaustion. “Thank you. I just don’t want to be a liability.”

Tony gave a half-smirk, folding his arms. “You’re not a liability. You’re just stubborn as hell, like the rest of us.”

A brief, almost familial laugh passed between them.

Natasha’s eyes softened briefly but her tone was firm. “Just remember Sienna, we’re trying to keep you alive. That means sometimes making decisions you don’t want to make.”

Sienna nodded, the weight of the moment sinking in. She packed her bag methodically, every motion careful, measured. As she stepped toward the exit, Natasha added quietly.” Be careful.”

Sienna’s reply was soft but sure. “I will.”

[bunnisanblog]

a/n: TW!mentions of bleeding, smut, kinda fluffy towards the end because I’m a slut for soft!toji 🙂‍↕️

summary: In contrast to his rigid and intimidating appearance, I think Toji is a huge softie when it comes to you - especially when he goes too rough and he sees blood when he pulls his fingers out of you.

He was being very handsy with you throughout the day, part of it is because just being around you puts him in the mood, but he also wanted to be a little annoying tease to see just how turned on he can make you. "F-Fuck Toji... harder, please don't stop," you whimper, your face twisted in pleasure. At this point, he's ramming his fingers into your soaking wet pussy and curling it at just the right spot, making you squeeze your eyes shut because of how good it felt. Toji groans at the sight before him - you, a moaning mess with bright red cheeks, just begging for him to fuck you even harder. He smirks down at you. “You want me to fuck this slutty pussy of yours?” You desperately nod up at him and scream when he adds another finger. Your head is spinning; you don’t know if you should focus on how damn good his fingers are pumping into you or how hard his cock is getting. He licks his lips and stares at how messy he’s making you. “Let me get your pretty little pussy ready for—” He stops mid-sentence and looks at his fingers in shock. This causes you to sit up and look at him with concern. “What’s wrong? Why did you…” You ask, still dazed and disheveled from your fingerfuck session. “Babe, I’m sorry, I think I went a little too rough,” he shyly confesses while being quick on his feet to grab a towel for you. You look down and notice tiny droplets of blood on your bedsheet that’s not enough for a period. Toji notices you up, and his demeanor completely shifts into a much softer and gentler one. He sits in front of you and lightly pushes you down on your back. “It’s okay princess, just relax and let me take care of you properly,” he says in a worried tone, followed by a string of apologies and questions if you’re feeling okay or if anything hurts. His sudden change makes you giggle, which makes him raise an eyebrow at you as if asking why. “You know, for a ruthless, seasoned assassin, did tiny trickles of blood really do a number on you?” You tease. He rolls his eyes but can’t hide his smile, “Not if it’s your blood on my hands.” He makes it a point to place soft kisses all around your face and all over your body, jokingly addressing your abused cunt and saying sorry to her. He ignores your overdramatic pleas that it actually felt so good and that you didn’t hurt at all. And you wanted him to do it again. And again. You reach over and cup his face with your hand, squishing his cheeks in the process. “Hey, don’t apologize for a good time~”