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reveryfics · 1 month ago

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The Range

Spencer Reid x Male Reader

Summary: With a firearms test looming, Spencer was struggling to improve even with Hotchner's guidance. Hotchner then recommended he seeks help from someone more qualified.

A/N: I'm going to start tagging these types of fics with "ftm reader" too. A lot of my "x male" fics can be read as both unless it's a specific request or outright mentioned like in my smut posts. Let it be known this started as a undeveloped idea and spiraled into this.

TW: Awkward Spencer - Fluff

The rhythmic thwack of bullets striking the backstop echoed through the vast, concrete expanse of the Quantico firing range, a stark, percussive counterpoint to the profound, frustrated silence emanating from Spencer Reid's isolated booth. Sweat beaded on his brow, not from the physical exertion of firing, but from the sheer, overwhelming mental strain of trying to coax his perpetually trembling hands into anything resembling a steady aim. His latest grouping on the paper target, a ragged constellation of holes, looked less like a concentrated cluster of impacts and more like the scattered pattern of a shotgun blast from fifty yards out.

Aaron Hotchner, ever stoic and observant, stood a respectful distance behind Reid, his arms crossed over his chest, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He'd dedicated countless hours to Reid this past week, patiently deconstructing and explaining every foundational tenet of marksmanship: the proper stance, the firm but relaxed grip, the crucial sight alignment, the smooth and controlled trigger squeeze. Yet, with each passing minute, it became increasingly, painfully clear that Spencer's prodigious intellectual brilliance, his near-superhuman capacity for logical deduction and encyclopedic recall, simply did not extend to the fundamental mechanics of operating a Glock service pistol.

"It's like... the gun just feels alien in my hand, Hotch," Reid confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, as he carefully lowered the firearm onto the bench with a grimace of pure exasperation. "My brain understands the intricate physics, the complex trajectory, the precise ballistics, but my body stubbornly refuses to cooperate with the simplest of commands."

Hotch nodded slowly, a familiar, resigned look settling onto his features. "Some things just don't click, Spencer, no matter how much you analyze them. But this isn't an elective. This is a mandatory qualification test, and you need to pass it to remain active in the field." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Perhaps it's best you seek help from someone who specializes in one-on-one firearms training, someone who's specifically qualified to help agents with... unique challenges."

Spencer nodded, biting his bottom lip, the humiliation a bitter taste in his mouth. He picked up his spent casings, the small brass cylinders cool against his fingertips, as he and Hotchner left the cacophony of the firing range, the echoing thwacks slowly fading behind them.

He didn't know the first thing about where to go for such specialized training. As much as he valued Morgan's advice, the thought of asking his perpetually teasing colleague for recommendations on his shooting inadequacy filled him with dread. He could already hear the good-natured but relentless jabs. Which was why, a few days later, he found himself standing hesitantly in the doorway of a small, nondescript local gun range, long after its official closing hours.

And there you were. You, who looked like you were perpetually one stupid customer away from subtly strangling someone, while simultaneously possessing the frantic energy of a person who'd consumed an industrial quantity of caffeine. The lingering, almost palpable smell of strong coffee on your breath confirmed Reid's deduction on that front. You were actively cleaning up, wiping down counters with meticulous, almost aggressive strokes, clearly eager to lock up and go home.

You had honestly thought, for a fleeting moment, that Reid was messing with you, perhaps a late-night prank from a colleague, especially since the range had closed nearly thirty minutes ago and you were clearly in the final stages of your closing routine. But the earnest, almost desperate look on his face, those wide, intelligent eyes behind his glasses, told you he was more than serious about his impromptu, late-night request for help. And who were you, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of quirky individuals, to deny this adorable, socially awkward dork of a man the assistance he so clearly, desperately needed?

You quirked an eyebrow, a silent question in your gaze, but Spencer just offered a small, hopeful smile. With a resigned sigh, you gestured for him to follow. "Alright, pretty boy. Let's see what we're working with."

You led him deeper into the range, the scent of gunpowder clinging to the air like a second skin. The main bay was dark, but you flipped a switch, bathing a section in stark fluorescent light. In one hand, you balanced four boxes of 9mm ammunition, their weight familiar. In the other, you held your personal sidearm—a sleek, customized Glock 19—and a Glock 22, a close replica of the standard issue for the BAU.

"Alright, Spencer," you began, your voice losing its earlier edge, replaced with a no-nonsense professionalism. "Before we even think about touching a firearm, we're going to talk. And then we're going to breathe." You set the boxes and pistols on a cleared section of the counter, the metal cold and unyielding against the laminate. "You said your brain understands the physics but your body won't cooperate. My job is to bridge that gap. We're going to break this down, piece by painful piece, until it becomes muscle memory."

You picked up the Glock 22, checking its clear chamber before handing it to him, butt first. "Feel that weight? That balance? Your hands are trembling, I can see that. That's not just nerves about shooting; that's often a manifestation of mental overload." You watched as he cradled the weapon, his brow furrowed in concentration. "First things first: stance. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot slightly back. Hips aligned with your shoulders, a slight forward lean. Imagine you're bracing against a strong wind."

You demonstrated, moving with an easy, fluid grace that belied your earlier grumpiness. Then you moved to his side, gently adjusting his posture. "Good. Now, grip. High on the backstrap, web of your hand firmly against the tang. Your strong hand does the work of controlling the firearm, while your support hand wraps around for stability. No 'death grip,' Spencer. Just firm control. You want to be able to isolate your trigger finger."

You demonstrated the grip with your own Glock, showing him how your fingers molded around the pistol, how your thumbs aligned. "Now, this is where most people struggle: sight picture and alignment." You took the Glock 22 back and held it up, aligning the front sight post precisely between the two rear sight posts. "Front sight in focus, target slightly blurry. When those three dots line up, that's your window." You held it steady, letting him lean in to observe.

"And finally, the most crucial part, the part that separates good shooters from great ones: trigger control." You handed him the Glock 22 again. "This isn't about jerking the trigger. It's about a slow, steady, continuous press straight to the rear, without disturbing your sight picture. Imagine squeezing a sponge, slowly, until the water comes out." You placed your finger lightly over his on the trigger guard. "You don't want to anticipate the shot; you want to be surprised by it."

You watched his face, the intense concentration, the almost painful effort to translate your words into physical action. "We're not even going to load a round yet. We're going to do dry fire drills, over and over, until you can hold that sight picture through the entire trigger press. And we're going to focus on your breathing. Deep, controlled breaths. It's amazing what a difference that makes."

You moved to a new target, a fresh sheet of paper with a crisp bullseye. "Take your time, Spencer. We've got all night."

Spencer took the Glock 22, his grip a little less tentative this time, but the subtle tremor in his hands was still evident. He tried to mimic your stance, shifting his feet, then his hips, then his shoulders, like a marionette with too many strings. His movements were jerky, hesitant, a stark contrast to your fluid demonstration.

"Okay, Spencer," you prompted, "now the grip. Remember, high on the backstrap, web of your hand firmly against the tang."

He adjusted his fingers, then adjusted them again, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. You could practically hear the whirring of his brilliant mind, dissecting every instruction, every subtle nuance. But it was clear he was overthinking it, getting lost in the theoretical instead of simply doing. His support hand wrapped around his dominant, but it looked awkward, like he was trying to solve a complex puzzle with an oven mitt.

"Good," you said, trying to keep your tone encouraging, even as you saw the familiar signs of frustration beginning to etch themselves onto his face. "Now, bring the pistol up. Find your sight picture."

He raised the Glock, his arms extending, but they wavered slightly. He squinted, trying to align the front sight, but his eyes darted from the blurry target to the pistol, then back to the target. He took a deep, shaky breath, then another, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was clearly trying to apply the breathing exercises, but the physical act was fighting against his mental state.

You watched as his shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched. He squeezed the trigger, and the slight, almost imperceptible flinch of the pistol was a clear giveaway. He wasn't surprised by the shot; he was bracing for it. The dry click of the firing pin hitting nothing echoed in the otherwise silent range.

He lowered the pistol, his hands dropping to his sides, the frustration radiating off him in palpable waves. He rubbed his temples, a defeated sigh escaping his lips. "It's... it's just not connecting," he muttered, his voice laced with exasperation. "I understand what you're saying, I really do, but when I try to put it into practice, my body just... rebels."

You took a slow, deliberate breath. You could see him spiraling, trapped in his own head. This wasn't about technique anymore; it was about getting him out of his own way. Without a word, you walked up behind him, your presence a warm, solid wall at his back. You were close enough that you could feel the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the tension in his muscles.

"Relax, Spencer," you murmured, your voice low and calm, a stark contrast to his inner turmoil. Your hands gently but firmly settled on his, guiding them back to the pistol. Your body was practically pressed against his back, allowing you to manipulate his posture with your own. You adjusted his feet, subtly shifting his weight until he felt balanced. Your arm came around his, guiding his elbow into the correct position, your hand overlapping his on the grip, molding it into a perfect, natural hold.

You leaned in slightly, your chin almost resting on his shoulder, your voice a soft whisper near his ear. "Now, feel this. Feel the connection between your body and the firearm. Feel the stability." Your hands, strong and steady, became an extension of his, demonstrating the proper grip, the high purchase on the backstrap. "This isn't about thinking, Spencer. It's about feeling. It's about instinct."

You brought the pistol up, your body moving in unison with his, your eyes looking down the sights as you guided his hands. "Front sight, target. Breathe. Slow, steady press. Feel the resistance, then feel the release." You held it there, perfectly steady, allowing him to feel what a truly stable platform felt like. The tension in his body, though still present, began to subtly lessen under your unwavering physical guidance.

You remained behind him, your body a living brace, subtly correcting his stance, your hands guiding his as you raised the Glock again. "Feel that?" you murmured, your voice a low rumble against his ear. "That's what proper alignment feels like. That's stability." You held it there, perfectly still, letting him absorb the sensation. "Now, your focus goes to that front sight. Make it sharp, clear. The target can be blurry. All that matters is that little post right there."

You could feel the subtle shift in his breathing, a slow, almost imperceptible relaxation in his shoulders. He was still tense, but the frantic energy that had radiated from him minutes before had begun to recede. Your body warmth, combined with the steady pressure of your hands, seemed to be short-circuiting his overactive mind, forcing him to engage with the tactile experience rather than the abstract theory.

"Good," you encouraged, your voice soft but firm. "Now, that trigger finger. Isolate it. Don't move anything else. Just a slow, steady press. Like you're pushing against something heavy." You put the slightest pressure on his index finger, guiding it. "Feel how it moves independently? Don't anticipate the shot. Let it surprise you."

The quiet click of the dry fire echoed in the range. It was a cleaner sound this time, less of a jerk, more of a controlled release. You felt the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands, but it was significantly less than before.

"Again," you instructed, keeping your position, your body still molded to his. "Reset. Find that front sight. Breathe. Press."

He did. And again. And again. Each time, the click was a little smoother, the dry fire more consistent. You felt the tension in his muscles slowly bleed away, replaced by a nascent, unfamiliar rhythm. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but the improvement was undeniable. The rigidity in his movements softened, replaced by a tentative fluidity.

After a series of successful dry fires, you finally stepped back, giving him some space. "Alright, Spencer. Take a breath. Tell me what you felt."

He lowered the pistol, his gaze fixed on it as if seeing it for the first time. He flexed his fingers, then opened and closed his hands. "It's... different," he said, his voice quiet, thoughtful. "When you were there, guiding me, it felt... natural. Like my body knew what to do without my brain having to overthink it. It was just... muscle." He looked up at you, a flicker of genuine surprise and dawning comprehension in his eyes. "I think I understand now. It's not about the physics, it's about the feel."

You nodded, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "Exactly. Now, let's see if you can replicate that feeling on your own." You picked up one of the boxes of ammunition. "Ready to load some live rounds?"

Spencer took a deep breath, a flicker of apprehension returning to his eyes, but it was quickly overshadowed by a determined glint. "Ready," he affirmed, a newfound resolve in his voice.

You nodded, a subtle approval in your expression. "Good. We're going to start slow. One round at a time." You picked up a magazine and deftly loaded a single 9mm cartridge, the brass glinting under the fluorescent lights. The distinct clink of the round seating in the magazine was a stark reminder that the stakes were about to increase.

You handed the loaded magazine and the Glock 22 to Spencer. "Load it," you instructed, watching as he fumbled slightly, but managed to insert the magazine into the grip with a more confident click than you'd seen from him previously. "Now, rack the slide firmly."

He did, the metallic clack-clack echoing in the otherwise silent range as the round chambered. He held the pistol up, his hands still trembling slightly, but his stance was noticeably better. The subtle adjustments you’d made earlier seemed to have stuck.

"Front sight," you reminded him, your voice calm and steady. "Focus. Breathe. Slow, continuous press."

He took a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes narrowing as he found the front sight. His finger, though still a little hesitant, began to press. You watched, a silent observer, as the muscle memory you’d just helped him build battled with the ingrained mental blocks. There was a moment of absolute stillness, then—

CRACK!

The gunshot ripped through the air, a concussive force that made the concrete walls vibrate. The recoil made Spencer flinch, the pistol kicking up and to the right. He instinctively lowered it, blinking rapidly, a surprised gasp escaping him. The smell of burnt gunpowder instantly filled the air.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide. "That's... louder than I expected."

You walked over to the target, a new one you’d put up just for this. A single, ragged hole marked the paper. It was off-center, far from the bullseye, but it was on the paper. And more importantly, it wasn't a complete wild shot.

"It's always louder the first time," you said, your tone neutral. "But you kept it on the paper, Spencer. That's progress." You walked back to him, taking the Glock. You ejected the empty magazine and checked the chamber. "The flinch is normal. It's a natural reaction to a loud noise and sudden recoil. We'll work on that."

You reloaded a single round and handed him the pistol again. "This time, I want you to remember what it felt like when I was helping you. Try to recreate that stability. Anticipate the noise, but don't anticipate the shot itself."

He nodded, taking the pistol. He raised it, his movements a little more practiced now. He took a longer, deeper breath, visibly trying to center himself. You could see him fighting the urge to flinch, to yank the trigger. He found his sight picture, held it, and then, with a palpable effort of will, began to squeeze.

CRACK!

Another shot. This time, the recoil was still significant, but his body didn't flinch as violently. He held the pistol up for a moment longer before slowly lowering it.

You walked to the target. The second hole was still off-center, but it was closer to the first, forming a very loose pairing.

"Better," you stated, your gaze returning to him. "Much better. You're starting to get the feel for it. We're going to keep going like this, one round at a time, until that flinch lessens and your groups tighten. Ready for another?"

Spencer nodded, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple, but a flicker of grim determination now shone in his eyes. "Yes. Again."

You reloaded a single round, the familiar clink a small punctuation mark in the quiet range. You handed him the Glock, and he accepted it with less hesitation this time, his fingers finding the familiar contours of the grip. His stance was more natural, less rigid, a faint echo of the perfect form you'd guided him into.

"Remember the breathing," you coached, your voice low and steady. "Control the inhale, control the exhale. Don't let your heart race."

He took a visibly deeper breath, his chest expanding, then slowly contracting. He raised the pistol, his arms extending, and though there was still a slight tremor, his sight alignment was noticeably quicker, more precise. You could almost see the gears in his brilliant mind shifting, moving from frantic overthinking to a more intuitive, almost meditative focus. He was no longer just trying to do it; he was beginning to feel it.

He held the sight picture, the front post unwavering for a crucial second, then two. His finger began to move, a slow, deliberate press. You watched his knuckles whiten slightly as he fought the natural urge to yank or flinch.

CRACK!

The shot rang out, sharp and immediate. This time, the pistol's recoil was still pronounced, but Spencer absorbed it better. He didn't drop his arms immediately, holding the pistol up, his eyes wide but no longer as surprised. He slowly lowered it, a small, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction on his face.

You walked to the target. This shot was significantly closer to the center, a marked improvement. It wasn't in the bullseye, but it was a solid, undeniable step forward. You tapped the paper with your finger, indicating the new hole.

"Look at that, Spencer," you said, a genuine note of approval in your voice. "You're starting to build a group. You're adapting. That's what we want." You picked up the Glock, ejected the spent casing, and loaded another single round. "The flinch is almost gone. Now we focus on consistency."

He took the pistol back, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "It's... it's like my body is finally listening to my brain," he mused, looking at the Glock with a newfound respect. "Or maybe, my brain is finally listening to my body."

You smirked. "Something like that. Ready for another?"

Spencer continued, firing round after round, and with each shot, the improvement was remarkable. The flinch became a barely perceptible twitch, his groups on the target tightening from a scattered pattern to a discernible cluster. He was still far from a sharpshooter, but the wild shots were gone, replaced by consistent impacts within the inner rings. You watched him, a quiet satisfaction growing within you. He was learning, adapting, and most importantly, no longer fighting himself.

You decided to join him on the line, pulling up the lane next to his. You grabbed your customized Glock 19 and a fresh target, hanging it with practiced efficiency. The rhythmic CRACK! of your shots mingled with Spencer’s, a steady drumbeat in the otherwise silent range. Your movements were fluid, economical – a testament to countless hours on the range. Each of your rounds punched a neat, precise hole in the bullseye, forming a tight, cloverleaf pattern. It was a stark contrast to Spencer's still-developing technique, yet your presence seemed to spur him on. He'd glance over, a quick, almost imperceptible assessment of your flawless form, then refocus, his own shots becoming more deliberate, more controlled.

As the second hour past closing ticked by, the stack of empty brass casings around Spencer's feet grew considerably. He was no longer just hitting the paper; he was consistently placing his shots within the vital zone of the silhouette target. The initial frustration had completely vanished, replaced by a quiet, intense concentration. He looked less like a panicked academic and more like someone genuinely engaged in a complex, rewarding problem.

Finally, you called a halt. "Alright, Spencer, that's enough for tonight. Let's see the damage."

You both walked downrange to retrieve his targets. You pulled the paper from the hanger, examining it with a critical eye. The first few shots were still scattered, but the latter half of the target showed a significant improvement – a respectable grouping that would easily pass a basic qualification.

"Look at this," you said, a genuine smile touching your lips as you held up the target. "From a shotgun blast to this in a couple of hours. That's excellent work, Spencer. You got out of your head, and you let your body learn. This," you gestured to the tight cluster of holes, "is more than enough to pass your qualification."

Spencer took the target, his eyes wide as he stared at the evidence of his newfound proficiency. A faint flush crept up his neck as he processed your praise, and suddenly, the earlier intensity of his focus seemed to dissipate, replaced by his more familiar awkwardness. His gaze flickered to you, then away, then back, and you could practically see the delayed realization hitting him – how close you’d been earlier, how your body had been pressed against his, guiding his movements.

"Oh," he stammered, running a hand through his hair. "Right. Uh, yes. Thank you. I mean, it's... I really appreciate it. I wouldn't have been able to... that is to say, I'm usually not..." He trailed off, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

You chuckled, enjoying the sight of his return to his delightfully flustered self. "Relax, Spencer. It's just shooting. And you did good." You watched him for a moment, a sense of quiet amusement warming you. "I expect to see you walk through these doors after your test and tell me you passed. Understand?"

He nodded vigorously, still slightly flushed. "Yes! Absolutely. I will. Thank you again. Really." With one last, slightly awkward nod, he turned and headed for the exit, the lingering scent of gunpowder and coffee trailing after him.

A few days later, the familiar chime above the door announced a new arrival. You were behind the counter, deep in conversation with a customer about custom barrel threading, when a figure began to weave through the usual afternoon crowd of shooters and gear enthusiasts. It was Spencer. He was navigating the bustling range with a renewed sense of purpose, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

You finished up with your customer, then cocked an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. You didn't need him to say a word. The way he carried himself, the subtle bounce in his step, it all spoke volumes.

Spencer reached the counter, his usual awkwardness back in full force now that the pressure of the qualification was off. He shifted his weight, then, almost shyly, lifted the hem of his sweater just enough to flash the Glock now securely holstered at his hip. The movement was quick, almost furtive, as if he worried someone might scold him for showing off. He quickly covered it back up, a faint blush already coloring his cheeks.

You chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. "I knew you had it in you, Spencer. Good job."

His blush deepened, a delightful shade of pink. "I... I wouldn't have passed if you hadn't helped me," he stammered, his gaze darting around the room, avoiding direct eye contact. "My scores were... significantly better. Hotch was actually surprised." He fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag. "And I just... I wanted to thank you properly."

Before you could even formulate a response, the words seemed to tumble out of him in a rush. "So, I was wondering if you'd like to... go on a date with me? As a thank you, of course. Not that you owe me anything, but I just thought it would be a nice... gesture. If you're busy, I completely understand, no pressure at all, it's just a thought, really—"

You watched him, suppressing another laugh. He was trying so hard to backpedal, to soften the blow of a potential rejection, but you found it incredibly endearing.

"Spencer," you interrupted gently, cutting off his rapid-fire monologue. A broad smile stretched across your face. "I'd love to."

He froze, his mouth slightly agape, clearly not expecting such a straightforward acceptance. His eyes, wide and surprised, finally met yours.

"I'll see you tonight after work," you confirmed, your voice warm.

A goofy, delighted smile slowly spread across Spencer's face. He nodded vigorously, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Tonight! Yes. Okay. Great. I'll... I'll see you then!" And before he could embarrass himself further, he practically spun on his heel and hurried out of the range, leaving you to your work with a pleasant warmth settling in your chest.

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theexaltedbride · 3 months ago

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Rabbit X Human Female Reader Headcannons (NSFW)

-Rabbit has once used his enhanced speed to slap and play with your ass and your breasts like they were bongos. Though if you tell him its too rough on your breasts he will be happy to just play music off your ass with his hands like a skilled drummer.

-If you ever show him that one knife fight scene from the Mask of Zorro, Rabbit would be happy to recreate it with you. his speed lets him be much more careful with things, even if it looks like he's moving recklessly. He's fast enough to deflect and dodge bullets, cutting clothes off without hurting you would be easy.

"You can consider it a reward if you do well in our actual sword training sessions together." He will tease you, and study the scene to see how he might be able to mimic it or improve it. The real challenge will be for you to strip him. At least he's durable so he can handle a cut or two.

-Rabbit can actually open his mouth very wide and likes to show you how much larger his tongue is to that of a human. Yes, your Rabbit gladly eats ass and will eat pussy like a starving man being given a birthday cake. He's not a coward about it the way some men are and treats it like someone saying they hate eating candy.

"More for me then!"

He's also skilled at using that tongue for more than giving speeches or sampling tea. He will do things to your clit that no human ever could. When he hears that many men struggle to do even that much it draws a laugh from him.

"How is it you humans say it? Ah yes! 'Skill Issue'."

Whenever you say how he is getting on your nerves and pushing your buttons, he likes to reply. "I know how you make you feel better, I just need to push one specific button." To which he will then lick his lips with his tongue or make some other kind of gesture with it to really hammer home what he means.

-A few times now Rabbit has wanted to chase you, just to really burn his stamina. You can only do it on Earth where he knows a random demon won't try to kidnap you. But each time he does it he gets such a rush, his cock throbbing, practically leading the way for him, and veins pulsing with need as he gives you a five to ten minute head start to run naked (save for some shoes or sandals to protect your feet from twigs and rocks) through the woods before he runs after you at the speed a rabbit is known for, getting his blood pumping, and his desire for you only making him want to catch you all the quicker. Once he catches you, his tongue will plunge into your throat, as his cock plunges into any available entrance.

Sometimes he can't even manage that, and just settles for grinding against you, his truly feral side coming out as he barely speak beyond huffs and gasps of pure desire.

And all of that desire, that lust, that need, that love, is directed solely at you.

-Sometimes when Rabbit is eating you out, his nose will press against you and it is surprisingly cold, which creates such a contrast with his breathing because his breath is hot (and only further throws you for a loop because his fur is smooth when it brushes against your thighs).

-Shower sex is entirely possible with Rabbit, he's not a canine so he doesn't produce that 'wet dog' smell, especially if using actual soaps when on Earth (and honestly that kind of experience is only possible on Earth).

-If you want Rabbit to be a Daddy Dom in the bedroom he certainly can be, and can deliver spankings like nobody's business. Just with his voice alone he can set the tone, and his demeanor can go from posh and proper gentlemanly, to stern daddy at the drop of a hat.

He will however refuse to spank you with anything but his own hand (either with gloves on or gloves off). He cares for your safety and won't risk accidentally hurting you with a paddle or belt because he's too strong. He will also only play like that in the bedroom. He has an operation to run and will not have his authority questioned by anyone because he can't keep it in the bedroom.

If you get too excited during your 'punishment' he will take notice and run a single finger along your lips before bringing it up to his mouth to taste it.

"Naughty girl, who told you to make a mess? I certainly didn't. That will be ten more spanks for each cheek, and I expect you to count them out missy!"

-Aftercare cuddle time is mandatory after anything rough and even more intense lovemaking. He knows he can be intimidating and wants to make sure you're okay.

-Rabbit sometimes has a thing for keeping you naked in the bedroom while he wears a suit. Your body is entirely exposed to him, and he can enjoy every part of it, its one of the few times he enjoys making a mess of his suit as you lunge at one another and really go at it.

-Rabbit explicitly refuses to have sex with you after a battle, especially if a human was killed. He does not want to associate these emotions together. Sex is sex, fighting is fighting. They should never mix. You are his source of comfort, and he doesn't want to poison that.

-Once you and rabbit were making love in his office in Makai when a demon burst in demanding to discuss business with Rabbit (something about wanting something special smuggled from Earth to Makai). He'd been told he had to wait, and refused to do so. Now he'd burst in, and Rabbit had to adapt to the situation.

Rabbit locked eyes with the demon, and kept thrusting his hips as he laid you out on his desk.

"It can wait until my current meeting is finished." He told the demon, and you. But with how his thumb stroked your hand, you knew he had a plan.

It was a display of dominance. If he backed out or cowered or tried to cover up, then he would look weak and other demons might think they could get away with this kind of behavior. So, he kept going while locking eyes with the intruder and didn't truly speak to them until he'd had his orgasm (A little bit after he'd made you gasp beneath him, to further show his talents and skill). The demon had intruded trying to put Rabbit on the backfoot, and was left feeling awkward and embarrassed as rabbit turned his own trick around against him.

No one ever tried that again with Rabbit, though you suspect he might actually enjoy pulling that trick again.

-At his most excited he puts new meaning to the term bunny hopping' when slamming himself into you. Its like he's a speed demon (well...technically he is?) and the only thing to calm him down is reaching three or four orgasms with you. His refractory period is insane, but he's got enough control to not let it be an issue.

This also applies to when you are riding his cock (be it cowgirl or reverse) and Rabbit suddenly gets it into his head to thrust upwards and use the bed to help give him some extra bounce in his movements, and really get you bouncing on him.

-Rabbit once tied the end of his monocle chain to a nipple ring on the same side of his body. He's not sure if he likes it, but is waiting to see how you feel on it next time you're intimate together.

-Not many demons can safely give oral sex, so it has become one of his favorite things from you, especially if you stain his body with your lipstick. It really gets the rabbit flustered, because his white fur is like a canvas for you to paint.

-When it comes to sex toys, he's not much of a fan.

"I can satisfy you better than any piece of plastic. That being said, there is one I do like." He says as he clicks a button for a remote controlled vibrator hidden inside of you.

"I do love to hear you moan."

-Rabbit didn't fully understand human menstrual cycles at first. But once he did, he began to save something special in mind for the day you showed signs of being genuinely pregnant with his Kits, he will make a comment to you of.

"Alice, you're late."

Any punch or kick or thrown pillow his way to silence his laughter will be utterly worth it. If he realizes he's going to be a dad, he's going to stock up on dad jokes, the worse they are the more he will tell them.

(And if you're into it, he will absolutely tease you about how many Kits you're going to make together. Rabbits are well known for multiplying.)

-------

Couple playlist.

"Better than Drugs' ~Skillet.

'Separate Ways.' ~Journey.

#white rabbit x reader #dmc rabbit #canon x reader #devil may cry white rabbit #rabbit x reader #dmc rabbit x reader #devil may cry rabbit x reader #dmc x reader #devil may cry x reader #dmc netflix

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amaris-whisperer · 2 months ago

Text

Redacted l Bucky Barnes x Reader

Genre: Slow burn, angst with comfort, friends to lovers, team meddling, Soft!Bucky, bittersweet-to-sweet resolution

Setting: Thunderbolts AU

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Slight mature content

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 (complete)

—

You'd never imagined a life spent spying on the world's most dangerous people would end like this — with your heart in the line of fire.

You sat rigidly in the sleek, glass-walled conference room deep inside a government building that felt more like a fortress. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly in the silence, competing with the faint tapping of your pen against the folder on the table.

Across from you, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was the picture of composed authority. She was dressed in a sharply tailored black suit that emphasized her ruthless elegance, lips painted a shade of red that could kill just as surely as a bullet. Her dark eyes didn't flicker, didn't betray emotion—but they scanned you like a wolf calculating whether you were prey or a threat.

"I trust you understand the gravity of your assignment," she began, voice cool and controlled, but with an undercurrent that sent a chill down your spine.

You nodded, swallowing the knot of nerves tightening in your throat. "Oversight for the Thunderbolts. I'm to monitor their operations, report any breaches, and ensure compliance with government regulations."

Valentina's smile was thin, almost predatory. "Yes. In theory."

You met her gaze. "In practice?"

"In practice," she leaned forward, fingers steepled, "I don't trust you. Not fully. You work for them, but you also work for us. That means you're walking a knife's edge. One wrong move and you're expendable."

Your jaw tightened. "I'm here to protect the public interest, not to be a pawn."

"Pawns are useful, as long as they don't forget their place."

You took a breath. "I'll be impartial. I won't let personal bias affect my reports."

Her eyes flickered briefly—just a crack in the mask—before she smiled again. "Impartiality is a luxury few can afford when lives are on the line. Remember, you're the watchdog. But the Thunderbolts... they're not dogs to be trained. They're wolves. And wolves don't take kindly to being watched."

The words hung in the air like a warning.

You swallowed again, feeling the weight of her meaning. Your job wasn't just oversight. It was survival.

Valentina stood and smoothed the front of her jacket. "I'll be watching you as closely as you watch them. Prove me wrong."

Before you could respond, she turned on her heel and left the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.

You sat back, the silence pressing in around you, the cold weight of the assignment settling over your shoulders like armor.

Because in this game, trust was the most dangerous currency—and you had none.

—

The Thunderbolts' primary safehouse looked like it had been patched together by a contractor with a death wish. Cement walls. Bulletproof glass in some windows. Others, just plywood. Government-issue furniture, utilitarian and forgettable. The hallway smelled faintly of bleach and sweat.

You moved quietly, clipboard in hand, absorbing the details: exit routes, headcount, facial cues. Routine.

Except there was nothing routine about him.

James Buchanan Barnes was leaned against the far wall of the briefing room like the shadows belonged to him. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable. The kind of stillness that didn't come from peace—but from years of violence and control.

His eyes tracked you as you entered. That cold blue that had once terrified entire regimes. There were stories in those eyes—classified ones.

"You the suit?" he asked, voice low, like gravel sliding down steel.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

He nodded toward your ID badge. "Government oversight. Watching our every move."

You didn't answer right away. Just stepped further into the room and let the door shut behind you. "I'm here to make sure your team doesn't go off-mission."

He smirked faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Off-mission is the only way this team functions."

You studied him—how the weight of history seemed to settle on his shoulders like a second skin. He wasn't posturing like some of the others. He didn't need to. He had nothing left to prove. That made him the most dangerous kind.

"Then I guess it's my job to make sure it doesn't implode."

Bucky straightened, just a little. "Valentina send you?"

"She didn't request oversight. The Senate did. Official mandate, passed two weeks ago."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you volunteered for this circus?"

"I didn't realize it was a circus."

Now his smirk widened just a touch. "You will."

There was a beat of silence, and then he stepped away from the wall. You resisted the instinct to step back. Instead, you stood your ground as he approached—measured, calm, all lethal potential under the surface.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that," he said quietly. "But if you're planning to write your little reports and keep your hands clean, I've got bad news for you."

"I don't write fiction."

"You will," he said. "Eventually. Everyone who works for her does."

You blinked. "Valentina?"

He didn't answer. Just stared for a moment, like he was deciding whether to warn you or dismiss you. Then he looked away and started walking.

At the door, he paused.

"One more thing," he said, not turning around. "If you're going to survive around here, learn the difference between a mission and an execution."

Then he was gone, leaving the air colder than when he'd arrived.

You exhaled slowly, realizing you'd been holding your breath.

This wasn't just oversight.

This was a war zone in disguise.

And James Buchanan Barnes had just marked you as a wildcard.

—

The safehouse was quiet at night, which usually meant trouble was due to start soon.

You were going over the latest team logs in the common area, the lamplight throwing your shadow long across the cracked table. The Thunderbolts were ghosts by now—scattered across the city, executing a mission Valentina had conveniently redacted from your clearance level. Again.

You weren't supposed to question it. Just document the chaos.

Footsteps echoed down the hall—measured, steady.

You didn't have to look up.

Bucky.

He stepped into the room, pausing just inside the doorway. "No one else is here. You always work late?"

You glanced at the clock. 2:17 a.m.

"It's the only time the files aren't being accessed by five different departments," you muttered. "Or redacted to hell."

He approached slowly, the silence between you just as heavy as it had been in that first meeting.

"You don't sleep much, do you?" he asked.

You looked up. "That a professional observation?"

He leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed. "Call it an educated guess. People who sleep easy don't take jobs like this."

You returned to your screen. "Neither do people with options."

He smirked again—but softer this time. "So what's your story, suit?"

You clicked a tab closed. "Why do you care?"

He shrugged. "I don't. I'm just trying to figure out if you're a spy... or just a martyr with a clipboard."

"Why not both?"

That earned you a huff of amusement. "Touché."

There was a beat of silence.

"You ever think about leaving?" he asked, suddenly quieter. "Walking away?"

You blinked. That... hadn't been what you expected.

"All the time," you admitted. "But I know what happens if someone like Valentina runs unchecked."

Bucky's face darkened. His voice dropped an octave.

"She already does."

You watched him carefully, trying to read what sat just beneath the surface. "Then why stay? Why follow her orders?"

He didn't answer right away. Just stared at a crack in the floor like it held a secret code.

"Because if I don't, someone worse will."

You sat back in your chair, the weight of it all hitting you harder than before. The Thunderbolts were supposed to be a second chance—for the world, for him. But the way he said it... it felt more like a sentence.

"She doesn't trust me," you said suddenly. "Valentina. She thinks I'm a risk."

"You are," he said, without hesitation.

You raised an eyebrow.

"She's not wrong. You asking questions? Writing honest reports?" He gave a low laugh. "That's a dangerous thing in her world."

"Then why haven't I been removed?"

He looked at you for a long time, his expression unreadable. "Because someone up the chain still thinks you're useful. Or expendable."

You swallowed hard. "And what do you think I am?"

Another beat passed. His voice was quiet. Careful. "I think you don't belong here."

"Thanks," you muttered. "Real comforting."

He shook his head. "No—I mean it. You're... different. You still believe in rules. People like Val chew that up. So do people like me."

You looked at him then, really looked. "Is that what you think you are? Just another weapon she points?"

His silence told you everything.

"I don't believe that," you said softly.

He finally met your eyes. "Then you're a bigger fool than I thought."

You stood slowly, feeling the tension pull tight between you. "I'm not afraid of you, Barnes."

His jaw flexed, something raw behind his eyes. "Maybe you should be."

And yet... you weren't.

You stepped around the table, close enough to smell the faint scent of soap and metal and something undeniably him. You paused beside him, your voice low.

"I'm not here to control you," you whispered. "I'm here because someone needs to see what she's really doing. Someone who's not afraid to write it down."

He turned toward you, only a foot of space between your bodies.

"If you write it down," he said, voice like a warning, "she'll burn you for it."

"Maybe," you said. "But not before I set a few fires of my own."

There was something like respect in his eyes then. A flicker of it. Maybe something more.

But he didn't reach for you. Not yet. And you didn't step closer.

Instead, you stood in the quiet for a moment longer—two people on opposite sides of the same burning bridge.

Then you turned, leaving him in the silence, your pulse thundering louder than your footsteps.

—

The mission was supposed to be surgical.

Go in, extract a rogue asset, get out clean.

Instead, it ended in fire. Two agents down. The intel corrupted. And Bucky bleeding from a shoulder wound he wouldn't let anyone patch up.

By the time you got to the safehouse, the rest of the team had scattered for debriefs or damage control.

Only he remained.

You found him sitting in the half-lit kitchen, arm wrapped in a towel soaked crimson. His vibranium fingers flexed involuntarily, twitching from pain or adrenaline—you couldn't tell.

"You need a medic," you said from the doorway.

"I've had worse."

"That's not a denial."

He didn't answer.

You crossed the room, grabbing the med kit from the cabinet above the sink. "Take off your shirt."

He raised a brow.

"Don't flatter yourself," you muttered. "I need to stop the bleeding before you pass out on government property."

With a quiet grunt, he peeled the ruined tactical fabric off, revealing the wound: a clean but deep graze through flesh and muscle. It was worse than he let on. But what held your gaze wasn't the injury—it was the scars. So many. Old ones, fresh ones. Some surgical. Others savage.

Your hands stilled for just a second.

He noticed.

"Cataloging the damage?"

"No," you said quietly. "Just thinking about how much one person can survive."

His expression didn't change, but something in his shoulders eased.

You cleaned the wound carefully, hands steady even though your stomach twisted. He didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound.

"You stayed behind," he said suddenly.

"I had to finish my report."

"That's not why."

You looked up. His eyes were searching. Tired.

You swallowed. "No."

"I got people killed today," he said. "Because I hesitated."

"It wasn't your fault—"

"I knew the intel was wrong. I should've pulled us out sooner."

You finished dressing the wound, sitting back slightly.

"Do you think you're the only one in this building with regrets?" you asked. "You think I sleep easy knowing my reports send people like you into firestorms?"

He stared at you like he wasn't used to being spoken to like a person. Like a man.

"You care," he said.

It wasn't an accusation. More like a revelation.

You exhaled. "Of course I care. But that doesn't mean I can save you."

He reached out then—just a brush of his fingers on your wrist. Not enough to startle, but enough to still your breath.

"I don't need saving," he said.

"Good," you replied. "Because I'm not a hero either."

You stayed like that for a moment—close, quiet, surrounded by shadows and unspoken things.

Then you gently pulled your wrist from his grasp.

"I'll log the injury as self-treated. Valentina doesn't need to know you were bleeding all over her kitchen."

He smirked faintly. "Protecting me, now?"

"Just the paperwork," you said. "The rest... is redacted."

As you turned to leave, he spoke—so soft you almost missed it.

"Don't disappear on me."

You paused in the doorway.

"Don't give me a reason to."

And then you were gone.

But the air between you stayed charged, something unnamed stretching taut—waiting.

—

The power went out around midnight.

You were still awake, staring at your laptop as the screen dimmed and then flickered to black. The hum of electricity faded into silence, and the entire safehouse was plunged into that eerie stillness that only happened in government buildings—like something was holding its breath.

A quiet knock tapped at your door.

You knew who it was before you opened it.

Bucky stood in the hallway, shirtless still, his shoulder wrapped in the bandage you'd applied hours earlier. The power outage cast him in shadow, the faint amber light from the emergency generator flickering in his eyes.

"No comms. No surveillance," he said, voice low. "Valentina's blind."

You didn't speak—just stepped aside.

He walked in without hesitation, but not with the predatory confidence some people might expect of the Winter Soldier. This was different. Measured. Careful. Human.

The door clicked shut behind him.

"You okay?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded. "Can't sleep."

"Me either."

He looked around your room—spartan, temporary. Just a cot, a desk, a stack of folders. A single unmade bed.

"You shouldn't be alone tonight," he said. "Not after the mission."

"Neither should you."

The words hung there between you—vulnerable. Raw. Open.

Bucky moved first.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, then leaned back against the wall. You crossed the room slowly and sat beside him. The cot creaked under your combined weight.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word.

Then you laid your head on his good shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just let out a long, quiet breath, like something inside him finally unclenched.

"Tell me the truth," you murmured. "Why'd you really stay behind?"

He hesitated. "Because I didn't want you to be alone when the storm hit."

You closed your eyes. "I've been alone for a long time."

"So have I."

You turned to look at him—and suddenly he was closer than he had been. Close enough to see the scar at his temple. The years in his eyes. The softness he hid behind all that steel.

"I shouldn't feel this way about you," you whispered.

"I know," he said. "But I do."

His hand slid across the blanket and found yours.

Slow. Gentle. Asking.

You laced your fingers with his.

Then he kissed you.

Not rough. Not fast. Just honest. Like it wasn't the first time he'd wanted to, but the first time he let himself.

You pulled him in like a tide, all soft urgency and trembling restraint. You didn't ask for promises. You didn't talk about consequences. You didn't talk at all.

There was no time for slow metaphors or delicate metaphysics. Just breathless hands under fabric. Quiet gasps in the dark. Months of tension turned into fire beneath skin.

It wasn't perfect. It was too fast and not fast enough. But it was real.

When it was over, the room was quiet again. Your limbs tangled together in the half-light, sweat cooling against worn sheets. His arm wrapped around your waist, the vibranium hum softer now, somehow more human.

"I've never..." you started, but trailed off.

"I know," he whispered. "Me neither."

You fell asleep like that—pressed into his chest, wrapped in something that had no name, no place in your reports.

—

In the hallway, the backup camera light blinked red. Recording.

Somewhere, someone was watching.

And soon, someone would decide what to do about it.

—

Amaris’s notes:

More parts coming soon!

I’ve been writing a lot of Bucky fanfics over the past few months and finally have time to start sharing them with you all.

I hope you enjoy going on these journeys with Bucky as much as I do. 😊

Thank you so much for your amazing support!

#buckybarnes #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #winter soldier #the winter soldier #thunderbolts #sebastian stan #fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #the new avengers

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b1rds3ye · 2 years ago

Note

Hellooo‼️‼️I just stumbled in your blog and I saw the LED mask request thing and I suddenly have brainrot😭😭 it's such a idea idfk i just love it‼️‼️

ANYWAY🤯 reader comes back from a mission, solo or not! Is up to you :] and then they just have a bullet stuck in their mask. Just straight up a bullet stuck, very big cracks on their mask. It can still kind of work, only one side so when they see them reader simply waves while the other half of their LED mask just shows: ':D' as if there wasn't a bullet in their mask.

That's all! I hope you are having a good day, afternoon, or night‼️‼️make sure to stay hydrated because I'm a walking desert☺

THATS SUCH A BITTERSWEET IMAGE THOUGH, I LOVE YOUR BRAIN ANON!!

A part of the operation had to be done solo by you - it needed your specialised skill set and it was too risky sending others with you because stealth was crucial. You succeeded in distracting the enemy. That transmission was half an hour ago.

The 141 never leave their own behind, the extraction point is far enough from enemy territory that they can spare some time to wait for you. Price and Ghost are going through extra logistics, Soap is distracting himself by disassembling and reassembling gear and Gaz is just... watching. Watching for a sign that you are there. And soon enough, amongst the fog of dust kicked up by fallen buildings and bodies, is the silhouette of you. The faint LEDs emanate a light that refract off the dust, creating a halo-like glow where your head should be.

As you approach closer, it is silent. There are no light-hearted quips from you, just the audible crunch of your combat boots against the dry earth. If it weren't for your unmistakable stature and gait, the rest of the 141 would have thought it was an imposter who had stolen your mask.

Johnny only utters a quiet "Jesus..." as the details of your mask come into view. A bullet was now embedded in your mask where the side of your temple would be, a chilling reminder of the clutches of death you narrowly escaped from for now. It shone maliciously against your darkened mask that could only let out the occasional spark and whir of short circuiting.

Every few seconds, there would be a flicker of the LEDs working. It was hard to distinguish with the cracks that splayed across the mask like a web, all stemming from the bullet that had made itself at home millimeters away from your head. An eye was missing, that section of your mask completely disconnected from the software. Broken circuitry had the odd pixel flickering in a false positive in various colours before dying.

But despite the stakes, your mask was smiling.

"You broken?" Gaz asked tentatively.

You pause in comtemplation, perhaps the voice amplifier in your mask was fried or you're just too tired to speak - none of the 141 would blame you for either. Instead, you offer a thumbs up before trudging over to Ghost, his eyes trained on you. You rest your forehead against his shoulder and he responds with a slight grunt, but he surrenders to your tired antics. Tilting your head to the rest of the 141, your broken mask flits to a "z_z".

There's a pat on your back from John, both to comfort and to also make sure you don't fall asleep. His hand settles on your shoulder, strong and ready to haul you to the helicopter.

"Good to have you back, Sergeant. Let's get you - and your mask - patched up."

With some encouragement from Johnny and Kyle, you're coaxed to extraction. As you sit on the ride back on base, you bring a hand to probe the damage of the bullet. The metal is colder than death, so smooth it slipped from your grip like your own life had you conducted in the mission any differently. It seems the rest of the 141 knew exactly what you were thinking as your fingers traced every crack of your visor.

But before they can question you, you retract your hand and sit up straight. You're here and you're alive. Granted a little cracked, your soul a little more jaded than in the few hours prior, but for now the legend of the mask lives on.

Masked Reader Masterlist Call of Duty Masterlist

#cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod x you #task force 141 x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #anon mail ❤️#/*avery checks the mailbox*/#/*avery actually writes*/#/*cod x masked reader*/

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soulbrothershow · 2 months ago

Text

Nia Brown

Five years after the return of Foxy Brown

The city was on fire. Not just with flames—but with fury, frustration, and fear. The police cruisers that once patrolled the neighborhoods with the illusion of order were now the steel chariots of a syndicate gone rogue. They weren’t protecting. They were poisoning. Not with bullets alone, but with synthetic drugs—lethal, untraceable, and flooding the streets faster than hope could escape.

Nia Brown had seen it all. And five years after her godmother, the legendary Foxy Brown, rescued her from the clutches of a sex trafficking ring, Nia had grown into her own.

Now in her late twenties, she was a striking blend of grace and grit. Her hair coiled in a proud halo, her voice was velvet with a razor’s edge, and her fists—well, let’s just say they spoke fluent truth to power.

And tonight, power was about to get its ass whooped.

It began with blood.

Benny Jacobs, a beloved community activist known as “Uncle Benny,” was left for dead behind the Martin Luther King Jr. Community Center. His crime? Speaking out at a city council meeting about police corruption and overdoses in the projects.

When Nia saw him in the hospital—his face swollen, ribs shattered, and eyes full of hurt—something in her snapped.

“They beat him like a dog, Nia,” said Sister Carla, one of the elders. “And the mayor ain’t said a damn word. Not even a tweet.”

Nia clenched her jaw. “They think we soft. Think we gon’ beg for mercy that ain’t never comin’.” She looked out the window, her reflection merging with the city’s glow. “Well, it’s time they learn. We ain’t beggin’—we takin’ it.”

Back at her loft, Nia lit a stick of sage and dialed the one person who always knew what to do.

“Talk to me, baby girl,” came the smooth, steady voice of Foxy Brown over the speaker.

“They done crossed the line, Auntie,” Nia said. “They beat Uncle Benny within an inch of his life. And now kids droppin’ from this new dope they got out—call it ‘Blue Fire.’ Real sinister shit.”

Foxy was quiet for a moment. “You ready to step into that heat for real, Nia? This ain’t just survival. This is war.”

“I was born in the fire, Auntie,” Nia said. “Now I’m burnin’ back.”

“Then don’t go in half-cocked. You need people. You need eyes, muscle, brains. You build your circle. And when it’s time, you strike where it hurts the most.”

And so she did.

She rallied a crew the system forgot:

Tank – Ex-military, built like a freight train, had a grudge after his brother OD’d on Blue Fire.

Rico – A tech wiz who could hack the mayor’s email while eating Hot Cheetos.

Nikki Blaze – A former EMT turned street soldier, deadly with a Glock and a gospel hymn.

Preach – A spoken word poet who’d seen too many of his students fall victim to the drug wave.

They met in backrooms and barbershops, plotted in bodegas, and prayed in basements.

And when Nia showed them the blueprint—the stash houses, the dirty cops on payroll, the armored transport trucks—they all nodded.

“It’s time,” Tank said, cocking his shotgun.

The first hit was poetic.

A squad car known for extorting teens in South Central pulled up outside a corner store. Nia and Nikki were waiting. When the cops swaggered inside, the sisters went to work. They slashed the tires, planted a USB in the dash to steal bodycam data, and spray-painted “WE WATCHIN’ NOW” across the hood.

By the time the cops ran out, confused and enraged, Nia and Nikki were gone—ghosts in leather and attitude.

“Let the city feel our presence,” Nia said later. “We the new shadow they can’t outrun.”

But it wasn’t long before the shadow fought back.

Lt. Debbie Murdock—steel-eyed, cold-hearted, and the architect behind the entire police-drug operation—put a hit out on Nia’s crew. She was ex-SWAT and built like a blade in a holster. If the LAPD had a devil, her badge number was burned into its flesh.

She tapped her radio. “Bring me the Brown girl. Alive. I wanna see the fire die in her eyes myself.”

The war escalated fast.

An explosion rocked a narcotics depot Nia and Tank torched. A city hall rally turned into a firefight when plainclothes officers tried to snatch Preach offstage and found themselves overwhelmed by a sea of fists and fury.

Videos spread like wildfire. The people rose.

“THEY’RE TAKING OUR STREETS BACK!” screamed the headlines.

Then came the ambush.

A late-night meeting in a warehouse turned trap. Murdock’s men surrounded the place, guns drawn.

“COME OUT, BROWN! OR WE TURN THIS WHOLE BUILDING INTO ASH!”

Nia peeked from behind cover, breathing hard. “Y’all ready to make ‘em remember?”

Rico grinned, clutching his detonator. “Say the word, sis.”

Nia stepped out, bold and defiant.

“I’m right here, Murdock! And I’m still breathin’!”

Murdock emerged from the shadows. “Not for long.”

She charged. The crowd cleared.

It was Nia vs. Murdock—no guns, just fists and fire.

The fight was brutal. Murdock swung like a brute, but Nia moved with rhythm. She ducked, struck, elbowed, spun. Blood flew. Teeth cracked.

“You think this city belongs to you?” Nia growled, wiping blood from her mouth.

“It does,” Murdock hissed, lunging again.

Nia caught her fist, twisted it, and delivered a knee to the gut. Murdock doubled over.

“This city belongs to the people. And we done bein’ afraid.”

With a final roar, Nia flipped Murdock onto a stack of crates. The woman didn’t rise.

The police arrived. But not to arrest Nia. Something had changed.

The community had surrounded the warehouse. Hundreds deep. Cameras rolling. Ministers, students, grandmothers—all bearing witness.

The Chief of Police stepped forward.

“This ends tonight,” he said. “Lt. Murdock has been relieved. An investigation begins immediately.”

But Nia knew better. “Words mean nothing without action,” she said. “We’ll be watchin’. And if y’all fall short again—we comin’ back.”

Later, as dawn broke over the city, Nia stood on a rooftop, her team around her.

“You did it,” Nikki whispered.

“No,” Nia said, eyes scanning the skyline. “We did it. And this ain’t the end. This is just the beginning.”

Her phone buzzed. A text from Foxy:

Now that’s how you raise hell, baby girl. Welcome to the legacy.

THE END (for now)

“Sister Justice” rides again…

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sorentymn · 3 months ago

Text

The Istanbul incident.

A highly volatile piece of technology had been stolen from an MI6 courier. Suspected involvement with highly trained counterintelligence warrants the presence of 007 and the recently appointed Quartermaster himself.

───────────────────────────────

Content: Multi-chapters, 18+, mentions of violence and probably smut down the line. :p

A/N: I recently rewatched James Bond again, and the love I have for this ship is beyond unhealthy so here's a treat for fellow 00Q fanatics.

This is set sometime after Skyfall.

In which Bond has the fattest crush ever, honestly.

───────────────────────────────

←

CHAPTER II.

This was the handiwork of FSB agent Zhenya K., the very same operative responsible for a seismic leak at Interpol some years back, whose monitoring since has been a colossal effort.

Put up against the natural course of time, this leak's harrowing consequences faded in the minds of ever-changing MI6 staff. New terrors manifest every other day, and eventually, the big bad wolf of now fades into the topic of casual chit-chat at the coolers until it resurfaces to give everyone a great big headache.

"CCTV surveillance last recorded her around here." Q looked up briefly to point out a lavish townhouse, then returned to his laptop, his fingers working the keyboard like a manic pianist. When he was certain the earbuds were in working order, he passed them to Bond like spare change, his mind already migrated to something else in his mental checklist.

As Bond watched the young Quartermaster, a piece of information returned to him. Moneypenny had mentioned in passing that this was Q's first time operating in the field. If Q hadn’t been less verbal than usual, Bond would've never guessed. He'd followed the ritual without a hitch since they left the hotel.

It is one thing to remain tethered in an office miles away from danger, and then there is the real threat of physically being in it. To someone without years of exposure to direct violence, even the potential alone could be a heavy load. Bond couldn’t sympathise fully anymore, but he can remember the first kills.

As Bond was putting in his earbud, he rested his other hand gently on the younger man's shoulder, which caused him to stiffen more than he already was. Q looked up for the first time since they entered the car with a puzzled look and was met with something tender.

That ice-capped gaze that made most people scurry and hide was saying something gentle without a sound, and briefly, the men exchanged the faintest of smiles before they returned to reality.

Back to business.

As smoothly as breathing, Bond checked the cartridge, then smoothed the fabric of his dark long sleeves; a brief run of his fingers through his hair as the final count before he opened the door.

"Good luck, 007"

Bond paused for a beat, then nodded at the young man. He always found Q's finishing touch comforting.

Bond enters the house through the back door with a deceptively small and efficient decryption device courtesy of the Q branch. The lights were off, the only sign of life being a faint tune humming from upstairs as if it was luring him in. He couldn't detect a voice amongst the sombre jazz, no footsteps either, only running water and his sturdy heartbeat.

So he followed the melody up to the third floor, positioned, poised to shoot all the while thanking the homeowner's aesthetic choice of carpeted floors for his muffled steps.

When he was finally pressed up behind a wall separating the corridor and the only room with lights switched on, he heard a window being pulled open harshly. Shit.

Bond rounded the corner, narrowly avoiding a bullet, during the brief seconds Bond took to recenter, she slipped through the opening with the case in hand. It seemed something tipped her off, but he didn't have time to analyse his mistake. The hunt was on, and he leapt out of the window onto a neighbouring ledge, an uneven terracotta roof that shook with every rushed step.

The target is remarkably fast considering the weight she's carrying. He is now running at top speed, the adrenaline pulsing in his veins, silencing everything else around him as he steps out of her bullet path one after the other. Bond is now 007; all that he is condensed into one objective, and he’s willing to bet his mortality to win.

After some daring stunts and high-speed home invasions, his lungs were beginning to seriously burn, a harsh reminder of his limits. His bad knee started to creak, pressuring him to end the pursuit.

He managed to close in on her, but just as he reached out, one of the tiles slipped from its place, sending Bond careening off the roof. He clung onto the rain grate seconds before falling off the edge. With that same momentum, he directed the swing up to fire his Walther and luckily managed to put a hole right in the middle of her right leg, subduing her.

He found her clinging to the edge with one hand, the other gripping the handle of the case so tightly he could tell by the look in her eyes she was fighting whether to protect the case or her own life. At her creative string of profanities, Bond only looked on completely vacant, with a hand outstretched, beckoning for the case.

He continued to watch her inner turmoil play out on her features, making no move to ease her situation.

"The case." He waited and waited; he had no reason to press her as it seemed like she was edging towards an answer, but as she lifted the case to him, the sound of a gunshot broke the air, iron and wetness everywhere as Bond fell back against the roof. He could feel the wetness sprayed across his face.

Someone shot her off the edge, and along with her body, the case fell to the ground with a gnarly sound upon impact.

"Fuck!"

Q, who'd remained silent over the comms since Bond entered the house, finally spoke.

"007, it seems we've got company-"

"Yes, I noticed Q." Bond bit back harshly as he picked himself up, eyes locked on the motorbike that appeared from nowhere to retrieve the case from the former target's lifeless clutch before speeding off.

"Are you seeing this?"

"Yes, I'm tracking him now, he's headed towards a highway leading out of the city he must be headed towards the airstrip."

Q's voice remained still despite Bond's gnashing. With new intel, Bond rushed down the narrow alley and not so politely annexed a retro-looking bike from a teenage boy preoccupied with a group of girls who only gaped wordlessly in Bond’s direction as he sped off.

For the next tense minutes, Q expertly relayed shortcuts after another, which required sheer luck and being James Bond himself to execute. (This man's pension for borderline suicidal athleticism will never cease to amaze.) Finally, he managed to deliver Bond right behind the shooter, and now it's the battle of motor strength.

"007, get him, if you miss him at the next turn we might lose him."

"Very helpful, Q. Don't suppose you've got magic words to make this bloody thing go faster than a geriatric donkey." Bond caught a sigh from Q.

"That's not very nice"

"Well, do you?"

Bond somehow jokes in his bout of adrenaline madness, as he does, Bond dodges a collision that sends a car flying in a pirouette mid-air as they speed closer and closer towards a line of cement barricade that would effectively cut him and the target into separate tunnels.

"007, you grab that case and I'll do more than recite magic spells." Q barks in an attempt to alleviate the pressure in his chest, which means that, unlike his usually filtered self, the mildly suggestive nature of his outburst was lost on him until it was too late.

Bond despite being under the kind of pressure that would send any normal man into shock honest to god smirked and not that Q could see his face but somehow he was more than sure the agent was absolutely mocking him in that silence.

"Is that a promise?" Bond said this as he sped the poor bike to its maximum, then leapt off onto an adjacent car that was steadily speeding to make the tunnel just behind the target.

He put a bullet into the shooter's hind wheel, sending the bike sliding off the side of the road mere seconds before the shooter made the tunnel. Bond then jumped off, landing quite roughly on his bad shoulder, but was too hopped up on adrenaline to notice.

He found the target in a gruesome position, confirming he did not survive the crash.

"007 status report"

"Target eliminated, I've got the case"

"Is it damaged?"

"No"

"Good, excellent, well done, 007. We are on our way to you now."

════════════════════════════════════════════

They were driven outside of the city to a barren valley with no sign of civilisation. It was all rocky mounds with patches of green here and there, it looked apocalyptic and perhaps that's fitting for what they’re about to do.

The two men hurried to flat ground, Bond and Q dropped their respective rucksacks to the dirt and then swiftly began unpacking the items into separate groups.

Q made as many deductions as he could manage about the contents of the case and brought several sets of bomb diffusing kits tailored to various types of explosives. A separate set should it be a biological component and several decryption tools of his own making.

Beside Q is a vigilant James Bond. As the quartermaster got busy organising tools for the operation, he remained on his feet with a rifle sturdy in his hands. The clearing leaves them vulnerable, but it was the closest location to extract the contents without compromising on time.

Bond finally crouched when he could sense no threat but his eyes continued to sweep along the mounds. The extraction process frankly makes him nervous; the not being able to dictate the process is something he'll always have a hard time trusting. Q had never failed him throughout the few times they'd worked together, and he is undoubtedly one of the brightest minds currently living, but the threat of what's inside chafed at him regardless.

When Bond peered behind him, Q was finally starting the process. In the same way, he easily became the young man behind the moniker, Q switched on his genius to tackle the threat. His focus is singular, effectively erasing just about everything around him save for the screen embedded in the case.

Q reached for a box containing a cubic machine with several wires attached and began to plug it into the exposed sockets on the case. The screen in the case blinks to life displaying complex web pixels to which Q starts typing long numeral sequences attempting to untangle the abstract lock.

"Pandora, do be careful with that." Bond eager to assess the threat tried to draw out something from Q but his effort when wholly ignored.

Q’s rapid punching of numbers continued until eventually the screen lifted from its mechanism exposing a screwed lid, what Bond assumed is housing the chip powering the case’s elaborate lock mechanism. Q started to unscrew the impossibly tiny screws but as he did a beeping sound announced itself, this made the two men pale.

"Should I be saying my final words?" Bond joked again, but his face did not match the tone.

“If my little one here serves its purpose you might not have to" Bond frowned at this, noting the use of ‘might’

"Q, Is that you saying you're not sure?"

"Not unsure, just calibrating, the lock mechanism on this case is not something I’m familiar with" Too candid. Q delivered this in a cold, analytical, and uncaring tone, Bond’s inquiry more a nuisance than anything he could be bothered to explain in the face of this deadly puzzle.

"That's unsure" Q was determined to ignore this, but when Bond attempted to reach for his hand, Q swatted him away.

"Oh, for Christ's sake! No, Bond, calibrating means I'm still figuring the bloody thing out. Would you like to die arguing semantics, or would you like to not be vaporised? Let me do my fucking job!”

Loud and clear. Bond squinted at him, and it's remarkably communicative, not to casual acquaintances but to those who've been around him enough to see more than a smirk or his resting poker face. Experts would conclude: "You little shit"

"Yes, I much prefer the silent brooding." Despite the alarming beeps, the cubic toy, Q’s trump card, seemed to have finished its battle with the ominous pixels. It announced its task done with a beep and Q with clinical precision, unscrewed the lid to reveal sets upon sets of tiny wires connected to the central chip.

“Bond, I need your help” Bond assumed that the lack of beeping meant they were in the clear, but that was just the first layer because a countdown had started on the screen once again.

“Bond”, Q repeated. The agent quickly moved to the opposite end of the case, grabbing the equipment laid out and quickly familiarising them with his grip.

His heart rate felt prominent before, but now it’s hurling itself against his ribcage, fighting its way out of his chest. He could feel the wetness at the back of his shirt, and Q looked no less dishevelled.

"Alright, hold onto this wire", Bond complies, willing himself to do some meditative breathing only to make sure he is still in fact breathing. It won't do if his hands begin to shake.

"And?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking" Q was angling his wrist in different directions like he was choreographing the approach.

"This one here, Bond", Q points at one of the blue wires, and Bond cuts it swiftly, only for it to backfire. The two cocked their heads to the timer only to see it cut by half. They now have exactly 10 seconds to disable the bomb.

"Why is the timer down by half!" Bond roared.

"Fuck.." Q genuinely seemed stressed, and that was one of the most terrifying things to witness. His life is put completely at the Quartermaster’s will, and he’s being all too revealing.

"Which one do I cut!"

"...."

"Q!"

"Here the red one on three" The men's focus now clung to one another, They breathed in sequence 1...2...3...both wires were snipped, disabling the counter, and the screen that displayed their impending doom dimmed into nothing.

There were successions of clacking sounds, and then the contents were revealed to them. Three vials sit neatly in their casing, inside which is a clear liquid that seems harmless if not for the several layers of clear casing and a series of interlocking lids. Identification will have to be done at the headquarters' secure labs.

Q hurried to the task, reassembling the case back to its initial state, effectively lifting the thick sense of doom permeating between them both.

A gust of wind exited Q as he put his tongs down into the kit box, and Bond threw them away as if they were burning his hands. They were both so taken by the sheer relief of not being exploded to pieces that the contents of that case no longer mattered.

They were both panting, staring at one another wildly as their chemicals hijacked their central control. Nothing was processing, no signals were going in or out, only sensations.

If you asked Q, he would not be able to describe what happened in the seconds leading up to this. Bond seemed to lunge at him in slow motion with a look on his face like he was going to rip him in half, but it wasn't pain Q felt, no, he didn't get punched across the face for his life-threatening error.

He's now at this moment being kissed by James fucking Bond.

His eyes fluttered shut out of instinct and shock. He was stone still, and only after long seconds later did he notice Bond’s lips gliding against his own, and he was kissing him back without realising it.

It was a tangled mess, like all the stress translated into a heated momentum. Finally, shaking hands pushed at James’s chest, and Q stared at him wide-eyed, lips beet red, and his glasses lopsided.

"Bond wh-"

"Sorry- I" He looked no less puzzled, which is bizarre on Bond's usually unreadable face. Q could see Bond bare for a brief second before they went cold again. The agent turned away, suddenly packing up the tools scattered around them with a very telling efficiency.

As Bond ferociously packed, Q lagged slightly behind, starting on the kit closest to him, unable to process the situation. All things considered, Bond's intentions were not concealed despite the surprise; what bothered Q was that he wanted more. So far, he'd been denying any attraction to the man, deciding it's a surface-level appreciation considering the agent's appeal and, well, his own lack of sex life.

Do I want him?

Before Q could reach out to him, the agent got up from his spot on the ground, along with two rucksacks slung on one shoulder to avoid the one he landed on. He staggered a little as he rose and began to limp in the direction of the van without a single word.

The ride back to the hotel was in uncomfortable silence. Neither one of the men looked at the other as they quietly processed the events. This silence extended to their return flight that same evening, without so much as a look shared between the two men as they parted ways after a dispatch team retrieved the case from them at the airport.

═══════════════════════════════════════════

“Circe? That better not be you in the office!” Hearing no yowls in response to his call, Q sagged with the kind of exhaustion often seen on new mothers. The little witch in question had recently blossomed into an even more rambunctious teen, worse than she was as a kitten. Q is normally understanding to a fault, often spoiling Circe and Sybill the elder, but not today.

He’d had a particularly bad sleep, the source being the INCIDENT gnawing at him since it happened until now. So, there will be retribution for mugs knocked off tables this fine Saturday evening. And by retribution, he just means a particularly dirty stare at best.

He stared emptily at a piping hot tea in his hand and decided against thwarting Circe’s onslaught in his home office and made for the sofa where Sybilla, his eldest feline daughter, was curled up with a look of pure hatred at her father. “Your sister, your turn today, Sibi, now scoot.” That she did, but more so to get away from him rather than tend to her sisterly duties.

Q immediately fished for the remote somehow crammed beneath the slit in the sofa and flicked through the selections determined to settle on something as quickly as possible so he could ignore the gnawing bitterness in his chest.

Just when he was narrowing down on a sappy period drama, the doorbell sounded. Great. He reached for his phone and tapped on the surveillance app that connects all the cameras in and around his flat, ready to yell at a delivery man who did not deserve his temperament, but-

“Q, my darling!” Eve. Of course, it's Eve. He hesitated, wondering if he’d rather pretend to be asleep. In some way, he did expect this visit. The woman seems to have some mystical abilities, he’s concluded, despite being a firm man of science. The way she always seems to know exactly what to say or when to manifest cannot be explained by excellent spy craft and audacity alone.

This was his own doing, despite protocol which demands his presence at MI6 the minute he lands, he decided to take one out of Bond’s books and ignored his debrief meeting. He was too tired and too confused to pretend otherwise. So, seeing as the case got delivered safely, he dragged what was left of himself back into his flat and crashed face-first into deep sleep.

This, of course, tipped off his best friend, who no doubt waited very patiently for the past week to hear how it all went.

“Q I know you’re awake, If you pretend to be asleep and ignore me I will tell Mrs Copeland you’re feeling under the weather” This part she whispered into the microphone (hidden behind a wooden panel she should have no idea is there), Despite the volume, the effect is instantaneous Q is more than anything terrified to catch the lovely Mrs Copeland’s attention again.

There were several incidents he would very much not like repeated; his elderly neighbour simply would not leave him alone, and the minute Eve learned of this ammunition, she’d been exercising it too often for his liking.

Q groaned up at the ceiling and stomped his way to the door, and when he swung it open, there she was, dressed head to toe like she’d just walked off a runway. Q, however, is frowning at her behind his glasses that haven’t been wiped; he’s drowning in a large T-shirt that’s not his own, no doubt left by one of his one-night stands some century ago; oh, and his hair could rival Medusa’s.

“You look-” Eve did her best to look encouraging but that was the thing with Eve, despite her recent history as a field agent she would only pull up that mask when it was strictly business. Sometimes Q wished she’d extend the courtesy to their relationship, the woman is unrelentingly honest even if she pads them up nicely a lot of the time.

“Like I’ve been run over, yes, I know, are you coming in or not?”

“Alright, settle down this is supposed to be a lovely house call” She adjusts the shopping bags in her arms and makes her way inside sparing sickeningly sweet hellos to Q’s littlings that’ve come to the door.

“I heard the case made it back to the labs safe, no one got hurt, why are you…this-” She waved her hand at Q’s entirety as she settled the bag down on the table, and he had to stifle a bitter laugh.

“Did you come bearing gifts?”

Of course, she did bring something; she always did. Eve peeled away the shopping bags to reveal two bottles of his favourite Merlot, and that managed to brighten him up a bit. So they settled into his sofa, the TV show softly murmuring away as the two started with something rudimentary at first, office happenings he missed that week and eventually after the fourth glass they revisited the topic.

“You know, half the women on the top floor wanted to swap bodies with you”

“Why on earth would they want to be an ache-riddled scarecrow?” Q mused as he let himself sink further into the back cushion enough to almost fold his chin back into his chest, the wine glass atop the flat expanse of his chest.

“I imagine the idea of getting to be in the same room as Bond for a few nights sounds like heaven to them” Eve turned to him with a knowing look that said: Bliss to those who've never had the pleasure, the man is actually a menace even if he is undeniably sexy.

“It’s hardly h- wait, how did they know we shared a room?!” Q's voice spiked, animated by the alcohol.

“One of your minions got cornered”, she smirked.

“Fucking Brian”

“Yeah- fucking Brian” Eve grinned in a suspiciously fond way, he’ll have to pry that out of her later.

“Exactly how much did ‘fucking Brian’ let slip” Q downed the remaining wine in his glass then pushed himself upright aiming for the opened bottle his eyes still glued on her determined to get to the bottom of this.

“He might’ve gotten threatened into snooping on you on the first night” Q crinkled his nose initially unfazed, but then it dawned on him.

“Oh-”

“So what was that late-night riverside stroll about, Q?”

“It’s not what you think it is” That sounded more believable in his head.

“Says every single person who’s about to lie” Eve is suddenly closer now, like she wasn't going to let the truth escape. Later, he will blame the wine, but Q relented.

“Listen, alright, yes, we did go for a walk. They were pulling the records, and we couldn’t work till then, and you know Bond being well, Bond”

“He wanted a drink”

“Yes, he wanted a drink"

“So you two went for a ‘walk’ and drinks," she squints.

“....” Oh, Eve, you bloody witch.

“It’s sounding a little like a date, sweetheart”

“I could go for a walk and drinks with you, I don’t know why you’re making this a thing”, he waved dismissively, suddenly interested in his very mundane glass.

“Yeah- well, I don’t happen to be someone you eat up with your eyes every time he appears” At this, Q frowned, defensive.

“That's silly, I don’t do that”

“You absolutely do”

“You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Think you’d be bored of me otherwise” They stared at one another challengingly but then they broke into a short fit of laughter at that sweet admission but no this did not erase the secret he's hiding. This is only an intermission.

After a knowing silence, Q cleared his throat.

“Oh fuck it-” He took a large gulp of the wine.

“....”

“Bond kissed me”

“WHAT!” He only nodded quietly at her explosive reaction.

“Are you joking?” He shook his head.

“Ok, so you’re not joking, how?”

“I don’t know, adrenaline?"

“I did not expect a nuke when I came through the door, this is too good”

“I’m glad this is amusing to you?"

"What is this reaction? This is exciting and sexy. Why do you look disturbed?" Eve is so close to him that their laps are almost stacked.

"I don't know, he looked disturbed by it. I know he kissed me, but why was that his reaction?"

Eve's head tilted, not following.

"He looked shocked and didn't speak to me the rest of the way back. I know rejection when I see it, but this is something else?"

"Alright, we're going on a mission"

"What- to unravel what that was?"

"Yes, I refuse to let this gnaw at you until you get over it"

"Oh—I mean," Q's glassy gaze trailed off into the distance. Eve is exactly right. He's not insecure about most things, but he is very much human, and rejection of him rather than his work often lingers way longer than it should.

He felt the warmth of Eve's hand atop his own, and when he turned to her, she already had an air about her like she was ready to hunt, and that was disturbingly comforting.

"Shall we open that third bottle?" Q asked, despite himself.

"Yes, yes, yes!"

#00q #00q fic #007 #james bond #fanfic #m/m romance

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shiorihyugawrites · 4 months ago

Text

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)

Chapter Twenty Three

The next few days at Scout HQ were intense. The squad trained harder than ever, Selena and Levi pushing them past their limits, sharpening their skills, and forcing them to be smarter, faster, and more efficient. Levi drilled them on discipline and precision, while Selena focused on their unpredictability, teaching them how to think like an assassin rather than a soldier.

Meanwhile, the fortifications around HQ were doubled. Erwin had increased patrols, new rotations were in place, and security was at an all-time high. They all knew something was coming, and no one wanted to be caught off guard. Hange, for all her curiosity, was just as determined, working tirelessly with Selena to figure out the most pressing question—why had Marley been smuggling weapons into Paradis?

The two stolen firearms from the smuggling operation sat on the table in the command room, Selena sitting cross-legged on the table itself, one of the weapons resting on her lap. Her fingers traced the smooth, polished surface of the barrel, her expression unreadable as she inspected it carefully.

“These aren’t standard Marleyan issue,” she murmured, turning it over in her hands.

Hange, who had been furiously scribbling notes, perked up. “How so?”

Selena exhaled sharply through her nose, tapping her fingers against the metal. “They look similar, but the craftsmanship is different. These were built for a different purpose.”

Levi, who was standing off to the side with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow. “And what purpose is that?”

Selena clicked a switch on the side of the weapon, pulling back the bolt and tilting the barrel so that they could see the loading mechanism. “This isn’t just a gun. It’s an automatic firearm.”

The room went silent.

Erwin frowned slightly. “Explain.”

Selena sighed and shook her head. “You guys don’t have anything like this here, so I’m not surprised you don’t recognize it. Your guns are single-shot, meaning you have to reload after every bullet. This?” She tapped the side of the weapon. “This can fire multiple rounds in rapid succession without needing to reload right away.”

Hange leaned forward, eyes wide with fascination. “How fast?”

Selena shrugged. “Depends on the model, but if this is anything like the ones I’ve seen before, we’re talking dozens of bullets in a matter of seconds.”

Jean, who had been leaning against the doorway listening, stiffened. “Wait… so you’re saying that thing can fire off dozens of shots without stopping?”

Selena nodded grimly. “Exactly. One person with this could take out an entire squad before they even got close.”

Mikasa’s expression darkened. “And Marley was smuggling them into Paradis.”

Erwin’s jaw tightened. “Which means they were planning on using them against us.”

The weight of that realization settled over the room like a heavy fog. Paradis had spent years dealing with the threat of Titans, training to fight them, perfecting their ODM skills to outmaneuver them. But this? This was an entirely different type of warfare—one that no one here had ever encountered before.

Selena exhaled slowly, setting the gun back on the table. “These are meant for mass slaughter. Whoever was planning to receive these wasn’t just looking to arm themselves—they were preparing for a massacre.”

Armin, who had been quiet up until this point, swallowed hard. “But who? Us? The Military Police? The nobles? Someone in Wall Sina?”

Levi shook his head. “It doesn’t matter who. What matters is stopping it before it happens.”

Hange hummed thoughtfully, tapping their chin. “You said this isn’t Marley’s standard issue… then who made them?”

Selena’s lips pressed together. “That’s what I’d like to know. It could be one of Marley’s internal weapon manufacturers. But if these were meant to be a secret, it’s possible they were made by an independent contractor.”

Erwin steepled his fingers together, deep in thought. “Which means there could be more shipments we don’t know about.”

Selena nodded. “Exactly. We destroyed one, but there could be others already here.”

Jean looked between them. “So what’s the plan? We sit around waiting for these things to start popping up, or we do something about it?”

Erwin’s sharp blue eyes flickered toward Levi and Selena. “We find out where they’re coming from, and we cut it off at the source.”

Levi nodded in agreement. “We need to track down where these shipments are being made and who’s behind them.”

Hange’s excitement bubbled over. “And we need to take these apart and figure out how they work!”

Selena smirked. “Of course you do.”

Erwin turned to Levi. “You and Selena will lead the investigation. If anyone knows how to track people like this, it’s her.”

Selena stretched her arms above her head. “Well, well, looks like you’re stuck with me again, Capitán.”

Levi scowled. “Tch.”

Selena grinned. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Jean groaned. “Can you two flirt later? We’re dealing with something kind of important here.”

Selena winked at him. “Multitasking, Jean.”

Erwin sighed. “Enough. We move quickly. If Kwasi is involved in this, then he has more information than we do. We can’t let him get ahead of us.”

Levi crossed his arms. “If that bastard Kwasi is involved, then he’s got more information than just where these weapons were headed. He was always high in the ranks. If we can find him before he makes his move, we might be able to get ahead of this.”

Selena exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. “That’s easier said than done. He doesn’t make mistakes often, and if he’s already here, that means he’s set up somewhere safe, somewhere secure. He’ll be watching us, waiting for the right moment to strike.”

Hange sighed dramatically and leaned back in their chair. “Well, isn’t that just wonderful? A walking nightmare with near superhuman strength, waiting in the shadows, possibly armed with experimental weapons, and we have no idea where he is or what he’s planning.”

Selena smirked. “Pretty much.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “You sound too happy about this.”

Selena shrugged, stretching her arms behind her head. “What can I say? The thrill of the hunt, Capitán.”

Levi grunted in response, his gaze flickering to the guns again.

Erwin, ever the strategist, straightened his posture. “We need to test these weapons. If we don’t understand how they work, we won’t stand a chance if they’re used against us.”

Selena sat up properly, nodding. “Agreed. I can take one of them out for testing. I already have an idea of what we need to look for.”

Levi shot her a look. “We’re testing them together. You’re not going anywhere alone.”

Selena grinned, enjoying his protective streak. “Are you worried about me, Levi?”

Levi scowled. “I’m worried about you doing something reckless.”

Selena laughed. “Same thing.”

Hange, despite the seriousness of the situation, was watching the two of them with a barely concealed grin, jotting something down in their notes.

Erwin, however, ignored their antics, his expression unreadable as he observed the dynamic between them. He knew Levi was invested, far more than he was letting on. And while having such a strong bond between two of their most dangerous fighters could be an asset, it was also a liability.

If Kwasi knew about this, he would use it.

And knowing Marley’s methods, they would do anything to exploit weaknesses.

Erwin leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. “We’ll proceed carefully. The next move we make has to count. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

Selena gave him a small smile. “Don’t worry, Commander. I don’t make mistakes.”

Levi scoffed. “Says the woman who fell into a pit when we caught her.”

Selena’s smile widened. “That was an unfortunate accident.”

Erwin sighed, already feeling a headache forming. “Just don’t do anything that gets you killed.”

Selena stood up and stretched, cracking her neck. “Don’t worry. If anyone’s dying, it’s going to be the people who deserve it.”

Levi said nothing, but he didn’t need to. He was already watching her too closely, his mind working through every possible scenario. If Selena thought she was going to take this fight on alone, she was sorely mistaken.

Hummingbird was already here. Salamander was in play. And Marley’s weapons were making their way into Paradis.

This war was coming.

And they would be ready.

…

That night, it was quiet, the air crisp and still, a stark contrast to the tension that had hung thick in the air earlier that day. The scouts were spread throughout HQ, some sleeping, some keeping watch, but none of them were truly at ease. Not with what they had learned about Marley’s weapons, not with the threat of Kwasi and Aoi looming over them.

Levi sat outside, perched on a wooden crate near the entrance, his cup of black tea held firmly between his fingers. The warmth of the tea seeped into his hands, grounding him, keeping him steady. It was a ritual he had done for years, something constant amid the chaos. The steam curled in the cold air, and Levi took a slow sip, allowing the bitterness to settle on his tongue. He welcomed it.

Footsteps approached, light and deliberate. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Selena.

She always moved like a cat—silent, predatory, and confident. But tonight, there was no teasing remark when she approached, no flirtatious greeting. Instead, she merely plopped down next to him on the crate, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. For a moment, she simply sat there, watching the flickering fire in front of them.

Then, without warning, she snatched the cup from his hand.

Levi barely blinked as she took a generous sip—before immediately gagging, scrunching her face in pure disgust. She spat the liquid out onto the ground, coughing and dramatically wiping at her tongue.

“Ugh! Levi, what the hell is this?” she choked, staring at the cup in horror. “Is this tar? Dirt? Did you just squeeze a tree branch into a cup and call it tea?”

Levi sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s tea, dumbass.”

“This isn’t tea. This is suffering in a cup,” Selena argued, setting the cup down as if it personally offended her. “How do you drink this?”

Levi rolled his eyes. “I like it black.”

Selena shook her head, still grimacing. “There’s something wrong with you, Capitán.”

Levi exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself. “Tch. You just have the taste buds of a damn child.”

“Or maybe you have the taste buds of a psychopath.” Selena leaned back, propping herself up on her hands. “Seriously, why do you drink that garbage?”

For a moment, Levi was quiet, his gaze fixed ahead. Then, without really thinking, he muttered, “Because it reminds me of my mother.”

Selena’s teasing demeanor faded in an instant.

Levi rarely spoke about himself. He was a closed book, sealed shut with steel locks, but in that moment, he had unknowingly cracked it open. Selena, to her credit, didn’t immediately pounce on it with her usual playful banter. Instead, she sat up properly, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“Your mother?” she repeated, softer this time.

Levi stared into the darkness, his jaw tightening slightly before he sighed. “Yeah. She used to drink tea. It wasn’t much, and it was cheap—tasted awful, to be honest. But it was one of the few nice things she had.”

Selena remained quiet, allowing him to speak at his own pace.

Levi’s fingers curled slightly. “She worked in a brothel. The Underground didn’t have much to offer, and people like us didn’t get choices. But she always made sure I had what little she could give.”

Selena’s chest tightened at the way he spoke—so emotionless, so matter-of-fact. But there was something beneath it, something deep and old, like a wound long scarred over but never fully healed.

“I’m guessing this Underground place was bad,” she murmured.

Levi huffed a humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it. It was a hellhole. No sunlight, no clean water, just endless filth. If you weren’t strong, you died. Simple as that.”

Selena frowned. She knew cruelty. She had lived it, breathed it, but the way Levi described the Underground, it sounded like something worse than Marley’s assassin program. At least Marley had given them food, shelter, purpose. But this? It sounded like pure, unrelenting survival.

“What happened to her?” she asked quietly.

Levi was silent for a moment. Then, with a cold finality, he said, “She got sick. Died in our bed.”

Selena sucked in a breath.

Levi didn’t elaborate further, and he didn’t need to. The weight of his words settled between them, heavy and unmovable.

She had never really considered where Levi had come from before. He was Captain Levi, Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, the unshakable force of the Scouts. But now, she was seeing something else—something beneath the layers of stoicism and sharp edges.

A boy who had grown up in the dark, forced to be strong because weakness meant death. A son who had lost his mother to a world that never gave a damn about them.

Selena swallowed, then hesitated before saying, “I… I didn’t know.”

Levi shrugged. “Not exactly something I talk about.”

Selena studied him for a moment. “So, let me guess… you drink that awful tea to remember her?”

Levi gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Selena exhaled, shaking her head with a small smirk. “That’s kinda sweet. Terrible taste, but sweet.”

Levi scoffed. “Don’t get used to it.”

A comfortable silence stretched between them. Selena tapped her fingers against the crate, her mind still reeling from what Levi had just told her. He had let her in—just a little, just enough for her to see another piece of him.

Selena understood pain. She understood loss, loneliness, and the need to hold onto something, even if it was something as simple as a cup of bitter tea.

She reached out, nudging his arm with her elbow. “For what it’s worth, I think your mother would be proud of you.”

Levi blinked, his expression unreadable. “Why?”

Selena smirked. “Because you’re not as much of an asshole as you pretend to be.”

Levi rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “You ruin every moment, you know that?”

“It’s a gift.” Selena winked.

Levi sighed, rubbing his temple, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he reached over, taking his cup back from where she had abandoned it. He took another sip, the bitterness grounding him, steadying him.

The air between them remained still, the cool breeze carrying the distant hum of crickets. Levi continued to sip at his tea and this time, Selena didn’t protest. She just sat there beside him, her presence oddly comforting. Neither of them were the kind to talk about their pasts—Levi especially—but tonight felt different.

Maybe it was because he had already told her something personal. Or maybe it was because the weight of everything—the war, the missions, the looming threats—made the past feel less like a wound and more like a distant echo.

Selena let out a slow breath, watching the stars. Her fingers drummed absentmindedly against her thigh before she finally spoke.

"I wasn’t born in Marley, you know," she said quietly.

Levi didn’t react immediately, but she could tell she had his attention. His gaze remained forward, his posture relaxed, but he was listening.

“My home… before Marley took me,” she continued, “was a country called Aztlan.”

Levi arched a brow. “Never heard of it.”

“Of course, you haven’t,” Selena chuckled bitterly. “It’s across the sea, far south of Marley. Aztlan is—was—a beautiful place. Tropical, colorful, loud.” She gestured with her hands, as if trying to capture the essence of it. “The cities were full of music, street markets, people dancing in the plazas. And the food—Dios mío, the food. The spices, the flavors… nothing in Marley ever came close.”

Levi listened in silence. He could hear the wistfulness in her voice, the way she spoke about her homeland as if she had lost something precious. And in a way, she had.

“I don’t remember everything,” she admitted, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I was only five when I was taken. But I do remember my mother.”

Levi’s grip on his cup tightened slightly.

“She was beautiful,” Selena said, a small smile ghosting her lips. “Long hair, and it was curly like mine, always a red flower tucked behind her ear. She smelled like vanilla and citrus. I used to think she was the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Levi remained quiet, but she could sense the way he absorbed her words.

“But she was also…” Selena’s voice trailed off for a moment, as if she were searching for the right words. “She was sick. Not in a way you could see, but in a way that made her… different.”

Levi understood immediately.

“She was an addict.”

Selena nodded, a hollow chuckle escaping her lips. “Powder. Pills. Needles… whatever she could get her hands on. I didn’t understand it then, of course. To me, she was just Mama. She was all I had.”

She stared ahead, eyes unfocused, lost in memories that had long haunted her.

“But she had good days,” she said softly. “There were times when she’d sing to me while brushing my hair. Times when we’d dance barefoot in our tiny apartment, just the two of us. And one time…” Her expression softened, as if she were looking at something only she could see. “She took me to a ballet.”

Levi turned his head slightly, watching her.

“She had saved up for weeks—well, I assume she did, I don’t know how else she got the money,” Selena mused. “She dressed me in my nicest dress, did my hair in a little bun, and we went to the theater. It was the first time I had ever seen anything so grand. The chandeliers, the red velvet curtains, the way the light hit the stage. And then, the dancers…”

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply.

“They were like angels,” she whispered. “Their movements were so graceful, so effortless. I remember being completely mesmerized. The way they twirled, the way their feet barely touched the floor—it was like they were floating.”

Levi could hear the raw emotion in her voice.

“That night, I told my mother I wanted to be a ballerina when I grew up,” she admitted with a soft chuckle. “She laughed, said I was too clumsy. But I didn’t care. That was the happiest I had ever been.”

Her fingers traced the dirt absently. “That memory… it’s the reason I created my two techniques, ‘The Waltz of the Flowers’ and ‘The Dance of the Sugar Fairy.’ Every time I fight, I move the way those dancers did. Light, fluid, untouchable. I wanted to capture that beauty, that grace.”

Levi hadn’t expected that. He had seen her fight. He had seen how precise, how calculated her movements were. And now, knowing that they stemmed from something so… innocent, something so pure, it was almost unsettling. It made her past even more tragic.

“But that dream didn’t last long,” Selena said, her voice hardening.

Levi didn’t ask, but he knew what was coming.

“After the show, my mother took me into an alley behind the theatre,” she continued. “We waited for about an hour.” Her hands clenched. “And then a stranger showed up.”

Levi’s jaw tightened.

“It was a man. He was rich, well-dressed. He reeked of alcohol.” Selena’s voice was detached, almost hollow. “I didn’t understand what was happening at first. But then she hugged me and said I needed to listen.”

She inhaled sharply, as if bracing herself.

“She sold me to him,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “For forty-five dollars.”

Levi’s eyes snapped to her, sharp and unreadable.

“She didn’t even look at me after she handed me over,” Selena said, her voice laced with quiet anger. “Just told me to ‘be good’ took the money from his hand and left. That was the last time I ever saw her.”

Silence stretched between them.

Levi didn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good at comforting people, and he knew that words couldn’t undo what had happened to her. But damn it, he wanted to say something.

Selena let out a slow breath. “I don’t know if she’s alive,” she admitted. “And honestly? I don’t know if I want to know. Because if she is… I just have one question for her.” She turned her gaze toward Levi, her green eyes burning with something unreadable.

“Was that really all I was worth?” she asked. “Just forty-five dollars?”

Levi clenched his jaw.

He had seen a lot of cruelty in his life. He had grown up in filth, seen the worst of humanity. But this—this was a different kind of cruelty. A mother selling her own daughter like livestock.

He swallowed the lump in his throat before finally speaking.

“She was a fool,” he said simply.

Selena blinked, slightly surprised.

“You were worth a hell of a lot more than that,” Levi continued, his tone firm. “You still are.”

Selena stared at him, searching his face. There was no pity in his expression, no forced sympathy. Just quiet, unwavering conviction.

For some reason, that made her chest tighten.

She forced a smirk, but it was weaker than usual. “Look at you, Capitán,” she murmured. “Almost saying something sweet.”

Levi rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue.

Selena leaned back against the crate, exhaling. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softer this time.

Levi didn’t respond. He just sat there, his presence steady, solid.

The silence between them stretched, heavy yet oddly comfortable. The fire crackled softly nearby, casting long shadows across their faces. The weight of their pasts hanging in the air like a storm cloud neither of them could escape.

For all their differences, for all their bickering and teasing, at their core, they were the same. Both of them had been forged in fire, shaped by a world that never offered them kindness, only struggle and suffering.

Levi had fought tooth and nail just to survive the Underground, to crawl his way out of that filth and make something of himself. He had lost everything—his mother, his home, his family. And then he found a new one, only to lose them too.

Selena had been ripped from her home, sold like cattle, forced into a life of bloodshed before she even had a chance to be a child. Her life had been dictated by others—Marley, the assassins, men who thought they could own her. But she had survived, defied every expectation, clawed her way to the top.

They had both been used, both been betrayed, both lost more than they could ever put into words.

And yet, here they were.

Levi glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She had fallen silent, staring into the fire, lost in thought. She wasn’t wearing that usual playful smirk, the one she always used as armor. No, this was different.

“You’re thinking too much,” he muttered.

Selena let out a breathy laugh. “Can’t help it, Capitán. Happens sometimes.”

Levi shook his head, taking another sip of his tea. “Tch. Never would’ve guessed.”

She nudged his leg with her foot. “Rude.”

They lapsed into another silence, but this time, it wasn’t heavy. It was just there, existing between them, natural and unforced.

“You ever think about what could’ve been?” Selena finally asked, her voice quieter now.

Levi looked at her. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her head, gazing at the stars. “If things had been different. If I never got taken from my home. If your mother never died. If we never had to fight just to exist.” She sighed. “You ever wonder what kind of life you would’ve had?”

Levi considered the question. He had never really allowed himself to think about it before. There was no point in wondering about something that could never be. But now…

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe I would’ve just been some nobody in the Underground. Maybe I’d still be stealing to survive.”

Selena hummed. “And maybe I would’ve been a dancer,” she said, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. “Or maybe I would’ve worked in some market stall, selling fruits or trinkets.”

Levi smirked slightly. “Can’t picture that.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They sat in silence again, but this time, something had shifted. There was a quiet understanding between them now, something unspoken but undeniable.

“You know,” Selena murmured, “we’re not so different, you and I.”

Levi exhaled. “I noticed.”

She turned to him, her green eyes glinting in the firelight. “And?”

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “And it explains a lot.”

Selena grinned. “You like me, Capitán. Admit it.”

Levi scoffed, looking away. “Shut up.”

But Selena saw the way the corners of his mouth twitched, the way his eyes softened just a fraction.

She didn’t push it.

Instead, she just sat there with him, two warriors, two survivors, bound by a past they could never change and a future they weren’t sure they had.

Selena leaned back on her hands, tilting her head as she studied Levi. The firelight flickered across his face, illuminating the sharp angles of his jaw and the perpetual scowl that seemed etched into his features.

She had seen many men in her life—powerful men, weak men, dangerous men—but none of them were quite like him. Levi Ackerman was an enigma, a mystery she couldn’t quite solve, and she found herself wanting to crack him open just to see what was inside.

A wicked grin stretched across her lips. “You know, Capitán, I’ve been wondering about something.”

Levi sighed, already sensing that whatever came out of her mouth next was going to be annoying. “Don’t.”

“Oh, but I must.” She sat up, turning to him fully. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

Levi didn’t even look at her. “This conversation is over.”

Selena gasped, dramatically clutching her chest. “So secretive! That means no, doesn’t it?”

Levi rubbed his temples. “Shut up, you annoying stray cat.”

Selena scooted closer, completely ignoring his warning. “Come on, you have to tell me. A man as strong, as skilled, as—” she dragged her fingers down his arm, feeling the hard muscle beneath his jacket “—as incredibly built as you must have had women throwing themselves at you.”

Levi tensed under her touch, his entire body rigid. He grabbed her wrist and removed her hand from his arm. “Stop.”

Selena narrowed her eyes. “That’s a no, isn’t it?”

Levi said nothing.

A slow smirk curved her lips. “Oh, my God.”

Levi scowled. “Don’t.”

She pointed a finger at him. “You’ve never had a girlfriend before.”

Levi grunted, crossing his arms. “It’s none of your damn business.”

Selena was grinning now, absolutely delighted. “That means you’ve never been with a woman before, either.”

Levi’s eye twitched. “I swear to God, Selena—”

“Oh, this is too good.” Selena practically purred as she shifted even closer to him, her voice teasing, taunting. “My dear Capitán, are you a virgin?”

Levi’s nostrils flared, and she saw the faintest hint of color rise to his ears.

Selena gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her mouth. “You are, aren’t you?”

Levi shot her a murderous glare. “Shut up.”

But it was too late. Selena was having the time of her life. “No wonder you’re so grumpy all the time! You’re all pent up.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, I could help with that.”

Levi exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience wearing thinner by the second. “I’m this close to throwing you into the fire.”

Selena cackled, clearly enjoying his misery. “I’d like to see you try.”

Levi didn’t dignify her with a response. He just picked up his teacup, took a slow sip, and stared into the fire, trying to will himself into a state of peace.

Selena, however, wasn’t done.

“Seriously, though,” she mused, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. “You’ve never been curious? Not even once?”

Levi sighed. He knew she wouldn’t let this go until she got some kind of answer. “I’ve had more important things to do than chase after women.”

Selena raised an eyebrow. “Like what? Killing titans? Wiping tables? Folding cravats?”

Levi glared at her. “Keeping idiots like you alive.”

Selena smirked. “You’re deflecting.”

Levi pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for patience. “I grew up in the Underground,” he finally said, his voice flat. “Had to fight to survive. Then I joined the Scouts. Had to fight to survive some more. Didn’t exactly have time for romance.”

Selena tilted her head. “No one ever caught your eye?”

Levi hesitated. He had respected a few women in his life. But he had never allowed himself to think about them in that way. Love was a weakness, a distraction, and distractions got people killed.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said simply. “It’s not important.”

Selena hummed thoughtfully. “I think it is.”

Levi shot her a look. “Why?”

She shrugged, a lazy smile playing on her lips. “Because it means you’ve never been kissed before.”

Levi’s jaw locked. “I have.”

Selena blinked, surprised. “Oh?”

Levi’s glare intensified. “You did it, remember?”

Selena’s eyes widened before a slow grin stretched across her face. “Oh, Capitán,” she purred, leaning in closer. “You mean to tell me your first kiss was with me?”

Levi didn’t answer, which was all the confirmation she needed.

Selena sat in stunned silence, the realization hitting her like a bolt of lightning. “Levi. Was that really your first kiss?”

Levi’s brow twitched. He set his teacup down with an audible clink. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

Selena slapped a hand over her mouth. “I stole your first kiss!?”

Levi crossed his arms and leaned back, looking away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Selena gasped even louder, placing both hands on her cheeks. “Oh my God, Levi! I stole your first kiss! You’re—” she dramatically collapsed off the crate, shaking her head. “You’re ruined.”

Levi scowled. “Shut up.”

Selena peeked at him through her fingers. “No, but seriously, I kinda feel bad now.”

Levi arched an eyebrow. “You feel bad?”

Selena nodded. “Yeah. A first kiss is supposed to be special. And I just—” she made a vague motion with her hands, mimicking her past actions. “—swooped in, planted one on you, and dipped.”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”

Selena tilted her head, studying him. “But it does.”

Levi gave her a deadpan look. “Why?”

Selena grinned. “Because I’m going to make it up to you.”

Levi stiffened. “What?”

She sat back on the crate and scooted closer, her voice dropping into something softer, more teasing. “That first kiss didn’t count. It was stolen, done in the middle of battle. Hardly romantic.”

Levi stared at her warily. “So?”

Selena leaned forward slightly, her fingers trailing lightly along the grass between them. “So, don’t you think you deserve a real first kiss? A proper one?”

Levi swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “No.”

Selena chuckled. “Liar.”

Levi shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “You need to go to bed, Selena.”

Selena ignored him. “Come on, I’ll make it good. Something to remember. A kiss actually worth calling your first.”

Levi’s face was unreadable, but the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched, told her she was getting under his skin.

She leaned in, just a little. Their faces were close now, close enough that Levi could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips.

For a second, just a second, his eyes flickered to her lips.

Selena saw it.

Her smirk grew. “I can show you how it’s really supposed to feel,” she whispered.

Levi went rigid. His ears were turning red, and he hated it. He hated how his body betrayed him around her, how she got under his skin without even trying.

Selena’s voice was a purr now. “You just have to say yes.”

Levi inhaled deeply through his nose. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “You’re out of order.”

Selena grinned. “That’s not a no.”

Levi exhaled sharply, tilting his head back, staring at the sky as if praying for patience.

Selena leaned in just a little more, their lips nearly brushing.

Levi’s breath hitched.

Selena smirked. “Are you blushing, Capitán?”

Levi shot up so fast it startled her. He turned his back to her, stalking toward the firepit.

“Stop playing your games,” he gritted out, his voice dangerously low.

Selena chuckled, watching him go, her arms crossed over her chest.

She didn’t get her kiss.

But oh, she knew it was only a matter of time.

His ears, the tips of them burning crimson, stood out starkly against his usual pale complexion. She had him. She had definitely rattled him.

But…

She tilted her head, observing the way his shoulders were unusually stiff, the way his fingers curled and uncurled as if he was grappling with something internal. He wasn’t just annoyed. He was affected.

Selena chuckled to herself but decided, for once, to back off.

Levi needed space, that much was clear. He was already so tightly wound, and she had just yanked at his strings hard enough to make him snap.

It was adorable.

Still, she figured pushing him any further right now would be too much, so she leaned back against the crate, arms folding behind her head.

She’d let him breathe… for now.

Levi, meanwhile, was furious. Not at her—well, yes, partly at her—but mostly at himself.

Why didn’t he just push her away? Why didn’t he immediately shut her down like he always did? Why had he just… sat there, letting her lean in closer and closer until the warmth of her breath tickled his lips?

Why had his heartbeat picked up?

Levi inhaled sharply, pressing a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t happening.

He wasn’t feeling things. He wasn’t reacting. He was in control. He was always in control.

Except… he hadn’t been.

Because for a second—just a split second—he’d wanted it.

His lips parted slightly, his throat dry as the realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

He had wanted to kiss her.

Not because it would be his first real kiss. Not because she was teasing him. But because, for some reason, in that moment, he had wanted her.

Levi clenched his fists.

He hated that.

He hated that she got under his skin, that she had wormed her way into his thoughts like a disease he couldn’t cure.

She was a menace.

A cocky, seductive, aggravating menace who made his already stressful life infinitely more frustrating.

Levi let out a slow exhale, turning his back to the fire and sitting down with a huff.

Selena didn’t say anything else.

No more teasing, no more flirting.

And for some reason, that bothered him too.

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at the strands.

Get it together, Levi.

He forced himself to shift his thoughts, focus on the upcoming battle, on the looming threat of Salamander and Hummingbird.

But it was no use.

No matter how much he tried to will his mind elsewhere, it kept circling back to her.

To her infuriating smirk.

To her voice, that damn purr she used whenever she was messing with him.

To her lips, hovering just over his.

Levi’s jaw clenched.

He hated this.

And what was worse?

He knew this wasn’t the last time it was going to happen.

Selena tilted her head, watching Levi with that same sly, knowing grin, but there was something softer beneath it this time—something real.

She could see the way he was struggling. The way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, how his jaw clenched and unclenched like he was forcing himself not to look at her.

It was cute.

So damn cute.

And she wasn’t one to dance around how she felt.

“I’ll back off for now, Capitán,” she purred, her voice still laced with amusement, but her words were sincere. “But don’t get it twisted.” She leaned forward slightly, just enough for him to feel the weight of her words. “I don’t just want to kiss you to tease you.”

Levi tensed.

She smirked.

“I want to kiss you because I want to.”

Levi’s breath hitched.

“And because I want you.”

The crackle of the fire between them filled the silence.

For once, Selena didn’t laugh or smirk at his reaction. She let her words settle in, watching the way his expression shifted from slightly irritated to entirely flustered.

She had never seen him like this before.

Levi Ackerman, Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, looking like a deer caught in torchlight.

For a man who had commanded entire battalions, who killed without hesitation, who stood unshaken in the face of death itself…

He had no idea what to do with her words.

And that made Selena very interested in what else could shake him.

Levi turned his head sharply, glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“We can’t do this right now, Selena.”

She arched an eyebrow.

His voice was steady, controlled.

But the tips of his ears were bright red.

“There’s too much at stake,” he continued, his fingers twitching slightly against his knees. “We need to focus.”

Selena hummed.

She could tell he was trying to regain control of the conversation, of himself, of everything.

But she had already rattled him.

And she liked it.

“Fair enough,” she said simply, standing up and stretching, giving a small, pleased hum at the way Levi’s eyes flickered to the curve of her waist before he caught himself.

She grinned.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook though, mi Capitán.” She turned on her heel, sauntering away, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “This conversation isn’t over.”

Levi exhaled sharply through his nose.

She knew she had won.

And Levi hated that.

But what he hated even more was the way he couldn’t stop watching her walk away.

The way her words clung to him like a phantom touch.

The way his chest felt too tight.

And worst of all…

The way a small, traitorous part of him wanted to see where this would go.

…

The next morning, Levi walked into the mess hall with dark circles under his eyes, his usual stoic expression locked in place. He hadn’t gotten a damn wink of sleep last night, and he knew exactly why.

Selena.

Her words from the night before echoed in his head like an annoying song that wouldn’t stop playing.

I don’t just want to kiss you to tease you. I want to kiss you because I want to. And because I want you.

Levi had been through hell and back in his life. He had faced titans, watched comrades die, endured loss and suffering beyond comprehension. But somehow, that damn woman had managed to unsettle him more than anything else ever had.

It pissed him off.

And what pissed him off more was the fact that a small, treacherous part of him didn’t hate the feeling.

The sound of loud laughter pulled him from his thoughts, and his sharp eyes immediately found the source.

There she was.

Selena was sitting at one of the tables, her legs crossed as she casually leaned back in her chair, laughing at something Connie had said. Sasha was grinning beside them, her mouth full of food, while Jean and Armin watched the interaction with amused expressions.

Selena fit in with them so easily, as if she had been there from the beginning.

That should have been a good thing.

But for some reason, Levi hated how effortlessly she blended in.

She was supposed to be an outsider.

She was supposed to be dangerous.

And yet, here she was, laughing and joking with his squad like she wasn’t the most lethal assassin Marley had ever produced.

Like she wasn’t the same woman who had stolen his first kiss.

His only kiss.

Then, as if she could sense him, Selena suddenly turned her head, and their eyes locked across the room.

Levi stiffened.

A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips, and Levi felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.

Damn it.

Without a word, he immediately turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction, heading straight for the table where Erwin was seated.

He could feel Selena’s amusement behind him.

He could hear the soft, breathy chuckle that left her lips as she watched him retreat.

And Erwin—damn him—had caught the entire interaction.

Levi sat down stiffly across from him, reaching for a cup of tea that had already been poured.

Erwin didn’t say anything at first.

He simply observed.

And that was worse.

After a long, drawn-out pause, Erwin finally took a slow sip of his own tea before setting the cup down with a small clink.

“…Something on your mind, Levi?”

Levi didn’t look at him.

“No.”

Erwin hummed.

“Didn’t sleep well?”

Levi’s grip tightened around his cup.

“I’m fine.”

Erwin’s lips twitched slightly, but he didn’t press further.

Instead, he casually glanced over at the other table where Selena was still sitting, still laughing, still completely and utterly unbothered by the fact that she had spent the previous night wrecking Levi’s entire emotional state.

“She’s fitting in well,” Erwin mused, taking another sip of tea.

Levi said nothing.

Erwin glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

“…You two seem to be getting along.”

Levi finally turned to glare at him.

“We’re not.”

Erwin’s lips curled ever so slightly.

He had known Levi long enough to recognize when he was lying.

And this—this was the most blatant lie Levi had ever told.

“Well,” Erwin said mildly, setting his cup down. “That’s unfortunate.”

Levi narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

Erwin simply folded his hands together, his blue eyes glinting with something far too knowing.

“Because I think she’s very…fond of you.”

Levi almost choked on his tea.

Erwin was enjoying this.

That bastard was enjoying this.

Levi scowled deeply, setting his cup down with a sharp clank.

“She’s annoying.”

Erwin’s smile was infuriatingly patient.

“And yet, she’s the only person who’s managed to get under your skin.”

Levi’s jaw locked.

“…She doesn’t get under my skin.”

“Mm.” Erwin hummed, unconvinced. “If you say so.”

Levi hated him.

He hated him.

Because Erwin was right.

Selena did get under his skin.

She got under his skin in ways no one ever had.

And that was dangerous.

For both of them.

But as Selena sat at the table, laughing with Sasha and Connie over some ridiculous joke, the warm and easy atmosphere of the mess hall suddenly shattered.

The distant sound of shouting, followed by a sickening crunch of bones breaking, sent an immediate ripple of tension through the room.

The laughter died instantly.

Then came the screams.

Something was wrong.

Levi was the first to react, standing so fast that his chair screeched across the floor, his hand already gripping the hilt of his blades. Selena was right behind him, her instincts kicking in immediately as she sprang to her feet, the lighthearted expression she had just been wearing replaced by something deadly serious.

Erwin and Hange were already moving, Mikasa, Eren, and Jean right on their heels as they rushed toward the door.

The rest of the scouts were frozen in shock, their hands hovering near their weapons, their minds still struggling to process what was happening.

And then—

BOOM!

The doors to the mess hall slammed open with such force that the hinges nearly broke.

And stepping in, bathed in the dim light of the overcast sky, dripping with blood, was the last person Selena ever wanted to see.

Salamander.

Kwasi.

He was exactly as she remembered.

Tall and broad-shouldered with a powerful, muscular frame. His deep brown skin gleamed under the dim light, splattered with fresh crimson, and his long dreadlocks were pulled back from his face, revealing sharp features and those dark, piercing eyes.

The black assassin’s gear clung to his body like a second skin, and in his hands were his broadswords, still dripping with the blood of whatever poor souls had the misfortune of standing in his way.

The scent of iron filled the room.

Selena’s blood boiled.

For a second, no one moved.

No one breathed.

Levi’s grip on his weapons tightened, his entire body coiled and ready. He had never seen this man before, but he didn’t need to. He knew exactly who he was.

The way Selena had gone still at the sight of him, the way her hands curled into fists at her sides, the pure hatred in her poison-green eyes—

There was no mistaking it.

This was him.

The real threat.

Kwasi’s lips stretched into a smirk, his eyes locked onto Selena like a predator that had just cornered its prey.

But it wasn’t just hunger in his eyes.

It was something worse.

Something dangerous.

And when he spoke, his deep voice was like a slow, taunting drawl, soaked in amusement.

“Damn, kitten…” he murmured, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip as his gaze traveled up and down her frame. “You look just as sexy as ever.”

Selena’s fingers twitched toward the cutlery on the table.

Kwasi’s smirk widened.

“Did you miss me?”

Selena lunged.

The fork and knife in her hands whipped through the air, flying toward Kwasi’s smug face—

CLANG!

With a lazy flick of his wrist, he deflected them effortlessly, sending them clattering against the floor.

And then he laughed.

A deep, rumbling laugh that sent a white-hot fury straight through Selena’s veins.

“Oh, come on now,” he chuckled, tilting his head as he grinned at her. “Is that any way to greet the love of your life?”

Selena saw red.

Her body was already moving, ready to rip him apart—

But then—

A new sound cut through the room.

A sharp scrape of metal against leather.

Levi.

His blades were drawn.

He was already in motion, stance low, dangerous.

But Kwasi’s attention finally shifted.

And when those cold, grey eyes landed on him, Kwasi grinned wider.

“Well, well, well…” he hummed, voice dripping with amusement. “You must be him. Humanity’s Strongest Soldier.”

Levi’s grip tightened on his blades, but his expression remained unreadable.

Kwasi’s gaze flicked back to Selena.

“So,” he continued, his smirk growing, “this is the man you think can replace me?”

Selena’s entire body went rigid.

Kwasi chuckled darkly.

“That’s adorable, kitten,” he taunted, eyes gleaming. “Truly. But tell me…” He lifted one of his bloodied swords, angling the tip toward Levi. “Does he even know what you like yet? Does he know how you sound when you moan from pleasure? Does he know how your body looks and feels under the moonlight? I do. I know everything about you.”

Selena felt something snap inside her.

Levi spoke before she could.

“You talk too much,” Levi muttered, his voice like ice.

Kwasi grinned.

“Ah, I like your attitude, Ackerman.” He tilted his head, studying Levi with an expression of intrigue. “Tell me something, Captain…”

Levi said nothing.

Kwasi chuckled.

“What’s it like?” he asked, taking a slow step forward. “Knowing the woman you’re protecting used to moan for me?”

The room froze.

Selena moved.

Faster than she ever had before.

Her blade sliced toward Kwasi’s throat.