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happypopcornprincess · 3 months ago

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Under the Same Sky Part 2

Pairings - Joaquin Torres X fem!Reader (TFATWS AU)

Premise - You have your heart guarded for the longest time. But when you encounter a stranger on the same mission, will you be able to do the same?

Word Count - 4.2K

Warnings: Gore, blood, SMUT, minors DNI

a/n - I'm sorry for being late about the second part, a relative of mine passed away after new year and I was with family. This part is dedicated to all the lover girls by heart out there. may you find your lover and have an amazing story. Hope you guys like it <3 Take care.

The wind picked up speed as Lucas and his team stepped on the backyard of the Wilson Residence. Guns drawn, stance ready, they took the steps to the back entrance.

Nadia and Artie moved in first, Matt in tow and Lucas in the end. They hear not a single sound around them. Matt signaled clear after checking the rooms and the kitchen, Nadia let her shoulders relax watching him sign.

“Where are they?” Artie whispered.

The radio in the kitchen turns on its own accord…

Can't stay at home, can't stay at school

Old folks say, "Ya poor little fool"

Down the streets I'm the girl next door

I'm the fox you've been waiting for!

Lucas shoots the radio; the broken device fell to the floor with a thud. A scratched-out sound of Cherry Bomb still playing on.

“That’s a shame…”

Nadia was too slow to turn before you hit her head with the butt of your Glock, “I love that song.”

Artie fell on the floor as Joaquin kicked him in the back, you advanced towards Matt. The first thing that bastard did was to kick off the floor and punch you square in the jaw, but you duck in record time, just to kick his feet off the ground and lose your Glock in the process.

Joaquin got busy with Artie and Lucas, who had teamed up to defeat him. Lucas ducked a kick on his chest, and Artie tried to stab him in the neck. Joaquin got a knife out of his belt and fought with all his might, after throwing Lucas on the kitchen table.

Matt was twice your size, he got up in no time trying to throw you off your feet but you were smarter than that, you ran on the wall, kicking off it and using the velocity to climb his shoulders. You pull a hidden wire from your wrist, falling back and choking him in the process. Matt fought hard to get a hold of you, but you pressed on harder. His movements slowed down, and eventually he stilled as you released the wire.

Joaquin was pinned down on the ground with Artie on top of him, his blade inches away from his windpipe. Joaquin pushed hard on his end of blade, trying to nick off his collarbone. Lucas came rushing towards them now recovered from being thrown on the table… Joaquin threw off all his strength to turn his entire body sideways, which in turn put Artie on the side, giving him a chance to stab him just where his neck met his shoulder.

You got up to rush to Lucas, but fell face first feeling a stronghold on your ankle. Turning, you meet a very pissed off looking Nadia with blood covering her face.

She held a Glock, your glock, aiming at you. You kick her in the face, grabbing your knife in the holster. You sit up to stab her in the back, just an inch away from her heart.

So why was it that you felt a sharp jab on your shoulder?

You look at the source, only to see a blade sticking out of your right shoulder. Nadia’s hand being the holder. She looked you right in the eye as she twisted the blade deeper. You grunt, stabbing the woman again and again until she stopped.

Unbearable pain clouded your senses, but Joaquin’s voice brought you back to your senses, turning towards him to see him spar with Lucas, taking punches and pulling ones. You got on your knees to snatch your Glock from Nadia’s dead fingers, keeping an eye on Joaquin.

Blood ran down his elbow from his palm, he staggered on his feet trying to get a jab at Lucas, but found himself covered in his brains once you shot Lucas in the forehead.

You sighed, feeling your tank top getting wet with blood. It felt like an out of body experience, Natasha’s voice echoing somewhere inside your head; “Your brain is in shock trying to process the pain. Get the blade out, press on a cloth and get the hell out of here before one of them wakes up.”

“y/n, look at me.” Joaquin grabbed your face, making you look at him. He glanced at the knife sticking out of your body. “This might hurt.” Saying so he pulled on the blade, prying it off.

You screamed out loud as he pressed hard on your shoulder with a cloth bandage.

How are you lying on the floor?

Joaquin lifted you up like you weighed nothing, “We gotta go. Come on…” resting your head on his shoulder, you try not to pass out looking at the blood running down his face.

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Seeing double with an open stab wound was never good news. Joaquin’s jacket did enough to hide the blood and bandage on your shoulder, but it was only a matter of time until some keen observer in the hotel lobby looked at you long enough to know you were unwell.

Leaning on the wall next to you, you watched as Joaquin came towards you and wrapped his arm over your shoulder, careful of your wound, he whispers, “you alright?”

“Kinda.” Your words came out slurred.

“Let’s go.” He led you towards your room, and despite knowing there was no chance of you being followed, you still looked over your shoulder.

As soon as the door opened, you limped towards the bed and Joaquin closed the door and the blinds. Taking off your jacket, you made the rookie mistake of taking a glance at yourself in the mirror.

Your hair was unkempt, your tank top’s strap was torn to pieces, the entire right side of your body covered in blood. The open wound right under your collarbone stared back at you through the mirror.

The room suddenly felt too small, the taste of metal heavy on your tongue.

“whoa!” Joaquin grabs your left side before you fall to the floor, his eyes find yours, and it is then you see the hidden fear in his eyes. He acted fine until now, witnessing the amount of damage on your body.

He helps you sit on the bed, and lean back on the headboard while pressing his jacket on your torso before tearing off your straps. Holding out a piece of rolled up fabric, he holds out to your mouth, “you’ll need this.” You’ve been through this before, never on this scale; but you don’t argue with him before biting into it.

The last thing you felt before blacking out was the burning sensation of rubbing alcohol on your skin and Joaquin’s hand holding yours.

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The smell of spirit lingered in the air, as you were woken up from deep sleep by a gentle voice. Opening your eyes, you see the bedside digital clock showing 02:18, and your eyes travel to Joaquin sitting on a chair next to the bed. His white vest had spots of blood, your blood, on it. His right hand was bandaged poorly, and the cut above his eyebrow had two butterfly tapes.

“You scared me for a while.” He says while gently caressing your forehead.

“What happened?” you groaned, trying to sit up, he placed a pillow behind you as you leaned back on the headboard. You look down at your body to find your tank top gone, and you wore Joaquin’s Air Force T Shirt. You look at him again to see his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, his eyes heavy. He hadn’t slept the entire night.

“You passed out while I was cleaning your wound, I woke you up to give you some medicines, and you fell asleep.”

“I don’t remember that.” You huffed out, looking at the ceiling.

Joaquin holds your hand, and you feel the rough bandage on your skin, “are you alright?” you look at him and his line of vision, which were trained on your hand.

“yeah.” You sit up straighter, and take his hand in yours, “I’m fine Joaquin, hey,” you gently hold his face that makes him look at you, “I promise.” You smile.

You rest his injured hand on your lap and open the bandage to redo it properly. The next few minutes are spent in silence, the occasional honk and sound of passing vehicles outside being the only noise. You take a proper look at his hand after you’re done, and you bring it to your lips to kiss.

Joaquin inhales sharply as your lips touch his fingers, and your eyes lock on his.

“I thought I would lose you today.” He says, his eyes flickering from yours to your lips.

“I ain’t going anywhere Joaquin. I’m right here.” Your voice came out as a whisper, and he held your face in his hands.

He looks into your eyes again, silently asking for your consent, and your reply wordlessly by leaning towards him.

The kiss was gentle.

Joaquin’s lips were featherlight on yours and you closed your eyes to feel him whole. Holding the back of his neck you brought him closer as you fell back on the headboard, and he climbed the bed to hover over you.

You kiss each other slowly, letting go of the fear of losing each other flow through it.

You savor it; the warmth of his body, his breath on your face, his hands on your waist. He continues to kiss you as his hands traveled your body, and you didn’t open your eyes in fear that it was some kind of dream.

He cautiously pulls you down on the mattress, your back meeting the sheets of your motel bed. Joaquin gets on his knees to take off his vest, tossing it on the floor. Your eyes couldn’t leave his toned torso, and his broad shoulders covered you entirely when he leaned forward, trailing kisses on your neck. The contrast in the touch of both his hands; one bandaged and one not… you closed your eyes yet again to just feel his touch on your skin. You couldn’t breathe by the way he bit your neck, and you arched your back as his hands gathered the t-shirt to roll it up to your ribs.

“We can stop if you want to.” He says in between kisses, and you moan, “no, please… don’t.”

“As you wish…” he says, his breath hot on your neck. He kissed you right in the valley of your breasts, and sucked on your skin.

You locked eyes with him as he carefully removed the t-shirt off of your body, leaving you in only your jeans. You grabbed a fistful of his hair as his lips left open mouthed kisses on your nipples, you heard him moan as he squeezed your breasts, a sound that made you pull on his hair harder, which only made him louder.

Joaquin made quick work on his belt as you quickly removed your jeans, but he clutched your hand halfway, “wait…” stumbling on his words, “uh… you’re hurt… let me…” he held your jeans and you let them go, as he pulled them down your legs and on the floor.

His hands caressed your thighs, and his gaze lingered on your body. The intensity of it made you shiver, but it wasn’t lust you saw in them.

He wanted you, needed you. Recalling the kiss that you shared earlier today; this was the complete opposite of it. This was pure adoration.

You were his reverence.

While the shadow of his tousled hair masked his forehead, he locked eyes with you. As he lowered his body bringing his face closer to your thighs, you didn’t dare look away. You arched your back as Joaquin’s arms held you down, his muscles flexing as he kissed your inner thigh, and a loud whine left your lips as he tasted you on his tongue.

He stopped only when your moans turned into screams, and when you looked at him while heaving for breath, he was gasping for air, his pupils blown, but the gaze still gentle.

You locked your legs on his waist before you could stop yourself, and tossed him on the bed. Now he was under you, and you could feel how eager he was as you looked down at his tented boxers.

Joaquin caressed your waist, “take it easy, y/n.” as he shifted his gaze to your injured shoulder.

“Sure.” you breathed out, heart racing, as you lifted yourself up while he removed his boxers. As soon as you touched him to stroke, he fell back on the bed, his brows knit in pleasure. You laughed; watching how he was reacting to your touch.

“Huh… that wasn’t funny, querida.” he huffed, and you gasped as he grabbed your waist to pull himself up.

Joaquin was now inches away from your face, his chest pressed to yours as he locked his arms around your waist. You tried to wrap yours around his neck, but you hissed as a sharp pain shot through your injured shoulder straight to your neck.

“Ow!” you buried your face on the nape of his neck, as he stiffened within you.

“Told you to take it easy.” he whispered as he caressed your hair, “you wanna stop?”

“No,” you whined, lifting your face to look at him, “no… I…” you huffed out, “I want you.”

He exhaled, replying with a warm smile, “okay.”

Joaquin gently held both of your wrists and brought your hands to his face to let you hold on to his neck, and you gladly did. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and closed his eyes before leaving a kiss on your lips. He pulled you closer as you lowered yourself on him, moaning in each other’s mouths. As you moved, he kept on kissing you.

Your pace increased as you felt his heartbeat on your skin, his hands grabbing your back. He kissed your face as you lifted your chin, leaving trails on your face and reaching your neck, but you grabbed his hair, pulling him back and exposing his neck to you. Sucking on his neck, you hugged him back, the sharp jab on your shoulder now least of your worries. He pushed into you as you continued to suck and bite his skin wherever you could. He tried his best not to pull your hair, but failed as he grabbed a handful by the end only to bring you closer.

Fighting for air, you kissed him on his mouth… stroking him even after he came inside you.

Joaquin fell back on the bed, bringing you into his arms; exhausted, spent, the two of you fighting for breath.

You shifted to your uninjured side and you held him while resting your head on his chest; groaning, he adjusted himself so you could lay your head in his arms and stroked your hair,

Both you and Joaquin couldn’t tear your eyes away from each other. He was a sight to behold—his unruly hair sticking to his forehead, his face flushed, and the marks you left on his skin gradually shifting in color.

“You good?” he whispers, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your bare back.

“Yeah. You?” you murmur, feeling the weight of sleep beginning to settle in.

A chuckle bubbles in his throat, and you can't help but smirk when he slaps a hand over his eyes, letting out a soft laugh.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you tease, poking his cheek.

“You are…” he sighs, his voice serious but amused. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really skilled with what you did earlier.”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress a giggle. “You mean the way I body-slammed a Flag Smasher? Or are you talking about…”

“Uh…” He glances up at the ceiling, and you swear you see him blush. “Both.”

You both burst into laughter, and he pulls the covers over you, tucking you close to him. As your eyes meet, your heart skips a beat when his fingers trail over your bare back once more.

“Can’t we stay like this forever?” he asks, his voice soft. “This feels like a dream.”

“It’s real.” You reach up, your fingers gently brushing the cut over his eye. “And even if it is a dream, it’s the best one I’ve ever had.”

His gaze softens at your words, and with a gentle kiss to your forehead, he confesses, “Stay right here, will you?”

You nod, your voice a quiet whisper. “Yes.”

And with that, you slip into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

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Three Weeks Later, Wilson Residence

Karli was dead, the Flag Smashers were wiped out in a mysterious blast (which Zemo swore he had no part in), and John Walker had vanished off the radar. Sam was now Captain America. You and Joaquin had managed to sit that one out due to injuries, and life—relatively speaking—was almost back to normal.

The last three weeks had been the most peaceful stretch you’d had since the Thanos attack in New York. After a brief visit to Sarah’s newly renovated house—where Sam had to fight you off when you offered to pay for everything—you and Joaquin were finally heading to Arizona. He was finally going to take you to see the Canyons, a promise he’d made all the way back in that attic you two had shared.

It was night now, the kids were asleep, but the dinner table in the Wilson residence was anything but quiet, as Sam and Bucky were recounting the first time they met Spiderman.

“…and we got this kid climbing on the roof, he slams Bucky onto the floor, and screams out something about impressing Tony…”

“…and then he webs you to the escalator…” Bucky grumbles in-between.

“…I was getting to that! Anyways, I let redwing take care of the rest and send him flying through the airport and dump him midair. Ha!” Sam laughs, waiting for a reaction.

Sarah leans forward, utterly bewildered, “So you dropped a kid midair because he webbed you to an escalator?”

Bucky stops her with a laugh, “In our defense, he was on the opposite team!”

You couldn't help teasing him, “Still, you attacked a kid.”

Sam threw a baby carrot at you. “Okay, okay! Stop throwing food, Sam. What are you, five?”

Sam was about to throw another one at youtube bucky grabbed the baby carrots bowl and passed it to sarah, who gladly put it out of his reach.

You shifted your attention to Joaquin, who was looking at the whole ordeal trying not to laugh. The cut above his eye had almost healed, only a faint trail of new skin the only sign that there ever was any injury.

“We have something to tell you guys,” Joaquin said, his voice a little too casual for the tension in the air. He reached under the table to take your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin.

You squeezed his hand in return, giving him a warm smile before you turned to look at Sam, Bucky, and Sarah.

Joaquin looked at you, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, and then he said it: “Y/N and I are dating.”

The table went silent for a second, and then Sarah’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my god, I’m so happy for you both!”

Sam laughed loudly, throwing his head back, while Bucky froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

Bucky stared at the two of you in disbelief, his fork clicking loudly as it dropped to his plate. “Wait a minute... how long has this been going on?”

You winced. “About three weeks, maybe?”

Bucky groaned as he leaned back in his chair. “Three weeks? So, you’ve been hiding this from us?”

Joaquin shifted nervously in his seat. “Yeah, about that.”

“I swear, if you hurt Y/N—” Bucky's voice turned deadly serious, his Vibranium arm rising as he pointed it at Joaquin. “I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Joaquin quickly held up his hands. “I would never—”

“Good.” Bucky nodded, satisfied. “Just making sure, You two gross me out.” Bucky side eyes you as you respond by leaving a loud smooch on Joaquin’s cheek.

“Yeah, I’m gonna throw up.” Bucky grimaces and gets up from the table with his beer.

“Get outta here old man.” You scream, all in playfulness as he slams the porch door. Bucky had a knick of theatrics, and you knew deep down he was happy for you.

“He didn’t mean that, Buck’s a secret romantic and I bet you ten bucks he’s crying happy tears on the back porch.” Sam tells you both as you begin to clear out the table.

“I know.” You laugh, helping Joaquin with the dishes.

As Sarah and Sam left for their rooms, you and Joaquin took over cleaning the kitchen. The house fell into a quiet rhythm, the only sound the soft hum of the water running in the sink as you both washed the dishes.

“That went well,” Joaquin said, nudging your shoulder as you stacked the plates in the drying rack.

“Don’t worry, Sam and Sarah adore you. Bucky does too, he’s just... well, too stubborn to show it.” You rolled your eyes, feeling his hands wrap around your waist from behind, pulling you close.

He kissed your neck lightly as you finished stacking the last of the plates. “That was the last one,” you said, leaning back into him, letting yourself enjoy the closeness.

“Mmm-hmm...” You smirked, resting your hands on his as he tightened his grip around your waist.

“Everyone’s asleep,” he whispered, his lips brushing the back of your ear.

“I know,” you murmured, leaning back further into his chest. You could feel the warmth of his body against yours, his breath soft in your ear.

“Can we take this to the bedroom?” he grumbled, his voice low and inviting as he hugged you tighter.

You chuckled, glancing over your shoulder. “We’re sleeping on the couch, babe.”

His hands moved slowly to your hips as he nuzzled your neck, “Wanna take this to the couch then?” His playful tone was backed by the softest puppy eyes you’d ever seen.

Before you could even consider it, footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Bucky’s voice rocked through the silence, causing both you and Joaquin to spring apart. You quickly went back to acting busy with the already stacked plates, trying to look as innocent as possible.

Bucky sighed loudly, his eyes toward the ceiling. “Please, for the love of god, tell me you two weren’t... doing that in Sarah’s kitchen.”

Joaquin let out a nervous, “...no.” His face flushed, making you stifle a laugh.

Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. “I swear, you two...”

“Bucky,” you said, turning toward him with a teasing smile. “Were you crying?”

His eyes went wide, and he immediately shot you a glare. “No. I’m just... tired.” He slumped his shoulders dramatically. “And I’m taking the couch.”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “You two can take the mattress on the floor. But if I hear so much as a whisper from either of you, I’ll kick you out myself.”

With that, he stormed off, muttering under his breath.

You turned to Joaquin, fighting back a grin. His face was bright red, and his embarrassment was almost too adorable to handle. “Looks like we have to wait until we’re in Arizona,” you said with a sympathetic swat to his arm.

Joaquin groaned, “You know, I’m starting to think Bucky’s secretly shipping us.”

You shot him a wink as you walked out of the kitchen, “He’s just really protective. Come on.”

You patted his arm sympathetically, but then, with a mischievous grin, said, “What about the attic?”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

You opened your mouth to say yes, as your heart raced just by remembering his touch on your skin, but before you could, Bucky’s voice shouted from the other room.

“I swear to god, I will get a restraining order against the two of you! Don’t even think about it!”

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Taglist

@tuiccim @parkjammys @akinrawsx @asteph22 @iamthebeth @thefandomqueenuno @onlyhereforthefics @yikesdameron @savedfanfics1992 @amigaytho @samwilson-mylove @jenniweaslee-faves @anna-phora @fluffyprettykitty

A/N - Thank you everyone for sticking with me till the end of this fic! if you liked it please let me know through the asks and the comments. Love y'all, Take Care!

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diamonddaze01 · 2 months ago

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Bound by Blood and Fate

pairing: hong jisoo x f!reader | wc: 9.9k genre: assassin!shua, hacker!reader, red string of fate au warnings: close encounters with death, blood, weapons, injuries a/n: for @ddeonghwa-s secret cupid collab! this fic is for the wonderful @uhdrienne i hope you enjoyyy <3 // enormous thanks to @ylangelegy helping me flush this idea out and to @okiedokrie @chugging-antiseptic-dye and @chanranghaeys for beta-ing <333

check out the masterlist for the collab here!

summary: “Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

Joshua always thought dying would feel quieter.

But the city roars around him: the hum of neon lights, the shriek of sirens in the distance, the metallic taste of blood pooling in his mouth. He’s lying on the ground, spine pressed against the cold, wet asphalt, staring at a sky he barely recognizes. The weight in his chest isn’t just from the bullet—it’s from the thought of you.

The red thread around his pinky is taut, glinting faintly in the chaos. It’s not supposed to fray. It’s not supposed to break. But as his vision blurs and his pulse stutters, he wonders if fate has finally run out of patience.

They say the last seven minutes of your life are a highlight reel—a 420 second long tapestry of moments unraveled, thread by thread, until only the essence of you remains. Joshua doesn’t see his childhood, or his family, or the countless lives he’s taken. All he sees is you.

And as the thread tugs, dragging him deeper into the past, he knows it’s not his life flashing before his eyes. It’s his mistakes.

420 seconds…. 419…. 418….

Joshua feels the world slipping away in pieces, the edges of his vision fading to static. The asphalt beneath him is slick and sticky, blood blooming out in slow, deliberate pulses, like an hourglass emptying grain by grain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows how this ends. He’s seen it too many times before.

His hand twitches toward the gun holstered at his side, instinct overriding logic. There’s no one left to shoot. Not now. Not anymore. But the weight of his Glock is familiar—steady in a way that his body isn’t, unlike the wavering thread tied to his finger.

The thread glints under the fractured glow of the streetlights, bright enough to mock him. Bright enough to remind him of what’s still out there, waiting. He feels it more than sees it: taut, fragile, pulling faintly in a direction he can’t follow.

Joshua forces his head to turn, every muscle in his body screaming against the effort. The pain is sharp, biting. Somewhere beyond the flicker of broken neon signs and the hum of distant sirens, he hears the faint echo of footsteps, slow and measured. They’re retreating. Whoever pulled the trigger isn’t sticking around to watch him bleed out.

Coward.

The word sears through him, but it doesn’t feel satisfying. He isn’t sure if it’s meant for them—or for himself.

The thread burns against his hand now, its crimson glow cutting through the haze like a knife. It’s not slack. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? That the connection between him and you isn’t broken. That maybe, if he can move, if he can crawl his way out of this alley, he can still get to you.

But it doesn’t tug. It doesn’t pull him toward safety. It sits there, unmoving, as if waiting. As if mocking.

The sound of the gunshot echoes again in his head, sharper this time, louder. He tries to place it—tries to grab hold of the pieces slipping through his fingers—but his thoughts fracture before he can make sense of them.

All he knows is the voice he heard before the shot. Low. Steady. Unshaken in a way that cuts deeper than the bullet ever could.

"You should’ve stayed in line."

Joshua’s breath hitches, a broken sound that’s more of a gasp than an exhale. His chest tightens, and the thread yanks hard, as if trying to rip him out of the present entirely.

The asphalt disappears. The sirens fade.

And suddenly, it’s raining again.

360 seconds…. 359…. 358….

The sound comes first, the patter of raindrops on glass, a dull rhythm that seeps into the silence of his memories. Joshua doesn’t need to open his eyes to know where he is—it’s etched into his mind like a scar.

A car. A stakeout. The dim glow of a streetlamp haloed by mist, barely piercing through the rain-slicked darkness. The memory is so vivid it almost feels like he’s back there, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the Glock resting in his lap, his breath fogging the window. The dull hum of a police scanner crackles from the passenger seat, and across the street, a single light flickers in the third-floor apartment of a crumbling high-rise.

That’s where you are.

He hadn’t known your name then. Not your face, not the way your voice could twist words into knives or lullabies. All he’d known was your alias—Nyx, a ghost in the wires, a shadow who’d dug too deep and found something that should’ve stayed buried.

Erebus.

Even now, Joshua feels the weight of the name, the way it sank into his chest the first time he heard it whispered by his handler. A database so encrypted, so labyrinthine, that even his organization only spoke of it in fragments. And yet you, a hacker originally hired to expose the rot of corporate corruption, had stumbled upon it like you’d tripped over a landmine.

The details were sparse then. A whistleblower had paid you to scrape dirt off the edges of one of the conglomerates tied to Joshua’s organization. You’d gone deeper than they ever intended, though, uncovering shards of Erebus—just enough to understand its value and the danger it posed.

Joshua hadn’t been sent to kill you that night. Not yet.

The organization wanted to know who you were working for. If you were working alone. And more importantly, what you’d uncovered about Erebus.

The first time he saw you, it was through the crosshairs of his rifle, the rain streaking across his scope. The building you’d chosen was a hacker’s dream—tucked away in the middle of nowhere, just off a grid dense enough to hide you for a while. He’d been told you were smart, but that didn’t quite prepare him for the sight of you, illuminated by the pale blue glow of multiple monitors.

You’d been working on something—typing so quickly it looked like you weren’t even touching the keys. There was nothing remarkable about the way you looked, and yet he couldn’t stop watching.

Joshua didn’t know it then, but he already hated how the thread around his pinky seemed to hum. He thought he’d imagined it—the faint pull, like it was tethered to something in that room, even if he couldn’t see it.

His comm crackled to life, interrupting his focus.

“Got eyes on the target?” It was Sangyeon’s voice, low and unbothered. He was in the adjacent building, watching from another angle.

“Yeah.” Joshua had kept his tone neutral, even though he hated that Sangyeon was there at all. The mission was observation. That’s what they’d told him. But he knew better than to believe in simplicity when it came to his line of work.

Across the street, you paused, tilting your head as if you could feel him watching. His hand instinctively moved to adjust the rifle, finger brushing against the trigger, but he froze when he saw what you were holding.

A USB drive. Plain. Ordinary. And yet, even from this distance, he knew what it was.

Erebus.

Your gaze flicked toward the window then, just for a moment, and though it was impossible for you to see him through the rain and shadows, Joshua swore you were looking directly at him.

“Target’s on the move,” Sangyeon’s voice came through again, sharper this time.

Joshua blinked, the spell broken. He watched as you stood, shoving the USB drive into your pocket and grabbing a bag from the floor. You glanced toward the window one last time before disappearing from view.

“Stay put,” Joshua said, already moving.

He didn’t know why he said it, or why his pulse had quickened at the thought of losing you in the rain-soaked streets. All he knew was that the thread tied to his fingers felt tighter than it ever had, and no mission briefing had prepared him for that.

The first time you spoke was the second time Joshua saw you.

He tracked you through the rain, his footsteps silent against the slick pavement. The USB drive—Erebus—burned in his thoughts. He couldn’t afford to lose it, but there was something more than protocol driving him forward. He told himself it was just the mission, but every step had felt heavier, weighted by that invisible thread coiling tighter with every second you stayed out of sight.

You slipped into an alley, a narrow cut of darkness between two forgotten buildings. Joshua followed, his Glock raised, the streetlight behind him casting his shadow long and sharp against the brick wall. You hadn’t flinched when he rounded the corner, gun trained on you. Instead, you turned, slow and deliberate, your expression calm, as if you’d been expecting him all along.

For a moment, there had been only the sound of the rain dripping from the eaves above, pooling around your feet.

“Well,” you said, your voice low but cutting, “they sent someone fast.”

The words hung in the air, but Joshua hadn’t responded. His aim was steady, but his pulse betrayed him, thrumming too loud in his ears. You hadn’t looked like someone running for their life. You had looked composed, calculating, almost amused.

“Go ahead,” you continued, taking a single step forward, daring, reckless. The glow of the streetlight had caught in your eyes, turning them sharp and bright. “Pull the trigger. But I’ve already copied Erebus. Killing me won’t stop what’s coming.”

The threat in your tone was subtle, but it was there, wrapped in defiance. You were testing him, weighing him against whatever expectations you had built in your head. And for the first time in years, Joshua’s finger hesitated on the trigger.

“Who are you working for?” he asked, his voice quiet, a sharp edge beneath the calm.

You had tilted your head, a smile ghosting across your lips—barely there, more of a challenge than an answer. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” you said, and there had been something bitter, something wounded, in the way you had laughed after.

The thread coiled around his pinky had tugged sharply, and he hated it. Hated the way it pulled him toward you even when every logical part of him screamed to put a bullet in your chest.

The sound of footsteps cut through the tension—a deliberate, heavy cadence.

Sangyeon.

Joshua’s mind sharpened, instincts kicking in. He knew the second Sangyeon rounded the corner, he would shoot first and ask questions later.

Joshua acted before he could think it through. He lowered his gun, the decision instinctive, a betrayal of everything drilled into him.

“Get out of here,” he muttered, his voice cold to cover the inexplicable tightness in his chest.

You blinked, surprise flickering in your eyes for just a second before you recovered. Then, you smirked. The expression had been infuriating, and yet it had rooted him in place, as if the thread between you had knotted tighter.

“See you around, soldier,” you had said, your voice dripping with mockery and something more dangerous—promise.

Joshua hadn’t watched you leave, but he had felt it, the absence of you almost as heavy as your presence had been. He had clenched his jaw, forcing his grip to relax on the Glock. When Sangyeon appeared moments later, Joshua had already stepped out of the alley, shoulders tense.

“Lose her?” Sangyeon asked, suspicion lacing his tone.

Joshua hadn’t looked back. “No. She’ll resurface. They always do.”

But even as the words had left his mouth, Joshua couldn’t shake the way his pulse had quickened at the sight of you, the way your voice had wrapped around him like a noose. He had told himself it was just the mission. Just Erebus.

But the thread knotted on his finger had hummed, and deep down, he had known better.

300 seconds…. 299…. 298….

The third time Joshua saw you, the fluorescent lights in the cold, windowless interrogation room cast sharp, unforgiving shadows. It felt as though the world had been stripped of color and warmth, leaving only stark grays and the faint hum of tension in the air. You’d been brought here under orders—captured during a raid on one of The Syndicate’s safehouses.

He hadn’t been the one to catch you. No, it had been a lower branch of the organization, an overeager unit that had stumbled across your location by sheer luck. The details of your capture had been messy: a shattered window, a scuffle in the dark, and your wrists bound with rough rope that still left faint marks on your skin. By the time you’d arrived at their facility, you’d already outsmarted half the guards with a sly smile and a sharp tongue, making them regret underestimating you.

And now, here you were.

Joshua sat across from you, the assigned interrogator, chosen for the job by someone higher up who’d claimed he had the right temperament for extracting answers. He’d been told you were dangerous—The Syndicate’s rising star, a name whispered in intelligence reports and backroom briefings. He’d expected you to be cold, calculating, maybe even desperate.

But you were none of those things.

You sat in that metal chair, your arms tied behind your back, the cuffs biting into your skin, and somehow, you still looked untouchable. A faint smirk curled at the edges of your lips, your confidence an act of rebellion all its own.

“Is this the part where you torture me for answers?” you teased, leaning back in the chair like you were perfectly at ease.

Joshua’s jaw tightened, his gaze flitting to the chains binding your wrists, then to the cut on your forehead that was still oozing blood. The sight of it filled him with a sudden, inexplicable rage. It wasn’t logical—he barely knew you beyond the file he’d been handed an hour ago. But seeing you restrained, sitting there with your arms pulled behind you as if you were a threat to be neutralized, made his chest twist with a fury he couldn’t name.

The thread tying him to you seemed heavier than ever, an unbearable weight that tugged at something deep inside him. He stayed silent, his gaze flickering down to it almost unconsciously.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. The flicker of his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides—all of it gave him away.

And for the first time, your smirk faltered.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” you asked softly, the amusement in your tone giving way to something sharper, quieter. “The thread. It’s fate, isn’t it?”

Joshua stiffened. His first instinct was to deny it, to scoff at the idea of threads and fate, but the burning weight on his pinky betrayed him. He stayed silent, and his silence spoke louder than words ever could.

You leaned forward, the motion deliberate, the cuffs digging into your skin as you closed the distance between you. There was a gleam in your eyes now—not of defiance, but something more dangerous. Something that made Joshua’s pulse quicken.

“Tell me something, soldier,” you whispered, your voice low, carrying just enough venom to draw blood. “Does your fate feel like a noose?”

The question hit harder than it should have, knocking the breath from his lungs. Joshua’s throat tightened, the thread burning hotter, twisting tighter. He hated it—hated how you could cut him open with words as sharp as blades, hated the anger bubbling beneath his calm exterior. But most of all, he hated the truth in your question, the way it echoed the thoughts he couldn’t bring himself to confront.

He didn’t get the chance to respond.

The door creaked open, and Sangyeon strode in, his boots echoing sharply against the tiled floor. The cold presence of his commanding officer shattered the fragile intimacy of the moment.

Joshua rose instinctively, his body moving faster than his mind. He stepped between you and Sangyeon, his arm outstretched to block the path.

“We’re not done here,” Joshua said firmly, his voice steady even as his pulse thundered in his ears.

Sangyeon raised a brow, his expression colder than the room itself. “The prisoner doesn’t decide when we’re done,” he replied curtly. “She’s being transported.”

Joshua bristled. He couldn’t explain it—not to Sangyeon, not to himself. But something about this moment, about you, felt like a line he wasn’t ready to let anyone else cross. He could feel your eyes on him, steady and unyielding, burning into his back.

And for the first time in years, Joshua hesitated.

He didn’t meet your eyes when Sangyeon all but dragged you out of the interrogation room.

The transport convoy had been tense from the start. Joshua sat rigid in the lead vehicle, his jaw set and his gaze fixed on the road ahead. You were in the back of an armored truck, hands cuffed behind you, your expression unreadable. The radio crackled with static, the air heavy with a silence that pressed on his chest like a weight. His orders had been simple: ensure the prisoner—you—made it to the facility alive.

But the moment the first gunshot rang out, everything spiraled.

The Syndicate moved like ghosts in the night, their ambush precise and ruthless. Bullets ricocheted off metal, shouts filled the air, and the stench of gunpowder clouded the chaos. Joshua leaped out of the vehicle, his weapon drawn, scanning the darkness for threats. Amid the frenzy, his gaze found you.

You stood in the middle of the chaos, unarmed, your hands still bound behind your back. And yet, you weren’t panicking. You weren’t cowering. You were watching him with a calm intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

Your eyes locked with his, and in that moment, the world seemed to slow.

“Come with me,” you pleaded, your voice raw and almost lost amidst the gunfire. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, unyielding person he’d faced in the interrogation room. There was no mockery now, no edge to your words—only trust.

Joshua hesitated. His grip on his weapon faltered, the weight of his loyalty pressing against the thread on his pinky, which burned with an almost unbearable ferocity. He felt it pulling him toward you, urging him forward, and for a fleeting second, he let himself imagine it—letting go of the lies, the bloodshed, the endless cycle of orders and betrayal. Letting himself be with you.

But the spell broke as quickly as it had been cast. Before he could respond, you turned on your heel and ran. You vanished into the shadows, slipping through the chaos like smoke.

Joshua stood frozen, the thread tugging so hard it felt like it would snap. He should have called for backup. He should have tracked you immediately. Instead, he lingered in the wreckage, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every passing second.

By the time he’d made up his mind, you were long gone.

It took him hours to track you down. The thread burned hotter with every step, guiding him to a decrepit safehouse on the outskirts of the city. The building leaned precariously, its windows cracked and its walls streaked with grime. He stepped inside cautiously, his weapon drawn, every muscle in his body tense.

You were waiting for him.

The safehouse smelled of damp wood and dust, the faint hum of the laptop filling the silence between you and Joshua. You leaned against the edge of the table, exhaustion etched into the lines of your face, but your eyes remained sharp, unyielding. The pistol sat within reach, a quiet reminder of the life you lived—a life Joshua should want no part of.

“Took you long enough,” you said when he finally stepped through the broken doorway, his silhouette outlined by the dim glow of a street lamp outside. There was a bite to your tone, but it wavered just enough to betray the relief hiding beneath it.

Joshua hesitated. He didn’t know what he expected to find—maybe a trap, maybe nothing at all. But here you were, waiting for him like you knew the thread had left him with no choice.

He nodded toward the pistol on the table. “You expecting someone else?”

You smirked, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Maybe. But not you.”

The weight of his steps seemed heavier as he crossed the room. His presence was quiet but impossible to ignore, like a storm brewing in the distance. He stopped a few feet away, just close enough for the tension between you to spark.

“They’ll kill you,” he said, his voice low, steady, but laced with something softer. Something closer to worry.

You laughed, bitter and tired, the sound almost foreign in the stillness. “And you’re here to, what? Warn me? That’s rich. What’s next? You’re going to tell me to turn myself in?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. You didn’t need him to answer; the hesitation in his silence was enough.

“You’re swimming in dangerous waters,” he said finally, his tone quieter now, less an accusation and more a reluctant observation.

“Then teach me how to stay afloat,” you shot back, meeting his gaze head-on.

The words hung between you, heavier than the air in the room. His eyes flicked over your face, cataloging the shadows beneath your eyes, the faint bruise on your cheekbone, the cut just above your eyebrow. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the cut. You flinched, inhaling sharply like the touch burned you.

He pulled his hand back as if scalded, the thread on his pinky burning like it had come alive, searing his skin with every beat of his heart. The pull was unbearable now, as if fate itself had decided to wrap its unyielding fingers around his throat.

“Fate’s a cruel mistress,” you murmured, almost to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper.

Before he could reply, your hand was on his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw with a softness that shouldn’t have belonged in this world of violence and lies. He froze, caught between instinct and the undeniable gravity pulling him toward you.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said, your voice steady even as your eyes searched his face. “You don’t have to keep fighting against it.”

Joshua’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he let himself lean into your touch. Just for a moment. Your hand was warm against his skin, grounding him in a way he couldn’t understand but didn’t dare question.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he said quietly, his words faltering as his gaze dropped to the thread burning bright red between you.

“I know enough,” you replied.

It wasn’t a confession. Not exactly. But it was enough to make his resolve splinter.

He stepped back, the moment breaking like glass. The room felt colder without you in reach, the distance between you suddenly unbearable. Joshua turned toward the door, his jaw tight, his hands trembling with something he didn’t want to name.

When he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back at the table. The pistol still sat where you’d left it, untouched.

“If they come for you, run,” he said without turning to face you. “Don’t wait for me.”

You didn’t respond, but when the door closed behind him, the pistol remained exactly where it was.

He was sure he would never see you again.

240 seconds… 239… 238…

Months slipped by, but the weight of you never did.

Joshua buried himself in missions, but each one left him more fractured than the last. The Organization sent him from one corner of the world to another—extracting assets from hostile territories, infiltrating Syndicate bases, and dismantling black-market operations. The missions were a blur of violence and precision. A high-stakes extraction in Prague left him dangling from a helicopter over the Vltava River. In Istanbul, he spent weeks undercover in a Syndicate safehouse, passing information to the Organization while pretending to be one of them. In Bogotá, a firefight in a crumbling warehouse left his shoulder grazed by a bullet, the heat of it a reminder that he wasn’t invincible.

You, meanwhile, had gone dark. No trail, no whispers of your whereabouts. He told himself it was for the best, that this was what survival looked like. But the truth twisted inside him like a knife: he wanted to find you, even if it meant breaking everything he’d built.

So in every city, in every crowd, he found himself scanning faces for yours. It wasn’t just habit—it was compulsion. He looked for you in reflections, in the muted buzz of computer screens during late-night debriefings. It was irrational, foolish, and entirely unavoidable. You had taken root somewhere deep inside him, and no matter how many miles he traveled or how many agents he eliminated, you remained.

You were in the quiet moments between missions, in the brief silences before sleep claimed him. In the hum of static on his comms, he thought he heard your voice. And in the shadows, he sometimes swore he saw the outline of your figure, only to blink and find you gone. When the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion crept in, he caught himself tracing the thread on his wrist—the one that connected him to you. He hated it. He hated you. He hated himself for not hating you enough.

When he saw you again, it wasn’t planned. He told himself that, over and over, like a mantra meant to absolve him of guilt.

The café was crowded, its warmth a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside. He’d come in for a quick reprieve, seeking caffeine and anonymity. But there you were, sitting by the window with your laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard. The light from the screen cast a faint glow on your face, and he stopped in his tracks.

For a moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. His heart thundered in his chest, and his mind screamed at him to turn around and walk away. But his feet refused to listen.

You noticed him before he could decide. Your eyes flicked up from the screen, narrowing slightly in recognition before your lips curved into a smirk. You stood and approached, your movements so casual it made his stomach twist.

“Following me now?” you asked, sliding into the chair across from him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I should be,” he admitted, his voice low.

Your laugh was soft, disbelieving. “You’ve got other things to worry about, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “But you have a habit of making yourself hard to ignore.”

You arched a brow, amused. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it however you want.”

The edge that usually laced your conversations was gone, replaced by something quieter, more intimate. The café buzzed around you, but the noise faded as you fell into a rhythm, a shared bubble that felt fragile and fleeting.

You talked about nothing and everything. You mentioned a book you’d been reading—something about espionage, fittingly—and he countered with a story about a mission that reminded him of it. You argued over music, his disdain for synth-pop clashing with your guilty admiration for it.

“Places you’ve never been?” he asked at one point, watching as your fingers traced idle patterns on the rim of your coffee cup.

“Japan,” you said softly. “I’ve always wanted to see Kyoto in the fall. The colors, the temples… it feels like a dream.”

He smiled faintly. “You’d hate the humidity.”

“And you’d hate the crowds,” you shot back, grinning.

It was dangerous, this fragile intimacy. Joshua felt it with every word, every moment that passed. He couldn’t remember the last time he talked to someone like this, like the world outside didn’t exist.

When his hand accidentally brushed against yours, the thread ignited, searing into his skin with a heat that made him pull away too quickly. You noticed, your gaze flickering between your own hand and his, but you didn’t comment.

He was about to say something—he didn’t know what—when his instincts screamed at him.

Syndicate operatives. Their movements were too deliberate, their eyes scanning the room too carefully. Joshua’s hand went to his Glock, hidden beneath his jacket, and his body tensed.

“Get down,” he said under his breath, but you were already aware.

The fight was quick and brutal. He moved like a ghost, his Glock barking twice before the café erupted into chaos. People screamed and scrambled as tables overturned, coffee spilling like blood. Two agents fell, their bodies hitting the floor with sickening thuds, and Joshua didn’t give the others a chance.

By the time the last operative dropped, the café was eerily silent, save for the panicked whispers of bystanders.

You stared at him, your chest heaving.

“You just killed Syndicate agents,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“I know,” he said, his voice tight. He reached for your wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. “We need to go. Now.”

The rain outside was relentless, soaking you both as you ran. He didn’t let go of your wrist, and you didn’t pull away. The thread between you felt like a live wire, sparking with every step.

210 seconds… 209… 208…

The motel room was a piss-poor excuse for shelter - it was suffocatingly small, air thick with the dampness of your rain-soaked clothes. Joshua’s hair clung to his forehead, water rolling down his sharp jawline. He paced the room like a caged animal, his movements sharp with anger.

“You’re too reckless,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through the still air. “Do you even understand what you’re doing? What you’re risking?”

You crossed your arms, defiant despite the chill that had seeped into your bones. “I know exactly what I’m playing with. This flash drive? Erebus? It has the names of every agent in your Organization. Every. Single. One.”

His jaw tightened, and he stopped pacing to glare at you. “The Syndicate isn’t just some petty operation. Erebus has everything—data on every agent in the Organization, their families, their locations. Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out you have that?”

“What they’ll do to me?” you shot back. “What about what they’ve done to everyone on that list? I’m not just going to stand by and let them—”

“This isn’t some noble crusade!” he interrupted, his voice rising. “This is suicide.”

“And what’s your solution? Pretend it doesn’t exist? Turn me over? Let the Organization do what they want with me while the Syndicate kills every last one of you?”

The argument escalated, voices overlapping, words cutting deep. But beneath the anger, there was something else—fear. Fear of losing, of breaking, of being undone.

When Joshua finally stopped pacing, you realized how close he had gotten. His chest rose and fell with the weight of his breaths, his hands curling into fists at his sides as though he were holding himself back.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice low and strained. “If they catch you, they won’t just kill you. They’ll make you wish they had. And I can’t—” He cut himself off, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“Can’t what?” you demanded, your voice softer now but no less insistent.

His nails cut into the meat of his palm. The thread tugged, searing against his skin as he exhaled defeatedly.

“You need to leave,” he said, his voice raw and quiet.

“Why?” you demanded, refusing to look away.

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up to your eyes. “Because if you stay, I won’t let you go.”

The air between you was heavy, suffocating. Neither of you moved, but the tension pulled taut, the thread between you burning like fire against his skin.

And then it snapped.

He kissed you like a man unraveling, his mouth desperate and unrelenting against yours. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though proximity could fix whatever was broken inside him. You melted into him, matching his hunger with your own, your fingers tangling in the soaked fabric of his shirt.

Time blurred after that. The world outside ceased to exist, the rain pounding against the windows the only reminder that it hadn’t stopped spinning.

By the time dawn broke, the room was silent save for the faint sound of your breathing. Joshua stood by the door, fully dressed, his back turned to you. He didn’t look back as he stepped out into the rain, but the thread knotted around his finger burned brighter than ever, searing his skin with a pain he refused to acknowledge.

You woke to find the bed empty and the USB drive still clutched in your hand. He was gone, but the faint imprint of his touch lingered—on your skin, in your chest, and in the hollow ache he left behind.

180 seconds… 179… 178…

The present clawed its way back to him in sharp, agonizing bursts as Joshua lay sprawled on the rain-slick asphalt. Pain tore through his side, hot and searing, every breath shallow and wet. The alley spun in shades of black and gray, the rain streaking his face like tears he’d never shed. Blood pooled beneath him, thick and warm against the cold, uncaring ground.

And yet, it wasn’t the physical pain that consumed him.

It was the mistakes—the ghosts of every choice that had led him here.

They unraveled in his mind, one by one, sharp-edged memories that wouldn’t let him rest. The mission in Berlin: Joshua had been too slow, a fraction of a second of hesitation that had cost his partner a bullet to the leg. He could still hear the crack of gunfire, the way his partner’s shout of pain cut through the chaos, and the look of betrayal that followed. He’d apologized—of course he had—but in their line of work, an apology wasn’t enough. The Organization didn’t care about remorse; they cared about results.

Then Madrid. Joshua had miscalculated the Syndicate’s response time, thinking he had ten minutes when he only had five. The extraction had turned into a massacre, the Syndicate responding with brutal efficiency. Civilians—people with nothing to do with their mission—had been caught in the crossfire. Joshua had stayed up that night, staring at his trembling hands, the smell of blood still clinging to him. He hadn’t spoken about it, hadn’t dared to, but the faces of the innocent haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Seoul had been worse. The Syndicate asset had been within his grasp, mere feet away, but Joshua had underestimated their desperation. They’d slipped through his fingers with a single, calculated move, leaving him standing in an empty apartment with nothing to show for weeks of planning. He’d reported the failure with a steady voice, but inside, he felt the crushing weight of disappointment—the Organization’s and his own.

He could name every mistake, every failure, each one etched into his mind like a scar. And yet none of them—none of them—compared to the monumental fuck-up that had shattered everything.

Telling Sangyeon about the thread.

140 seconds… 139… 138…

It had been during a debrief, just days after the café incident. Joshua had killed two Syndicate operatives in broad daylight to protect you. The aftermath had been a whirlwind of blood and chaos, and somehow, through it all, he’d managed to get you to safety. He swore up and down he hadn’t seen you since.

But the Organization demanded answers.

He could still see the stark room where it happened, its fluorescent lights humming overhead. Sangyeon sat across from him, his expression cold and unreadable. The air between them was heavy with tension, suffocating in its intensity.

“You killed two Syndicate agents,” Sangyeon said, his tone sharp, cutting. “In public.”

“They were going to kill her,” Joshua had replied evenly, refusing to flinch under Sangyeon’s glare.

“Her.” The word lingered, dripping with accusation. “Nyx.”

“She’s not a target,” Joshua said, his jaw tight.

“No,” Sangyeon agreed. “She’s a liability. She holds the very thing that could kill us all.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Joshua could’ve deflected, could’ve buried the truth like he had so many times before. But the thread burned against his fingers, the weight of it too much to bear.

“It’s not just her,” Joshua said, his voice low. “It’s... the thread.”

Sangyeon’s brow furrowed. “The what?”

“The thread,” Joshua repeated, leaning forward. “It’s real. It’s... fate. It connects us.”

For the first time, Sangyeon faltered, his expression shifting from confusion to something darker. He leaned back in his chair, the lines of his face hardening. “You’re saying you’re tied to her. That you’re bound to her.”

Joshua nodded once, the motion stiff. “It doesn’t change anything. I’ve kept my work separate—”

“It changes everything,” Sangyeon snapped, slamming a hand on the table. “You’ve compromised yourself. You’ve compromised us.”

“I haven’t,” Joshua shot back, his voice rising. “I’d never betray the Organization.”

But Sangyeon’s laughter was cold and cruel, a sound that made Joshua’s stomach twist. “You already have,” Sangyeon said.

And then he reached into his jacket, pulling out a Glock. He placed it on the table with a slow, deliberate motion, the click of metal against wood reverberating in Joshua’s ears.

“Prove it,” Sangyeon said, his voice unnervingly calm. He gestured to the gun, his eyes piercing. “Prove your loyalty right now.”

Joshua froze, his pulse hammering in his ears. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air too thick to breathe.

“Kill her,” Sangyeon said, his tone colder than ice. “If the thread is nothing, if fate is meaningless, then prove it. Take the gun. End it.”

The words sliced through Joshua like a blade. His hand hovered over the weapon, trembling, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t force himself to move.

His mind betrayed him, flashing with images of you—your defiance, your laughter, the rare moments of vulnerability you’d shared. He thought of the thread on his finger, burning with a purpose he couldn’t deny.

“No,” Joshua said finally, his voice breaking.

Sangyeon’s jaw tightened, his disappointment a palpable weight. “I knew it,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You’re weak.”

Now, lying on the asphalt, Joshua clenched his jaw, the memory of Sangyeon’s words echoing in his head.

“You’re weak.”

The thread pulsed faintly, a cruel reminder of the one thing he could never sever, no matter how much he tried. Rain soaked through his clothes, his blood washing away in rivulets, but he clung to the memory of you.

The only thing he’d ever chosen over the Organization.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice a ragged breath lost to the storm.

120 seconds… 119… 118…

It took him days to find you again. The string tugged him south, sharper and more insistent than it had ever been before. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t slept in three days, that his ribs ached from a Syndicate operative’s well-placed kick, or that Sangyeon had started leaving bodies in his wake just to bait him. None of it mattered. The thread knew where you were, and Joshua had learned—finally, painfully—to trust it.

He found you in a dingy motel room in Bangkok, the kind of place where the sheets were stained and the walls were peeling, the fan overhead spinning lazily against the heat. The sight of you hit him like a punch to the gut. You were alive, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a laptop open, a half-eaten bowl of noodles on the nightstand. Relief surged through him so violently that he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself.

The door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment, there was silence—just the sound of the rain pattering against the cracked window and the faint hum of the overhead fan.

Then you moved.

Your hand flew to the gun on the nightstand, your instincts honed from years of survival. Joshua's hands shot up, palms open in surrender. “It’s me,” he said quickly, his voice low and soothing.

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the grip, before your eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And you shouldn’t still be in Bangkok,” he retorted, his words sharper than intended. “Do you have any idea how close they are?”

You glared at him, your expression hardening as you crossed your arms over your chest. “Close enough that you’ve led them straight to me?”

It was a low blow, but Joshua swallowed the sting. He stepped closer, shaking the rain from his jacket. “I didn’t lead them here. I came because I—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. “I came because you need to leave. Now.”

You didn’t move, didn’t flinch. If anything, your glare hardened. “Big talk from someone who left me in a shitty motel room.”

“I did it to protect you,” he countered, his voice breaking on the last word.

The argument spiraled quickly, your voices rising to fill the tiny room.

“You think I don’t know how to handle myself?” you snapped, your body tense, ready for a fight.

“Handle yourself? You’re a walking target, and you know it!” he fired back, his voice rising. “They’ll drag you back in chains if they don’t kill you outright.”

“And what’s your brilliant plan, huh? To swoop in and save me like you always do?”

“I’m trying to save us both!”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

You stared at him, your chest heaving with anger, and then shoved him, hard. “You don’t get to decide that for me, Joshua!”

He stumbled back a step, more stunned by the fury in your voice than the force of the push. But when you tried to step past him, he grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

You yanked your arm free, your eyes blazing. “You don’t own me.”

“I never said I did,” he shot back, his voice trembling. “But damn it, I—” He paused, running a hand through his soaked hair, struggling for words. “I can’t stand the thought of them getting their hands on you.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, but when he reached out to touch your arm, you didn’t pull away.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “This thread, this... connection. But I know that every time I think of you in pain, it kills me. And the thought of you in their clutches…” He shook his head, his hand tightening around your arm. “It makes me want to tear the world apart. So please, for once, just run.”

90 seconds… 89… 88…

His voice cracked, raw and desperate, and the room fell into silence.

You stared at him, your expression unreadable, before tilting your head. “Run where?”

“Anywhere,” he pleaded. “I’ll keep them off your trail. Just... go. Disappear.”

Your gaze softened ever so slightly, and for a moment, he thought you might relent. But then you asked quietly, “And what about you, soldier? Will you come with me?”

70 seconds… 69… 68…

The nickname hit him like a blow, dredging up memories of whispered conversations in coffee shops and fleeting touches, of a time when things had been simpler. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, the word a vow.

You nodded, swallowing hard, and moved to open the door.

That’s when you both saw him.

Sangyeon.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, but his expression was anything but relaxed. His eyes were cold, calculating, as they flicked from you to Joshua. “Going somewhere?” he asked, his voice smooth as silk.

Joshua’s heart sank.

60 seconds… 59… 58…

The rain came down in sheets, each drop striking your skin like tiny needles. Sangyeon’s voice echoed behind you as he shouted orders to his men, his tone sharp and commanding. He was close—too close. The three of you had been darting through the maze of alleys and narrow streets, but every turn seemed to bring his shadow closer. Joshua’s grip on your wrist tightened as he pulled you along, his pace relentless despite the exhaustion that clung to both of you. “We can’t outrun him forever,” you panted, glancing over your shoulder. The sight of Sangyeon’s silhouette closing in made your stomach twist.

Joshua didn’t respond, his jaw set in determination. His eyes darted around, scanning for an escape route. Finally, he spotted a low wall covered in ivy and debris, just high enough to give Sangyeon trouble but not impossible for the two of you.

“This way,” Joshua muttered, pulling you sharply to the left.

You reached the wall first, your breath hitching as you realized what he intended. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you hissed.

“No time to argue,” Joshua snapped. He bent slightly, locking his fingers together into a makeshift foothold. “Up.”

You hesitated, but the sound of Sangyeon’s boots splashing through the puddles behind you left no room for debate. Gritting your teeth, you stepped into Joshua’s hands, using his strength to launch yourself up and over the wall. You landed awkwardly on the other side, the USB clutched protectively in your hand.

Joshua scrambled up after you, his movements less fluid but just as urgent. As soon as he hit the ground, he grabbed your arm again, tugging you forward. “Keep moving,” he said, his voice low and urgent.

The two of you ran, weaving through the labyrinth of alleyways, but Sangyeon was like a wolf on the hunt, his presence a constant pressure on your backs. You could hear him yelling into his radio, summoning reinforcements.

Joshua’s steps faltered as he realized the inevitable: there was no escaping Sangyeon together. His lungs burned, every breath a knife in his chest, but he pushed through the pain, his mind racing.

45 seconds… 44… 43…

“Stop!” he suddenly barked, pulling you to a halt.

“What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice rising in panic. “He’s right behind us!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to memorize every detail. His hair was plastered to his forehead, rivulets of rain carving paths down his cheeks.

“I know,” he said, cupping your face in his hands. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, even as his eyes searched yours desperately. “I know, but listen to me.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the look on his face stopped you cold.

“I need you to run,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Don’t look back. No matter what you hear, just keep running.”

You shook your head, your hands gripping his jacket. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You have to,” he insisted, his thumbs brushing the rain from your cheeks. “I’ll find you, I swear. But if Sangyeon catches you…” He trailed off, his voice choking on the thought.

Your lips parted, words hovering on the edge, but he didn’t let you speak. Instead, he kissed you.

33 seconds… 32… 31…

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—this was the kind of kiss born of desperation, of finality. His lips crashed against yours with an urgency that left you breathless, his hands sliding to the back of your neck to hold you close. The rain slicked your skin, mingling with the tears you didn’t realize you’d shed.

His kiss was everything he couldn’t say.

I’ll protect you. I’ll find you. I’ll love you, one day. When we have time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

“I’ll find you,” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Before you could protest, he shoved you away. “Go!”

For once, you listened.

You stumbled, your heart twisting as his hand slipped from yours. For once, you listened. You turned and ran, clutching the USB to your chest, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the rain.

Joshua stayed frozen, watching until you disappeared into the darkness. Then he turned, his hand dropping to the knife at his side as Sangyeon stepped into the alley.

25 seconds… 24… 23…

“Well,” Sangyeon drawled, his voice laced with mockery. “I didn’t think you’d stoop this low, Joshua. Running off with her? Betraying everything for—what, love?”

Joshua didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, he lunged.

The fight was brutal from the start.

Joshua lunged first, catching Sangyeon off guard with a shoulder tackle that slammed him into the wall. But Sangyeon recovered quickly, driving his elbow into Joshua’s ribs with enough force to make him stagger.

“Still as reckless as ever,” Sangyeon sneered, dodging a wild swing and countering with a sharp punch to Joshua’s jaw.

Joshua spat blood, his eyes blazing as he charged again. This time, he feinted left and struck right, his fist connecting with Sangyeon’s temple. The blow sent Sangyeon reeling, but he didn’t go down. Instead, he kicked out, catching Joshua’s knee and sending him to the ground.

Sangyeon didn’t waste a second. He grabbed Joshua by the collar, hauling him up and slamming him against the wall.

“You’d throw everything away for her?” he hissed, his breath hot against Joshua’s face.

Joshua snarled, shoving him back with all his strength. “You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

Sangyeon’s laugh was cold, cruel. “Oh, I know enough. And when I bring her in, I’ll make sure she’s in chains. You can watch every second of it.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. Joshua froze, his blood turning to ice.

20 seconds… 19… 18…

That moment of hesitation cost him.

Sangyeon drove his fist into Joshua’s stomach, doubling him over, and then swept his legs out from under him. Joshua hit the ground hard, the asphalt tearing at his skin.

Before he could recover, Sangyeon pulled out his gun.

The muzzle flash lit up the rain.

10...Joshua's eyes fluttered open, barely. The pain—the sharp, blinding agony in his chest—wasn’t there anymore. It was strange, almost peaceful. His body felt weightless, as if the rain had washed him clean of everything, even his senses. So this is it, he thought. This is where it ends.

9...Out of the corner of his vision, the red thread glimmered faintly against the darkness, slick with rain but unbroken. He had forgotten about it until now, a lifeline he hadn’t dared to hope for. It felt absurd, this fragile thing tethering him to someone in a moment like this. And yet, without fully understanding why, he reached for it. His fingers were trembling, weak, but they managed to curl around the string.

And then, he tugged.

8...The thread pulsed, faint and distant, like a heartbeat far away. Joshua blinked through the haze clouding his vision, confusion prickling at the edges of his fading mind. Was it always this warm? The rain poured harder, soaking him to the bone, yet the thread seemed to thrum with something else entirely—something alive. He could feel it pulling back, gentle but insistent.

7...Images began to flicker in his mind - a life that he so desperately wished to be his: your laugh echoing on a summer night, your hand in his as you pulled him through a crowd, the softness of your gaze when you thought he wasn’t looking. Each one burned brighter than the last, brighter than the rain-soaked world around him.

6...He heard it then—footsteps. They were frantic, splashing through puddles, growing louder with every heartbeat. His grip on the thread tightened instinctively, the pulse of it quickening in response.

Was it you?

5...“Joshua!”

Your voice cut through the storm, raw and desperate. His heart lurched at the sound, even as his body refused to move. It was you—he knew it was you. He wanted to call out, to tell you to stop, to stay back. But no words came.

4...The thread flared, glowing like fire, as your hand found his face. The warmth of your touch spread through him, chasing away the cold, the darkness, the fear. It was grounding, anchoring him to the world he thought he was leaving behind.

3...“Joshua,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. He felt the hot sting of your tears against his skin, mingling with the rain. “You need to fight. Do you hear me? You need to fight!”

His lips parted, but no sound escaped. He wanted to say your name, to tell you he was trying. He wanted to tell you everything.

2...“Soldier!” you screamed, your voice fierce and trembling all at once. “Wake up!”

Something inside him stirred—an ember reigniting. The thread between you burned white-hot, a tether he wasn’t ready to let go of yet. Not now. Not like this.

1...Joshua felt your hand shake against his face, your tears slipping over his lips as they parted slightly. He wanted to answer, wanted to give you something—anything—but his body betrayed him. The warmth of your hand began to fade, the glow of the thread flickering like a dying lightbulb.

He tried to move, to hold onto you, but everything felt heavy, as if the earth itself had decided to bury him in its arms. Your sobs were the last thing he heard clearly, breaking apart with a rawness that pierced deeper than the bullet ever could.

“Joshua,” you choked out one last time, his name a plea, a prayer, a demand.

But the world was already gone.

Joshua’s eyes flutter open, the harsh fluorescent lights above blinding him for a moment. The world is blurry at first, a smear of color and sound, like he’s waking from some fevered dream. He doesn’t feel the weight of pain anymore. In fact, he doesn't feel much of anything, save for a subtle warmth spreading across his palm.

The thread.

The faint pulse against his skin is all it takes to bring him fully back to reality. It burns, but in a way that makes him feel alive—makes him feel like he didn’t just escape death. Like he’s been given another chance.

He turns his head slowly, wincing at the movement, and there you are. You’re slumped in a chair next to the bed, your head resting against the edge. Your fingers are intertwined with his, holding on to him with the kind of tenderness that feels unreal. His heart beats faster, a familiar warmth spreading through his chest. Is this real?

He squeezes your hand instinctively, half because he’s convinced he’s dreaming and half because he’s sure he’s entirely undeserving of this second chance.

The moment his fingers tighten, you stir. Your eyes flicker open, disoriented at first. Then you meet his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you moves. It’s like time itself is holding its breath.

But then, without warning, you lunge forward, your hand flying out to smack him across the face with a force he didn’t know you had in you.

“If you ever,” you hiss, your voice low and threatening, your eyes sharp with something that could easily pass for murderous rage, “do some stupid shit like that again, I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

Joshua blinks, stunned into silence for a moment. He half expects you to break down in tears, but instead, you're breathing hard, your face flushed with fury.

A chuckle escapes him, soft at first, but it grows, shaking his chest, almost delirious with the relief that floods him. The laughter feels like freedom. Like the sun breaking through clouds. And that’s when you breathe out, your body visibly relaxing. You lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply, as if letting go of a breath you’d been holding for far too long.

Then, without missing a beat, you smile—wide, so wide, that Joshua is certain the sun couldn’t compete. It’s pure, unbridled joy, the kind of smile he hasn’t seen from you in what feels like forever.

You lean down, kissing him softly, the kiss tender and sweet, as if he’s fragile, as if the world could break him again at any moment.

“Welcome back, soldier,” you breathe against his lips, your voice warm with affection.

He smiles faintly, the corners of his lips curling up. "Where are we?" he asks softly, his voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep.

“Some hospital in Bangkok,” you say, your hand sliding to his cheek, gently cupping it as you meet his eyes. “Pretty sure I scared the staff half to death when I dragged you in here.”

He laughs quietly, his body still too sore to do much else. “I’m sure you did.” He pauses, something lingering between you both. He studies the way the light from the window catches the strands of your hair, the way you seem so alive, so full of strength despite everything. "What do we do now?"

You don’t say anything at first. Instead, you pull out a set of passports from your bag, holding them out to him. The photos are undeniably of the two of you, but the names... they’re someone else’s. The last names match.

He raises an eyebrow, his lips curving up in a teasing smile. “Are we brother and sister?” he asks, his voice light.

You smack him again, but it’s gentler this time, laced with affection. “If you want to keep joking, I’ll slap you again,” you warn, but there’s a warmth in your eyes.

“Then what do you say, soldier?" you ask with a grin. "Wanna see Kyoto in the fall?"

Joshua leans back, chuckling, despite the sore ache in his body. "I told you, you’d hate the humidity."

"And you'd hate the crowds," you tease right back. "But is that a yes?"

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he hums against your lips, the sound full of quiet amusement. He pulls you in for another kiss, his hands sliding to your back, pulling you closer.

Later, after a few quiet hours, once you’ve crawled into bed beside him, Joshua’s hand rests against your waist, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. The heart monitor is the only sound in the room, its rhythmic beeping the only proof that he’s still here, still alive.

“You asked me once,” Joshua says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “If my fate felt like a noose.”

You nod slowly, tracing the outline of his hand with your fingers. “And? Does it?”

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, lost in thought. Then he turns his head, looking at you with a quiet intensity. “No,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “It feels like life.”

You don’t speak right away, letting the words sink in, letting them settle between you like an unspoken truth. Then you smile, a soft, knowing smile, and kiss him once more, gentle and full of promise.

And as you close your eyes in the silence of the room, the only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall, counting up slowly, a reminder that time, even after everything, keeps moving forward.

1... 2... 3...

tagging: @ottersmind @blvenote @kyeomsworld @cookiearmy @armycarat2612 @rjea @xylatox @flwrshwa

@christinewithluv @headlockimnida @letwiiparkjay @cherr-y-eji @codeinbelle @baguette-atiny @whoa-jo @noiceoofed

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billy-crudup · 11 months ago

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You used to be a cop. It’s the stance. The walk. The shoes. Not to mention the standard-issue Glock, the shoulder holster, and he used police hand signals back at the house. Not a street cop. No. Too smart. You need to be in control. So I’m gonna say detective. Homicide or vice. And he tries to hide it, but he’s from Queens. Probably only been up here a few years. DAN STEVENS as FRANK in ABIGAIL (2024) dir. Matt Bettinelli-Olpin & Tyler Gillett

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pathologicalreid · 1 year ago

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could you do a third part to buried alive where the reader finally gets a bit better and goes out into the field for the first time and then the team goes and gets drinks after bc they are so proud of her :) -🌱

back again | S.R.

part one | part two

in which you go back into the field (and kick ass)

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category? angst and then fluff

content warnings: established relationship. PTSD undertones. guns and physical fighting. reader is paired with morgan and kicks ass. usual cm case stuff. going to a bar and alcohol consumption. use of 'ass'. reader is referred to as a girl.

word count: 1.8k

a/n: hey anon i love you!!! i never expected people to like this story so much, but im so grateful i hope you enjoy!! thanks for reading <3 don't forget to like and reblog <3333333333

It felt good. Standing outside of a suspect's house with Morgan felt normal to you, having your firearm holstered, felt right.

He was trying to get ahold of the team, but the two of you were far from the town and, apparently, cell service. “The call keeps dropping, but they know where we are. They should be on their way,” he told you, getting out of the car. “If you’re uncomfortable going in, you don’t have to.”

You rolled your eyes and got out of the SUV. “I’ve got your back,” you responded self-assuredly. It was your first case back in the field, and besides, you weren’t about to let Derek walk into the lion's den alone.

Despite your attempt at confidence, you hadn’t planned on going to a suspect's house. The two of you had been on your way back from talking to a victim’s family, meaning you didn’t have vests. “I know you do,” Morgan confirmed, removing his sunglasses and snapping the temples down. “Go around back, I’ll take the front,” he said.

Nodding, you unholstered your weapon and kept it pointed toward the ground, you took a deep breath before wrapping around the white farmhouse.

Paranoid thoughts pelted your brain. Did you remember to shut off your phone’s ringer? What if the suspect had a gun? What if the information you were given was wrong and you didn’t have probable cause?

You shook your head, peeking in through the open blinds, you saw the kitchen. The town you were in was on the smaller side, and the only thing that surrounded you was farmland. You saw movement out of the corner of your eye and wished you had been given more time to prepare, having comms right now would be remarkably helpful.

Approaching the back door, you leaned against the siding before reaching over and turning the doorknob. It was already unlocked, which could either be a good thing or a bad thing. You swung the door open and stepped inside the house, pointing your Glock around the kitchen, you saw Morgan entering the living room in your peripheral vision. “Clear!” You called out, and shortly after, Morgan called the same.

Once you had cleared the main floor, Morgan moved upstairs and you moved downstairs, pulling your flashlight from your belt, you pointed it down the steps.

“Jackson Fike this is the FBI,” you called, making yourself known. You reached the bottom of the stairs, just to see another door, wide open. “Damn it,” you cursed, “Morgan, he’s running!” You shouted, hoping your voice would be able to carry up two flights of stairs.

You pocketed your flashlight and took off running out the door. Distantly, you saw a man fitting the suspect's description sprinting towards the woods. Without a second thought, you followed, expecting Derek to be not far behind you.

Thankfully, it was still light outside, the scent of the damp earth filled your senses, but it didn’t overwhelm you. You wouldn’t let it.

You skidded to a halt in the forest, keeping your back to a tree so you could be attacked from behind, “Jackson Fike, you can’t keep running like this. You know as well as I do that the road ends here.” You spoke loudly, hoping he heard you from wherever he had disappeared into the woods.

His choices here boiled down to giving himself up or being on the run for the rest of his life. Based on the profile the team had put together, he would never be able to leave this town. Not by choice, at least.

The snap of a twig gave his location away, you twisted your body in the direction of the noise. Your ears perked up like a bloodhound. “Jackson, if you come with me and tell me where the girls are, maybe I could see about keeping you close to home. Close to your house, that’s what’s important, right?” You tried to negotiate with him. You didn’t know if he was armed, but you did know that suicide by cop wasn’t in his profile. It was also less paperwork if you cuffed him without a fight.

“You can’t make me that promise, agent,” he responded. His voice was gravelly despite only being in his late thirties. “Why would I negotiate with a fed when I could just kill one instead?” He asked.

His question sent a chill down your spine all the way down to where your handcuffs rested on your back. “You’re right,” you ceded, “You’d be worshipped in prison for killing a fed, but why take that chance?”

In a flash, the UnSub smacked your wrist, causing a misfire into the trees, and making your weapon hit the ground.

That was fine, your marksmanship was good enough to pass your qualifications, but hand-to-hand was where you really excelled. He charged at you, but you jumped out of the way.

Closer to the farmhouse you heard voices, but you didn’t let yourself get distracted. Instead, you used your one boxing lesson with JJ and kicked. The inside of your foot provided enough surface to daze your opponent, he stumbled around, and you made sure to keep both of your feet firmly planted to the ground.

He swung back, but you ducked just in time to feel the breeze of his swing against your face. In response, you swung back, hitting him across the face.

Jackson retaliated, using both hands to push you into a tree, crushing your shoulder but not doing anything to stop you from throwing another hit, striking him on the head, and causing him to fall to the ground. He groaned as you crouched down and pulled your cuffs out, fastening them around his wrists.

As you read him his rights, the local police and the rest of your team approached you. Emily looked at you warily, Spencer was searching for injuries, but Morgan was grinning. He was like a giddy little kid who had heard the ice cream truck turn on his street.

Handing off the UnSub to a local, you eyed Morgan suspiciously, “What are you smiling at?” You asked, rotating your shoulder in a failed attempt to make it feel better.

“You took that guy down,” Derek said, gesturing to where the police officer was now taking the UnSub.

Confused, you shrugged, “Yeah, and?”

He laughed again, “Oh, you are so back, pretty girl.”

A flight later, you were hunched over takedown paperwork, something you certainly hadn’t missed during your time away from the field. At the desk adjacent to yours, Spencer was flipping through a book, waiting for you so you could go home.

After initialing each page and signing the last one, you placed the papers into the confidential file. Going up the stairs to Hotch’s office, you knocked on the door, “Come in.”

You stepped into the office and reached over to hand him the file, “My takedown paperwork for Jackson Fike.”

He nodded, the stern look on his face fading as he looked at you, “You did impressive work today, Y/L/N. By taking the initiative to arrest Fike, you saved the three girls he had captive.”

Shrugging, you fiddled with his nameplate, “I just did what felt right.”

“Other agents would’ve shot him, and it would’ve been justified, but you didn’t,” Hotch said, raising his eyebrows. “It’s good to see you out in the field again,” he told you in that fatherly, parental tone of his.

You looked out the window of his office, “It’s good to be back out, sir.” Watching as the rest of the team gathered back into the bullpen, “I thought everyone had already left?”

Hotch set your file down and stood from his desk, “I believe they were all waiting for you in Garcia’s office.”

Confused, you walked outside of the office and down the steps, “Hey?” You said cautiously, looking around at everyone, “What’s going on?” You looked at Spencer, but he just shrugged like he didn’t know any more than you did.

“We,” Derek said, “are going to O’Keefe’s,” he said, grinning as you reached over your desk to grab your bag and your coat.

Shoving your arms through the sleeves of your coat, you looked at the team curiously, “I’m getting the sense that I don’t have much of a choice in this outing.”

Grinning, Penelope excitedly walked towards you, looping her arm through yours and leading you out of the bullpen, “you don’t!”

You laughed, looking back at Spencer, who was just smiling at you. It wasn’t in your nature to turn down what Emily called ‘team bonding’, so the lot of you went to the familiar bar, a place you hadn’t been in nearly four months.

At the same table as always, standing room only with the eight of you, Rossi paid for all of your preferred drinks. Something you had learned to not protest over the years, as long as he was there, he’d never let you pay for your drinks.

Casually, Spencer had his arm around your waist, the two of you were more affectionate outside of the office. “How’s your shoulder?” He asked, gently skimming the pad of his thumb over the sensitive skin. Naturally, Spencer didn’t say anything in front of the team when you mentioned being shoved into a tree, but behind closed doors, he had asked to take a look at it.

You hummed in response, leaning into his touch, “Better, just bruised a bit.”

He dropped his hand back down to your waist, “good,” he whispered, ducking his head, and pressing a kiss to your cheek, causing you to smile.

Grabbing your attention, Derek cleared his throat and raised his glass in your general direction. “Tonight is about you, pretty girl,” he said, causing everyone else to turn to you. Your cheeks burned, “not only did you kick some UnSub ass, but you threw yourself back into the field after months on the sidelines.”

At your side, Spencer squeezed your hip, you were grinning like a fool.

“It has been an honor to be able to watch you reclaim yourself. I, for one, am proud of that accomplishment,” Morgan continued. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, too.”

You nodded enthusiastically, “Thank you. All of you, really.” You reached forward where everyone was clinking their glasses before taking a sip. Setting your glass down, you turned and looked at Spencer, “I love you,” you whispered to him.

He dropped a kiss to your lips, earning a whoop from Garcia. When he pulled away, he smiled at you softly, “I love you too.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid whump #spencer reid hurt/comfort #spencer reid angst #david rossi #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #written by margot #margot's asks #criminal minds angst

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 10 months ago

Text

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 3: The Ones Who Died Without A Name]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Holiday” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

The Tahoe runs out of gas just west of Ashland, Ohio, coasting to a stop along the shoulder of State Route 96, sapphire skies and cotton ball cumulus clouds, emerald fields of Swiss chard and beets slowly being nibbled bare by deer and rabbits, the inheritors of an abandoned earth.

“Well, that’s it,” Baela says, offhand, blasé, as if it’s not a disaster. You’ve sorted this out, it didn’t take long: there are people who aren’t allowed to panic. If they do, it’ll be like a dam crumbling, and the flood will burst through to drown everything, like when Noah’s wrathful God decided it was time for the world to start over. Baela can’t panic. Aemond can’t panic. And maybe you can’t either. Rio gives you a skeptical look—Are we really about to walk to Oregon?—and you slap his thigh encouragingly as you climb over him and out of the Tahoe.

“Everyone gets a gun,” Aemond says as he starts distributing them: Rugers for Rhaena, Baela, and Helaena (although she winces as she obediently takes the revolver, immediately tucking it away into her burlap messenger bag), .22s for Daeron and Aegon, Remington 12 gauges for Jace and Rio, who gives you his M9. You’re better with it anyway. Aemond’s Glock 20 is in a handmade leather holster he took from the cellar of the house back in Distant, Pennsylvania. Luke, still a potential zombie, will not be armed; but Aemond slings the strap of a .22 over his own shoulder for in case Luke recovers.

“Safeties on, right kids?” Rio goes down the line checking everyone’s gun. “Remember what we practiced, use your sights, don’t go pointing the barrel at anyone unless you’re okay with blowing a hole in them. The noise is risky, but getting bit is worse, so use your best judgment.”

“I don’t have any of that,” Aegon says, grinning.

Rio grabs Aegon’s sunburned face roughly and smacks a kiss onto his cheek. “I know, Honey Bun. Don’t you worry. Stick close and I’ll do your thinking for you.”

You spy it up the road a ways on the right, half-obscured by tree limbs: a white and orange sign, a logo shaped like a diamond. “Oh my God. It’s a Stewart’s.”

“A what?” Aemond asks, squinting at the sign. It’s late afternoon, and soon the sun will be sinking into the west like a drowning man through deep water, and like all prey animals you are restless without the promise of shelter.

“A Stewart’s Root Beer. They used to sell hot dogs and barbeque and all these neat soda flavors like key lime and black cherry. We had one where I grew up. That was the fancy place. You knew it was a good day if you ended up at Stewart’s for dinner.”

Aemond considers you, that subtle ceaseless curiosity. “We can stay the night there.”

“I thought we didn’t want to waste any daylight, Aemond,” Jace jabs as he helps Luke—miserable but presently human—out of the Tahoe. “That’s what you said when I wanted to check out that Barnes & Noble, Aemond.”

“What the hell do you need books for?” Aegon says. He’s grabbing clear CD cases out of the center console of the Tahoe. He pounds on the eject button and then punches the CD player when he realizes he won’t be getting that particular disk back. “Oh, you bitch! I had Shakira on there!”

“I would like to preserve my ability to read at higher than a fifth-grade level. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I was going to work for Sullivan & Cromwell, you know.”

“And now you’re a jobless loser just like me. Isn’t life funny?”

“You can’t be serious,” Baela says to Aegon, his arms full of CD cases. “You’re going to carry all those to California? You don’t even have a way to listen to them.”

“I’m not leaving my mixtapes.” Aegon shoves them into a U.S. Army backpack he found at Fort Indiantown Gap and then hoists it onto his back with a grunt.

Aemond tells Jace: “We only have a few hours until the sun starts going down. We don’t know what’s up ahead. We should take advantage of a safe place to sleep if it’s available. Getting caught out in the open after dark is the worst case scenario.”

“Whatever, Aemond. It’s your call. Everything is your fucking call.” Then Jace plods out into a field of rabbit-ravaged Swiss chard to relieve himself semi-privately, his back to the Tahoe.

“Hey, Chips Ahoy,” Aegon says, taking the folded-up map out of the pocket of his shorts, mint green plaid. “Want to tell me if there are any nuclear power plants near our route so we can steer clear of them and not get irradiated?”

“Uh, well, I don’t exactly have them all memorized…” You examine the map, hoping the black-ink cities will jog your memory, trivia you catalogued years ago, snippets you’ve heard from your fellow seamen. “Perry’s in Cleveland. We won’t be anywhere near that one. Fermi is up by Detroit.” You hesitate as your fingertips skate past Chicago. “Braidwood, LaSalle, and Byron are someplace between Chicago and Peoria, but I’m not sure where. And then there are a few others around the border of Illinois and Iowa. West of that, I don’t know. Rio?”

“Cooper’s in Nebraska, dead east of Lincoln. That’s all I got.”

Aegon is nodding, making notes on his map with a glittery forest green gel pen. “Cool, cool. If I don’t end up eaten or a zombie, I can look forward to being a sterile, glow-in-the-dark mutant.”

Luke frets: “What if we accidentally drink contaminated water or something?”

“Then you die an agonizing death, kiddo,” Rio says. “Your cells dissolve and you turn into human Jello and there’s nothing anybody can do about it.”

Luke swallows noisily. “Awesome.”

“You might just get cancer if the dose is small enough,” you tell him. Luke does not seem pacified. Rhaena gives him a sip of warm Coca-Cola from a plastic bottle from the Wawa.

Jace comes trudging back to the road, zipping up his khaki chino shorts. “Alright, are we ready?”

Helaena is gazing solemnly out over the fields of green leaves, red roots that grow like arteries into the soil. “We should try to find antivenom.”

“Antivenom?” Aemond asks, distracted as he makes sure nothing of importance was left in the Tahoe. The keys are still dangling from the ignition; you won’t need them. There’s no breathing the Tahoe back to life. There’s no returning to Aemond’s house back in Boston. There is only the West, beckoning you to cross rivers and plains and mountains to join her, and to do it as people did two hundred years ago, no cars, no phones, no escape hatches. The only way out is through.

“For the snakes,” Helaena says.

Aemond stares at her. The stitches in his face are dissolving as the flesh weaves back together, jagged maroon scar tissue, beautiful savage ruins, landscapes of improbable survival. “Helaena, antivenom has to be refrigerated. Even if we miraculously found some, it wouldn’t be useable.”

She nods, eyes wide and glazed, still peering into the fields, into the earth.

~~~~~~~~~~

A hand brushing the loose strands of hair out of your face, a whisper through the dissipating indigo of sleep: “Guess what today is.”

You startle awake and yelp as you bolt from your assailant. Aegon is watching you without any shame whatsoever. People are laughing as they gather up supplies so you all can get moving again, brushing teeth, arranging hair, drinking glass bottles of Stewart’s soda found last night in crates in the storeroom, snacking on bags of Utz chips. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows; specks of dust glimmer in the air like comets through the inhospitable void of outer space.

Luke says from where he is sitting on the floor, his arms and legs tethered: “Hopefully the day when somebody’s going to untie me.”

“It’s my birthday!” Aegon announces.

You’re still blinking at him, disoriented. “What…?”

“Aegon, I told you,” Aemond says, sipping a bottle of Stewart’s key lime soda. “It’s not your birthday. It’s not the 23rd.”

“It’s the 20th, right?” Rhaena says.

Rio looks to you, bewildered. “Isn’t it like the 25th?”

“We’re still in June?” Luke says. Now Aemond is hacking through his ropes with a hunting knife from the cellar in Distant, Pennsylvania.

“Your hand is healing up. Your color is good, your temperature is normal. I guess we can officially declare you human for the foreseeable future.”

“I knew it,” Jace says, combative so no one will see the desperate relief underneath.

Aemond examines your hands next, calloused over where the heat of the transmission tower burned the skin. There is no pretext for needing to tend to them any longer, no antiseptic or ointment or gauze. Aemond nods somberly at your palms, as if he isn’t entirely happy to pronounce them cured. His hands linger on yours for slow, unnecessary seconds.

“So what are we going to do special for my birthday?” Aegon presses eagerly.

“We’re going to walk between ten and twenty miles towards California,” Baela says.

“That’s not a birthday activity!”

Daeron groans as he inspects the screws and bolts of his compound bow. “Aegon, it’s not your birthday!”

“Shut up. You can’t even apply to get a credit card.”

“No one can get a credit card now! Currency is worthless!”

Rio offers you a cherries and cream soda. You take it and say: “Aegon, how old are you? On today, your alleged birthday?”

He hesitates. “That’s not the important part.”

Aemond smiles as he tells you, mock-whispering: “He’s thirty.”

“Thirty?!” Rio exclaims. “That’s like, an actual adult age. Marriage and a mortgage, shit like that. What were you doing before everything went insane?”

Aegon gestures vaguely. “I was considering a number of opportunities.”

“He was living on my couch,” Aemond says.

Rio shakes his head, grinning. “No job? No school? No nothing?”

“I wasn’t doing nothing. I played a lot of golf.”

“He was totally doing nothing,” Jace says. “I was in my third year of law school at Harvard, Baela was getting a master’s in Aeronautics and Astronautics at MIT, Rhaena just started an Anthropology PhD, Luke was getting a master’s in Screenwriting at Boston University—he was going to be very sad and very broke, but still, he had a plan—and Aegon was doing…nothing.”

“I’ve never had a real birthday party before,” Aegon tells you; and there is something in his murky blue eyes that is tremendously sad, wounded, childlike. “I might not get another chance.”

“What do you want to do?” Now people are alarmed, skittish glances and mouths open to object. You are encouraging him.

“I don’t know yet,” Aegon says. But he’s glad you bothered to ask. You can see it on his face.

It’s not until several hours later—after noon, the sun high and blazing, everyone’s unpracticed feet aching and blistering in their shoes—that Aegon experiences a revelation like the angel Gabriel appearing to the Virgin Mary or Sir Isaac Newton extrapolating gravity from an apple falling on his head. Aegon’s epiphany appears in the form of a bowling alley in Shenandoah, Ohio called Luxury Lanes. It is remarkably unluxurious, a nondescript black rectangular building with a few doors in the front, one small tinted window on each, and no other openings. To Aegon, it is an oasis in a desert.

“I want to go bowling!”

“Aegon, we’re not going bowling,” Baela says, breathing heavily but trying to hide it, her hands massaging the small of her back. Aemond is watching her worriedly. Baela is the only person not burdened with carrying any supplies beyond her hammer and shiny new Ruger—and she resisted this accommodation at first—but still, she suffers more than anyone.

“Once again, it is my birthday—”

“Aren’t bowling allies soundproofed?” Rio asks Aemond. “You know, so they don’t get noise complaints?”

“Uh, I guess so…?”

“It’s kind of a fortress, isn’t it?” Rio continues. “Not many ways in or out. We wouldn’t be seen or heard. Might be a good place to stop for the night. ”

“Yeah!” Aegon says. “Right, Aemond?”

Aemond looks at you. It takes you a moment to figure out why. “I think the bowling alley is a good idea,” you tell him. “It’ll be safe, assuming we can clear it. And Aegon can have his party.”

Aemond is skeptical. “A party?”

“Survival isn’t just about not dying. It’s also about holding onto the things that make us human.”

“Like bowling!” Rhaena says excitedly. “It’s preserving a tradition! And I used to be so good at bowling. I bowled a 250 game once.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Aegon says, still delighted to have her on his side.

“There’s a sign for a Walmart maybe half a mile up the road,” Daeron points out. “We could search it for supplies and then double back here.”

Aemond polls the audience. Everyone agrees.

Shenandoah is tiny, rural, religious, and out of the way from the major highways. The Walmart doors are chained shut with padlocks, and amazingly no one has taken that as an invitation to drive their car through them or otherwise shatter the glass yet. Rio is honored to be the first. He takes the butt of his Remington shotgun and punches through the glass of the locked doors, kicks away loose shards, whistles and shouts to lure out any zombies. A dozen of them come reeling out of the aisles and towards the doorway. Daeron shoots down most of them with his compound bow. Rio kills two with the butt of his Remington, his new favorite toy. Aegon, the birthday boy, uses his golf club to beat in the skull of a teenager who is still wearing glittery pink nail polish and fake eyelashes. According to her nametag, her friends and family once called her Raelynn.

Inside the Walmart, Jace and Aemond take one side of the store, you and Rio the other, doing a quick sweep to make sure you didn’t miss any undead employees or customers waiting for the chance to sink their teeth into you. And when that’s done, you begin shopping.

The shelves are probably two-thirds empty, but there are still treasures to be found. You push carts through the aisles and fill them with candles, lighters, Chef Boyardee, Doritos, canned soup, fruit snacks, tuna pouches, 5 gum, bottles of Snapple, socks and underwear, hair ties, t-shirts and shorts, Kleenex tissues, pads and tampons, toilet paper. Baela finds some cute maternity dresses. Helaena picks through the pharmacy for useful medications, Aemond shadowing her with a baseball bat in his hands and his Glock at his waist.

“Chips, they got Cheddar Whales!” Rio exclaims, tossing several boxes into your cart.

“I miss grocery stores,” Rhaena says as she climbs the shelves to get the last box of Teddy Grahams.

“I miss going to the mall and getting Auntie Anne’s pretzel nuggets,” Aegon commiserates. Then he stumbles upon the liquor aisle and his eyes light up like high beams. “Aemond!”

Aemond appears—perhaps a bit flustered—and deliberates for a while as he browses the selection, Aegon waiting anxiously, before he decides: “Since it is allegedly your birthday, you can drink tonight. And you can pick one other person to drink with you. But only one.”

“Rio,” Aegon says immediately.

“Come on!” Daeron whines.

Aegon is already putting bottles of Captain Morgan rum into a cart. “Sorry. Illegal. Underage.”

“I’ve helped you butcher countless zombies, but I can’t drink?!”

“Just Say No, as Nancy Reagan would tell an innocent child such as yourself.”

Jace strides over, sly and playful, gnawing on a Twizzler. “Aemond, were you over there rummaging through the medicine aisles again? What do you keep looking for? Condoms?”

There is an awkward silence, an extremely awkward silence. Aemond glares at Jace. Jace’s eyes go wide.

“Oh, I, uh…I was definitely joking. But…congrats on the possible future sex!”

“I already checked,” Luke tells Aemond apologetically. “You know condoms were the first thing to get bought up or looted everywhere.”

“Okay, great,” Aemond says quickly, willing the conversation to be over. There is blood, hot and mortified, flaring in his cheeks. He was thinking of you, he had to be; the only other single woman here is his sister, and obviously that’s not an option.

Jace takes another bite of his Twizzler. “Just pull out, man.”

Baela, incredulous, gestures to her belly. “Because that worked out super well for us.”

��I told you to stop riding me!”

“Yeah, a whole two seconds before you impregnated me with your super-swimmer Michael Phelps sperm.”

“Please don’t make me listen to this,” Luke begs. “I’m starting to wish I really was bitten.”

“Don’t you know all the tricks to not getting someone pregnant, Aemond?” Jace says. “Wasn’t that going to be your specialty? You wanted to be a vagina doctor? So don’t you know all the mysteries of the vagina, Aemond?”

“He was going to be an OB/GYN,” Baela says, unamused.

“Really?” Rio turns to Aemond. “Why would you want to do that?”

“So he gets to look at pussies all day,” Aegon says morosely, as if heartbroken that such a path is inaccessible to him.

“That’s not why,” Aemond insists, mostly to you.

You smile. “I didn’t think so. What’s the actual reason?”

“Interns do rotations in different departments so we can figure out what we enjoy and what we’re best suited for. I knew within two days of my OB/GYN rotation that that’s where I wanted to be. Giving birth is the only life-threatening trauma that is necessary for humanity to continue. I wanted to help people get through it as safely and painlessly as possible.” Then his gaze darts to Baela. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it sound worse—”

“No, it’s okay, I’m very much aware. It hurts like hell, people die. Believe me, I’d be thinking about that even if you hadn’t said it. I think about it all the time.”

“I have an idea you’re not going to like.”

“What?” Baela says. Aemond nods to the nearest shopping cart. “No way. You’re not going to push me around in one of those.”

“I believe it’s an adequate solution until an alternative appears.”

She sighs. “I’ve lost my body, my career, my society, my parents…must I lose my dignity too?”

Aemond winks. “Only when you’re too tired to walk.”

“Alright, Aemond. I realize you’re under the impression that this is a favor. So thank you.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Let me give you a favor in return.” Then Baela begins shooing everyone except you and Aemond out of the liquor aisle. “Grab anything else you want, we’re leaving in five minutes! Jace, come look at the baby clothes with me…”

When the two of you are alone, Aemond says: “I really hope that didn’t make you feel too weird. I’m not someone who gets uncomfortable about the…um…the subject matter in general. But I wouldn’t want you to think that I was trying to…I don’t know. Assume anything or pressure you into something that you weren’t already open to. Obviously I like…um…I mean, enthusiastic consent is essential, and I just…I would never try to convince anybody or…you know what, I’m just going to stop talking now. Okay?”

“Aemond, I’m fine. I didn’t think it was weird.”

“It’s a compliment,” he confesses, flushing pink again, touching his chin, perspiration gleaming at his temples.

Now you have to show interest so he knows you’re on the same page. You’ve never had to think this way before, you’ve never liked anyone enough to play the game. “So hypothetically, if someone didn’t want to get pregnant but there were no condoms, pills, etcetera…what are the options?”

He looks at you, pleasantly surprised. “Well, there’s the rhythm method. It’s not perfect, but it’s been around forever and is reasonably reliable if done correctly.”

You are only vaguely familiar. “We didn’t get a lot of sex ed down in Kentucky.”

Aemond chuckles then leans in, a mischievous curl of his lips, a craving in the crystalline river blue of his eye. He grips the shelf above your head, his arm a canopy. His voice is hushed. The front windows of the Walmart face west where the sun is setting; golden light floods in to illuminate the store. “Is your cycle regular?”

“It is, actually.” This should be embarrassing, but it’s not; it’s exhilarating. You’re imagining him seeing you, touching you, unearthing secrets you’ve never been tempted to share with anyone else.

“So if we imagine it like a circle…” He draws one on the back of your hand, invisible, mesmerizing, blue-white lightning crackling up the path of your metacarpals, wrist, ulna and radius, humerus and clavicle, descending ribs like the rungs of a ladder to jolt the sinus rhythm of your heart. “The start of your period would be Day One.”

“Okay,” you say, hypnotized as his fingerprint skates in an arc across the bumps of your knuckles.

“Ovulation doesn’t happen until around Day Fourteen. You might have noticed some increased arousal and…wetness. Clear in color, elastic consistency.”

Your eyes are trapped in his face, smooth skin, jagged scar tissue. You tease him back, stepping closer. You can hear people snickering in the next aisle as they eavesdrop. You don’t care about them, and neither does Aemond anymore. “Now that you mention it…”

“That’s nature trying to trick you into reproducing. Day Fourteen is crunch time. Once ovulation occurs, the egg is only good for up to twenty-four hours. And then the rest of the cycle you’re effectively useless, as far as making miniature humans is concerned.”

“Wait, you’re telling me people can only get pregnant one day a month?” This seems improbable. “How has the species managed to survive this long?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Aemond admits. “Depending on the health of the specimens, sperm can survive up to five days inside a woman’s body. And it’s difficult to tell exactly when ovulation occurs. So, in practice, there’s basically one week a month when you’d want to avoid a man…completing the act, if you will.” He’s still smiling, taunting, famished, imagining the same scenes you are. You know this with a categorical certainty, as if you’re reading his thoughts like stark stripes of distance on a measuring tape. “And that’s also the week when your hormones are demanding you have sex, inspiring you to make all sorts of impulsive yet extremely consequential decisions.”

“Don’t I know it,” Baela laments from the next aisle, and there is a rupture of wild giggles.

“Anyway.” Aemond lifts his finger from the back of your hand and you have to stop yourself from reaching for him as he recedes from you. “There’s a basic overview.”

“It was very educational.” You follow him out of the liquor aisle.

“I’ve used the rhythm method for years,” Rhaena says as everyone makes their way towards the front of the store with their carts. “Clearly that’s just anecdotal, so don’t think I’m officially endorsing it. When I’m in my fertile week we add condoms. Well…we used to. Back when we could get them.”

“Ugh, I hate condoms,” Baela grumbles.

“We can tell,” Aegon says.

“I hate the way they feel, I hate the way they smell…”

“They’ve never bothered me,” Rhaena says. “I don’t notice that much of a difference. And it can be fun to try different kinds.”

“Are you on drugs?” Baela whirls to you. “Seriously, what is wrong with her? I’m right, aren’t I? Condoms are awful.”

Rio gives you a cautious look, uncharacteristically reticent. He’s not going to be the one to reveal it. He doesn’t know if it’s something you’re willing to share. But if anything is going to happen with Aemond—and you want it to, already you know you want him—then it’s something you think you should be honest about. You want him to know about you. You don’t want to have to create some false version of yourself to wear like a pelt, heavy, smothering, something that will inevitably need to be taken off.

“I am regretfully not qualified to say.”

“You’ve never used condoms?” Baela asks, a bit dubious.

“I’ve never done any of it.”

Everyone freezes at the defunct checkout counters and turns to gawk at you. “No sex?” Jace says. “No nothing?”

You shrug, smiling a little self-consciously. “I made out with a guy once.”

“The Marine from Corpus Christi?” Baela asks. They’re obsessed with him, they’re convinced there’s some lore to be excavated, translated, displayed like a relic in a museum. There isn’t. Sometimes people pass in and out of your life as seamlessly as shadows or sunlight, no weight, no indentations, nothing to recall or relay. He existed and then he didn’t. He was an airplane drawing contrails in the sky that faded before the blood red fire of dusk filled the horizon.

“No. Someone from home. Just a guy, not even worth mentioning.”

“Girl, you gotta fix that, soon, pronto, like yesterday.” Jace seems genuinely horrified. “You can’t die a virgin.”

“You really can’t,” Daeron adds, and Aegon pretends to be distraught over the loss of his youngest brother’s virtue.

“That’s what I’m always telling her!” Rio says.

“Not everybody wants to have sex,” Helaena murmurs as she records today’s findings in her spider notebook.

“True,” Jace concedes. “And that is totally legit. Mother Teresa, Queen Elizabeth, Jesus Christ, Buddha, Joan of Arc, Sir Isaac Newton, Nikola Tesla, the Jonas Brothers for a while, all great people. But Chips is not celibate by choice, correct?”

“Buddha had a wife and son,” Aemond says, preoccupied. He isn’t looking at you now, which is concerning; he’s peering down at where his hands grip his shopping cart, his brow creased with…what is that? Unease, disapproval, concern, thoughtfulness, fear?

“It’s not some big thing,” you backpedal. “I don’t have a hangup about it, I just never met a guy I liked enough, and enlisted men, they’re…well, a lot of them are taken, or cheaters, or idiots. Or all three.”

“Not to worry, Chipper.” Aegon claps a hand on your shoulder; and you aren’t sure if it is his purpose to break the tension, but he seems to have that effect regardless. “If you ever wish to be initiated into the art of lovemaking by a slightly below average and entirely unintimidating penis, I’d be thrilled to assist you. I love condoms. But in their absence, I am the king of pulling out. 100% success rate. Zero bastard children running around to my knowledge.”

“You should give Jace lessons,” Baela says.

And the last thing Aegon takes from the Walmart is a green battery-powered Toshiba CD player so he can blast to his mixtapes.

~~~~~~~~~~

Flickering candles lining the middle lane, drinks and snacks strewn across the tables, Rio’s Moonbeam propped up so it’s aimed at the disco ball still hanging from the ceiling from a time before the dead started devouring the living. Daeron is at the end of the lanes to reset the pins after each player’s turn. Helaena is keeping score in her notebook; Rhaena is currently in the lead by a massive 80 points. Aegon is wasted, dancing on a table and crunching Cool Ranch Doritos beneath his bare feet, his blonde hair flopping. Each time it’s his turn to bowl, Aegon has to roll the ball down the lane with two hands like a child. Rio, several shots deep but unable to feel much shy of half a bottle, is singing along with him to Cruise by Florida Georgia Line, but it’s really more like shouting, each sentence an off-key monstrosity that makes you laugh.

“Baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!

Down a back road, blowin’ stop signs through the middle, every little farm town with you!

And this brand new Chevy with a lift kit, would look a hell of a lot better with you up in it!

So baby, you a song, you make me wanna roll my windows down and cruise!”

You cleared Luxury Lanes easily; the only difficult part was figuring out how to get into the area called the pit where, in normal times, felled pins were mechanically collected and sorted. There were two former employees roaming around back there in their tattered uniforms, snarling and drooling blood. Both were rapidly neutralized.

Someone always has to be by the front doors, watching through the small tinted windows for signs of trouble, whether from zombies or living humans. Aemond is currently on guard, nursing a Snapple. According to the bottle, the flavor is called Takes 2 To Mango. You grab your own Snapple—plain and simple Lemon Tea, no charming gimmicks—and walk over to join him.

“So now I guess it’s my turn to say I hope that conversation didn’t make you feel weird.”

He smiles politely, glancing out the window. “No, I’m completely fine.”

“Good. Because I don’t want you to look at me differently than you would any other girl, like I’m better than them, or worse than them, or like there’s anything wrong with me, because it really isn’t something I consider to be paramount to my identity, and people always seem to get all twisted up about it, but it’s a pretty boring story, I just…”

“You’ve never liked someone enough to take the risk. I get it. I don’t think you’re a freak or anything.”

“Okay. Good.” The next song on Aegon’s mixtape is Shaboozey’s A Bar Song. Jace is dancing with Baela, spinning her around as she giggles. With Rhaena’s coaching, Luke bowls his first strike. You rest your head on the door as you gaze up at Aemond, the phantom of a smile on your lips. “I might like you enough.”

And he says as if it’s the worst thing in the world, a plague, an infection, an apocalypse: “You’d fall in love with me.”

It hurts, of course it does, this flippant rejection. He burns you, he cuts you, he stitches you up with no anesthetic. You try not to show it. “You’re…confident.”

“No, I don’t mean because of anything specific I would do, it’s just…it’s natural to form a certain…attachment. To the first person you’re with. It leaves an impression.” Not an impression like a first judgment, superficial and swift; an impression like an imprint, a hollow, a prehistoric fossil that is preserved through eons. “That was already true before. And everything is more intense now, because life is so…” Aemond takes a while to settle on a word. “Precarious.”

You say like a challenge: “Are you still in love with the first girl you slept with?”

A shadow that ripples through his face, a flinching he tries to hide. You shouldn’t have asked. Still, you feel like you need to know, like you’ll run out of oxygen if you don’t. “I think I’ve gotten enough distance from it to realize that she wasn’t…wasn’t good for me in a lot of ways. It was an unconventional situation. But I still carry all these pieces of her around with me, yes. I don’t think that will ever go away.”

“Aemond,” you say gently. “Who was she?”

He is evasive, smirking. “It’s a cliché.”

“Was she a patient? That’s very Grey’s Anatomy of you.”

“No. She was my professor.”

An older woman, wise and experienced and captivating and sophisticated. He’s cut you again, a blade slicing effortlessly through veins like soft butter. “Oh. From med school?”

“Undergrad.”

“You were really young,” you say, a little startled.

He nods. “I was eighteen when it started. I was this shy, insecure, friendless freshman, she was married with two kids around my age. And it was off and on, but there was never anyone else for me, she took up too much space in my head, in my chest, like I couldn’t breathe unless I knew we were okay.”

“It went on for seven years?”

This seems to stun him, hearing how much of his existence she bottled like a terrarium. “I guess so.”

Is she dead? Missing? Safe somewhere with her husband and kids? “Is she…gone?”

His gaze drops to the floor. “Yeah.”

“Did you see it happen?”

“I was the one who killed her when she turned.”

It’s indescribably horrible; you don’t know what to say. “Aemond, I’m…I’m really sorry…”

He is abruptly nonchalant, the blue of his eye cool and dispassionate. “Look, I’m not prepared for this to be anything more than casual. And I don’t think casual is really in the cards for us. So it’s probably best to leave it alone.”

“Right,” you agree numbly, not meaning it.

“We’re headed different places, I’m going to California, you’re planning to end up in Oregon, it’s just…a bad idea to muddy the waters, I think.”

“Because I haven’t done this before.”

He shrugs ambiguously. “It’s a contributing factor.”

“Well you seemed pretty interested before you found that out, so.”

“I don’t mean to offend you.”

“You aren’t offending me. You’re disappointing me.”

Now Aemond is offended. “By trying to protect us?”

“No, by saying you don’t think I’m a freak when you clearly do, and by having some savior complex, or a whore-Madonna complex, or whatever’s going on in your head, it’s always such a mystery to everyone else.”

He downs the rest of his Snapple and shoves the bottle into the nearest trash can. You hear it thump against the bottom, no garbage bag. “Alright. This was fun.”

“Maybe you’re afraid of making a mistake, just like I always was.”

“Maybe I don’t want to have to teach you how to do everything,” Aemond snaps.

“I taught you how to shoot.”

“The fact that you don’t realize how wildly different those two situations are proves you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Okay, bye. Sorry about your zombie girlfriend.”

Aemond glares at you, shocked, furious. “That was so fucking low.”

It was. You regret it. But you can’t bring yourself to tell him that. You flee to the far end of the bowling alley and sit alone at a table draped in shadows. After a while, Rio notices and ventures over to see what’s wrong, a bottle of Captain Morgan swinging from one hand. He’s tipsy now.

Rio sighs as he takes a seat beside you, reaching over to rub your back. His hands are large and indelicate; what he means to be comforting is more like getting manhandled. Sometimes he leaves bruises, but it’s not his fault. Nature gave Rio the body of a killer. If anyone is going to survive the zombie apocalypse, it’s him. “What’s going on, Chips?”

Your voice breaks as you say it; tears sting in your eyes. “I hate caring about people.”

He bursts out laughing. “Yeah, it’s the worst, isn’t it? But once in a while it works out.”

“Bryan.”

And now he knows you’re serious. You have his full attention, large dark eyes fixed on your face, lines etching into his brow beneath the artificial starlight of the disco ball. “What are you asking me?”

“We can’t leave them and walk to the West Coast ourselves, can we?”

“I mean, technically we could, but it would be really stupid. Everything’s so much easier with ten people. And also I think I’d have to kidnap Aegon and take him with us, I love that little dude. Why? Do you really want to leave them?”

“No.”

“I figured.” He offers you the half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan.

“I’m not drinking that.”

“Come on. It’ll take the edge off.”

You look at him. Rio looks back, smiling now.

“I’ll watch out for you,” he says. “And if you get bit I’ll shoot you dead, no hesitation, swear to God. I remember our promise. I won’t let you die alone.”

“You’re a good guy.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm with the bottle of Captain Morgan. “A few swigs won’t hurt. It’ll help you sleep.”

You take the bottle, twist off the cap, drink down amber-gold poison that burns like gasoline, like fire.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond targaryen #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n

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glockstore · 4 months ago

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Glock 22 gen 4

Houge grip

Solofish beam

holster

22 stick 🔥

#suppressor #cannabis #glock #glock 17 #glock 19 #glock 43x #edc #glock perfection #sativa #glock switch #firearm #ak 47 rifle #glock 22 #key glock #tf2 sniper #weed strains #smoke weed everyday #dmt trip #dmt

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craftholsters · 4 months ago

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Glock Generations by Craft Holsters

The Evolution of Glock Generations

The Glock pistol has been a revolutionary force in the firearms industry since its debut in the early 1980s. Known for its reliability and simplicity, Glock has continuously refined its designs to meet the needs of military, law enforcement, and civilian shooters. With each new generation, Glock introduced enhancements in ergonomics, performance, and durability, ensuring the brand remains a leader in the handgun market. From the groundbreaking polymer-framed Gen 1 to the modular upgrades of Gen 4 and the precision enhancements of Gen 5, each evolution showcases Glock's commitment to innovation.

Discover More About Glock Generations

Each Glock generation offers unique features that cater to specific shooter preferences, from improved grip textures to advanced barrel designs and modular systems. Whether you're a Glock enthusiast or a prospective buyer, understanding these generations helps you make an informed choice about which model best suits your needs. To learn more about the Glock Generations, check out Craft Holsters' Glock Generations blog.

#glock generations #glock #glock holster

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bullet-prooflove · 1 month ago

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Steel: Filip 'Chibs' Telford x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @kishie8 @darqchilddaydreamz @privatetruths @ilariyalavorowrites

Companion piece to:

Unburied - You're forced to make a choice when one of your secrets becomes unburied.

Kings & Queens - You and Chibs marry under terrible circumstances.

Just A Story - You and Chibs get a surprise when you turn yourself in to David Hale.

Yet again there is an Irish King in your kitchen. Only this time Declan Brogan isn’t making tea and sharing shortbread, he’s handing you the metal plate that used to reside in your ex-husband’s left arm, the one he broke tripping over a coffee table trying to smack the shit out of you.

“Cleaned it up for you.” Declan Brogan says as he presses it into your palm. “I thought you’d want proof that we took care of him without the gristle.”

The plate feels heavy in your hand, your fingers gripping the shiny stainless steel as you study it. To think this stupid little piece of hardware almost derailed your life, it’s unfathomable.

Beside you Filip shifts, his hands coming to rest on his belt and closer to the Glock that resides in the shoulder holster underneath his jacket. “I guess that solves the mystery of where the bodies went.” He remarks, his eyes firmly fixed on Declan. “But it doesn’t explain why.”

“You know why Filip.” Declan asserts as he reaches for the door handle to leave. “You knew what Galen was capable of and you put her right there in the crosshairs. I'm just paying the debt I owe. Maybe you should find a way to the same.”

The door slams shut behind him and it feels like the air has been sucked right out of the room. You have never discussed what happened that night with Filip, you didn’t want the horror of that weighting on his conscience. The physical marks, the scars Galen left on your back, they’re bad enough.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” You ask Filip. His jaw clenches as he rubs his leather gloved hand across his mouth.

“It doesn’t change anything.” He says forcefully, his voice raw with emotion. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you, how I love you…”

“Filip…” You whisper as your palms come to rest on his chest. He draws in a breath, the scent of your perfume flooding his senses as his hands come to rest on yours, holding them against his heart. “You had no idea what he was going to do that night. That guilt, that shame, it belongs to him. It has no place in our lives and I need you to get on board with that because otherwise this can’t work, we can’t work.”

“I know…” He murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I know that we can’t go back, that we can’t change what happened…”

“But it’s hard.” You say with a heavy heart. “Because when you look at me that’s what you see isn’t it? Someone ruined, someone broken.”

“No.” he whispers, taking your hand and pressing it to his face. Your fingertips trace along the indentation of his scar, his lips brushing over the hollow of your wrist. “I don't see any of that I just see my fucking queen.”

Love Chibs? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won't be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#chibs sons of anarchy #chibs imagine #soa chibs #chibs x reader #chibs telford #filip chibs telford #filip telford #filip telford x reader #soa

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5ummit · 6 months ago

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If anyone was wondering, yes, that is The Gun. Here's a closeup if you want a good reference (those distinctive silver cocking serrations in particular are usually hard to see).

Fun fact about the gun in Rumlow's left hand: he's never seen with it in CATWS. It appears to be a Smith & Wesson M&P, which kinda makes sense because SHIELD agents in the Agents of SHIELD show were equipped with the M&P as their standard sidearm according to IMFDB. For some reason this did not carry over to CATWS, where the Glock 17 and 19, which we do see Rumlow with at one point, are standard for agents instead. Yet curiously he has the M&P in this photoshoot.

Also I'm almost certain his thigh holster is a Blackhawk SERPA Level 2.

#do with this information what you will #I doubt anyone cares #but I figured I'd share what I know in case someone was curious #brock rumlow #The Gun #reference #catws #marvel #marvel meta #my meta #winter soldier photoshoot

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marshallsgirl · 29 days ago

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Hidden Harmony

Pairing: Eminem x Fem¡Reader

Warnings: 🔞 MATURE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

Recommended song: The Slim Shady LP Album

Author's note: Hey, guys! I missed you so much. A lot has happened. Last year, I graduated from college with honors! And now I'm studying again. Yes. Sometimes I just ask myself: Why are you doing this to yourself? More study? Really? But yes, here I go again. And guess what...I watched the whole Peaky Blinders series for the first time! I loved it. Also, I read Dean Koontz's Frankenstein books for the first time and I fell in love with his writting style. Anyways, I've been working real hard on this story that takes place back in 2001. I got inspired by this: Could we get single dad Eminem who's lowkey broke living with Hailie and he goes to drop her off at school and bumps into single mom reader dropping off her son? I feel like that would be really cute! (Sorry for the anon I'm just shy lol)

Hope you all enjoy it. I love you guys so much! Sending all of you a warm hug🤍✨️

⚝ 𖤐 ✶ ✷ ⛥ ✴ ☆ ⍟ ✦ 𖥔 ✰ ★ ☆⚝ 𖤐 ✶ ✷ ⛥

Chapter 1

The aroma of burnt toast hung in the air, a familiar battle flag in the war against morning. Y/N, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, scraped the blackened edges with a butter knife.

"Almost edible," she muttered, placing the salvaged slice on a plate beside a perfectly round fried egg.

"Mom, can I have the funny-shaped one?" Six-year-old John, a miniature dynamo with a shock of unruly brown hair, pointed at the toast.

Y/N smiled, the hard lines of her face softening.

"Always the artist, aren't you, John boy?" She handed him the misshapen piece. "Eat up, we're running late."

Her house, a modest brick ranch in a quiet Clinton Township neighborhood, was a testament to efficiency. Every surface was clean, every object in its place. The remnants of her late husband, a firefighter named Kyle, were subtly woven into the decor: a framed photograph on the mantle, a worn leather armchair in the corner, a collection of vintage fire department patches displayed on the wall.

Y/N’s movements were precise, almost mechanical. She checked John's backpack, ensuring his homework was tucked inside, then grabbed her own keys and purse. Her Glock 19, holstered at her hip, was a constant presence, a silent promise of protection. It was a tool, like the wrenches she used to fix her truck, or the chalk she used to demonstrate proper grip at the firing range. She was a firearms instructor, a profession that demanded discipline and control. She taught others how to handle the weight of responsibility, the power held in their hands. It was a job that fit her, a job that suited the strength she had been forced to cultivate.

As they walked to the car, John chattered about his upcoming dinosaur project, his words a comforting rhythm against the quiet morning. Y/N listened, her gaze scanning the street, a habit ingrained from years of training. She’d learned to see the world with a heightened sense of awareness, a skill that served her well as a single mother.

Sometimes, in the quiet solitude of her bedroom, she’d feel a pang of loneliness, a ghost of Kyle’s presence beside her. He’d told her, in the last days, that it was alright to find happiness again. “Don’t live in my shadow, Y/N” he’d whispered, his voice weak. “You deserve love.” But the idea felt foreign, like trying to fit into a suit that no longer belonged.

At John’s school, the air buzzed with the chaotic energy of children and parents.

Y/N knelt to give John a hug. "Be good, listen to Mrs. Changretta, and I'll see you this afternoon."

As John turned to join the other children, his eyes widened. He pointed at a man standing near the entrance, a tall figure dressed in a dark hoodie and jeans.

"Mom, look! I like his shoes."

The man, his face partially obscured by the hood, glanced down at his feet, then back at John. Y/N’s gaze followed her son’s, and she took in the man’s features, a flicker of recognition sparking in her mind. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. She decided to walk towards the entrance with John, using the guise of a final goodbye to get a closer look, to try and decipher the elusive sense of connection.

As they approached, Y/N subtly studied the man’s features, a sense of intrigue tightening in her chest. The hood obscured the contours of his face, casting him in a shadow that seemed to hold a secret. Even at close range, she couldn't pinpoint where she might have seen him before, yet the feeling persisted, a gentle tug on her memory. It was like trying to recall a melody, a faint tune that resonated with something deep within her. She also noticed a little girl, near the man, and felt a warm feeling.

"Those are cool shoes," John said to the man, his voice ringing with childlike enthusiasm.

The man smiled, a brief, almost shy expression. "Thanks, lil man"

Y/N stood, her hand instinctively moving to her hip, where the weight of her Glock provided a sense of grounding. She watched the man, her eyes narrowed, trying to decipher the reason for that spark of familiarity. The smile, though fleeting, left a lingering sense of intrigue. It was a glimpse, Y/N thought, a fleeting moment that hinted at something deeper, something unknown, yet strangely familiar. And as the man’s voice faded into the ambient noise of the schoolyard, Y/N was left with a sense of anticipation, a feeling that this encounter was more than just a chance meeting.

Chapter 2

The kid's voice, a high-pitched declaration of admiration, echoed in the sterile air of the schoolyard. Shoes, he thought, a simple, mundane object. But the way the kid had looked at him, with that unadulterated curiosity, it felt… unsettling. The woman, the mother, her eyes were different. Sharp, assessing. Like she was trying to dissect him, to see through the carefully constructed facade. He felt a prickle of unease, a familiar sensation that had become his constant companion. They know, a voice whispered in the back of his mind, a phantom echo of paranoia. He glanced around, scanning the faces in the crowd, searching for… what? He wasn't sure. A threat? A familiar face? Or just someone that did not look like they were judging him. He wanted to be a good father. He wanted to give his daughter the world. But the world, it seemed, was always watching.

He knelt down to his daughter, Hailie, who was eager to join her friends.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, his voice softening. "Mom's picking you up today, okay? Daddy's got a long day at the film set."

"Okay, Daddy," Hailie said, her bright eyes filled with adoration. "Will you come see me later?"

"Of course, baby. I wouldn't miss it." He gave her a quick hug, his heart aching with a mix of love and guilt. "Be good for your mom, and I'll see you tonight."

He watched her run off, her laughter a fleeting melody in the schoolyard's din. Then, he rose, his gaze lingering on the spot where she had been. He gave a final gaze to the woman and her son. Familiar, he thought again, the word echoing in his mind. He couldn't place her, but something about her intensity, the way she held herself, felt like a warning. He was about to turn away completely when he heard a voice, sharp and clear, cutting through the schoolyard noise.

"Excuse me?"

He turned back. The woman, the mother, was standing a few feet away, her arms relaxed, but her eyes still holding that sharp intensity. Her son was gone, already mingling with the other children.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice low.

"I just wanted to apologize if my son interrupted your moment with your daughter," Y/N said, her tone softer than he expected. "He's very social, always making friends."

"It's no problem at all," He replied, a flicker of a smile touching his lips.

"He's a great kid" Y/N said, a hint of pride in her voice. She paused, a small, almost rueful smile playing on her lips. "But, crazy sometimes. Just yesterday, at the park, he told an old man, 'Hey, old man, I'm your son Pinocchio!'"

A genuine laugh escaped him. It was a sound he hadn't heard from himself in a long time. "That's… something," he managed, still chuckling.

"Tell me about it," Y/N said, shaking her head. "My name's Y/N, btw"

"Marshall," he replied, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you."

"You too, Marshall," she said, shaking his hand. "Well," she continued, glancing at her watch. "I should be going. Have a good day."

"You too, Y/N," he said, watching her walk away. He stood there for a moment, the brief interaction lingering in the air. Y/N, he thought. It was a simple name, but it felt… significant. He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. Get a grip man, he thought. You've got a million things to worry about, and this is not one of them.

He turned and began to walk away from the school, each step measured, each movement deliberate. He needed to work. The film set, the studio, the constant pressure to create, to prove himself. It was a relentless cycle, a treadmill he couldn’t seem to step off. He felt the phantom applause of his recent success, a sound that was already fading, replaced by the gnawing fear that it was all a fluke, a fleeting moment of attention. He thought of the divorce, the constant battles, the feeling that his life was a car crash he couldn't escape. He just wanted a normal life. He just wanted to be a good dad. Just one hit wonder? he thought to himself. "No, I will not let that happen."

He turned and got his mind already shifting to the day ahead. The the film set, the constant pressure to perform. But the image of Y/N, her sharp eyes and firm handshake, and the image of her son, his social skills, stayed with him, a small, unexpected intrusion into his carefully constructed world. Now he was on his way to the film set. It was time to become someone else.

The set was buzzing, a hive of activity as they prepared for the scene with Brittany Murphy. Marshall stood off to the side, trying to shake off the lingering weariness from the long hours. He watched as Brittany, warm and approachable, went over her lines with Curtis. He knew this scene was pivotal, a moment where B-Rabbit starts to connect with Alex, her character. Marshall tried to focus, to immerse himself in the character, but his mind kept drifting back to the schoolyard, to the woman with the sharp eyes and the kid who liked his shoes. Y/N, he thought, the name a soft echo in his mind. He felt a sense of displacement, a feeling that he was living in two worlds, neither of which felt entirely real.

"Alright, Em, you ready?" Curtis called out, his voice cutting through the noise.

Marshall nodded, taking his place. The cameras rolled, and Brittany stepped into the scene, her energy infectious.

"Heard you're a dope rapper," she said, delivering the line with a playful smile.

"Who said I was a dope rapper?" M replied, his voice a touch guarded, just as Jimmy would be.

As they ran through the scene, a strange sense of detachment washed over Marshall. He was present, he was delivering his lines, but his mind kept drifting. He saw Y/N's face, a fleeting image, a whisper in the back of his mind. He couldn't quite place the feeling, but it was a mix of longing and a deep, underlying anxiety.

The scene continued, but Marshall's focus was fractured. He was Jimmy, he was Marshall, and he was someone else entirely, someone haunted by a connection he couldn't fully comprehend.

After the take, Curtis gave him a nod of approval. "Good stuff, Em. You nailed it."

But Marshall barely registered the praise. He was still lost in his own thoughts, the image of Y/N lingering like a ghost. He retreated to his trailer, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, searching for a flicker of recognition. The questions echoing in his mind: Who am I? he wondered. The rapper? The actor? The father? He felt like a collection of masks, each one hiding a deeper, more vulnerable self. He picked up his phone, his fingers hovering over the keypad. He wanted to call Hailie, to hear her voice, to remind himself that he was still a father, that he was still real. But he hesitated, afraid of interrupting her time with her mother. He put the phone down, feeling a wave of loneliness wash over him. He was surrounded by people, but he felt utterly alone. The applause, the attention, it was all a fleeting illusion. He longed for something real, something genuine... And there she was again. Why now? Why is Y/N so present in my thoughts, when I need to be focused?

Marshall didn't even know Y/N, not really. They'd barely spoken. He didn't understand why this was happening, why this person, this almost-stranger, was occupying so much space in his mind. It felt like a phantom limb, a connection that existed without explanation.

⚝ 𖤐 ✶ ✷ ⛥ ✴ ☆ ⍟ ✦ 𖥔 ✰ ★ ☆⚝ 𖤐 ✶ ✷ ⛥

Spoiler of the next chapters: Y/N turned, and her breath caught in her throat. Standing before her was the man from the school, the man with the familiar eyes.

"Yes, I am," she replied, her voice steady despite the sudden rush of recognition. "You're… Marshall, from the school."

"Yeah, that's me," Marshall said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, a smile that seemed more genuine than the one he had given at the school. "Y/N, right?"

"Yes," she confirmed, a slight frown creasing her brow. "So, you're in this film?"

"Yeah, it's my first one," he said, his tone casual.

#eminem x reader #marshall mathers x y/n #marshall mathers x reader #marshall mathers imagine #eminem x y/n #eminem x you #eminem #eminemslimmarshall #marshall mathers #slim shady #the real slim shady #eminem imagine #hailie jade picture #people #it feels so good to be back

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