Two fics I’ve been following by skyelee.
Intertwined: A fantasy fic featuring Jeon Jihyun and Shirota Yuu as guardians of life and death respectfully. The story starts with Jihyun’s character (the guardian of life, Haian) asking Yuu (the guardian of death, Comun) whether or not he thinks guardians can die.
“You and I—do you remember when we came here?”
He reacts to the sudden question with a tilt of the head. “I don’t really remember.”
“It’s been a while, right?”
“I guess it has been. Why are you asking this so suddenly?”
“It’s just… I wonder if we—” Haian’s gaze shifts to the fruits hanging from the gangly Chehu Tree in the middle of Comun’s garden. Unlike the Saeng’s which resemble fiery apples, the Chehu’s fruits are slender and its colors are a gradation of ash and grey. She’s seen Comun harvest Glass Fruits before, and she knows that there exists an hourglass underneath its skin. Upon harvesting, Comun peels the skin off of the fruit, crushes the hourglass in his hand and scatters the sand from within it around the tree. Sometimes she wonders if the glass breaking in his palm hurts him, and then she realizes the blazing fire fruits never hurt her when she harvested them.
“—I just wonder if I have a Glass Fruit to my name, too.”
Pull the Trigger: An action-packed dark romance. Puts Mr. & Mrs. Smith to shame. … Just saying. :P All jokes aside, Pull the Trigger features some strong writing along with some strong
characters assassins. This is a story about assassins fighting one another, fighting their questionable attraction towards one another, and fighting their respective consciences. There’s so much that I’d like to say about that last bit–and about how the darkness grows as the story goes on–but I don’t want to spoil the fun for anyone since the story moves relatively quickly so I’ll leave you with another teaser (;
She slits a man’s throat for him the second time, and not a minute too soon. A mad scramble for misplaced intel has caused their paths to converge once more, and perhaps this is their point of no return.
It’s been well over a year since that day at the alleys of Tokyo, and she’s learned her lesson well. She—christened Sophia this time around, not that she’d offer that information though—doesn’t flinch at the crimson spatter on her face, pushes aside the lifeless body of the man she just slayed, and approaches the tall man who almost got a bullet in his head.
The knife in her hand drips with blood, but she isn’t about to clean it. Not just yet. Crouching in front of him, she uses the back of her knife to lift his chin up. She scoffs.
It’s the next day when he wakes up to sheets carrying the strong scent of coffee and cigarettes. His left rib is sore, and he’s confused when he feels a gauze bandage when he reaches to touch it. His next instinct is to look for his gun, but a sharp jolt of pain leaves him crashing on the floor when he attempts to bolt out of bed.
“If I had any plans to kill you I wouldn’t even lift a finger to take you back here,” a voice enters his consciousness while he clutches his side. A lift of the head, and he sees a familiar face with an unfamiliar aura.