saphiraprince22

[saphiraprince22]

OH MY GOD

It is so rare to find such a strong female lead and this is soo good, definitely going to re read it later

I love seungcheol

Only the Dead Get Standing Ovations | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Detective!Choi Seungcheol x Detective!Fem.Reader

Word Count: 23,459 words (crazy, I know-) Reading Time: 1 hr 30-ish mins

Genre: Crime Thriller | Romance | Psychological Mystery

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Forced Partners | Protective Male Lead | Mutual Pining | Slow Burn

Warnings: Graphic violence, serial murders, blood/gore, psychological manipulation, PTSD themes, language, obsessive behavior, death mentions. MINORS STAY AWAY.

Synopsis: When a killer obsessed with theatrical “roles” starts leaving bodies across Seoul, two rival detectives—Reader and Seungcheol—are forced to reunite. He’s cold, calculating. She’s headstrong and haunted. Together, they decode cryptic notes, wooden masks, and staged corpses. But as the killer targets her, the case turns intimate. And for Seungcheol, losing her was never an option—even if it means becoming the bait.

Note : For the girlies who love slow-burn tension, protective men who don’t know how to express feelings unless death is involved, and a female lead who isn’t afraid to pull the trigger—this is for you. She’s his match in every way. His enemy, his partner… and maybe his only weakness.

--

The very air of Seoul, a city typically a symphony of kinetic energy and relentless ambition, had begun to thicken with something far more sinister than its usual summer humidity. For a month now, an insidious dread had been slowly suffocating its vibrant pulse. Two murders, eerily precise in their execution and chillingly similar in their macabre presentation, had been reported. Each victim, found in a disturbingly artful pose, was accompanied by a cryptic, handwritten note and an unsettling, crudely carved wooden mask, a blank stare frozen on its expressionless face. The pattern was undeniable, yet baffling. The police force, usually a bastion of unwavering efficiency, found itself stalled, its usual methodical pace disrupted by the sheer, unsettling artistry of the crimes. The killer, or perhaps a team, operated with a chilling precision, a tactical brilliance that mocked conventional investigative methods. This unnerving sophistication, this calculated, almost theatrical signature, had pushed the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency to its limits.

It was this very deadlock that led Captain Kim, a man whose face was usually etched with the weariness of decades in law enforcement, but now showed a hint of genuine desperation, to make a decision he knew would be met with an explosive clash of personalities. He stood before the two most brilliant, yet utterly incompatible, minds in his precinct. On one side, Detective Choi Seungcheol, a man whose reputation for solitary, almost reclusive brilliance preceded him. His sharp intellect was undeniable, his methods meticulous, but his demeanor was perpetually guarded, his eyes often carrying a distant, analytical gleam. On the other, Detective Y/N, equally gifted, equally incisive, but with a fiery streak of independence and an uncanny intuition that sometimes bordered on the prophetic. You and he did not merely "not get along"; you actively, spectacularly, and consistently disliked each other. Your antagonism was legendary, a simmering rivalry forged not out of personal animosity, but out of an infuriating, almost mirror-image equality. You had both attended the prestigious Seoul University of Criminology, each a prodigious talent in your own right. Your academic careers had been a relentless, neck-and-neck race, culminating in an unprecedented tie for "Best Student of the Year"—a shared triumph that, far from fostering camaraderie, had only solidified your mutual, competitive disdain. He couldn't bear your presence, a fact he rarely bothered to conceal, and you, in turn, found his stoic confidence, his occasional cutting remarks, and his general air of superiority utterly insufferable. You never trusted him, a feeling that had only intensified with every forced interaction since your university days.

Now, Captain Kim’s booming voice, laced with a weariness that cut through the tension, delivered the unwelcome news. "You two," he stated, his gaze sweeping from Seungcheol’s rigid posture to your own defiant stance, "are on this case. Together. These tactics, these plans, these methods… they’re too complex, too nuanced. I believe only the two of you possess the unique, albeit clashing, minds required to crack this." The words hung in the air, a mutual sentence of professional purgatory, a shared nightmare that neither of you had signed up for. The implications settled like a heavy cloak: the serial killer was operating with a level of psychological depth and strategic planning that demanded the combined, albeit begrudging, brilliance of the city’s two top, and most adversarial, detectives.

Just hours after that fraught meeting, the city unveiled its latest, most gruesome horror, a macabre performance staged for an unwitting audience. The call had come in just as the first hesitant rays of dawn touched the city’s skyline, painting the grey concrete in hues of bruised purple and pale gold. You arrived on scene to find the flickering blue and red lights of emergency vehicles already painting the grimy facade of the abandoned Grand Theatre. The building itself, once a beacon of entertainment, now loomed like a forgotten mausoleum, its ornate entrance marred by graffiti, its windows like vacant, staring eyes. Inside, the scene was a grotesque tableau. A body, meticulously arranged, its limbs unnaturally wired like a grotesque puppet on strings, hung suspended in the cavernous, dust-mote-filled silence of the main stage.

The stage lights, usually dormant, seemed to have been rigged to cast a single, haunting spotlight on the victim, highlighting the horrific spectacle. A cracked, wooden mask, identical to those found at the previous crime scenes, obscured its face, a chilling void where a human expression should have been. The scene was meticulous, almost theatrical in its gruesome artistry, a silent, damning indictment of a killer with a flair for the dramatic. A profound shiver, cold and unwelcome, ran down your spine as your eyes landed on the quote carved deeply and deliberately into the victim's forehead: “She didn’t know her role.”

The silence of the theatre, usually filled with the echoes of past performances and forgotten applause, was amplified by the sheer horror of the discovery. Every creak of the old floorboards, every gust of wind through the broken windows, seemed to carry a whispered accusation, a chilling sense of being watched. The entire city was shaken; the media ran rampant with wild theories, speculating endlessly, and the cop/detective parliament found itself in an unprecedented state of panic, demanding answers the force simply didn't have. All the police had to go on, the only tangible proof the killer seemed to leave, was that unsettling wooden mask. Everything else was meticulously, frustratingly, absent.

Seungcheol was already there, a rigid silhouette against the faint light filtering through the grime-streaked windows, his back to you as he surveyed the grotesque tableau. You could practically feel his distaste for your presence radiating from him, a tangible force in the cold, dusty air, even before he turned slightly, his eyes narrowing, catching your gaze with an almost imperceptible flick of his head. "Well, Y/N," he drawled, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, "looks like we're stuck. Again. In a damn theatre, of all places." His tone implied that your presence somehow made the situation even more absurd.

"Don't worry, Seungcheol," you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended, fueled by a potent cocktail of exhaustion, professional stress, and your innate irritation at his very existence. "I can handle being stuck with a brick wall. Just try not to get in my way, or stand there looking… stoic and superior. Some of us actually work on cases, you know."

He ignored your jab, his attention already back on the body, his gloved hands beginning their meticulous examination, his mind undoubtedly cataloging every minute detail. "No signs of forced entry. No visible struggle. The scene is disturbingly clean, almost sterile. This wasn’t a spontaneous act of violence. This was… planned. Every single aspect. Every wire, every angle of suspension. It’s almost surgical in its precision." His voice was analytical, devoid of emotion, a stark contrast to the horrifying display before them. "The previous victims, the same calculated approach. No haphazardness, no frenzy."

You circled the suspended body slowly, your mind already racing, your instincts screaming, connecting the nascent dots, ignoring the tremor that ran through you as you noted the intricate wiring around the victim's limbs. "The previous victims… similar staging, similar masks, similar cryptic notes. This isn't just about a murder, Seungcheol. This is a performance. A grotesque, meticulously directed show for an unseen audience." You took in the empty seats, the silent stage, the single spotlight. "He's not just killing them; he's presenting them."

"A performance for who?" he scoffed, his gloved fingers meticulously tracing the lines of tension on the wires, examining the ligature marks. "A deranged artist with a flair for the dramatic? A frustrated playwright finally getting his audience?" He clearly found your dramatic interpretation a little too… theatrical, a little too close to the speculative side of things for his logical, fact-driven mind. "We're dealing with a killer, Y/N, not a theatre critic."

"No," you countered, your voice gaining conviction as a wild yet strangely fitting theory began to coalesce in your mind, a sudden flash of insight amidst the horror, like a spotlight illuminating a hidden corner. "This isn't an artist; it's a director. Someone utterly obsessed with control, with guiding the narrative of his own twisted play. He’s not just killing people; he’s ‘casting’ them. And these victims? They’re his reluctant cast members, forced into roles they never auditioned for, roles they clearly ‘didn’t know.’" You gestured around the vast, empty theatre, encompassing the silent rows of seats and the vast, dark wings. "He’s using this space as his stage, his backdrop. He sees life as a play, and he’s the one holding the script, orchestrating every scene, every 'act.' And these notes? They’re his personal, scathing reviews of their ‘performances,’ his ‘stage directions’ to the audience, telling us how they failed their ‘roles.’ And the masks? They’re more than just props; they’re deeply symbolic. Perhaps to hide the true identity of his victims from the audience, or more chillingly, to symbolize how he sees them – as interchangeable players, faceless and devoid of individual identity in his twisted, grand production. He’s not killing people; he’s taking them off the stage. The chances might be less, yes, far from the most probable, but what if he's not just killing people, but 'casting' them? What if these are all 'failed' actors, or people who didn't 'play their part' in some earlier, unknown ‘production’? Perhaps an actual play that flopped, or a group of people who betrayed someone. He’s correcting their ‘bad acting,’ as he perceives it, forcing them into a final, fatal role." You looked at the wired limbs. "He's making them puppets in his grand, horrifying finale."

He just stared at you, his silence more unnerving than his usual arguments. His gaze, usually so quick to dismiss, lingered, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. You braced yourself for the inevitable rebuttal, the logical dismantling of your theory, the scathing critique that usually followed your more unconventional insights. But it never came. He simply turned back to the body, a new intensity in his gaze, a quiet acknowledgment that your theory, however outlandish, held a disturbing resonance. The only proof they had was this unsettling wooden mask, and your theory, however unlikely, offered a lens through which to examine everything else.

Later that afternoon, back at the precinct, the air in Captain Kim’s cramped office was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the palpable frustration of a case spiraling out of control. Other detectives, their faces grim and defeated, sat around the worn conference table. You presented your theory, detailing the chilling parallels you saw between the current string of crimes and a twisted theatrical production, painting the killer as a malevolent "Director." You felt the skepticism in the room, the hushed whispers of your colleagues, their eyes darting to Seungcheol, expecting him to deliver the final, logical blow to your "imaginative" idea. Instead, to your profound shock, he supported it. He didn't just passively agree; he actively defended your reasoning, lending it the weight of his own calculated intellect, adding layers of logical deduction that bolstered your more intuitive leaps.

“While it’s undeniably unconventional, Captain,” Seungcheol stated, his voice steady and authoritative, effectively silencing the murmurs of doubt from other detectives gathered around the table, “Detective Y/N’s theory of a ‘director’ rather than a mere serial killer, while speculative, aligns remarkably well with the pervasive theatrical elements of these crime scenes. The meticulous staging of the bodies, the ‘roles’ carved into the victims’ flesh, the specific wording of the notes, the distinct wooden masks… it all strongly suggests a mind preoccupied with a narrative, with a perverse sense of dramatic structure. It gives us a new framework to consider, a potential motive beyond simple random violence or a personal vendetta. It’s a leap, but one worth taking, given the complete lack of other viable leads. The pattern suggests a level of premeditation and an underlying message that a simple 'artist' or random killer wouldn't typically possess.” He even went so far as to elaborate, "The 'she didn't know her role' could imply a deep-seated grievance, an adherence to a specific script the killer believes these victims deviated from. It connects the victim directly to the killer's narrative, elevating them from mere casualties to characters in his 'play.'"

You felt a reluctant, almost forced "thank you" escape your lips as you left the captain's office, the word barely audible, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of your gaze towards him. The tension between you was still a palpable, prickly third presence, a static charge in the air, a silent hum of competitive energy. Yet, for a fleeting, unsettling moment, a sliver of grudging, professional respect had edged its way in, a tentative acknowledgment of shared intellect and a surprisingly complementary approach. You had anticipated his scorn, but instead, you received his unexpected, almost clinical, defense. It was a bizarre development, adding another confusing layer to your already strained relationship.

Back at the theatre, now that you had Captain Kim's begrudging blessing to pursue your joint theory, you and Seungcheol returned to the scene, each moving with a focused intensity that bordered on obsessive. The puzzle deepened, growing more twisted with every passing moment. You meticulously re-examined every inch of the stage, the wings, the backstage corridors, the dusty dressing rooms, and even the exterior, including the back gate and alleyways. Despite the elaborate staging and the gruesome nature of the murder, there wasn't a single trace of blood anywhere – not on the stage, not in the wings, not in the dusty dressing rooms, not even at the back gate where a body of this size would undoubtedly have been moved into the building. The victim’s body, suspended above you, was visibly leaking, a slow, steady seep of crimson staining the fabric beneath, yet the entire theatre was pristine, unnervingly clean, as if no violence had ever marred its aged grandeur.

How could a human possibly carry a bleeding body without dropping any blood at all? It defied logic, defied physics, creating another chilling layer to the enigma. You exchanged a look with Seungcheol, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the impossible. This wasn't just clean; it was surgically, impossibly clean. It implied a level of control, of planning, that was almost supernatural. And the note… “She didn’t know her role.” The initial reports had confirmed the girl wasn’t an actor at this particular theatre, or any theatre for that matter. Or was she?

Had she been involved in some amateur production? Had she been cast in some personal drama the killer had concocted? The questions hung heavy in the air, echoing the unsettling silence of the abandoned stage, a silent, chilling challenge from a killer who seemed to mock your every step, daring you to understand his twisted play. The wooden mask, the only tangible evidence, seemed to stare back at you, holding its secrets close. The hunt, you knew, had just begun.

--

The first horrifying act of the "Director" had concluded, leaving the city in a state of suspended terror and two mismatched detectives at a reluctant stalemate. The immediate aftermath of the theatre discovery had been a flurry of activity, forensic teams swarming the scene, every potential shred of evidence meticulously cataloged, however scarce. But the core of the puzzle remained maddeningly elusive. The victim, the girl found suspended like a grotesque puppet, was quickly identified.

Initial reports poured in, painting a picture of a young woman named Ji-eun, who had only recently moved to Seoul, barely a week prior. She had arrived with aspirations, her dreams tied to the vibrant theatrical scene, preparing to begin an acting course at a small, independent theatre not far from where her body was found. The timeline was grim: she had gone missing since Sunday, her disappearance initially dismissed as the typical fading act of a new arrival getting lost in the city's labyrinthine anonymity. Her body was discovered on Wednesday, a horrifying three-day window of unknown terror.

Seungcheol, ever the pragmatist, had immediately gravitated towards a more conventional line of inquiry. While he had begrudgingly acknowledged your "director" theory in front of Captain Kim, his analytical mind still sought a simpler, more personal motive. He believed that the theatrical staging might be a distraction, a smokescreen for a murder rooted in a personal vendetta, a jealous rival, a jilted lover, or a debt gone wrong. He spent hours, days, buried under a mountain of Ji-eun's personal history: her phone records, social media accounts, financial transactions, a sparse list of contacts in Seoul, her family history back in her hometown.

His office, usually a beacon of sterile order, became a chaotic landscape of printouts and notepads. He was looking for any crack in her life that could explain the violence, any personal grievance that might have escalated into such a theatrical and brutal end. He meticulously cross-referenced names, addresses, and any fleeting connections, convinced that if he just dug deep enough, the true, human motive would surface, proving his initial instincts correct and disproving your more outlandish, 'performance'-centric theory. He was utterly convinced this was a one-off, a deeply personal murder, not the work of a serial killer on a city-wide spree.

He was about to be proven devastatingly, horribly wrong.

The fluorescent hum of the precinct office felt particularly oppressive that afternoon, heavy with the stale scent of coffee and unspoken tension. You had been sifting through similar data, but with a different lens, trying to find commonalities between Ji-eun and the previous two victims, no matter how disparate their backgrounds seemed. Your own leads were equally cold, equally frustrating. The phone rang, a sharp, jarring sound in the quiet. You answered, your voice crisp, and listened, your expression slowly draining of color. Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk, a silent understanding passing between you. He paused mid-sentence, a pen hovering over a file, sensing the shift in the air, the sudden, cold dread that radiated from you. You hung up, the click echoing in the sudden silence. Your face was grim, a mask of cold certainty.

"The church," you stated, your voice low, cutting through the silence of the office, "another body. We need to go. Now."

The scene at the historic Gwanghwamun Church was even more disturbing than the theatre. If the first victim was a puppet, this one was a twisted, blasphemous marionette of faith. The second victim, a man in his late fifties, was strung up like a praying marionette, suspended from the towering rafters of the nave, his head bowed, his hands clasped as if in eternal supplication. But the grotesque details told a different story.

His knees had been meticulously shattered, not cleanly broken, but mangled, as if deliberately destroyed to prevent him from ever truly kneeling. His mouth, distended and unnatural, was grotesquely filled with hardened wax, sealing his final prayers or screams within him. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old wood, a cloying sweetness that made your stomach clench. Outside, the usual throngs of tourists and worshippers were held back by a hastily erected police tape, their horrified murmurs a low hum against the distant city sounds.

Seungcheol, despite his initial professional detachment, was visibly disturbed. You could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tremor in his gloved hands as he pulled on a mask, his movements precise but uncharacteristically quick. He was the first to step inside the crime scene, past the uniformed officers, his trained eyes immediately scanning, dissecting, absorbing every horrifying detail. The subtle disturbance in his usual composure didn’t go unnoticed by you.

He moved around the suspended body, a silent, grim silhouette against the stained-glass windows, inspecting the ropes, the mangled knees, the wax-filled mouth, his mind already racing to connect this new nightmare to the last. The sheer depravity of it, the intimate violation of a sacred space, seemed to shake even his formidable composure. He didn’t utter a word, but his silence was louder than any scream.

Your gaze, meanwhile, swept the periphery, your instincts guiding you away from the immediate horror of the body itself. You knew the killer was theatrical, that he left messages. Your eyes scanned the shadowed corners, the dimly lit alcoves, the high ledges. And then, a glint. Small, almost imperceptible, tucked away in a shadowed recess near a confessional booth, barely visible against the dark wood. A tiny, almost insignificant flicker of light. You moved towards it, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Hidden, cleverly disguised against the ornate carvings, was a miniature camera, its lens still pointed directly at the scene. He had filmed the entire thing. The realization sent a cold wave of dread through you. This wasn't just about killing; it was about documentation, about forcing an audience to bear witness.

Back in your shared office, the silence was heavy, punctuated only by the soft whir of the computer tower. The camera, carefully extracted and tagged as evidence, was now connected, its internal memory being downloaded. The raw footage began to play, filling the screen with grainy, horrific clarity. Ji-eun, the first victim, had been alone on the stage. This new victim, a man, was struggling, praying, his desperate movements growing weaker. The screams, muffled by the wax in his mouth, were still agonizingly clear. The sickening sounds of struggle, the glint of blood, the methodical, chilling precision of the killer as he worked – it was all there, laid bare.

You watched it once. And again. And again. Each time, your eyes scanned for the slightest detail, a flicker of something missed, a hidden reflection, a tell-tale shadow. The killer remained frustratingly out of frame for the most part, a disembodied force, a presence rather than a person. The angle of the camera was deliberate, chosen to maximize the terror of the victim's plight while preserving the killer's anonymity. The tension in the small office was suffocating. Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, a rare sign of agitation, closing his eyes briefly as a specific moment replayed on the screen, his mind struggling to process the sheer depravity. The killer, in the grainy footage, moved closer to the victim, his arm extending into the frame for a brief moment as he meticulously pinned a note to the victim’s chest.

It was a fleeting glimpse, perhaps only a second, but your trained eyes caught it. Your breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that made Seungcheol open his eyes, startled. "Seungcheol!" you exclaimed, pointing frantically at the screen, your finger practically jabbing the monitor. "There! His arm! On the outer area, just as he pins the note to the victim's chest. A distinct burnt patch… it looks like a birthmark. On his left arm!"

He snapped his eyes open, his gaze immediately darting to where your finger pointed. He rewound the footage, frame by excruciating frame, pausing at the exact second you indicated. A sharp nod, a silent acknowledgment of your keen observation. The detail was minute, easily missed in the chaos of the scene, but undeniable once pointed out. It wasn’t a scar; it was too irregular, too organic. A birthmark. A unique identifier. Hope, cold and fragile, sparked in the room.

His gaze hardened, a new determination setting in. Without a word, he immediately pulled out the history papers of both victims, spreading them across the desk. Ji-eun's sparse background, the second victim's equally unremarkable life. This had to be the joint link, the connection that had eluded them, the invisible thread that tied these disparate souls together into the killer's twisted narrative.

He started cross-referencing their personal histories, their professional lives, their social circles, not just for a personal motive now, but for any possible overlap, any shared experience, any common thread that could lead them to a single individual with a distinct birthmark. The chilling realization settled over both of you: this killer was far more messed up, far more dangerous, more strategically deranged than they had initially imagined. He was not just killing; he was carefully selecting, choreographing, documenting.

The hours blurred into an overnight paper trail, fueled by stale coffee and the mounting pressure from Captain Kim. Sleep was a distant, unreachable luxury. The small office became your claustrophobic world, filled with the flickering glow of computer screens, the rustle of paper, and the oppressive weight of your shared burden. The argument, when it finally erupted, was inevitable, a predictable explosion born from exhaustion, stress, and the inherent friction between your personalities.

"We're going in circles, Seungcheol!" you snapped, slamming a file shut with more force than necessary, the sound echoing harshly in the quiet room. Your voice was strained, your temper fraying. "We have the footage, the victims, the masks, the methods, now even a distinguishing mark, but nothing concrete on him! We have a birthmark, but no name, no face!"

"And what do you propose, Y/N?" he retorted, his voice dangerously low, edged with his own deep exhaustion and a growing frustration that mirrored your own. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. "A magic trick? A psychic vision? This isn't a show, this isn't a performance for us! It’s a murder investigation, and we're dealing with a ghost who leaves behind meticulously curated scenes but no tangible footprint!"

"It's clearly a show for him!" you shot back, rising from your chair to pace the small office, your movements agitated. "The 'acts,' the 'performances' he references in those notes, the way he orchestrates these scenes! It's all part of his twisted narrative, his obsession, and we're stuck here, desperately trying to understand the script when we don't even know the prologue! And you, with your focus on 'personal motives,' wasted valuable time!"

"And what about your 'director' theory, Y/N?" he countered, his voice dangerously quiet now, filled with a biting sarcasm. "How’s that working out for us now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance'? You said the chances were low, but you stood by it. Well, it's not giving us a name now, is it?"

The words stung, igniting a familiar spark of anger, resentment, and a strange, vulnerable hurt within you. You stopped pacing, turning to face him, your chest heaving with barely suppressed fury. "And your 'personal vendetta' theory? How's that working out for you now that we have a second victim with no obvious connection to the first, besides this psychopath's 'performance' that you now grudgingly admit to? We're no closer to finding him!"

The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and the raw tension of shared stress. You stood, chests heaving, eyes locked in a furious battle of wills, a silent war waged in the heart of the police station. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the anger began to dissipate, replaced by a profound, soul-deep exhaustion that was almost palpable. The argument had drained the last vestiges of your energy, leaving only a heavy silence, punctuated by your ragged breaths.

Your gazes, once sharp with defiance, softened, then lingered. A moment stretched, held too long in the quiet hum of the office, the unspoken tension of shared stress, overwhelming pressure, and an unwilling, yet undeniably potent, partnership hanging heavy between you. It was more than just professional frustration; it was the raw, human toll of staring into the abyss, shoulder to shoulder, with the one person you were least prepared to acknowledge as an equal, or even as something more. The night, thick and starless outside, seemed to press in on the small room, holding its breath.

-----

Two weeks bled into nothing. Two weeks of relentless, soul-crushing work since the horror at the Gwanghwamun Church, and yet, the case remained as elusive as smoke. The precinct hummed with a desperate, unproductive energy, every lead dissolving into a dead end, every forensic analysis yielding no new revelation. The burnt patch, the birthmark on the killer’s arm, was a frustrating phantom, a distinct detail that remained maddeningly unattached to any known individual.

You and Seungcheol had chased down every remote possibility, sifted through databases of reported burn victims, scanned security footage from the vicinity of the church, but the Director remained a ghost, his chilling performance echoing in your minds with no clear identity. The tension from your argument in the office still lingered between you, a palpable, unspoken barrier. It hadn’t exploded again, but it hadn’t dissipated either; it was a tight, invisible wire you both navigated, working with it rather than through it, a constant hum beneath the surface of your strained collaboration. The exhaustion was a living entity, heavy in your bones, blurring the edges of your vision, making every thought feel like pushing through thick mud.

You had been hunched over the cold steel of your desk, eyes glazing over a cascade of digital files, for what felt like an eternity. The fluorescent lights hummed a monotonous lullaby of despair. Your head throbbed, a relentless drumbeat against your temples. The figures on the screen began to swim, blurring into an indistinguishable mass of data.

Your stomach, hollow and protesting, let out a pathetic growl. You finally pushed away from your chair, the screech of metal on linoleum a jarring sound in the quiet office. You stretched, your muscles screaming in protest, feeling the stiffness that had set in after countless hours of immobility. The windows showed the first faint blush of dawn, painting the Seoul skyline in hues of soft grey and pale pink. Six in the morning. You had been here all night, again.

"Cheol," you mumbled, your voice raspy, a mere whisper in the vast, empty office. He was still at his desk, his formidable concentration unbroken, a profile etched in grim determination. You could see the subtle slump of his shoulders, the way his hand rubbed his temple, betraying his own profound exhaustion. "I need food. My brain's turning to mush. We've been here all night. Do you want to grab something to eat? The CVS is probably open."

He grunted, a noncommittal sound, not looking up from the documents scattered across his desk. "I'm not hungry. You go."

Right on cue, as if betraying his stoic facade, his stomach let out a loud, indignant rumble, echoing through the silent office like a clap of thunder. He froze, his hand still hovering over a file, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

You couldn't help it. A small, tired giggle escaped your lips, a fragile bubble of humor in the oppressive atmosphere. It was a genuine sound, unexpected from you in his presence, and it seemed to crack the rigid shell around him. He slowly pushed back his chair, the wheels grating softly, avoiding your amused gaze. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, a rare moment of vulnerability. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the last two weeks, he rose and strode out of the office, feigning indifference, and you followed, the lingering giggle still threatening to escape.

The CVS store was only a few blocks away, nestled in the main, bustling artery of Seoul. Even at this early hour, a few vendors were beginning to set up, their low voices a distant murmur. The walk was silent, the hum of the city a low backdrop to your shared fatigue, the morning air crisp and cool against your faces. The silence wasn’t comfortable, not yet. It was still heavy with the remnants of past arguments, with the unspoken burden of the case, and the strange, unwilling proximity that had been forced upon you. You kept a cautious distance, aware of his presence beside you, acutely aware of the space that still existed, a testament to your long-standing rivalry.

As you approached the convenience store, the bright neon glow of its sign a beacon in the pre-dawn light, a chilling sight stopped you both dead in your tracks. On the other side of the road, on a deserted sidewalk, lay another body. A stark, horrifying tableau presented itself on the cold pavement.

This was the third victim since y'll took the case. A young woman, later identified as a politician’s daughter, was found posed disturbingly in a public square at sunrise, her lifeless form arranged with a grotesque, almost artistic precision. The details were stomach-churning: her lungs, meticulously removed post-mortem, were not just placed, but arranged like macabre roses on her lap, a final, horrifying flourish from the killer. The scene was devoid of chaos, an eerie stillness that spoke of deliberate, unhurried action.

But it was the note, carefully pinned to her clothing, that sent a cold, agonizing shiver down your spine, colder than the morning air. Your name, stark and undeniable, stared back at you: “Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?” The words were a direct address, a personal challenge, pulling you from the role of investigator into the terrifying spotlight of the victim. This wasn't a warning; it was an invitation to his next performance, and you were the unwilling star.

The wooden mask was there again, sitting eerily beside the body, its blank eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul. But this time, unlike the church scene, there was no camera, no evidence of filming, no obvious trace of his presence beyond the note and the mask. He was adapting, changing his stage directions.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, his face hardening into a mask of grim resolve. He hadn't needed to read the note aloud; your gasp, your sudden rigidity, had told him everything. His gaze flickered from the note to you, then back to the mask, then to the vast, indifferent city around you. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that Y/N was a risk. A profound, protective instinct, raw and unbidden, surged through him, eclipsing every past animosity. The killer might go for you next. The Director was no longer an abstract entity; he was a direct threat, specifically targeting you.

That entire day unfolded under the shadow of this chilling realization. Seungcheol’s protective instincts, usually buried beneath layers of professional detachment, were on full display. He refused to let you out of his sight. When it was time for you to go home and freshen up, he insisted on driving you, the car ride permeated by a tense silence. He waited in the living room while you quickly showered and changed, his presence a heavy, unwavering anchor in your apartment. He then drove you straight back to the office, ensuring you weren't alone for a single moment, not even for the short commute. Only after you were safely back at your desk did he finally return to his own place to freshen up, returning within the hour, his eyes constantly tracking your movements.

You worked together, side-by-side, a silent, almost desperate efficiency guiding your actions. You tried to stay strong, to project the image of the unshakeable detective, but the words on that note echoed in your mind, a chilling mantra. You found yourself spacing out, your gaze unfocused, your thoughts drifting to the terrifying implication of being the killer's next target. Every time your concentration wavered, Seungcheol, with an almost uncanny awareness, would subtly shift, his presence a quiet anchor, his gaze a silent vigil, making sure you didn't leave his sight, making sure you didn't slip too far into the terrifying abyss of fear. He’d push a file closer, offer a quiet observation, anything to pull you back to the task, to keep you grounded.

The night deepened, wrapping the city in a cold, anxious blanket. The office was quiet again, most of the other detectives having retreated, leaving only you and Seungcheol amidst the dim glow of computer screens. The exhaustion was absolute, but the fear was sharper, more immediate. You still felt the tremor in your hands, the faint vibration that ran through your core. Seungcheol, having packed up his own things, gestured for you to do the same.

"This guy’s getting too close, Y/N," he said, his voice low, a rough rumble that seemed to vibrate with suppressed tension. His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were shadowed with a concern that was almost palpable. "Let me drive you home. Let me stay." It wasn’t a question; it was a quiet, firm declaration.

You hesitated. Every fiber of your being, every ingrained instinct for self-reliance and the desperate need to maintain your professional distance, screamed to refuse. To push him away. To insist you were fine. But the cold dread in your stomach, the image of your name on that note, the raw, visceral terror of being watched, overridden your stubborn pride. You knew. You knew, with a certainty that was both humiliating and profoundly unsettling, that it wasn't safe for you. Not tonight. Not after this. The words died on your tongue, replaced by a barely perceptible nod. "Fine," you murmured, the word a reluctant admission of vulnerability, "just… fine."

He parked in front of your apartment building, the familiar facade offering little comfort. Inside, he moved with a quiet, methodical efficiency. He locked every door, every window, testing them twice. Then, to your surprise, he began to subtly "set stuff around" – a chair angled just so against the door, a stack of books on the windowsill, mundane objects strategically placed to make noise if anyone tried to enter. It was a simple, old-school detective trick, a primal way to create an alarm system, and it spoke volumes about his deep-seated unease, his primal need to protect. You watched him, your fear a tangible weight in the air. You were visibly shaken, your body trembling with a fine tremor that you couldn't quite control. You knew you had signed up for this life, for the risks, for the nightmares. You knew you had to stay strong, and you were trying. Every ounce of your being was dedicated to holding yourself together, to not break down.

He finished his silent work, the apartment now a fortress, however flimsy against a determined killer. He turned to you, his gaze soft, surprisingly tender, devoid of judgment. He didn’t say anything. He didn't offer empty platitudes, didn't try to reason with your fear. He simply reached out, pulling you gently into his arms. For the first time, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness, no pushing away. His embrace was firm, comforting, a silent, solid anchor in the terrifying storm that raged within you. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart, a stark contrast to your own frantic rhythm. In that quiet, terrifying night, surrounded by the unspoken threat outside, Seungcheol just held you. And for the very first time, the two of you didn't push each other away. You just leaned into the warmth, into the unexpected, raw comfort of his presence, seeking solace in the one person who understood the terrifying reality you now faced.

-----

The days blurred into weeks, and the weeks into a month, an indistinguishable stretch of relentless work and a strange, forced intimacy. The chilling note, "Detective Y/N, are you ready for your role?" had fundamentally altered the dynamics between you and Seungcheol. The grudging professional respect, born from shared peril, had deepened into an unspoken agreement of constant vigilance. He was always there. Sometimes, exhausted beyond measure, you found yourself waking in his bed, the morning light filtering through unfamiliar blinds. Other times, he would crash at your apartment, his presence a silent, reassuring anchor in the suffocating dread. Always together. The city breathed a collective sigh of relief as a full month, and then another week, passed without a new murder report. But for you and Seungcheol, this silence was not peace; it was fishy, a deceptive calm before an inevitable, more terrifying storm. The Director was merely orchestrating a long intermission, a strategic pause before his next, grander act.

You stirred from a deep, dreamless sleep, the unfamiliar weight of an arm locked around you. Seungcheol. He was still deep in slumber beside you, his breathing soft and even, his face, usually so taut with concentration, softened by sleep. Despite your lingering, deeply ingrained aversion to him, a flicker of warmth, an unsettling sense of comfort, spread through you. You still told yourself you hated him, despised him, that your rivalry was as fierce as ever. But in the quiet intimacy of his apartment, after weeks of shared terror and sleepless nights, you were undeniably, profoundly glad for his unwavering presence. He was a shield, an unexpected bulwark against the rising tide of fear.

Carefully, meticulously, you began to slip out from under his arm, your movements as silent and practiced as a shadow. You shifted your weight, easing your leg from beneath his, then slowly, painstakingly, lifted his arm from your waist. He mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, a soft sound, and you froze, your heart seizing. But he didn't stir further. Once free, you replaced your body with a pillow, tucking it gently against him, a silent, almost tender gesture that surprised even yourself. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand, its screen glowing dimly in the pre-dawn light.

Your fingers instinctively navigated to the video file. The footage from the Gwanghwamun Church. The second victim, the praying marionette. You replayed it, your eyes scanning, your mind still searching for the invisible thread, the missed detail. The grainy images flickered across the screen: the suspended body, the killer's fleeting appearance, the chilling moment he pinned the note. You watched the killer's arm, the distinctive burnt patch, hoping for a clearer glimpse, a new angle. And then, as the killer moved slightly, just before he pinned the note, your gaze drifted past his arm, past the victim, to the background. The background. It looked… terrifyingly similar. A chill that had nothing to do with the cool morning air snaked down your spine. Your breath hitched. You’d been there before. Once. Years ago, with a colleague during a mundane, forgotten investigation. It was the underground base of the Premium Theater. A forgotten, derelict space back then, filled with dust and cobwebs, devoid of any hint of life. But now, it was imprinted on the killer's video.

You looked over at Seungcheol again. He was still asleep, a deep, exhausted sleep he hadn't known in weeks, dark smudges under his eyes a testament to the sleepless nights. He looked vulnerable, peaceful. You didn't want to disturb him, didn't want to break that rare moment of reprieve. You had to go. Alone.

You dressed quickly, pulling on the first practical clothes you could find, your movements swift and decisive. The urgency propelled you forward, an insistent whisper in your mind. Before you left, another strange, almost involuntary impulse guided your hand. You leaned down, hovering over him, then softly, tentatively, pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was fleeting, barely a touch, but the gesture itself was profound. Why did you care about HIM? You hated him… you despised him. The thoughts swirled, a chaotic storm in your mind, battling against the undeniable, quiet warmth that had settled in your chest. You pushed those confusing, contradictory thoughts away, shoved them deep down, and walked out the door, the click of the lock echoing in the silent apartment.

The underground space beneath the Premium Theater was exactly as you remembered it – dark, damp, and smelling of decay and forgotten dreams. But it was also horrifyingly transformed. The dust had been disturbed, the silence replaced by an unsettling aura. The walls, once bare concrete, were now lined with photos of the victims, each one meticulously arranged, posed like macabre rehearsals. Ji-eun, the first victim, a ghostly ballerina. The man from the church, a silent, suffering saint. The politician's daughter, a broken, beautiful sculpture. Each tableau a chilling re-enactment, captured in unsettling detail. And then, your breath hitched, a gasp caught in your throat. Among the gruesome collection, a photo of you. Posed in a way that mimicked the other victims, starkly stood out, a terrifying prophecy. He had been watching you. Watching your every move, planning your "role" in his twisted play.

Your gaze fell upon a stack of leather-bound journals. The killer’s journal. You pulled on your gloves, making sure to be meticulously careful, aware that every surface could hold a clue, a fingerprint, a strand of hair. You opened one. His handwriting was precise, almost elegant, but the words were a descent into madness. He called himself “The Director.” His entries detailed his "castings," his "rehearsals," his "performances." And then, a line that made your blood run cold, confirming your worst fears about your inclusion: “Detective Y/N, you remind me of Act I.” You were not merely a witness; you were part of his narrative, a recurring character from his past. You quickly snapped photos of the journal entries, of the photos on the walls, making sure to capture every detail.

As you moved around, your detective's eye scanning for any physical evidence, you noticed something else, something equally unsettling: no blood. Just like the first scene at the theatre, just like the church, there wasn't a single drop anywhere on the floor, on the walls, no staining, no residue. It was impossibly clean, defying the gruesome nature of the crimes. How was he doing this? Was he moving the bodies after they bled out? Or was there a ritual, a method, that prevented any spillage at the final staging? The question gnawed at you, amplifying the sense of unreality.

You were crouched, examining a collection of carefully labeled props, when a sudden, jarring sound echoed through the underground space. The heavy metallic clang of the access door being violently shoved open. You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat.

Seungcheol. His face was a mask of unadulterated fury, his eyes blazing, a dangerous storm brewing behind them. He took one look at you, alone in the killer’s lair, and surged forward. Before you could even utter a sound, he grabbed your arm, his grip like a vice, and practically dragged you out of the theatre’s underground base, his movements swift and brutal. He didn't slow, didn't release his grip until he had you in the backseat of his car, shoving you in with a force that left you momentarily breathless. He slammed the door shut, rounded the car, and got into the driver’s seat, slamming that door too. The engine roared to life, and he drove straight to the office, the tires squealing as he pulled away from the curb.

The car ride was silent, a suffocating silence more terrifying than any shouting. You tried to explain, to tell him what you'd found, the photos on the walls, the journal, your own picture. "Seungcheol, I found his journal! He calls himself–"

"Shut it, Y/N," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut you off mid-sentence. He didn’t even look at you, his eyes fixed on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

You tried again, a desperate urgency in your voice. "But Seungcheol, my picture! He's been watching me, he called me 'Act I'–"

This time, he didn't bother with words. He merely flicked his gaze to the rearview mirror, his eyes burning with an intensity you had never witnessed before. It was a single, furious glare, but it was enough. It sliced through your words, through your bravado, through your very will to speak. You had never seen him so angry, so utterly consumed by a cold, terrifying rage. The glare was enough to shut you up, your throat closing, your words dying, leaving only the frantic beat of your heart.

He parked the car haphazardly outside the precinct, not bothering to find a proper spot. He strode in, his movements stiff and purposeful, ignoring everyone who greeted him, the other detectives and uniformed officers quickly parting ways as they sensed the dark cloud hanging over him. You followed him, feeling the curious, slightly alarmed stares of your colleagues, mumbling apologies on his behalf as you walked into your shared office. He didn't even bother to turn around, his back to you, rigid with fury.

"Seungch–" you began again, desperate to explain, to make him understand that your solo venture had yielded crucial information.

He didn't even bother to let you finish. Before you could take another step, he spun around, his face a mask of incandescent rage, and you were suddenly, violently, pinned to the wall. His hands were on either side of your head, bracing against the cold plaster, effectively trapping you. His body was close, too close, vibrating with suppressed fury. He exploded, his voice a low, furious growl that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

"Are you out of your damn mind, Y/N?! What the hell were you thinking?! You went in without backup! Without telling anyone! You could have walked into a damn trap! He’s looking for you, he's targeting you, and you just waltz in there like a sacrificial lamb?! Do you have a death wish?!" His grip on your chin was firm, almost bruising, forcing your head up, forcing your eyes to meet his. His gaze burned into yours, a desperate, raw anger. "Don't you ever go without a fucking backup, Y/N!"

You nodded, wide-eyed, shocked by the sheer intensity of his anger, by the raw fear that laced his voice. The force of his words, the desperation in his eyes, rendered you speechless. He held your chin for another long moment, his chest heaving, his anger slowly, visibly deflating, replaced by a profound weariness he let go of your chin. His forehead fell to your shoulder, his breath ragged, a desperate sigh escaping him. And then, the confession, raw and unbidden, slipped out, a broken whisper that seemed to echo in the sudden, heavy silence of the office. “I can’t do this case if you’re not breathing, Y/N….”

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. All the anger, the rivalry, the professional distance, seemed to melt away, leaving only a startling vulnerability. His admission, stark and painful, spoke of a fear far deeper than any professional concern. Your hand, almost instinctively, reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head, your touch gentle, a silent acknowledgment of the raw emotion he had just laid bare. The moment hung there, thick with unspoken feelings, with the sudden, terrifying realization of what his words truly meant, what your connection had become.

BACK TO WORK.

The unspoken command hung in the air, a necessary return to the grim reality. You pulled away slightly, gently, your hand still lingering on his head for a moment before dropping. Your eyes met, a shared understanding passing between you that bypassed words. The moment of raw vulnerability had passed, but something fundamental had shifted.

You began to speak, your voice steadier now, recounting everything you saw in the underground theatre. "He calls himself 'The Director.' The walls are lined with pictures of the victims, posed like rehearsals. And my picture, Seungcheol. He has a picture of me, posed like them. And in his journal… he wrote that I 'remind him of Act I.'" You showed him the photos you’d taken on your phone, the eerie tableaux, the chilling journal entries. "And there was no blood, Seungcheol. Just like the theatre. No blood at all in the entire space."

You were back at work, the cases and evidence spread out before you, the computer screens casting their pale glow over your faces. The facts, grim and undeniable, were laid bare. But the feelings between you two were anything but orderly. They were a messy, tangled knot of fear, anger, grudging respect, and a newly acknowledged, terrifying tenderness. The boundaries had blurred, irrevocably. The Director's play had just taken an unexpected, deeply personal turn for both of you.

The weeks that followed the chilling encounter in the Premium Theater’s underground base, and Seungcheol’s raw, unexpected confession, had been a tense, volatile truce. The boundaries between you had irrevocably blurred, replaced by a complex tapestry of professional obligation, shared fear, and a nascent, terrifying tenderness that neither of you dared to acknowledge aloud. The Director’s chilling game, however, had gone quiet. A full month and a week had passed without a new murder, a lull that felt less like peace and more like the ominous silence before a storm. You and Seungcheol had worked relentlessly, poring over every detail of the killer’s journal, every photo, every piece of fragmented evidence, trying to decipher his twisted "Acts" and his personal connection to your past. The silence was unnerving, an agonizing wait for the curtain to rise on his next, unpredictable performance.

That night, the quiet was shattered. Not by a phone call to a distant crime scene, but by a frantic, breathless shout from just outside the precinct. The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth, a cruel twist of the knife. The killer hadn't chosen a remote, theatrical stage this time; he had chosen the very doorstep of law enforcement.

A fourth victim was found, not dead, but left alive—barely. He lay crumpled in the narrow alleyway directly behind the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency building, a grim, defiant tableau just steps from the very heart of the investigation. The air was thick with the scent of fear and something metallic. You and Seungcheol were among the first officers to reach him, pushing through the stunned onlookers and uniformed police. He was a man in his late twenties, his body contorted in a way that suggested agonizing torture, yet his eyes, wide with terror, still held a flicker of life. He was bleeding, heavily, from multiple lacerations, but it was his posture, his hands reaching out as if grasping for a lifeline, that spoke of a deep, psychological torment. He was a survivor, a witness, and therefore, an immediate, invaluable, and terrifying lead.

You dropped to your knees beside him, Seungcheol mirroring your action, both of you keenly aware of the urgency, the fragile thread of life clinging to the man. Your medical training kicked in instinctively; you assessed his breathing, his pulse, the worst of the wounds. "Paramedics! Now!" Seungcheol's voice, usually so controlled, was sharp with urgency. As a medic worked to stabilize the man, your eyes locked onto his face, desperate for any information. His lips moved, barely, a faint rasp against the harsh whisper of the night air. You leaned closer, straining to hear, your ear almost touching his trembling mouth. He was trying to speak, desperate to convey a message before the darkness claimed him.

He whispered, his voice a ragged, terrified gasp, each syllable a monumental effort, “He… he said… I was off-script…”

The words were barely audible, but they hit you with the force of a physical blow. "Off-script." The Director. This was his language, his lexicon of terror. Seungcheol, leaning in from the other side, heard it too. His eyes, already grim, darkened further. The message was clear, chillingly so: this victim had failed the Director’s expectations, had deviated from his meticulously planned performance. He was a testament to the killer's escalating cruelty, a live message meant to terrorize not just the city, but you.

Back in a hastily secured interview room at the precinct, the atmosphere was suffocating. The paramedics had done their best, but the victim's condition was critical, his life hanging by a thread. He was delirious, his body wracked with pain and shock. He mumbled incoherently, fragments of terror, but his whispered message, "off-script," resonated with unnerving clarity in your minds.

You and Seungcheol stood, leaning against a cold metal table, the sterile scent of antiseptic mingling with the lingering coppery tang of blood. The sheer audacity of the killer, leaving a victim barely alive right behind police headquarters, was a slap in the face, a direct challenge.

"He's escalating," you stated, your voice low, your gaze fixed on the closed door behind which the survivor lay. Your mind was racing, trying to process this new, terrifying development. "Leaving him alive… it's not a mistake. It's a statement. A deliberate choice."

Seungcheol nodded slowly, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid. "A message to us. To the entire department. To you." His eyes flickered to yours, the unspoken weight of the last note, your name, hanging between you. "He's getting bolder. More confident."

"Sloppier, maybe?" you countered, running a hand through your hair, a nervous habit. "Taking more risks? Leaving a live witness? That's a huge gamble, even for him. Or is it a calculated risk? A way to prove his superiority, to show he can do anything, even under our noses?" You paced a few steps, the arguments forming in your head. "If he leaves a live witness, it means he's either incredibly arrogant, or he thinks the message itself is more important than the risk of being caught."

"Arrogance, certainly," Seungcheol murmured, his gaze distant, processing. "But perhaps not sloppiness in the way we usually perceive it. This isn't a slip-up; it's an escalation of his 'performance.' He’s not just killing his ‘actors’ anymore; he’s now publicly humiliating them, making an example of them. He’s pushing the boundaries, testing us, taunting us. He wants us to see his work, to hear his message directly. It feeds his ego, his 'Director' complex."

You stopped pacing, nodding slowly. "So, the 'off-script' line isn't just about the victim's failure; it's about our failure too. He's telling us we're not following his script. He knows we're close, or he thinks we're close enough to understand his twisted meaning. He's turning up the heat."

The conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the interview room. A nurse's frantic cry. The door burst open, and a junior officer stumbled out, his face ashen, gagging. You and Seungcheol exchanged a look of pure dread.

Before you could even react, before you could take a single step towards the room, a horrifying, visceral sound erupted from within – a sudden, wet gurgle, followed by a sickening thud. Then, silence. A terrible silence.

You and Seungcheol reached the doorway simultaneously, pushing past the frozen officers. The scene inside was a nightmare. The survivor, in a desperate, final act, had seized a piece of broken equipment – a medical clamp, a discarded shard of something – and had plunged it into his own throat. He lay on the floor, convulsing for a brief, agonizing moment. And then, he stilled.

The worst part: the sudden, violent surge of blood. It erupted from his throat, a thick, dark geyser that sprayed outwards, a horrifying crimson arc against the sterile off-white walls. Both you and Seungcheol, standing closest, were caught directly in its path. The hot, sticky liquid splattered across your faces, your clothes, your hands. It dripped from your hair, ran down your cheeks, stinging your eyes. The metallic tang filled your nostrils, overwhelming everything else.

The shock was absolute, primal. The sight of a life, so recently clinging to a fragile thread, extinguished so brutally, so deliberately, and the sickening sensation of the victim’s own blood soaking into your skin, left you reeling. The air was thick with the silent screams of the traumatized junior officers, the hushed whispers of horror from the paramedics, and the profound, gut-wrenching despair that permeated the room.

That brutal, self-inflicted act, the blood still wet on your faces, left Seungcheol and you, and indeed the entire department, fully, utterly disturbed. It was a violation not just of the victim, but of every single person who witnessed it. The weight of it was suffocating. The killer had managed to reach inside their very sanctuary, their place of supposed safety, and orchestrate a final, devastating act of despair, turning their only live witness into another casualty, another ghost.

The Captain’s office was a cold, sterile box, the polished table reflecting your grim faces. Captain Kim sat opposite you, his expression a tight mask of disapproval and deep frustration. The news of the survivor's suicide, the bloodbath in the interview room, had spread like wildfire through the department, eroding morale and confidence. His gaze was sharp, accusatory, landing heavily on both you and Seungcheol.

"This is unacceptable," he stated, his voice low, but vibrating with barely suppressed fury. "A live witness, murdered inside our own building, under our own watch. This is a complete failure, Detectives. A catastrophic failure." He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. "I put my faith in you two. I chose you despite your… historical differences, because I believed you were the only ones who could crack this psychopath. But now…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing.

He paused, letting his words hang in the air, the full weight of his disappointment pressing down on you both. Then, he delivered the ultimatum, his voice steely, devoid of any leniency. "If you don't find this killer, if you don't bring him in, and soon, I will have no choice. I will be forced to give this case to someone else. Regardless of your past achievements, regardless of your so-called 'unique insights.' This cannot continue. The city is in a panic, the media is demanding answers, and we are losing control."

You and Seungcheol stood side by side, heads bowed, silent. There was nothing to say. No excuses, no deflections. The shame, the frustration, the deep, abiding failure to protect the victim, weighed heavily on both your shoulders. You simply nodded, a silent, mutual acknowledgment of the immense pressure, the ticking clock. The case, your careers, perhaps even your lives, now hung in the balance.

The city felt colder that night, heavier, burdened by the day’s horrors. You were back at your apartment, the silence inside a stark contrast to the chaos that had consumed the precinct. The first thing you did was strip off your blood-splattered clothes, the sticky, cold feel of it on your skin making your stomach lurch. You stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you, scrubbing frantically, trying to wash away not just the blood, but the memory, the chill of it seeping into your very bones. You scrubbed until your skin was raw, but the phantom touch of that final, horrifying spray lingered.

You emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, feeling raw, exposed, and utterly, profoundly exhausted. The tremor you had felt earlier was now a full-blown shake, your hands trembling uncontrollably, your knees threatening to buckle. You walked into the living room, intending to find some clean clothes, but froze. Seungcheol was there. He had let himself in, probably with the spare key you’d given him weeks ago, an unspoken agreement in the face of the killer’s targeting of you. He was sitting on your sofa, still in his blood-stained clothes, staring blankly ahead, his face pale and drawn, his own shock palpable.

He must have heard you. He turned, his gaze sweeping over you, his eyes immediately catching the uncontrolled trembling in your hands, the pallor of your skin, the vulnerability in your stance. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched you, his expression softening from its earlier, grim mask. He slowly pushed himself up from the sofa, his movements stiff, and walked towards you.

Without a word, he reached out, gently taking your shaking hands in his. His grip was firm, warm, a stark contrast to your own icy fingers. Your hands were still visibly trembling, the tremor echoing throughout your body. He held them, not trying to stop the shaking, but simply offering a steady anchor. His eyes, dark with shared trauma, met yours.

“You don’t have to be strong for me, Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, rough murmur, barely above a whisper. It was an unexpected kindness, a profound understanding that cut through all the layers of your professional rivalry, all the years of competition. He wasn’t asking you to be the unshakeable detective, the impenetrable mind. He was simply acknowledging your pain, your fear, your humanity. He was telling you it was okay to break, just for a moment, in his presence. The words were a balm, a quiet permission to simply feel the terror that had been building inside you.

You didn't answer, couldn't. You just looked at him, your eyes wide, unshed tears blurring your vision. He held your gaze, his own eyes mirroring the exhaustion, the horror, the deep weariness. The tremor in your hands slowly, imperceptibly, lessened, not because the fear was gone, but because you were no longer fighting to hide it.

That night, the cold reality of the case, the horrifying image of the survivor's last act, pressed down on you both. The argument with the Captain, the chilling ultimatum – it all converged into an unbearable weight. You lay together in your bed, not speaking, the silence a shared understanding of profound trauma. He pulled you close, his arm wrapping around you, and you instinctively curled into him, burying your face against his chest. His heartbeat was a slow, steady rhythm, a comforting counterpoint to the racing pulse in your own ears. He smelled faintly of the hospital, of blood, and something uniquely Seungcheol even after the shower – his scent maybe his perfume or whatever it was, despite everything, had become strangely comforting. He had become comforting. And you knew you were falling.

You didn't fight it, didn't question it. You simply clung to the warmth, the solid presence beside you. His fingers gently stroked your hair, a soft, soothing gesture. Neither of you said anything about the shift, the collapse of your long-standing animosity. The exhaustion was too deep, the shared trauma too raw. For the first time, you didn't feel alone against the creeping dread of the Director. You didn't push each other away. Instead, you found a strange, desperate solace in the close proximity, the quiet comfort of shared fear and unspoken longing. Cradled in his arms, you both finally succumbed to sleep, finding a fragile peace in the darkness, side by side. The Director's game had indeed escalated, but so had the bond between the two detectives tasked with stopping him.

The fragile peace found in each other's arms, a desperate solace against the terror of the man who had killed himself, and was brutally short-lived. The shared warmth, the quiet comfort, evaporated with the first rays of the dawn, replaced by a cold dread that clung to your skin. You woke before Seungcheol, the weight of his arm still a familiar anchor around you, but your mind was already racing, the recent horror of the survivor’s suicide burning vividly behind your eyelids. The Captain’s ultimatum, his icy disapproval, echoed in your thoughts. You knew the clock was ticking, not just on the case, but on your very involvement.

You disentangled yourself from his embrace, carefully, so as not to disturb his heavy sleep. He had barely rested in weeks again, and even this brief reprieve felt stolen, precious. You moved silently through the apartment, the early morning quiet broken only by the distant hum of the city beginning to stir. The lingering metallic tang of blood seemed to cling to everything, a phantom scent that wouldn't wash away.

You were halfway through preparing a rushed, lukewarm coffee, trying to gather your thoughts before the onslaught of another grueling day, when the call came. It wasn’t a precinct alert, not a general broadcast. It was a direct call to your secured line, bypassing the usual channels, hinting at an urgency, a personal gravity that made your blood run cold even before you answered. You picked up, your voice tight, sensing the shift in the universe around you. The voice on the other end was clipped, strained, an officer you knew well, but whose tone was now laced with an almost disbelieving horror.

The words hit you like a physical blow, stripping the air from your lungs. Fifth murder. The victim's name, whispered grimly, resonated through the phone, vibrating in your bones. Retired Detective Lee Chang-min. Your mind reeled. Detective Lee. Not just any retired detective. He was a legend, a mentor to so many, a towering figure in the police academy. But more than that, he was Seungcheol’s old mentor. The man who had guided his first steps in the force, who had championed his quiet brilliance, who had been a surrogate father figure in his formative years. The one person Seungcheol spoke of with uncharacteristic warmth, a rare glimpse into the fiercely guarded corners of his heart.

A choked sound escaped your throat. You didn’t even think. You just ran. Ran to the bedroom, throwing open the door. Seungcheol was still asleep, a peaceful, unsuspecting silhouette against the pale light. You reached for him, shaking his shoulder roughly, the words tumbling out of you in a strangled gasp. "Seungcheol! Wake up! It's… it’s Detective Lee. He’s… he’s gone. Murdered."

His eyes snapped open, a sudden, disoriented clarity in their depths. For a moment, he didn't comprehend, his mind still clouded by sleep. But then, the raw, unvarnished horror on your face, the tremor in your voice, slowly registered. He bolted upright, his mind catching up to the devastating truth. "No. No, it can't be. Lee-sunbaenim?" His voice was barely a whisper, thick with disbelief.

You nodded, tears already stinging your own eyes, a profound empathy overwhelming you. You had seen the worst of humanity in this job, but this was different. This was personal, a direct, cruel blow aimed squarely at him. The Director wasn't just killing actors; he was destroying the support system of those trying to stop him.

The crime scene was a muted horror, a stark contrast to the theatrical flamboyance of the previous ones. It was Lee’s small, unassuming apartment, quiet, almost reverent in its stillness, save for the hushed, grim movements of the forensic team. The body lay on the worn rug of his living room, no wires, no grand suspension, but a chilling intimacy in the setting. It felt less like a stage and more like a final, private execution.

Seungcheol broke down. He saw his mentor, lying there, lifeless, and a guttural cry tore from his throat. It was raw, unadulterated grief, a sound of pure agony that you rarely heard from anyone, least of all from the perpetually controlled Choi Seungcheol. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, oblivious to the other officers, oblivious to everything but the crushing weight of his loss. His face was contorted, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands clenching into fists, trembling with a fury so profound it seemed to vibrate the very air. He buried his face in his hands, his body wracked with violent sobs, each one a testament to the depth of his bond with the man who lay before him.

You didn't hesitate. You dropped to your knees beside him, wrapping your arms around his shaking frame. He was rigid at first, resisting, his body taut with pain and disbelief. But you held him tighter, pulling him against you, letting him lean into your embrace. You felt his body shake, the tremors transferring to you, mixing with your own rising anguish. You held him through it, stroking his hair, murmuring soft, meaningless reassurances, offering what little comfort you could against the overwhelming tide of his despair. His tears soaked your shoulder, hot and relentless. He clung to you, his grip desperate, as if you were the only anchor left in a world that had suddenly tilted off its axis. For the first time, all walls between you crumbled, replaced by the raw, undeniable humanity of shared grief and desperate need. You were no longer just colleagues; you were two shattered souls clinging to each other in the face of unspeakable horror.

A detective, grim-faced, approached, holding a small, folded piece of paper. The killer’s signature. You gently disentangled yourself from Seungcheol, who remained slumped against the wall, his sobs subsiding into ragged breaths. The officer handed you the note. It was personal, chillingly so. Addressed directly to Seungcheol, a cruel mockery of the mentor’s legacy: “He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.” It was a direct declaration of war, a promise to dismantle Seungcheol, piece by painful piece, starting with the very foundations of his training, his identity. The Director was not just avenging; he was indoctrinating, claiming Seungcheol as his next, most crucial, character.

The rest of the morning was a blur of interviews, forensics, and the numbing efficiency of police procedure. Seungcheol remained largely unresponsive, a hollow shell. He answered questions mechanically, his eyes distant, his grief a heavy shroud around him. You handled the rest, directing the teams, coordinating the search for new leads, all while keeping a constant, watchful eye on him. You felt the raw edge of your own emotions, but you pushed them down, focusing on the task, on being strong for him, even as your own heart ached with a profound sense of injustice.

As the afternoon wore on, a different kind of dread began to settle. You realized Seungcheol was gone. He had simply disappeared from the precinct, slipping away unnoticed in the controlled chaos. A cold knot formed in your stomach. You overheard a hushed conversation between two junior officers near the coffee machine. "…think he went to that place again. The one near Gangnam…"

A terrible certainty washed over you. That place. You knew exactly which one. The club. The same one he'd frequented since your university days, a dark, pulsing escape from the pressures of life, where he would drown his sorrows in anonymity and cheap whiskey. He hadn't been there in months, not since the case began, not since… since your forced proximity. But now, with the devastating loss of his mentor, you knew he would seek oblivion there. The memory of his vulnerability earlier, his shattered composure, filled you with a desperate urgency. This wasn't just about finding a missing detective; it was about saving a man on the brink.

The club was exactly as you remembered it – dark, loud, reeking of stale beer and desperation. The pulsing bass vibrated through the floor, a chaotic counterpoint to the quiet despair you carried. You pushed through the throngs of dancing bodies, your eyes scanning the dim corners, the crowded bar. And there he was. Slumped at a secluded booth, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table, his tie askew, his usually immaculate hair falling across his forehead. His eyes, when he finally looked up at you, were bloodshot, unfocused, clouded by alcohol and raw, incandescent pain.

You walked straight up to him, your expression grim. "Seungcheol. We're leaving. Now."

He squinted at you, a slow, drunken smile spreading across his face, devoid of mirth. "Y/N? My knight in shining… well, something. Came to rescue the damsel in distress, eh?" His voice was slurred, laced with a bitter sarcasm that cut deep.

"Don't be an idiot," you said, reaching for his arm. "You're coming home. You're drunk. You're not stable."

He pulled his arm away, his eyes suddenly flashing with a dangerous anger, fueled by grief and liquor. "Stable? Stable?! My mentor is dead, Y/N! Murdered! By that bastard! And you want me to be stable?! What kind of machine do you think I am?!"

You grabbed his arm again, firmer this time. "A detective. And a human being who needs to mourn, but not like this. Not here." You began to pull him up, but he resisted, a surprising strength in his drunken state.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped, pushing you away with unexpected force. He stumbled, almost falling, but caught himself, bracing against the table. The anger in his eyes was replaced by a raw, profound despair. "He taught me everything, Y/N. Everything! And I couldn't protect him. The Director… he's just playing with us. He's right. He taught me wrong. I'm a failure." His voice broke on the last word, choked with self-loathing.

You stared at him, your heart aching with a pain that wasn't entirely your own. The grief, the self-recrimination, the sheer, unadulterated vulnerability in his eyes was overwhelming. He wasn't the impenetrable Seungcheol you knew. He was a broken man, exposed and raw.

"You are not a failure, Seungcheol," you said, your voice low, trying to reach through the drunken haze, through the wall of his despair. "This isn't on you. This is on him. And we will get him."

He laughed, a harsh, broken sound that held no humor. "Will we? He's rewriting me, Y/N. He said so. 'I'll rewrite you.' And he's starting with erasing everyone I care about." His gaze sharpened, locking onto yours, fueled by alcohol and a desperate, confused longing. "Maybe… maybe this is what he wants. To break me down. To make me… like him."

The tension in the booth was suffocating. He leaned in, his face close to yours, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath. His eyes, usually so clear and controlled, were wild, a desperate fire burning within their depths. "You don't understand," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "what it's like… to lose everything. To feel so helpless. So… alone."

And then, fueled by grief, by alcohol, by the raw, unspoken longing that had been building between you for weeks, the tension exploded into a rough, breathless kiss. His lips crashed down on yours, desperate, uninhibited, tasting of whiskey and tears. It was a chaotic, almost violent embrace, born of despair and a desperate need for connection. He pulled you closer, his hands grasping your face, his fingers tangling in your hair, deepening the kiss, pouring all his anguish into it.

For a moment, you responded, lost in the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it, the desperate heat, the raw emotion. It was primal, visceral, a moment divorced from logic or consequence. But then, a cold clarity cut through the haze. This wasn't him. Not truly. This was his grief, his drunken emotions, his shattering pain seeking an outlet, a comfort, any comfort. This was not the confession of a clear mind, not the delicate blossoming of a conscious choice. This was regret, shame, and unspoken longing, warped by alcohol and overwhelming trauma. You knew. You knew this might be his drunk emotions, and acting on them now would only deepen the regret for both of you later.

With a sudden, decisive surge of strength, you pushed him off. He stumbled back, his eyes wide, confused, the daze of alcohol mixing with a dawning realization of what he had done. The kiss ended as abruptly as it began, leaving behind a profound silence, thick with shame and unspoken words. His face, still flushed from the alcohol, was now etched with a raw, mortified regret.

You stared at each other across the small booth, the pulsating music of the club a distant, meaningless thrum. The unspoken longing that had simmered between you for so long, now brutally exposed in that rough, breathless moment, hung in the air, heavy and painful.

You finally broke the silence, your voice tight, strained. "We're leaving." Your tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. You grabbed his arm again, this time he didn't resist. He allowed you to half-drag, half-support him out of the chaotic club, into the cool, biting night air.

The car ride back to your apartment was a suffocating silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts, replaying the scene, the kiss, the raw exposure. You pulled into your building's parking lot, the familiar space offering no comfort. You helped him stumble into your apartment, guiding him towards the sofa. He mumbled something, a broken apology, but you didn't acknowledge it. You simply helped him lie down, throwing a blanket over him, and turned away.

That night, the bed felt cold, empty, a vast expanse of loneliness. You slept on the couch, the worn cushions offering little comfort. The memory of his lips on yours, rough and desperate, was branded onto your mind, a bitter reminder of a boundary crossed, of emotions unleashed in a moment of utter vulnerability and despair. The shame was suffocating, the regret profound. You couldn't sleep, your mind replaying the scene, the stark realization that you were teetering on a precipice, not just with the case, but with the man sleeping, or perhaps not sleeping, on your sofa. The Director's game was not only about victims; it was about unraveling the minds of those trying to stop him, twisting their emotions, and throwing them into chaos. And in that moment, he had succeeded, leaving behind not just a dead mentor, but a shattered, complicated dynamic between the only two people who could stop him.

-----

The first light of dawn, pale and hesitant, crept through the blinds of your living room, illuminating the quiet aftermath of a night steeped in raw grief and unsettling intimacy. You had spent the night on the couch, the worn fabric offering little comfort, but the distance felt necessary, a fragile barrier against the emotional wreckage of the previous evening. The memory of Seungcheol’s desperate kiss, fueled by despair and alcohol, still burned on your lips, a bitter brand. The shame, the regret, the sudden, brutal exposure of a longing you had both fiercely suppressed, hung heavy in the air.

You heard a stirring from the sofa. Seungcheol. You tensed, bracing yourself for the inevitable awkwardness, the unspoken weight of what had transpired. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair, his movements stiff, almost hesitant. The dark smudges under his eyes were more pronounced, but the wild, desperate fire that had consumed them hours earlier had been extinguished, replaced by a dull ache, a profound weariness. He was sober now, or at least, significantly more so, and the clarity seemed to bring with it a wave of fresh mortification.

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the room, finally landing on you. His eyes held a mixture of deep shame, lingering pain, and something akin to quiet desperation. He pushed himself off the sofa, moving slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a skittish animal. He stopped a few feet from you, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture reflecting a hesitant vulnerability you rarely saw.

“Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, rough, a testament to the tears and the alcohol of the night before. He swallowed, visibly struggling to find the right words, to navigate the immense chasm that had opened between you. “About last night… I… I’m so sorry. I was… I was out of line. I was drunk, I was grieving, and I… I lost control. It shouldn’t have happened. I deeply, deeply apologize.” The words were strained, heartfelt, laced with a raw regret that pierced through your own guarded defenses. He didn't offer excuses, didn't try to blame the alcohol entirely; he simply accepted responsibility, a rare and profound gesture from the usually unyielding Seungcheol. He looked directly at you, his gaze unwavering despite the shame, waiting for your response, for your condemnation.

You looked back at him, your own heart a tangled mess of conflicting emotions. Anger, frustration, embarrassment… but also a strange, unexpected pang of empathy. You saw the genuine pain in his eyes, the self-loathing. It wasn't just remorse for the kiss; it was a profound apology for his entire collapse, for exposing his deepest vulnerability. You knew his words were sincere, that he was trying to mend something irrevocably broken.

“It’s… it’s fine, Seungcheol,” you managed, your voice softer than you intended, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. It wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine. But a part of you couldn't bear to add to his already crushing burden. “We both… we were both pushed to the edge. It was a moment of… weakness. For both of us.” You didn't acknowledge the shared longing, the raw attraction that had been momentarily unleashed. You focused on the trauma, the stress, the exhaustion, the only acceptable explanations for such a breach of your carefully constructed walls.

He nodded slowly, a deep, shuddering breath escaping him, as if a great weight had been lifted, however momentarily. He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the lingering fatigue and despair. He was still reeling from his mentor’s death, from the Director’s chilling message, and from his own humiliating fall from control. But now, he was way more stable, the raw edges of his grief softened by a night of uneasy sleep, and perhaps, by your reluctant forgiveness.

He walked over to the armchair, slumping into it, his shoulders still hunched. You moved to the kitchen, resuming your task of making coffee, the mundane act a welcome distraction. The silence stretched, uncomfortable but less volatile than before. Then, he spoke, his voice low, almost contemplative, laced with a vulnerability that tugged at something deep within you.

He began to tell you about his mentor, Detective Lee Chang-min. He spoke about him not just as a superior officer, but as a genuine friend, a guiding light who had seen something in a young, introverted Seungcheol that others had missed. “Lee-sunbaenim,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, but clearer now, no longer slurred by alcohol, “he treated me like a son, Y/N. Not just a student. He… he saw me. He didn’t just teach me procedures; he taught me how to think, how to see the patterns others couldn’t. He taught me how to trust my instincts, even when they went against the grain.” His gaze drifted to a distant point, lost in memory. “He was the one who encouraged me to pursue the criminal psychology specialization, even when everyone else said it was ‘too theoretical’ for police work. He said it was about understanding the ‘why,’ not just the ‘what.’ He said true justice meant dissecting the mind of the perpetrator, not just catching them. He stood by me, defended me, when I made my first big mistakes. He never judged. He only guided.”

He continued, his voice wavering occasionally, painting a vivid picture of the man he had lost. “He used to take me fishing on his days off, even though I hated fishing. Just to talk. To listen. He helped me through my toughest times at the academy, through family struggles. He believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. He was a rock, Y/N. Unshakeable. And now… now he’s gone. Because of him. Because of me.” His voice cracked on the last word, the grief returning in a fresh, sharp wave. “And that note… ‘He taught you wrong. I’ll rewrite you.’ It’s like he’s trying to erase everything Lee-sunbaenim gave me. To corrupt his memory. To break me down piece by piece. He’s taking everything, Y/N. Everything.” His fists clenched, a raw, silent fury battling with the profound sorrow.

You listened carefully, silently, letting him vent, letting the raw grief pour out of him. You didn't interrupt, didn't offer empty platitudes. You simply sat, your own mug of coffee cooling in your hands, offering the silent, unwavering presence he needed. You watched the pain etched on his face, the slow, agonizing process of him grappling with a loss so profound it threatened to shatter his very foundation. For the first time, you saw past the rivalry, past the stoicism, to the deeply human core of him. And in that quiet space, your understanding of Seungcheol deepened, evolving beyond the confines of competition and mutual dislike. You saw his humanity, his vulnerability, and a quiet, fierce empathy blossomed in your own heart.

The morning bled into afternoon, then evening, a relentless cycle of work. The grief remained, a heavy shroud, but it no longer paralyzed him. Driven by a grim determination, fueled by a desire for vengeance for Lee-sunbaenim, Seungcheol threw himself into the case with an almost frightening intensity. You worked alongside him, matching his furious pace, sifting through mountains of old papers, archived police reports, newspaper clippings, anything that might connect the victims. He pulled every dusty box from the precinct archives, every neglected cold case file, convinced that if the Director was so meticulously "rewriting" his past, then his past had to be hidden somewhere in the city's forgotten records. You ordered every digital archive of Seoul's cultural events from the last decade, every theater production, every concert, every play – successful or failed.

It was late, the precinct office almost deserted again, save for the two of you and the hum of the fluorescent lights. You were both slumped over separate desks, surrounded by mountains of paper, discarded coffee cups, and the stale smell of desperation. Seungcheol, with a frustrated groan, pushed aside a pile of unrelated files. His fingers, numb from hours of flipping through pages, brushed against a dusty, unassuming folder at the bottom of the stack. It was a thin, old file, labeled simply: "Seongsan Arts Center - Incident Report - 20XX." Something about the date, the name, nagged at him. He pulled it out, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He opened it, and as his eyes scanned the faded print, his body stiffened. A sudden, sharp intake of breath. He was no longer slumped; he was ramrod straight, his eyes wide, fixed on the page. “Y/N,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet vibrating with a profound shock, a terrible realization. “Y/N, I found the one.”

You looked up, startled by the intensity in his voice. You watched as he pulled out a faded program, a stack of cast lists, and a series of police reports from within the folder. He laid them out on the desk, his hands trembling slightly.

A new clue emerged, chilling and undeniable. His finger traced names on the cast list, then moved to the victim profiles you had pinned to the wall. “Ji-eun… she was listed as an understudy, though the program says ‘chorus member.’ The church victim… he was the stage manager. The politician’s daughter… her father was a major investor, pushing for the production.” His voice gained a desperate urgency, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with a horrifying inevitability. “Lee-sunbaenim… he was assigned to the initial complaints about the production, the financial irregularities, the on-set accidents.”

He looked up at you, his eyes blazing with a mix of horror and triumph. “Every victim,” he stated, his voice hushed, “every single one of them, had a connection to this. To a failed local play from four years ago—The Crimson Mask. All of them were either in it, or intimately involved in its spectacular shutdown.”

The realization hit you like a thunderclap, echoing your own earlier, wild theory, but now grounded in concrete evidence. The Director. This wasn't just about random "roles"; it was about specific, predefined roles in a long-forgotten tragedy. You realized with a sickening clarity: the killer is avenging something from that production’s cancellation. The play, The Crimson Mask, had been notoriously troubled: accusations of fraud, a leading actor injured on set, unexplained delays, spiraling budgets, and ultimately, a spectacular, very public cancellation just days before its grand opening. It had been a scandal that briefly dominated local headlines, then faded into obscurity. But for someone, it was still a live wound, festering, demanding retribution. The Director’s notes, his theatrical staging, his “acts” and “performances”—it all suddenly made horrifying sense. This wasn't a serial killer; it was a ghost, haunting the memories of a failed artistic endeavor, exacting a terrible price for a forgotten slight.

The exhaustion that had weighed you down for weeks suddenly evaporated, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. This was it. The link. The motive. The path to the killer. You and Seungcheol, now a single, driven unit, began to sift through the newly discovered documents with furious intensity. Every name, every incident report, every piece of forgotten gossip, now held a terrifying new significance. You started cross-referencing names from the play’s production with any reported incidents, any disappearances, any disgruntled individuals from that time. You meticulously built a new timeline, charting the rise and spectacular fall of The Crimson Mask, hoping to identify anyone with a motive, anyone who might harbor such a deep, burning resentment for its cancellation. The blurred birthmark from the church video now felt like a desperate plea for identification, a singular mark on a vengeful phantom.

You were deep in the new rabbit hole, the office buzzing with your renewed energy, when your phone rang again. A private number, withheld. You hesitated, glancing at Seungcheol, who was now pulling up old police records related to the Seongsan Arts Center incident. He nodded, gesturing for you to answer. You picked up, your voice crisp despite the underlying tension.

“Detective Y/N,” a woman’s voice said, soft but firm, with a slight, almost imperceptible accent that wasn’t local. “My name is Lee Min-jun. I’m Detective Lee Chang-min’s daughter. I understand you’re handling his… case. I’d like to speak with you.”

A cold prickle of suspicion immediately ran down your spine. It was suspicious. Highly suspicious. You knew Lee Chang-min’s daughter. You had met her briefly years ago. She was an accomplished architect, based in Rome, Italy, according to his last update. She was definitely not in Seoul. The subtle accent, while perhaps a result of living abroad, was just enough to raise a flag. This wasn't a distraught daughter calling from a grief-stricken flight. This felt… off. Too calm. Too precise.

Your eyes met Seungcheol’s across the desk. He had heard your end of the conversation, caught the subtle change in your expression. He was already reaching for his sidearm, his hand hovering over it, his body tensing, his gaze fixed on you. He picked up his own phone, dialing a silent, internal number, preparing for a trace.

“Ms. Lee,” you said, keeping your voice steady, injecting just enough formality to mask your growing alarm. “Thank you for calling. I’m so sorry for your loss. Where are you calling from?”

A beat of silence. Then, a soft, almost imperceptible chuckle on the other end, devoid of humor. “Oh, I’m… closer than you think, Detective Y/N. Much, much closer. I just need to speak with you. Urgently. Alone. There are things about my father, about this ‘Director’… things I can only tell you in person.” She named a specific, secluded café, tucked away in an old, quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Seoul, known for its antique charm and discreet corners. A perfect place for a private, deadly meeting.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. This could be the killer itself. A trap, meticulously laid, designed to lure you out, vulnerable and alone. The Director’s message to Seungcheol: “I’ll rewrite you.” What better way to rewrite him than to take the one person he was desperately trying to protect? This was personal bait, and you were the one being reeled in.

You spoke into the phone, keeping your voice even. “I understand, Ms. Lee. I can meet you there. But it might take me a little while to get away. Give me twenty minutes.” You were buying time, letting Seungcheol set up a perimeter, gather backup.

You ended the call, your hand trembling slightly as you placed the receiver back in its cradle. Seungcheol was already on the internal line, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, describing the location, giving orders, his eyes never leaving yours. He had heard enough. He was already reaching for his jacket, pulling his weapon. He didn't need to ask if you were going alone. He knew the risk, knew the potential for a trap. He was already planning how to shadow you, how to keep you safe. He stays in reach. Closer than anyone, the one person who would break every protocol to ensure you walked away from this. The Director’s stage was set, and you were about to step into his deadliest act yet.

The twenty minutes you had bought felt like an eternity, a slow-motion countdown to an unknown horror. The address provided by “Lee Min-jun” led to a cluster of deserted warehouses on the forgotten industrial outskirts of Seoul, a landscape of crumbling brick and rusting metal. It was the perfect stage for the Director, isolated and grim, far from the bustling heart of the city. You drove there, every nerve ending screaming, every instinct on high alert. You knew it was a trap. You felt it. But the lure of the information, the desperate hope that this might be the breakthrough, compelled you forward.

Seungcheol had been a phantom presence from the moment you left the precinct. You hadn't seen his car, but you knew he was there, a shadow in your rearview mirror, a guardian angel you begrudgingly relied upon. His instructions, relayed in terse, urgent whispers over your comms, were precise: "Maintain speed. No sudden stops. I'm three blocks back, heading your way. Backup is five minutes out. Don't go in alone, Y/N. I mean it." The last words were a low growl, a direct echo of his fury in the theatre's underground base. You knew he meant it. You just also knew you couldn't wait.

You parked your unmarked car a block away from the designated warehouse, pulling into the shadow of a crumbling, abandoned factory building. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and forgotten industry. A cold wind, carrying the ghosts of long-dead machinery, whipped around you. The warehouse itself loomed, a vast, decaying monument to neglect, its windows shattered like vacant eyes. It looked exactly like the kind of place where a director of death would stage his most personal act. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

You checked your sidearm, the familiar weight a small comfort in your trembling hand. You wore a covert comms earpiece, feeling Seungcheol’s distant, watchful presence, an invisible lifeline. He would be close. He had to be. You took a deep, shaky breath, pushing down the rising tide of fear. You were a detective. This was your job. But the thought of your name on that note, the chilling prophecy of your "role," made your skin crawl. You were the bait.

Stepping out of the car, you moved with practiced caution, your footsteps muffled on the cracked asphalt. The warehouse seemed to swallow the light, its vast interior a gaping maw of shadows. You crept towards a gaping hole where a loading bay door once stood, the rusted remnants like broken teeth. The silence inside was oppressive, heavy, broken only by the drip of water and the distant rattle of metal. Every shadow seemed to stretch and writhe, morphing into imagined threats. You moved slowly, methodically, your eyes scanning, your senses heightened, straining for any sign of movement, any breath, any sound. The cold prickle of unease intensified, a growing certainty that you were not alone.

And then, he was there.

A blur of motion from your peripheral vision, a sudden, swift lunge from the darkest corner. You had barely a split second to react, your detective instincts screaming. A figure, cloaked in black, emerging from the deep shadows of the warehouse. Not Lee Min-jun, the architect from Rome. This was the Director. His movements were swift, calculated, terrifyingly efficient. Before you could even raise your weapon, before you could articulate a single syllable, he was on you. His arm, strong and unyielding, clamped around your waist, pulling you back against a solid, unyielding chest. A thick, coarse hand, gloved, clamped over your mouth, stifling your cry. The scent of dust and something metallic, something vaguely like old stage grease, filled your nostrils. He was disturbingly close, his breath warm against your ear. You felt the cold, hard press of something against your side – a knife.

Your heart exploded in your chest, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Fear, cold and absolute, washed over you, paralyzing you for a split second. This was it. This was the "role" he had promised. Your body reacted instinctively, violently. You thrashed, kicked, elbowed backwards with all your might, trying to dislodge his grip, to break free. His hold was iron, unyielding. He pulled you back, further into the deepening gloom of the warehouse, away from the distant opening, away from any potential light, away from…

A guttural growl, low and dangerous, ripped through the silence of the warehouse. Not your own. Not the Director's. It was Seungcheol.

He arrived. Not a second later, not a breath out of sync. Just as the Director began to drag you deeper into the shadows, just as the cold edge of the knife pressed a little harder against your side, a sudden, blinding flash of light erupted from the entrance of the warehouse, followed by the deafening crack of a gunshot.

Seungcheol. He had seen the struggle, timed his intervention with a precision that bordered on miraculous. He hadn't bothered with formalities, hadn't waited for backup. He had burst through the entrance, gun drawn, firing a warning shot into the ceiling, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. And then, with a desperate, almost feral roar, he acted. He killed the lights.

The warehouse plunged into immediate, absolute darkness. The sudden transition was disorienting, a violent assault on your senses. The Director’s grip faltered for a mere instant, a moment of confusion in the chaos. That was all you needed. You twisted, elbowed him hard in the stomach, and pulled frantically against his weakening hold. He grunted, a sound of frustrated surprise, and you felt his grip finally break. You stumbled forward, collapsing onto the dusty floor, gasping for air, the metallic taste of fear filling your mouth.

The next few seconds were a terrifying symphony of sounds: Seungcheol’s rapid footsteps, the click-clack of his gun being reloaded, his urgent, shouted commands – "Y/N! Are you okay?! Stay down!" – and the frantic, retreating scuffle of the Director. You heard the sounds of shattering glass, the scraping of metal, as the killer scrambled to escape into the pre-dawn night, vanishing as swiftly and silently as he had appeared. The brief, chaotic battle was over. The killer escaped, but you were safe.

You lay on the cold concrete, trembling, your lungs burning, struggling to regain control of your breathing. The phantom sensation of the knife at your side, the rough hand over your mouth, lingered like a physical wound. The adrenaline surged through your veins, leaving you nauseous and dizzy. You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, trying to orient yourself in the oppressive darkness.

Then, Seungcheol was there. His footsteps were heavy, urgent, closing in on you. You heard the click of his tactical flashlight, and a narrow beam of light cut through the gloom, momentarily blinding you before it settled on your face. His eyes, in the harsh glare, were wide, filled with a raw, desperate fear that eclipsed everything else. He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands immediately sweeping over your body, checking for injuries, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost reverent. "Y/N? Are you hurt? Are you hit?" His voice was hoarse, thick with barely suppressed panic.

You shook your head, still gasping for air, your throat raw. "No. No, I'm okay. He… he just had a knife. He didn't use it." You pointed vaguely into the darkness where the killer had vanished. "He went that way. Towards the back alley."

He didn't pursue. Not yet. His priority was you. He pulled you up, his arm steady around your waist, helping you to your feet. You leaned into him, suddenly weak in the knees, the terrifying reality of how close you had come hitting you with full force. Backup sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder, closer. They had made it. Just a little too late.

That night, after the chaos of the crime scene had been processed, the statements taken, and the lingering dread had settled like a heavy fog, Seungcheol drove you both back to his place. The car ride was steeped in a profound, unsettling silence. The usual witty retorts, the simmering arguments, the barbed comments that usually filled the space between you were absent. There was only the quiet hum of the engine, the glow of the dashboard lights, and the crushing weight of the near-abduction. Your body thrummed with residual adrenaline, and the image of the Director’s cloaked figure lunging from the shadows replayed endlessly in your mind. Seungcheol’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw clenched, his profile grim. He glanced at you occasionally, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his eyes, filled with an unreadable mix of concern and something else you couldn't quite decipher. The air between you crackled with unspoken words, with raw, unacknowledged emotions that had nowhere to go, no safe space to land.

You arrived at his apartment, the building feeling like a fortress against the unseen terrors of the city. He unlocked the door, the click echoing in the sudden quiet, and you stepped inside, the oppressive silence following you. The lights were low, casting long shadows across the familiar, minimalist living space. Neither of you spoke. You moved slowly, deliberately, as if in a trance, shedding your jacket, leaving it slumped on a chair. The scent of him, faint but familiar, was surprisingly grounding.

He closed the door behind him, the soft click final. He didn't move immediately towards you. He remained by the door, his back to you, his shoulders hunched, his hands clenched into fists. He was processing, reliving the moment he burst through that door, the sight of you in the killer’s grasp. The agony of that near-miss, the terror of almost losing you, was etched into every rigid line of his body.

Finally, he turned. His face was pale, drawn, his eyes shadowed, but clear. There was no anger now, only a profound, almost desperate vulnerability that stripped him bare. He walked towards you slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure whether to approach or retreat. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze locked onto yours, raw and unblinking.

Seungcheol confessed. His voice, when it came, was low, rough, thick with unshed tears and a pain so deep it resonated in your very soul. It was a broken whisper, a stark admission that tore through the last vestiges of his carefully constructed composure. “Y/N,” he began, his voice barely audible, “when I saw him… when I saw him grab you… when I thought he was going to take you, just like the others…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, struggling to control the tremor in his voice. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide, haunted by the image. “My blood went cold. My entire world… it just narrowed to that moment. To getting you out.”

He took a shaky breath, his confession pouring out of him, raw and unvarnished, stripped of all pretense. “I swear to God, Y/N, in that moment, all I could think was… I would rather. I would rather take his place. I would rather die. I would rather take the killer’s place than see you hurt again.” The words were a desperate plea, a confession of fear so profound it was almost a physical ache in the air between you. He wasn't just saying he'd protect you; he was saying he'd sacrifice himself, willingly, without a second thought. It was the most selfless, terrifyingly vulnerable admission he had ever made, revealing a depth of feeling that stunned you into silence. The implications were staggering, monumental. He feared for your safety more than his own life, more than any case, more than anything.

His admission hit you with the force of a tidal wave. All your carefully constructed walls, the years of competitive rivalry, the lingering distrust, the recent awkwardness – they shattered. His words were raw, primal, stripping away everything but the terrifying truth of his feelings, and by extension, your own. You saw the agonizing fear, the desperate, protective love, blazing in his eyes.

You didn’t think. You didn't intellectualize. You didn't pull away. Instead, driven by an equally desperate, raw instinct, you surged forward. Your hands, trembling slightly, clamped onto the lapels of his shirt, pulling him towards you with a force born of overwhelming emotion. His face, still etched with raw confession, was suddenly inches from yours. Your eyes, wide and blazing, locked with his.

“Then push me away,” you whispered, your voice fierce, trembling with a mixture of terror and defiance, a desperate plea and a challenge. “Push me away if you don’t like this. Push me away if you don’t feel it too. Because I can’t… I can’t do this alone anymore.” The words were a dare, an invitation to a precipice you both stood on, terrified but unable to retreat. You were laying your own vulnerability bare, mirroring his, demanding a response, an acknowledgment of the terrifying, undeniable connection that had forged itself in the fires of shared trauma.

He didn't push you away. He didn't hesitate. His eyes, wide and filled with a sudden, answering fire, dropped to your lips. In that moment, all the unspoken longing, all the suppressed attraction, all the shared terror and desperate need, exploded.

The kiss was raw. It was desperate. It was utterly consuming. His mouth descended on yours with a fierce hunger, a primal urgency that left you breathless. His hands, no longer clenched, found your waist, pulling you against him, crushing your bodies together, eliminating every last inch of space between you. It was a torrent of pent-up emotion, a release of weeks of tension, of fear, of silent longing. It was the kiss of two people who had stared death in the face and, in doing so, had finally seen each other, truly seen each other, for the first time.

It was also soft, a tender counterpoint to the wild hunger. His lips moved against yours with a surprising gentleness amidst the ferocity, a quiet acknowledgment of the vulnerability, the profound connection that was forming. His fingers tightened at your waist, holding you impossibly close, as if afraid that if he let go, you would simply vanish.

You responded with equal intensity, your hands rising, tangling in his hair, pulling him closer still. Your lips moved in sync with his, a desperate dance of fear and burgeoning love. You were both terrified of what you felt, of the monumental shift, of the implications this would have on your already complicated lives, on the very fabric of your professional existence. This wasn't just a physical act; it was a devastating emotional confession, a complete surrender to the terrifying truth that had been building between you.

But neither of you stopped it this time. There was no alcohol to blame, no exhaustion to excuse the lapse. This was real. This was a choice. And in that moment, in the suffocating silence of his apartment, illuminated only by the faint city lights filtering through the blinds, you both chose to fall. He didn't push you away. He held you closer, his body molding against yours, a silent promise, a desperate comfort, a terrifying, beautiful beginning. The world outside, with its Director and his chilling plays, faded into insignificance. For now, there was only the two of you, lost in the overwhelming, undeniable current of your shared vulnerability, and the sudden, breathtaking reality of what you felt for each other.

The first light of dawn, tinged with a fragile, almost hopeful pink, barely touched the windows of Seungcheol’s apartment. You were already awake, the events of the previous night — the near-abduction, his desperate confession, and the raw, uninhibited kiss that had followed — replaying in your mind like a fever dream. The tenderness of his embrace still lingered, a phantom warmth that both comforted and terrified you. You were no longer just colleagues, not even just rivals. The boundaries had dissolved, replaced by a profound, undeniable connection forged in the crucible of shared trauma and raw, burgeoning emotion. But the case remained, a dark shadow hanging over this fragile new intimacy. The Director was still out there, and he was getting bolder, more personal.

You slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Seungcheol, who was still deeply asleep beside you. He had finally found a true, exhausted respite, and you couldn't bring yourself to break it. Your mind, however, was already racing, furiously assembling the fragments of what you knew, what you had learned from the Director's journal, what he desired. Control. Performance. A final, grand spectacle. A plan, dangerous and audacious, began to form in your mind. A trap. The only way to catch a madman obsessed with orchestration was to give him a stage, and then, to flip the script.

You moved silently into the living room, grabbing a notepad and pen. The faint glow of the city lights outside provided just enough illumination. You began to sketch, to write, to diagram, your thoughts flowing freely, unchecked by the usual caution. The Director considered you "Act I" – a character from his past, essential to his narrative. He wanted to "rewrite" Seungcheol. He played on theatrical themes. He craved control, but perhaps, in his arrogance, he could be controlled.

An hour later, Seungcheol stirred. You heard the creak of the bed, then the soft padding of his bare feet on the floor. He walked into the living room, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair endearingly disheveled. He stopped short when he saw you, hunched over the notepad, the determined set of your shoulders, the frantic energy emanating from you. He looked from your intense face to the scribbled notes, then back to you, a question in his eyes, a dawning realization of your focus.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, a faint awkwardness lingering from the night’s overwhelming events, yet beneath it, a new, almost tender possessiveness in his gaze.

You looked up, a manic gleam in your eyes. The plan was crystallizing, demanding to be voiced. “Morning. I have an idea. A… dangerous one.” You pushed the notepad towards him, tapping a finger on your intricate diagram. “He’s obsessed with control, right? With his ‘performance.’ He sees us as characters. He wants to rewrite you. He wants a grand finale.”

Seungcheol leaned over, his brow furrowed as he read your notes, the lines of exhaustion still etched around his eyes, but now tinged with sharp intelligence. Your plan was bold, terrifyingly so. It involved luring the Director out into the open, using his own obsessions against him. It was a high-stakes gamble, risking everything.

As he absorbed the details, his eyes widened slightly. He looked up at you, a silent question passing between you. He knew what you were suggesting, implicitly. He knew the risk. And then, slowly, a grim resolve settled over his features.

“I’ll be the bait,” he said, his voice quiet, firm, utterly resolved. The words hung in the air, a devastating pronouncement. You had considered it, of course, but pushed it away as too dangerous, too personal. Yet, his logic, even in this terrifying proposal, was impeccable. “It makes sense,” he continued, almost dispassionately, as if discussing another detective’s fate. “He sees me as the ‘flawed hero’ from that original play. I was the male lead, after all. He wants to ‘rewrite’ me, to correct my role, to make me part of his ultimate production. I’m the logical choice for his grand finale. He’ll come for me.”

Your blood ran cold. You didn’t want him to do it. The thought of him, alone, exposed, walking into the killer’s trap, sent a spear of pure terror through you. The idea, once an abstract possibility in your planning, now materialized into a horrifying reality. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. All the raw emotion from the night before, the desperate fear of losing him, surged to the surface.

“No,” you gasped, the word torn from your throat, your voice thin with desperate fear. You reached out, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into his bicep. “Absolutely not. It’s too dangerous, cheol. He’s unpredictable. He’s obsessed. He’ll hurt you. He’ll kill you. In the most fucked up way possible-” Your voice rose, bordering on a plea. “We can find another way. We can use a decoy, someone else. This isn’t… this isn’t necessary!” You clung to his arm, your eyes wide with desperate entreaty. “Please, cheol. Don’t do this. I can’t… I can’t lose you.” The words, raw and unbidden, tumbled out, laying bare the depth of your fear, the terrifying realization of how much he had come to mean to you. The very thought of him in the Director’s hands, of him becoming another victim in this twisted play, was unbearable.

He looked down at your hands, then back into your eyes, his gaze steady, unwavering, despite the obvious pain and apprehension flickering within their depths. He gently covered your hand with his own, his thumb stroking your knuckles, a comforting gesture that belied the terrifying decision he had just made. His voice was soft, laced with a quiet, heartbreaking resolve. “If it means protecting you, Y/N,” he said, his gaze holding yours, unflinching, “I’ll take the stage.” It was a silent vow, a terrifying declaration of love and sacrifice, echoing his confession from the previous night, solidifying it into an undeniable truth. He would offer himself, willingly, if it meant keeping you safe. His own life, his own pain, was secondary to your survival.

You choked back a sob, tears stinging your eyes. There was no arguing with that kind of resolve, that level of selflessness. He had made his decision, and his stubbornness, usually a source of irritation, was now a heartbreaking testament to his devotion. He was willing to become the Director's final act, if it meant ending the play.

The meeting with Captain Kim was tense, the air thick with unspoken anxieties. You and Seungcheol stood side-by-side, a united front, but the strain was visible on both your faces. You had laid out the entire plan: the lure, the staging, the precise timing of the backup. You explained how the Director's obsession with Seungcheol as the "flawed hero" from The Crimson Mask could be manipulated, how his need for a final, grand performance would draw him out. The Captain listened, his face grim, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his desk.

“This is… an extreme risk, Detectives,” Captain Kim stated, his voice tight. “Putting a detective in harm’s way, intentionally using him as bait… this could cost someone their life. Let alone, Detective Choi’s.” His gaze was fixed on Seungcheol, a mixture of paternal concern and professional apprehension in his eyes. He knew Seungcheol was invaluable, a rising star. The thought of losing him, especially in such a calculated maneuver, was clearly agonizing. He had trusted you both with the case, but this… this pushed the boundaries of every protocol, every acceptable risk.

The Captain questioned Seungcheol directly. “Detective Choi,” he said, his voice firm, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. “Do you truly want to do this? Are you absolutely certain about this plan? Are you willing to walk into a trap that could be your last?”

Seungcheol met the Captain’s gaze, his own eyes clear, resolute. He didn't look at you, didn't seek your approval or your protest. This decision was his alone. He squared his shoulders, his voice calm, unwavering, filled with a quiet conviction that echoed through the room. “I trust her, sir. I trust her more than myself.” The words were simple, profound, a testament to the absolute faith he now placed in you, in your plan, in your ability to bring him back. It was a startling declaration, publicly acknowledging the depth of his reliance, his dependence on you, the woman he had once despised.

The Captain’s gaze shifted to you, a new intensity in his eyes, searching your face for any sign of uncertainty, any hint of recklessness. He saw only grim determination, a fierce resolve that mirrored Seungcheol’s own. He saw the same unwavering trust, the silent promise.

You stepped forward slightly, your voice ringing with a conviction that brooked no argument. “I won’t let him die, sir.” Your declaration was fierce, a vow forged in the fire of fear and a desperate, burgeoning love. It was a promise to the Captain, to the department, but most profoundly, to Seungcheol himself. You would bring him back. You would not allow the Director to claim him.

The Captain sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of his entire career. He looked from you to Seungcheol, then back again, seeing the unbreakable bond, the unspoken commitment that radiated from you both. He saw not just two detectives, but two people utterly, irrevocably intertwined, bound by a shared purpose and a terrifying, personal stake. He knew, intuitively, that there was no dissuading either of you. He finally nodded, a slow, deliberate movement, a reluctant acceptance. “Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, “alright. I’ll approve it. But every single unit, every man, every resource, will be at your disposal. Set up the backup exactly the way you need it, Detective Y/N. Every contingency. Don’t leave anything to chance.”

Relief washed over you, cold and sharp, immediately replaced by a surge of renewed focus. The plan was in motion. The trap was set. The stage was being prepared for the Director’s final performance. You worked tirelessly for the next few days, meticulously planning every detail. The location, chosen to evoke a sense of theatrical grandeur and isolation, was an abandoned opera house on the city's outskirts, its decaying beauty a fitting backdrop for the Director's macabre art. You studied the blueprints, coordinated with SWAT teams, arranged for surveillance, drone coverage, every escape route sealed, every entry point monitored. Seungcheol, his resolve unwavering, trained with the precision of a soldier, preparing for his role as the bait. He practiced signals, evasive maneuvers, every possible scenario. The weight of his impending sacrifice, his terrifying gamble, hung heavy in the air, a silent, constant presence between you. But beneath the fear, beneath the professional intensity, lay a deeper, more profound connection, a shared destiny that would either lead to triumph, or to an unimaginable tragedy. The final act was upon you.

The air in the abandoned opera house was thick with anticipation, a ghostly silence preceding the final act of a twisted play. Days of meticulous planning had culminated in this moment. The grandeur of the decaying theater, with its velvet-draped boxes and peeling gold leaf, was an ideal stage for the Director's twisted obsession with performance. Every detail had been considered, every contingency mapped out, every escape route covered. The city’s best tactical units were positioned, invisible in the surrounding darkness, waiting for your signal. The Captain, despite his lingering apprehension, had given his full support, his trust in you and Seungcheol absolute.

Your plan hinged on the Director’s insatiable ego, his desperate need for control and recognition. You had carefully orchestrated a lure designed to be irresistible to him. Anonymous, cryptic invitations, crafted with phrases lifted directly from his journal – “A final performance,” “The grand unveiling,” “A rewritten destiny” – were disseminated through the dark web channels he was known to frequent. You created a buzz, a digital whisper campaign hinting at a secret, exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime show featuring the very detective who had dared to defy him. The bait was Seungcheol himself, framed as the “flawed hero” finally stepping into his true role under the Director's guidance. The trap was meticulously set, an intricate web of digital and physical cues designed to appeal directly to his grandiose delusions.

And he walked right in. Just like you wanted.

The first sign was a flicker on the surveillance monitors. A solitary figure, cloaked in black, moving with an eerie familiarity, slipped through a pre-identified access point at the back of the opera house. No alarms triggered, no sensors tripped – a testament to his uncanny stealth. He moved like a phantom, utterly confident in his dominion over this stage. The comms crackled in your ear, low and urgent. "Director confirmed. Entering perimeter."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. You were positioned in a makeshift command center, set up in a dusty box seat high above the stage, overlooking the vast, empty auditorium. Seungcheol was already in position, a solitary figure illuminated by a single, carefully placed spotlight at center stage. He stood there, a beacon in the cavernous space, a bait for a monster. The comms between you and him were open, a fragile, direct lifeline.

“He’s here, Seungcheol,” you whispered into your mic, your voice tight with apprehension. “He just entered the main hall.”

“Understood,” his voice was calm, steady, devoid of the fear that was twisting your gut. A professional, playing his part. “Curtain’s up.”

The next few minutes were agonizing. You watched on the thermal imaging, seeing the Director’s heat signature move slowly, deliberately, towards the stage. He wasn't rushing. He was savoring the moment, preparing for his grand entrance. You saw him emerge from the shadows backstage, his black cloak billowing slightly as he stepped onto the stage, facing Seungcheol. He held something in his hand, something long and glinting.

Seungcheol was taken mid-operation. It was a crucial part of the plan. You watched as the Director moved, with surprising speed, to overpower Seungcheol. A brief struggle, perfectly choreographed, designed to appear convincing without putting Seungcheol in actual immediate danger – though the line was terrifyingly thin. The Director struck, and Seungcheol went down, seemingly unconscious, just as planned. The Director then dragged his seemingly lifeless form deeper onto the stage, towards a pre-set pulley system, an old, rusty mechanism designed for theatrical backdrops.

The Director straightened, his masked face turning to Seungcheol, who lay seemingly inert. "A true hero's fall, Detective Choi," the Director's voice echoed, cold and clear in the vast space, carrying an almost theatrical cadence. "A fitting end for the flawed protagonist." He then stepped over Seungcheol's body, moving towards the ropes.

But Seungcheol, despite his feigned unconsciousness, was listening, his mind already working, dissecting the Director’s words. He had to know. "Why?" Seungcheol's voice, though weak, cut through the silence, surprising the Director. "Why all of this? The murders, the 'roles,' the suffering… Why, Director? What twisted motive could drive this madness?" His voice was laced with an anger that was slowly rising, battling against the pain of his mentor's death.

The Director paused, turning slowly back to Seungcheol, a chilling smile evident even behind the mask. "Why? Because they failed. They destroyed my vision. They didn't understand their roles, Detective. They butchered the script! They cancelled my play! They deserved to be rewritten, to play their final, true parts under my direction. And you, Detective, you allowed it. You failed to see the truth. You failed to save them. You failed your mentor, just as he failed me." His voice rose, filled with a manic, self-righteous fury. "Now, you will understand. You will feel what it means to be truly directed. To have your destiny dictated." He reached for the rope again, his hands moving with renewed purpose.

“He’s got him,” a voice crackled in your ear from the tactical team. “Moving to secure.”

“Negative!” you snapped, your voice sharp with command, overriding their impulse. This wasn’t just a capture; it was the final act of his play. “Hold your positions. This is part of the plan. He’s going to move him.”

Your gaze was fixed on the screen, your heart leaping into your throat. You knew what was coming. The Director’s next move. His “final performance.”

“Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a mere whisper, came through your earpiece, strained but audible. “He’s… he’s going for the ropes. The old fly system. He’s going to hang me.”

The words sent a cold spear of pure terror through you. You had anticipated it, of course. Planned for it. But hearing it, the grim reality of it, was sickening. This was the moment.

The Director was indeed at the old pulley system, beginning to meticulously prepare the ropes. He looked up, his masked face turning towards the empty audience, as if addressing his unseen patrons. You could almost feel his perverse satisfaction, his triumph. He was savoring this, his grandest, most personal act.

“He’s setting up the noose, Y/N,” Seungcheol’s voice, a little weaker now, came through. “He’s talking… about the ‘flawed hero’s final curtain.’ His voice is right… I can almost see the birthmark.”

Your hand automatically went to your own ear, pressing against the comms earpiece. It wasn’t just for listening; it was for tracking. Weeks ago, knowing the Director’s obsession with control and his desire to disappear without a trace, you had insisted on a radical, almost crazy contingency. After the Director started targeting you directly, after Seungcheol had volunteered for this, you had taken a drastic, unauthorized step. One night, while he slept, exhausted from training, you had gently, painstakingly, inserted a minuscule location chip into a molar on his back tooth, securing it with a dental adhesive you had acquired through… unconventional means. It was barely the size of a grain of rice, undetectable by conventional means, and broadcasting a silent, constant signal only you could track on your encrypted device. It was a secret you had kept from him, from everyone, knowing he would never agree to such an invasive measure. But you couldn't risk him disappearing, couldn’t risk not finding him in the chaos of the trap. It was your desperate, silent promise that you would find him. And now, that chip was your only guide.

Your eyes darted to the small, specialized tracker nestled in your palm, its single red dot blinking steadily, its signal unwavering. It led directly to Seungcheol, now a helpless figure on the stage. The Director was wrapping the final loops of rope, pulling it taut, preparing to suspend him. There was no more time.

“He’s almost ready,” Seungcheol’s voice, tight with strain, resonated in your ear. “Y/N… now.”

“Team 2, team 1, team 3, on my mark!” you barked into the comms, your voice clear, sharp, cutting through the fear. “Engage on my signal! Do not fire unless absolutely necessary!”

You didn’t wait for backup to flood the stage. You moved. Your training, your instincts, every raw emotion you had suppressed, exploded into action. You burst from the box seat, not through the controlled entry points the tactical teams were using, but directly, impulsively, launching yourself from the balcony, a desperate, almost reckless leap that would make any commanding officer furious. You landed hard on the stage floor, rolling, coming up in a crouch, your sidearm already drawn, pointed directly at the black-cloaked figure of the Director.

You broke in.

The Director spun, startled by your sudden, impossible appearance. His masked face snapped towards you, a moment of genuine surprise in his calculated performance. He dropped the rope, pulling out a gleaming, wickedly sharp knife from within his cloak, its blade catching the single spotlight.

You didn't hesitate. You squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed, loud and precise. It struck the Director in the leg, just above the knee. He gasped, a guttural cry of pain, stumbling backward, his body spasming from the impact. A dark stain bloomed on his black trousers.

But despite the searing pain, despite the blood immediately blooming on his leg, he didn't fall. His eyes, even through the mask, seemed to burn with an insane fury. He snarled, a bestial sound, and with a terrifying, impossible surge of adrenaline, he lunged at you, his knife a silver blur, aiming for your chest.

The final fight was brutal, chaotic, a desperate ballet of life and death on the dusty stage. Gun. Knife. Blood. He moved with a frightening, almost supernatural speed, his knowledge of the stage, of its hidden passages and shadows, giving him an advantage even with his injury. You dodged, his knife missing your ribs by mere inches, the air hissing where it passed. You fired another shot, aiming for his shoulder, but he twisted, the bullet embedding itself in the wooden floorboards with a splintering thud. The knife flashed again, cutting across your arm, a sharp, searing pain as your sleeve tore and warm blood welled up. You hissed, pressing against the wound, but you didn't break focus.

He came at you again, swinging the knife in a wide, desperate arc. You parried with your gun, the metallic clang echoing, the impact jarring your arm. You saw a flash of his left arm, the distinctive burnt patch clear even in the dim light, confirming his identity, confirming the nightmare, confirming the monster was finally within your reach. You fought with a ferocity born of pure vengeance and desperate self-preservation. He was bleeding from his leg, his movements hampered, but his madness made him relentless, unpredictable.

You found an opening. As he lunged again, you anticipated his move, twisting sharply, bringing your gun up. You fired, not to kill, but to incapacitate. A shot to his knife-wielding hand, a sickening crack of bone. He screamed, dropping the weapon, clutching his mangled hand. Another shot, tearing through his other arm, rendering it useless. Then, a shot to his remaining good leg, and another, and another, aiming precisely, not for the kill, but to shatter his ability to move. You emptied your magazine into his limbs, each shot a deliberate act of dismantling his control, his movement, his ability to ever stand or direct again.

He collapsed, a broken heap on the stage, screaming, whimpering, his body a twisted mess of shattered bone and bleeding wounds. He couldn't move. He was alive, barely, but utterly, completely incapacitated.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol, recovering from the initial blow, had been stirring, groaning, his eyes fluttering open. He was now fully awake, watching the brutal, one-sided fight, witnessing your terrifying efficiency, your unwavering resolve.

You stumbled towards him, dropping your now-empty gun. You tore at the rope that was still around his throat, frantically loosening it, pulling it away. You freed him. He gasped, clutching his throat, his face pale, but his eyes were open, clear, filled with a profound shock and an overwhelming relief. He coughed, drawing ragged breaths into his burning lungs.

The Director, a broken figure bleeding on the stage, slowly lifted his head, his voice a ragged, desperate rasp. He was blabbering nonsense, his voice filled with a mad, defeated fury. “You… you can’t end me! This isn’t over! I’ll find you! I’ll end you, Y/N! In hell! I’ll end you there! This… this is just the beginning of your real torment!” He coughed, a gurgling sound, blood bubbling at the corner of his masked mouth, but his eyes, blazing with an insane light, were fixed on you. “I’ll torture you there! Every single day! I’ll make you beg for the final curtain!”

You looked at him, a cold, dark satisfaction settling in your chest. You walked slowly towards him, your footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent theater. You stood over his broken form, your gaze unwavering, devoid of pity. “In hell?” you scoffed, your voice low, laced with a chilling, defiant sarcasm. You knelt, leaning close, your voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, filled with a promise that was more terrifying than any threat he could conjure. “You can’t even get up, you pathetic excuse for a Director. And even in hell,” you snarled, your voice gaining a terrifying intensity, “I will track you down. And I will kill you again. And again. And again.”

The tactical teams burst onto the stage then, their weapons raised, their comms barking, their flashlights sweeping the scene. They froze, witnessing the raw, visceral intensity of the moment.

You looked at Seungcheol, who was now pushing himself into a sitting position, his eyes wide, fixed on you, a profound understanding and a dawning, terrifying realization in their depths. You reached out, your hand, still slightly trembling from the adrenaline, cupping his face. Your thumb gently stroked his cheek, leaving a faint smear of the Director's blood. You looked straight into his eyes, a silent conversation passing between you, a shared vow, a love forged in the deepest darkness. He understood. He saw the cold fury in your eyes, the unwavering resolve, the desperate need for absolute finality.

His gaze searched yours, a question, an acceptance. He nodded, a barely perceptible movement, giving you his silent permission, his complete trust.

With a profound, devastating certainty, you retrieved your gun, its weight familiar and deadly in your hand. The magazine was empty from incapacitating the Director. But you had another. Without breaking eye contact with Seungcheol, you smoothly ejected the empty clip, inserting a fresh one. The click was loud, decisive, in the sudden, utter silence of the opera house.

Your gaze drifted from Seungcheol’s face, to the broken, blabbering figure of the Director, now muttering incoherent threats. You raised the gun. With a chilling, unwavering intensity, you emptied your bullets, one after another, into the killer’s head and chest. A series of brutal, definitive shots. Each one a final judgment. Each one a liberation. His body convulsed one last time, then fell completely, finally still. His mad play was irrevocably, utterly ended.

The last shot echoed, long and drawn out, then silence. Heavy, thick, blood-soaked silence. The only sound was your ragged breathing, and the shocked gasps of the tactical team.

Seungcheol, now sitting up, still weak, watched you, his eyes filled with a complex mix of understanding, awe, and a fierce, possessive pride. He coughed, then a faint, tired smile touched his lips, a ghost of his usual smirk. His voice was hoarse, but clear, filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache. “Still just as good at it. They called you tigress back then in uni. Still are, just my tigress now.”

You lowered the empty gun, the adrenaline slowly draining from your body, leaving you feeling profoundly weary, but strangely, utterly free. You looked at him, your eyes meeting his, a profound love shining through the trauma, through the blood, through the echoes of the nightmare. “Glad to know,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your own tears finally falling, hot and free. “I love you more.”

With that, you leaned in, and kissed him. A real kiss. No longer desperate, no longer confused, no longer tainted by fear or alcohol. It was a kiss of triumph, of survival, of a fierce, enduring love that had found its way through the darkest of times. The sirens wailed louder, the flashlights of the tactical teams swept across the stage, but in that moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you, standing amidst the wreckage of a nightmare, finally, truly, together.

The end.

Author’s Note: If you made it to the end, thank you. I know this wasn’t an easy ride — the murders were gruesome, the emotions sharp, and the romance? Messy in all the right ways. Writing this story was like performing a dissection: peeling back layers of rivalry, grief, obsession, and love. Seungcheol and Y/N didn’t fall for each other easily — and they weren’t supposed to. But in all the blood and chaos, they still found something human. Because sometimes, the sharpest minds carry the softest hearts. And sometimes, the one who’d kill for you…is also the one who’d die for you.

— Katha <33

[saphiraprince22]

I cant concentrate....... Where should i look

My man, my man, my man 😍

[saphiraprince22]

i love him pls go to therapy king

[saphiraprince22]

AHHH

I love domestic bucky

Though I love thunderbolt bucky, I really miss tfaws bucky

heavy lifting 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (domestic au)

warnings: fluff!!!

summary: moving is hard, but teasing bucky about his knees and getting kissed breathless on the floor makes it all worth it.

word count: 1.2k

author's note: hi loves! its been a very long day, but here i am with another fic based on this request 💓 love ya guys and stay safe out there ❤️

The box labeled KITCHEN – VERY FRAGILE!! teetered dangerously in Bucky’s arms.

“You know,” you said from across the room, one hand on your hip and the other holding your phone like a clipboard, “I did say we could hire movers.”

He narrowed his eyes at you over the top of the box.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” you teased. “You’ve been sighing like a victorian widow for the last twenty minutes. Pretty sure I just heard you say ‘my knees’ when you bent down.”

“That was one time,” Bucky muttered, gingerly setting the box down on the countertop and flexing his vibranium fingers. “And it was the heaviest box in here.”

“It was dish towels.”

“Yeah, well, you roll them up weird, sweetheart”

You grinned, watching as he straightened up with a dramatic grunt — the kind of exaggerated groan that only made him sound older than he already pretended not to be.

His Henley clung to his back in damp patches—not gross, just unfair—the kind of warm, sleepy domestic sweat that made your stomach flutter.

You could see the shift of muscle underneath, the way his shoulder blades flexed with every movement, broad back tapering into a trim waist in those worn-in jeans you were starting to think should be illegal.

Strong arms, one flesh and one vibranium, worked in quiet rhythm as he moved—solid, capable, and completely oblivious to the fact that he looked like the poster boy for “hot guy helping you move.”

“You good, grandpa?”

He shot you a look that was all bark and no bite. “Watch it.”

“Oh no,” you said, wiggling your fingers playfully in the air, “am I provoking the super soldier? Is he gonna get all big and scary because I teased his joints?”

Bucky stalked toward you with exaggerated menace, footsteps slow and heavy like a cartoon villain. “You’re gonna be real sad when I let you carry the mattress up yourself.”

You laughed, backing away with the same deliberate slowness. “I knew you’d crack eventually. Maybe we should call some actual movers.”

He caught you before you could duck behind the couch, arms wrapping securely around your waist like you were the most precious thing in the room—which, to him, you were.

You squealed, high-pitched and delighted, legs kicking in the air as he spun you once and then dropped you gently into the mountain of blankets on the floor that used to be your bed.

“Take it back,” he said, hovering over you, smirking like he already knew you wouldn’t.

“No.”

He raised a brow.

“Not unless you admit you said ‘ow’ picking up a box of tupperware.”

“That tupperware was packed dense,” he said, nudging your nose with his. “You put the pyrex in with the lids, didn’t you?”

“Obviously. I’m not a monster.”

“You are a menace.”

“You’re in denial about your age.”

Bucky laughed, low and warm in his chest—the kind of sound that made your heart ache in the best way—and kissed you mid-giggle, his mouth brushing yours like it was the only thing that mattered.

The kiss was sweet and lazy, the kind of thing you could sink into and stay in forever. His hands were warm against your waist, steady. He smelled like fresh soap and worn cotton, and you felt completely and stupidly in love.

“You’re real mouthy for someone who hasn’t lifted a single book box,” he murmured, lips brushing yours.

You gasped, all mock scandal. “Excuse me, I’ve been organising! And labelling! And supervising!"

“Supervising, huh?”

“Yeah. Making sure you don’t, I dunno, break a hip.”

He lunged again and you shrieked, scrambling away on all fours. He chased after you with no shame at all, laughing as he snatched at your ankle, dragging you back into his arms while you both dissolved into helpless giggles.

You ended up tangled together in a pile of pillows and limbs, cheeks flushed and smiles wide. He tugged you close and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheek—like he couldn’t get enough of touching you, even in the middle of a chaotic mess of moving boxes.

“We are never going through this again,” Bucky declared, arm flung over his eyes.

“You said that last time.”

“Because I meant it.”

“And yet here we are.”

There was a pause.

“I did it for you, you know,” he said softly, peeking at you from beneath his arm, cerulean eyes soft in a way that always made your breath catch.

“What, moved into a shoebox with peeling cabinets and suspicious light switches?”

He rolled onto his side and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Moved into a shoebox with you.”

Your heart squeezed. The air shifted—a little quieter, a little heavier with the kind of affection that lived in the small, quiet moments. He always slipped it in like that. Like love was a throwaway comment. Like it wasn’t everything.

You reached over and smoothed a piece of lint off his chest. “I like it. Even if the sink screams when you turn on the hot water.”

“It’s got good bones,” he said, imitating the landlord.

“Terrible windows.”

“Charming character.”

“A light switch that sparks.”

“A fire hazard,” he grinned.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I love our little fire hazard.”

He hummed and pulled you closer, hand spreading over your back, holding you like he didn’t want you to leave—like he never would. You let yourself melt against him, your nose tucked into the curve of his neck, his fingers stroking gentle circles at your waist.

The floor was stiff and the apartment was still half-unpacked, but none of that mattered. Not when his thumb brushed over the hem of your shirt. Not when the light from the crooked blinds painted your skin gold and dust floated in lazy spirals around you like a snow globe.

“You know,” he said after a long beat, “next time, I am hiring movers.”

“Oh? So you are admitting you’re not strong enough.”

He made a soft noise of protest, shifting until your noses touched. “No. I’m saying I wanna save my strength for better things.”

“Like what?”

He kissed the top of your head, voice low. “Like carrying you to bed.”

You smiled against his shirt. “Smooth.”

“I try.”

There was a pause.

“…Do you remember which box the coffee maker’s in?”

“Top of the stack in the kitchen. Behind the one labeled Definitely Not Just Snacks.”

“You’re amazing.”

You sat up together, both groaning in unison like the prematurely elderly couple you were proudly becoming. Bucky stood first and offered you a hand, which you took—mostly to watch the way his arm flexed, which he definitely noticed.

“Still strong,” he said smugly.

You patted his chest. “Sure you are, babe.”

He narrowed his eyes, and you took off, barefoot, laughing as he chased you around the room again like you were kids playing tag in your first home.

Later That Night

You were both completely wiped. The mattress was on the floor, the sheets a mismatched pair of cozy old cotton sets, soft, worn, and comforting.

Bucky walked out of the bathroom in grey sweats and a black tank top, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp and curling just slightly at the ends.

He caught you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said sweetly. “Just thinking about how strong you looked carrying that lamp earlier.”

He snorted and dropped the towel on your head.

“Hey!”

“I am strong, for the record.”

“Oh, I know,” you said, pulling the towel down and tugging him in by the waistband of his sweats. “Strong enough to lift a box of pyrex and my entire heart.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile. “That was worse than your 'supervising' joke.”

“Shut up and kiss me, grandpa.”

He did—slow and sleepy, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t mind that you were both surrounded by chaos, by boxes and dust and a half-eaten bag of trail mix somewhere under the dresser.

Somewhere in the background, a box labeled LIVING ROOM STUFF PROBABLY?? fell over with a soft thud.

Neither of you moved.

Unpacking could wait.

[saphiraprince22]

heavy lifting 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (domestic au)

warnings: fluff!!!

summary: moving is hard, but teasing bucky about his knees and getting kissed breathless on the floor makes it all worth it.

word count: 1.2k

author's note: hi loves! its been a very long day, but here i am with another fic based on this request 💓 love ya guys and stay safe out there ❤️

The box labeled KITCHEN – VERY FRAGILE!! teetered dangerously in Bucky’s arms.

“You know,” you said from across the room, one hand on your hip and the other holding your phone like a clipboard, “I did say we could hire movers.”

He narrowed his eyes at you over the top of the box.

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” you teased. “You’ve been sighing like a victorian widow for the last twenty minutes. Pretty sure I just heard you say ‘my knees’ when you bent down.”

“That was one time,” Bucky muttered, gingerly setting the box down on the countertop and flexing his vibranium fingers. “And it was the heaviest box in here.”

“It was dish towels.”

“Yeah, well, you roll them up weird, sweetheart”

You grinned, watching as he straightened up with a dramatic grunt — the kind of exaggerated groan that only made him sound older than he already pretended not to be.

His Henley clung to his back in damp patches—not gross, just unfair—the kind of warm, sleepy domestic sweat that made your stomach flutter.

You could see the shift of muscle underneath, the way his shoulder blades flexed with every movement, broad back tapering into a trim waist in those worn-in jeans you were starting to think should be illegal.

Strong arms, one flesh and one vibranium, worked in quiet rhythm as he moved—solid, capable, and completely oblivious to the fact that he looked like the poster boy for “hot guy helping you move.”

“You good, grandpa?”

He shot you a look that was all bark and no bite. “Watch it.”

“Oh no,” you said, wiggling your fingers playfully in the air, “am I provoking the super soldier? Is he gonna get all big and scary because I teased his joints?”

Bucky stalked toward you with exaggerated menace, footsteps slow and heavy like a cartoon villain. “You’re gonna be real sad when I let you carry the mattress up yourself.”

You laughed, backing away with the same deliberate slowness. “I knew you’d crack eventually. Maybe we should call some actual movers.”

He caught you before you could duck behind the couch, arms wrapping securely around your waist like you were the most precious thing in the room—which, to him, you were.

You squealed, high-pitched and delighted, legs kicking in the air as he spun you once and then dropped you gently into the mountain of blankets on the floor that used to be your bed.

“Take it back,” he said, hovering over you, smirking like he already knew you wouldn’t.

“No.”

He raised a brow.

“Not unless you admit you said ‘ow’ picking up a box of tupperware.”

“That tupperware was packed dense,” he said, nudging your nose with his. “You put the pyrex in with the lids, didn’t you?”

“Obviously. I’m not a monster.”

“You are a menace.”

“You’re in denial about your age.”

Bucky laughed, low and warm in his chest—the kind of sound that made your heart ache in the best way—and kissed you mid-giggle, his mouth brushing yours like it was the only thing that mattered.

The kiss was sweet and lazy, the kind of thing you could sink into and stay in forever. His hands were warm against your waist, steady. He smelled like fresh soap and worn cotton, and you felt completely and stupidly in love.

“You’re real mouthy for someone who hasn’t lifted a single book box,” he murmured, lips brushing yours.

You gasped, all mock scandal. “Excuse me, I’ve been organising! And labelling! And supervising!"

“Supervising, huh?”

“Yeah. Making sure you don’t, I dunno, break a hip.”

He lunged again and you shrieked, scrambling away on all fours. He chased after you with no shame at all, laughing as he snatched at your ankle, dragging you back into his arms while you both dissolved into helpless giggles.

You ended up tangled together in a pile of pillows and limbs, cheeks flushed and smiles wide. He tugged you close and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheek—like he couldn’t get enough of touching you, even in the middle of a chaotic mess of moving boxes.

“We are never going through this again,” Bucky declared, arm flung over his eyes.

“You said that last time.”

“Because I meant it.”

“And yet here we are.”

There was a pause.

“I did it for you, you know,” he said softly, peeking at you from beneath his arm, cerulean eyes soft in a way that always made your breath catch.

“What, moved into a shoebox with peeling cabinets and suspicious light switches?”

He rolled onto his side and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “Moved into a shoebox with you.”

Your heart squeezed. The air shifted—a little quieter, a little heavier with the kind of affection that lived in the small, quiet moments. He always slipped it in like that. Like love was a throwaway comment. Like it wasn’t everything.

You reached over and smoothed a piece of lint off his chest. “I like it. Even if the sink screams when you turn on the hot water.”

“It’s got good bones,” he said, imitating the landlord.

“Terrible windows.”

“Charming character.”

“A light switch that sparks.”

“A fire hazard,” he grinned.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I love our little fire hazard.”

He hummed and pulled you closer, hand spreading over your back, holding you like he didn’t want you to leave—like he never would. You let yourself melt against him, your nose tucked into the curve of his neck, his fingers stroking gentle circles at your waist.

The floor was stiff and the apartment was still half-unpacked, but none of that mattered. Not when his thumb brushed over the hem of your shirt. Not when the light from the crooked blinds painted your skin gold and dust floated in lazy spirals around you like a snow globe.

“You know,” he said after a long beat, “next time, I am hiring movers.”

“Oh? So you are admitting you’re not strong enough.”

He made a soft noise of protest, shifting until your noses touched. “No. I’m saying I wanna save my strength for better things.”

“Like what?”

He kissed the top of your head, voice low. “Like carrying you to bed.”

You smiled against his shirt. “Smooth.”

“I try.”

There was a pause.

“…Do you remember which box the coffee maker’s in?”

“Top of the stack in the kitchen. Behind the one labeled Definitely Not Just Snacks.”

“You’re amazing.”

You sat up together, both groaning in unison like the prematurely elderly couple you were proudly becoming. Bucky stood first and offered you a hand, which you took—mostly to watch the way his arm flexed, which he definitely noticed.

“Still strong,” he said smugly.

You patted his chest. “Sure you are, babe.”

He narrowed his eyes, and you took off, barefoot, laughing as he chased you around the room again like you were kids playing tag in your first home.

Later That Night

You were both completely wiped. The mattress was on the floor, the sheets a mismatched pair of cozy old cotton sets, soft, worn, and comforting.

Bucky walked out of the bathroom in grey sweats and a black tank top, towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp and curling just slightly at the ends.

He caught you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said sweetly. “Just thinking about how strong you looked carrying that lamp earlier.”

He snorted and dropped the towel on your head.

“Hey!”

“I am strong, for the record.”

“Oh, I know,” you said, pulling the towel down and tugging him in by the waistband of his sweats. “Strong enough to lift a box of pyrex and my entire heart.”

He rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile. “That was worse than your 'supervising' joke.”

“Shut up and kiss me, grandpa.”

He did—slow and sleepy, like he had all the time in the world. Like he didn’t mind that you were both surrounded by chaos, by boxes and dust and a half-eaten bag of trail mix somewhere under the dresser.

Somewhere in the background, a box labeled LIVING ROOM STUFF PROBABLY?? fell over with a soft thud.

Neither of you moved.

Unpacking could wait.

[saphiraprince22]

No Way Out | Evan “Buck” Buckley

Summary: When the 118 responds to a call with the mission to pull out the last victim, Evan splits up from the team to sweep the last floor. The victim turns out to be the sniper, with the goal to shoot firefighters. (Y/n) is a stubborn cop who goes against orders from captain Nash and still tries to save Evan from the shooter.

Request: @lizwinchester16

Taglist: @oliviah-25 @shauna-carsley

Feel free to send in request in my “Ask me a question” section! 🩷

9-1-1 Masterlist

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

With his eyes focussed onto the burning building through the window of the firetruck, Evan placed his hand onto the lever of the door. He pulled the lever and stepped out of the truck.

When he felt the asphalt underneath his boots, he placed his helmet on his head. “Dispatch said there’s a single victim inside named Ethan.” The voice of his captain snapped him out of his thoughts and got him back to reality again.

Buck watched his captain walking in front of him. “Miller, Ravi, hook us up to some hydrants. Start hitting it from out here.” Bobby said as he pointed at the hydrants he spotted from where he was standing.

Bobby turned around to the rest of his crew, “Hen, Chim, Buck, you’re going in” he commanded the last three of the crew. Buck nodded as a small “Copy that” fell from his lips.

It was weird being on scene without his best friend, it just felt wrong. Like there was some kind of empty void that couldn’t be filled, not by anyone. Knowing Eddie was in that awful hospital room, Buck guessed he was already crawling the walls by now.

Evan turned on his heels as he made his way to the correct compartment of the fire truck. He clicked the door of the compartment open as he claimed one oxygen tank and mask.

With one knee connected to the asphalt and the other leg at a ninety degree angle, he put the helmet on the ground in front of him. He pulled the straps over his shoulders so the oxygen tank would hang on his back, and placed the mask on his face as he adjusted the straps. When the mask was fully connected to his face, he placed his helmet back on.

“Ready?” Hen asked as she was waiting on the two guys from her team finished prepping their gear. “Let’s go!” Buck yelled, trying to make his voice audible through the mask.

They made their way through the doors, as they started to sweep the first floor, looking for the last and only victim. The ground floor was empty, as well as the first floor.

“Ethan! Are you in there?” Hen’s muffled voice sounded through the second level of the building. Followed by Chimney’s voice, “LAFD!“ he yelled as all three of them swept the second floor. “Ethan!” Chimney added as he was determined to find the lost man in the fire.

“No sign of Ethan here!” Hen concluded as they came together at the staircases. “Dispatch said he might be unconscious.” Buck reminded the other two firefighters. ”I’m heading up to three!” Buck continued as he glanced at the staircase that went up to the last and final floor.

“Are you sure?” Chimney asked. “Trust me! I will be in and out in a second, like a ninja.” Buck answered his brother in law. “Copy that Buck!” Hen spoke up, “Let us know if you need something” she added as the two of them took a few steps on the staircase that led them to the ground floor. “Copy that Wilson” Buck smirked at her, he knew she hated it when he used her last name instead of “Hen”.

Buck made his way up stairs, on the wooden staircase. He had to work fast, the fire was spreading, the entire building was almost existing out of wood. When he reached the last step, he took one second to focus, and with one hard kick he broke the door open.

Evan took a second to scan and take in the scene he entered just now. The entire level was filled with smoke, making it hard to see further than 3 meters.

“LAFD! Anybody up here?” His voice roared over the third floor, he called out as loud as he could. He was trying to make himself intelligible through the oxygen mask he was wearing. He carefully tried to make his way through the smoke, trying to find their last victim.

“LAFD!” he yells again, but gets caught by surprise as he gets interrupted by his radio. “One eighteen, we have a direct order to evacuate the building” May’s voice sounded through the radio that was clipped onto Buck’s fluorescent jacket.

Evan’s eyebrows furrowed at the request from dispatch. “Evacuate? On whose authority?” He heard his captain’s voice ask over the radio. “LAPD” May answered as Evan made his way through the space.

“Ethan!” He called out again, but just as he was losing faith, he spotted two legs sticking out beside a small wall. He quickly made his way towards the person, “LAFD! Sir, can you hear me?” He asked as he crouched down next to the victim.

He touched the man’s body, but it didn’t feel like a body. His eyebrows were in a frowning position as he could feel something was off. When he pulled the body slightly off the ground and took a look at its face, he realized it was a mannequin.

Immediately Evan drops the body and he straightens his legs again. He was turning on his heels, but during that spin he could hear a gun load. Within a blink of an eye he was standing eye to eye with the shooter.

There was a few feet of distance between Evan and the gun. Ethan. This had to be Ethan.

Slowly Evan showed his hands, telling him without any words that he didn’t mean any harm and that he was unarmed.

“Come in Buck!” Chimney’s worried voice sounded over the radio. “H-Hey, I just want to talk.” Evan said with a trembling voice as he could feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. He could feel his mouth suddenly go dry. “Buck, respond!” Hen said. “Call them back in here” Ethan said as he had his eyes deadlocked onto Buck, and motioned with his head towards his radio where the voices came from.

“Buck, what’s your twenty?” Bobby’s voice filled the small spot of silence as Buck was in his mind digging for an answer of what to do. “Do it” Ethan said, determination overtaking his voice. “I-I can’t do that. I can’t give o-orders. I’m just a firefighter.” Buck stuttered.

“Call ‘em in! Tell them you broke your leg or something” Ethan said, the tone of his voice becoming darker with every word that left his lips. He took a step closer, towards the firefighter he was holding at gunpoint.

“Do it!”

-

(Y/n) pushed the gas pedal with her feet until the pedal hit the floor of the car. She had the steering wheel in her hand, tightening her hand around the wheel as if she was trying to break the wheel.

Her eyes were deadlocked onto the road ahead of her. She could see the burning building in the street and coming closer into her vision, with the ladder from the truck of the 118 expanded until it reached the roof.

She pressed the brake, pulling to a hard, rough stop as she took out the keys with her right hand and her left hand was already on the lever from the car, clicking it open. When she stepped out of the car, she was pretty sure she could smell the burning rubber from her tires.

(Y/n) scanned the scene with her eyes as she saw Athena walking towards the 118, who were standing in a circle. When she walked towards the same group as sergeant Grant, her heart dropped down her chest as she could hear the 118 calling him over the radio.

His name was coming through over the radio over, and over again. But he wouldn’t answer.

“Ethan Copeland? He’s not a victim. He’s the sniper.” (Y/n) could hear Athena say as soon as she joined the group of people. Terrified looks were shared. As Chimney called out one more time. “Come in Buck!” over the radio.

“The sniper is LAPD?” Hen asked with confusion in her voice. “Ex-LAPD” the LAPD Deputy Chief Pate quickly corrected Hen. “After his partner quit, we realized Copeland was a problem and we removed him from duty.” the deputy chief clarified. “Now he’s making everybody pay for it” Detective Danvers added to the story.

“Anybody have any idea where inside this building Buck is?” Athena asked with her eyes locked on the burning building. “Third floor, Bravo side.” Bobby answered her question. “Somewhere around that window” He added as he pointed out at the right window.

“Buck, come in!” Hen tried again as she pressed the radio close to her mouth. The team could call his name countless times, but he wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t. Even though Ethan told him to.

“Everybody, switch to channel tac channel fifty.” the deputy chief said as he turned ninety degrees, directed to the people that belonged to the LAPD. (Y/n) placed her hand on her radio as she switched the channel with a small turn on a button.

Detective Danvers, the deputy chief and Athena gather around to make some kind of plan. But (Y/n)’s eye falls on her firefighter friend, Hen, walking away from the group.

“Hen!” (Y/n) called out to the firefighter paramedic as she ran towards Hen. Hen stopped in her tracks and turned on her heels as she heard her name fall off (Y/n)’s lips. “Yes?” Hen said as she saw the young police officer jog towards her, and stop in front of her.

“Can you get me in there?” (Y/n) asked as if it was the normallest thing in the world. Hen’s eyebrows furrowed at the request of the officer. “What? You want to go in-” Hen spoke but got cut off by (Y/n). She knew Hen would be against this idea. She was just an officer.

“Hen, if we don’t do anything. Buck is going to die in there.” (Y/n) said as a desperate expression morphed onto her face. ”You need to help me.” she added, trying to get some kind of reaction from Hen, who was just looking at (Y/n) like she was insane.

There was a silence between Hen and (Y/n), as Hen was thinking of a way to get her friend inside.

“Help you do what?” Bobby’s voice entered the conversation of the two females. (Y/n)’s head turned to the captain of the 118, “To go and get my friend” she said, determined.

“No. You’re not going in there.” Bobby instantly answered.

“Cap, with all due respect. I’ve been in that building, and it’ll be easy.” Hen started. “Cut in on the delta side, where most of the fire has been contained. She goes in and she makes her way across to bravo-” She tried to talk her captain over as she made her instructions clear.

“I understand what you’re saying Hen, but there’s one thing wrong with your plan.” Bobby said. “She will be in a fire.” He added as no one answered, and pointed out at the officer that was standing diagonally across from him.

“Put the gear on me, I’ll be protected! Trust me, I’m not going to be in there for long.” (Y/n) said, as she tried to talk him over once again. His eyes shot from Hen towards (Y/n), “No, it’s too dangerous. I don’t care if you’re wearing protective gear, you’re not trained for this!” the captain said as he made motions with his hands.

“But-” but she gets cut off by Bobby. “No buts, you’re not going in, and that’s an order!” he cut her off strictly, as he pointed at her. ”Hen let’s go, I need you to help Chim.” Bobby continued as he waved Hen over. Hen shrugged her shoulders, “sorry” she nonverbally mouthed at (Y/n) and followed her captain.

A loud sigh left (Y/n)’s mouth. Help or not. She was going in, and no one could stop her.

(Y/n) took one last look at the burning building, she had to do something. She shook her head, she wasn’t going to let this happen. She couldn’t just stay there and gawk at the window, waiting for someone to take the lead.

Determined she walked towards the firetruck as she popped open a compartment, she took a look in the compartment, but it was filled with bags. Nothing like she’d hoped for. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.

She closed the compartment again and opened the one to the side of it, revealing a fluorescent jacket, a turnout jacket.

Bingo.

She grabs the turnout jacket, and quickly shrugs it on as she closes the compartment again with her left hand. This will have to do the trick. She placed her facemask, which was hanging around her wrist, onto her mouth and placed the elastic bands around her ears.

However this might be a violation of section 14-49, she needed to do this. “Lord forgive me.” she mumbled as she made a quick prayer, looking up at the sky.

(Y/n) didn’t have an oxygen tank, so she had to improvise. And this face mask could help.

With her back pressed against the side of the firetruck, she looked over the hood, standing on her tippy toes to see if there was a free entrance.

With her eyes she scanned the scene at the moment, on the left side, detective Danvers, the deputy chief Pate and sergeant Grant-Nash who were discussing. And so were the one eighteen on the same side, (Y/n) could see Chimney pressing the radio to his mouth. They were still trying to get some kind of reaction from Buck.

(Y/n) spots the back entrance on her right. If she did this quickly, she could get through unseen and she could enter on the Delta side like Hen had told her.

She pressed her eyes closed for a quick second, as she took a deep breath as she pressed her hands into fists. There was no time to overthink this. She was doing it, even if Bobby told her off. He wasn’t her captain, she didn’t take orders from him.

“Screw it.” she whispered under her breath. She bent her knees a little to make her feet tap lighter against the asphalt, making her way towards the front of the fire truck. She peeked around towards the left side. They were still discussing.

Good.

She sneaked across the street, which was around twenty feet from the fire truck she got the jacket from. (Y/n) found the door, quickly opened it as she sneaked inside. Soundless she closed the door behind her as she scanned the space she ended up in.

A stairwell.

(Y/n) remembered Bobby telling Athena that Buck was on the third floor bravo side. Meaning she had to go up three stairs, and go straight across from the side she was on now. She could do this.

She slid her gun out of her holster from her hip and pointed it out in front of her.

The stairwell was filled with smoke, but she could see enough. Without thinking twice, she started going up the stairs. Counting every door she met, when she stepped onto the last stairs she could hear Evan and the shooter talking.

When she was over fifty percent of the stairs, she peeked through the open door frame. She vaguely could see Evan holding his hands next to his face as Ethan held him under gun point she guessed. The smoke made it hard to see what was happening.

“This is officer (Y/L/N), I’ve got eyes on Ethan.” she whispered through her radio, as she peeked through the door frame. “(Y/L/N), did you ignore my direct order to not enter that building?” Bobby asked through the radio, which was weird because only the LAPD was on tac channel fifty, but she figured he heard it from Athena’s radio. But she didn't answer, not when he already knew the answer to his own question.

Before any of the others could call over the radio, she turned the radio off. She couldn’t have any of the others communicating over the radio, not when she was that close to Copeland and Buck.

She swallowed, she was scared while the adrenaline was rushing through her body. But she couldn’t make the same mistake as a few months ago, even though she had already come further than she expected.

Ethan was on the bravo side, she couldn’t just walk straight forward towards him. She needed to make a beeline. She could go along the alpha side, or the charlie side.

As she stepped off the last step of the staircase she entered the third floor. She quickly glanced at the two choices. On the alpha side the fire was already roaring, while the charlie side had a few small flames, but mostly smoke.

Charlie side it is.

She slowly but silently sneaks along the walls of the charlie side, with her gun pointed in front of her. “We don’t get to choose who lives or dies.” she could hear Evan say, “we save everyone we can” he added, (Y/n) could hear a vibration in his voice.

He was terrified.

“You don’t have to make the tough choices, but people love you for it! And hate guys like me!” An unfamiliar voice sounded over the third floor. With every step she took, she came closer to the source.

“You think saving lifes is a hard job?” Ethan said, as she could see the silhouette become larger. She had to be quick, before he actually did something. It sounded a lot like he was tired of waiting and chatting. “Try having to take them.” he added. (Y/n) could see Ethan’s finger pressing the trigger.

She didn’t have a second to think, as she ran towards Evan and pushed him out of the way of gun point.

A loud bang sounded through the third floor, as first one dull sound took over the scene, and not a second after, another one. Evan’s eyes grew wide as he turned on his heels and saw two bodies on the ground. How didn’t he get shot?

But as soon as he saw that one of the two was wearing a firefighter jacket, he rushed towards the body. He let himself fall down onto his knees as he placed two hands onto the shoulder of the -he thought- firefighter. He carefully turned the body, but was met with an oh so familiar face he didn’t expect or hoped to see.

He stopped breathing for a second as he recognized the woman in the turnout jacket. It was (Y/n). “Oh my god-” he stumbled as he saw (Y/n)’s face, “(Y/n)” her name fell off his lips.

Why was she in here? How did she know where he was? Why was she wearing a turnout jacket? A million questions were running through his mind.

With one arm around the back of her shoulders, he held her upper body up. He was checking if she was still breathing, and he left out a relieved sigh as he saw her chest rising and her eyes fluttered open.

“Hey- Okay.. okay. You’re okay.” he tried to calm himself down as he let out a small relieved laugh and pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

A groan left her mouth as she felt the sharp sensation in her upper abdomen, she squeezed her eyes closed as she pushed her hand on the GSW.

Everything happened in a flash, Evan had so much information to take in at the moment that he didn’t know what to do or to say.

He clenched hand around the radio that was connected to his turnout jacket.

“Officer down, I repeat officer down!”

______

(Y/n) turned her key in her front door and pushed it open. “Thank you for doing this. I didn’t know who else to call.” She said as she held the door open so Buck could walk through the door frame with the two bags he was holding in his hands.

“No need to thank me, that’s what friends are for, right?” He answered, as he gave her a questioning look where to put the bags.

“You really didn’t need to help me carry my bags in, you know” she smiled as she pointed at the dining table in the middle of the room, as a sign for Buck that he could put the bags there.

“Oh I know, but I don’t think the doctor would be happy if one of those stitches came loose because of carrying these bags.” He said as he placed her bags on her dining table, and arched his eyebrows as he looked at her.

A small laugh left her mouth as she shook her head. Oh, she knew he was right. But Buck knew that once she felt good, she’d be rushing into things. He knew her too well for that.

“You want a drink?” she asks as she shrugged off her cardigan and placed it over one of the dining table chairs. “I mean if you want to, if you have nothing else to do-“ she quickly added. She didn’t want to push him into things.

Evan smiled at the way she tripped over her words, “sure” he said as he took the scene he entered. His eyes scanned a bookcase, filled with books and framed pictures.

Buck had never been inside this apartment since they met. They knew each other for eight months now, but usually they’d meet up at a bar or at his place. He had dropped her off a few times outside, when he walked her home. But he never had been inside.

“Hey can I ask you something?” Evan spoke up as he took in every detail on the pictures, and turned back around.

“Sure.” She said as she grabbed the can of ice tea out of the fridge and poured the drink into two glasses.

“Why did you do it?” He asked, as he walked back towards the dining table and placed his hands on the back of the chair. “Push me away, and catch the bullet yourself?” He added as he tried to get eye contact with her.

He could see her expression morph into an thinkful one, as she finished pouring the glasses full. But even though she had that thinkful look on her face, she didn’t answer. He pushed himself off the back of the chair and he made his way into the kitchen.

“You know there were a hundred different options.” He continued and leaned with his left hip against the counter. (Y/n) places the can into the fridge, and closes the door.

“(Y/n)?” He said her name as he didn’t get any kind of response on his words. With her back towards Evan, she closed her eyes and she took a breath. One hand was still on the door of the fridge. “I just.. wanted to help.” she sighed.

“You wanted to help..” he repeated her answer and a small scoff left his mouth. He let a hand go through his hair. “And you thought the best way to help was jump in front of that bullet?” he asked as he shook his head.

“I didn’t even have one second to think, Buck.” she said, scared to turn around, and go into the conversation. She’d rather skip this one. But here they were. “What you did was stupid, naïve and reckless.” he started. “I could’ve lost you.” he added, as he waited for her to do something, to say something. To try and win him over that this was the only and right choice.

She gathered all her courage, as she took a deep breath and turned on her heels, making a 180 degrees turn. “You could have. But you didn’t.” she said, keeping a straight face as she finally had the guts to look Evan in the eyes. “And you know what, yes maybe I am stupid, maybe I am out of my mind. But I couldn’t just stand there, waiting for orders.” she hissed, as she took a few steps closer.

“You are no firefighter! You are a cop! Why the hell were you in that building in the first place?” Evan started to raise his voice, which made (Y/n) a little scared. She never heard him yell before, hell they never even fought before.

“You really want to know why I made myself a target? Why I made the choice to jump in front of that bullet?” She asked, as she felt her hands automatically making fists.

“Yes! Please tell me.” He answered as he folded his arms over each other. “I did it because of you, and all of those people outside! I wouldn’t let any of them take that risk.” She started as she pointed her index finger at him.

“They have people, family, waiting for them to get home safe and sound.” (Y/n) added as she could feel a lump being created in her throat and the tears burning in her eyes. “I have nothing to lose.” Her voice was getting less louder with the words she spoke.

“There’s no one waiting for me.” She cried as she shook her head, and tried by squinting her eyes closed to get rid of the stinging tears. But instead of getting rid of them, they flowed down her cheeks.

“Really?” Evan started, ”Or did you do it because of what happened with Lance.” Buck mumbled under his breath.

Oh he wasn’t actually going there.

Her eyes grew slightly wider as she realized what just came out of his mouth. “Don’t-” she warned him.

“The moment you stepped inside of that burning building, and they shot him.” He continued. Trying to get to the edge. “Shut the fuck up” she hissed, with her teeth pressed against each other. She was trying to calm herself down, but the scene he used cut as deep as a knife into her skin.

He knew how much Lance meant to her, he was her brother. But once he stepped into the world of drugs and gangs, she realized how much of a red flag he actually was, and she broke contact.

But one day, when she arrived at a scene, and she entered some abandoned building, she saw her own brother getting shot, by those so known “friends”. That was now a year ago.

And the only person she had told about this, was Buck.

“Sounds like this one hit a little close to home.” He added. Her fingernails which were on the inside of her palm, still in the fists she made, were cutting into her palm. “You don’t know anything about me” she said under her breath.

A silence took over the room as Buck stopped pushing her to the edge of her emotions.

“I really thought that you’d be one of the persons who’d understand why I did what I did.” A now calmer but slightly trembling voice from (Y/n) took over the silence. She was looking at the now oh so interesting floor. “But turns out.. you’re just like them.” She added, as she looked up at Buck again, shaking her head and the tears in the corner of her eyes.

“You wouldn’t fight for your team. You didn’t do that for Eddie, and he’s your best friend.” She said, going in to attack modus now.

“You just stood there. Looking at how his body tumbled to the ground.” she continued, but the second those words left her mouth, she regretted it. This wasn’t like her. She knew Evan was only trying to make her aware of the things she did in the situation, and that she shouldn’t be acting before she thought.

He was only trying to help her.

“What now?” His voice sounded lost. Evan was aware that he said some awful things to her. And maybe involving her brother’s story wasn’t the right move, he knew that.

A feeling of rage was rushing through his body. As he was speechless, did she just really say that? Evan pushed his hip off the counter as he turned around, with his left hand against his forehead he looked up at the ceiling.

“Do you have any idea how toxic you sound right now?” He asks, as he rubbed his hand against his temple.

He turns back around to face (Y/n). “I..-” Evan stops mid sentence as he moves his left hand from his forehead towards the back of his head. And he starts laughing.

“You’re insane.” he said, as he moved and left the kitchen.

“Buck.. please I didn’t-“ but before she could even finish, she could see him leaving through the front door combined with a loud bang of the front door being smashed against the doorframe.

A sigh left her mouth as she covered her forehead with her hand. What did she do..

_______

This is four Adam twelve” she coughed through her radio as she tried to keep the smoke from entering her airways by placing her mouth in the crook of her arm.

With her hand still remaining on the radio, she scanned the room she was in now. “The fire has surrounded me.” she continued.

Yes, she was inside of a burning building, again. But this time it wasn’t burning before she entered.

She ran after a suspect for a few blocks, until he entered an abandoned building. She had called for backup, but she couldn’t risk losing the suspect. So after she called it in, she didn’t wait for backup to arrive.

She wanted to prove herself so bad to the department. She wanted to show them she could do this on her own.

But when she was checking the fourth floor, some kind of explosion roared over the level she was on.

Last time she was inside, she had a face mask, which helped with keeping the smoke out. But since she had to get out of her car and run, she didn’t have it with her this time.

(Y/n) could feel the smoke entering her lungs, making it hard for her to breathe. With every breath she took in more, and more ashes. Causing her to cough, making her head ache.

The smoke was burning in her eyes, causing tears which were protecting her eyes from the smoke and getting the suspension out of her eyes.

She couldn’t navigate over the level anymore, she was disoriented, since the fire was everywhere.

This was it. There was no way out for her. Maybe she would actually suffocate in here. She didn’t get to that suspect. This was her first shift back. Was this her karma for that fight with her friend? Her friend she was scared to admit her feelings for? The one she pushed away when he came too close? The one she broke the rules for?

“I’m on the fourth floor. I..- I don’t know where.” she gasped through the radio, trying to get in more air. She let herself fall down onto her knees as she scanned the environment once more. “Please..” she cried to herself.

Evan could hear the coughs through the radio as he was in the stairwell, just passing the second floor. He could sense the desperation in her voice as she told them she didn’t know where she was.

Chimney and Buck made their way towards the fourth floor. But he could feel his soul fade away as soon as he opened the door to the fourth level.

Flames had taken over the entire floor. “Chim, you take the right side! I will take the left!” Buck said as he pointed out to both sides. “Copy that!” Chimney answered back as he continued to sweep in the right side of the building.

The feeling of guilt was still roaring through his body. He never wanted to let things get out of hand the way it did. With his left hand he slid along the wall, following the shape of the room.

“Fire department! Call out!” Buck yelled over the floor he was on. But no reaction.

He scanned the room over and over again, he wasn’t going to miss any detail. He had to find her, and that stupid fight between the two of them wasn’t going to stop him.

“LAFD! Call out if you can hear me!” he continued. When he made his way through the room, he stopped as soon as he could swear he heard a sound. But then suddenly his eyes fell on a silhouette, kneeling down on the ground.

He squinted his eyes, trying to focus “(Y/n)!” he called out her name as soon as he could see her hands down on the ground, and so were her knees.

She tried to call out as soon as she could hear Evan’s voice in the distance, trying to locate her. But she couldn’t. She could feel herself fade away, the smoke inside her lungs was becoming too much for her. Suffocating her almost.

Her knees were burning, due to the heat that was flowing over the fourth floor. She was conscious but it was like her senses were shutting down. As if someone was turning the volume of her ears down by using a button.

But as soon as she could feel someone place a hand on her lower back and pull her arm around their shoulders, the feeling of desperation made way for relief.

She pushed herself onto her feet, as she leaned partly onto the shoulder of Evan.

“Chim, I got her! On our way out now!” Evan spoke through the radio as he held (Y/n) at her waist with his left arm and his right hand held on to her arm that was around the back of his neck. “Copy that! Leaving the building!” Chimney answered back.

“Come on, we’re almost there! You’re doing so well!” Evan told her as he guided her down the stairs and through the doors outside, which Chimney held open as soon as he saw the two coming.

Evan ripped the oxygen mask he was wearing off his face and let it hang aside his body. He moved his hand from her waist towards her shoulder, as he wanted to guide her towards the ambulance.

But suddenly (Y/n) stopped in her tracks, as she placed her hands on her thighs and bent over when she started to let out loud coughs.

The fresh oxygen was reaching her lungs now. But she could feel it burn inside of her airways. “Get off of me!” She said as she pushed Evan away, causing him to let go of her body. She spit out some saliva as she tried to control her breathing.

“Im fine!” She said, as she could feel his hand onto her shoulder again. She turned her head to the side as she glanced at him.

Tears were burning in her eyes, as her face was partly covered in ashes. “You’re not fine.” He said, as he looked at her with a worried look in his eyes.

“I just…-” she gasped as her breathing was taken over by a loud cough. “need to catch my breath” she added. “Mmm and I am Prince Charming” he said sarcastically. “Why don’t you stop being so stubborn for a second and let me help you.” He added as he searched for eye contact again.

“You’re acting like a lunatic” he said as he shook his head, and sighed at the view he had right there and then. She was practically suffocating from the smoke inside of that building he pulled her out of. “You’re running into burning buildings, making yourself an actual target, putting yourself in danger.” he continued.

“I don’t recognize you anymore. What happened to that intelligent, badass, sweet officer that I met eight months ago?” he asks as he places his right hand on his hip.

(Y/n) doesn’t say anything, but shrugs her shoulders like she’s some child getting a lecture. “What are you even doing on duty? Shouldn’t you be at home? Let that wound heal?” He said pointing out at her stomach.

“What are you? My mom?” She mumbled moody as she avoided eye contact and spit out some more salvia onto the ground.

Evan sighed, but a laugh left his mouth. It felt like the same fight all over again. It had been six weeks. Six weeks of no contact and it was killing both of them. There was an emptiness inside of them they couldn’t seem to fill.

“Don’t tell me you ignored the doctor's advice and went to work anyways.” He went on as he placed his fingers on his forehead.

He glanced at her, and she looked back at him. But when she didn't actually deny what he said, another sigh rolled from his lips. “(Y/n)..”

“You know I can’t sit still. I needed to get back out here!” She shot back in defensive mode. (Y/n) pushed herself up again, so she was standing straight.

“I'm not a doctor but from what I know, you’re not fully healed! Healing a GSW takes two to three months!” He told her as he turned around. “Please tell me you’re still talking with Dr. Sanford.” He continued.

“I have talked with her.” She started, as she placed both her hands on her hips. “One time.” she added. Making Evan instantly laugh in disbelief again. “Jesus. Seriously?”

“She doesn’t get me Buck!” Her voice was audible over the entire scene. She was talking to a person with his back towards her, almost making it look like some fight between love birds.

“I don't get it..” he started as he turned back around again, ”they’re offering their help services to you and you just don’t accept it.” he pointed at her, just to make her feel a little more guilty about the things she did.

“I don’t want help from some professional woman.” She said as she placed her hands in her hair. She felt like a crazy person. Like no one actually understood what she was saying. Was she speaking Chinese?

“Then tell me what you want. What do you need?” He stepped closer, finally after all these minutes.

She just stared into his eyes. Desperate for someone to understand her. Why was no one listening to her? “You.” The words slipped from her lips. The words she couldn’t get back after letting them out.

“I need you.” she continued. Evan’s face morphed from anger to a more calmed down one. Did she just really say that?

“You know me better than anyone else.” She added, as her eyes narrowed. “And I’m so sorry for saying those awful words. I didn’t mean it. I was a dick and I’m sorry for lashing out at you like that. The second I said those things about Eddie I regretted it but I just-“ she rattled.

“Oh shut up” he interrupted her as he took a few quick steps closer, grabbed her shoulders and pulled her roughly to his chest.

Their lips connected, and the warmth of both their bodies came together. The dried up sweat from Evan’s face combined with the ashes visible on hers.

Her body was tense, but when he crashed his lips down onto hers, she could feel her body relax. Her arms were dangling beside her body, one of Evan’s arms was pushing her lower back, and his other hand was lost on the back of her head.

Her back was bending backwards by surprise, as she held her eyes closed.

When Evan pulled back, their noses connected, and small gasps left both of their mouths. One of her hands was placed on Evan’s shoulder, as she placed the other one on his cheek.

“Uh.. okay” she mumbled in confusion. “I needed you to stop.” He gasped, as he felt her breath tickling his short hairs on his face.

“Was it.. wrong?” He asked when he couldn’t figure out by the look on her face if she wanted the same thing as him. “No” she whispered as she rubbed her thumb against his cheek. Making Evan smile.

“Okay pay up!” Hen’s voice sounded over the scene. Hen was standing at the back of the ambulance as she was holding her hand out, moving her fingers as people from the 118 placed money in her palm.

“You placed a bet on us?” Buck asked when he glanced a look to the side, and saw Hen grinning at the sight she had.

“Oh, it’s not that hard to figure out when the two of you keep fighting, hovering and risking your lives for each other.” Hen said loudly enough to reach the two of them.

[saphiraprince22]

This is so good, I really love reading crossover works

HERO 4 HIRE | Chapter One { nice to meet ya }

masterlist — the pitt x avengers crossover masterlist

Pairing: Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x former avenger!reader.

Summary: There's a new regular in The Pitt, a woman prone to stumbles and misfortunes. She always comes when her wounds need stitching and wearing fading bruises, to the point Robby's getting worried. Until her face is all over the news: former avenger tears down crimelord and political connections.

tags: strangers to lovers; violence; injuries; mature; romcom.

a/n: got a bit carried away with the drama, but I hope you guys enjoy this first part! oh, and a special thank you to @jupitersmoon167 for helping me choose reader superhero name!

word count: 4.9k.

— this fic is dedicated to my bestfriend @faethbees luv ya 💜

You showed up one morning, in the quiet period between chaos and the first wave of people from the waiting room. Whitaker came closer to the nurses’ station to find Robby, a worried expression on his face and asking for help evaluating a case. There’s something off, he whispered, don't think she's telling the truth about how she got hurt.

Entering the room, Robby came face to face with a dislocated nose, a cut on the eyebrow, a busted lip and hand with scratches. Adding the old purple bruise in the right eye, it was hard to believe a word you said. A clumsy person that's trying to make big on the fighting ring. It was odd, but they couldn't do much. You were lucid and calm, despite the tiredness, you didn't show any behavior that could confirm their suspicions. So they discharged you like any other patient, quickly forgetting what happened.

Until you showed up again two weeks later.

With a new black eye starting to swell and bruised knuckles.

Then just two days later.

Bruised ribs and a concussion.

And then again one week later.

Sprained foot, bloody knuckles and bloody mouth.

After almost four months of collecting small injuries that required at least three stitches, you officially became a new regular. And with each passing day, Robby became even more worried. To the point where he started thinking about you even outside of his work hours.

He went to work every day wondering if he would find you still alive on his next shift.

The worst part? It seemed like only he cared about your wellbeing, struggling to maintain a professional approach while you kept flirting with him. You were friendly, an extrovert, almost like an orange cat – not a golden retriever, there was a dangerously craziness energy in you, not a silly playful one.

You always showed up around the same time, between the waves of patients, sometimes even carrying a bag full of food for the ed team – something Robby could never understand how you could get it. Other times, you brought coffee especially for him, followed by a ‘you’re the only one, handsome’ or something like ‘just a thank you for your magic hands last time’.

So you talked and flirted, and seemed to quickly know everyone within the department. You gossiped with Perlah and Princess as if you were long-time friends. Even Myrna knew who you were and had a special scandalous nickname for you (Baby Maso).

You were everywhere, but no one seemed to know any deep information about you or your life.

You were an enigma.

A puzzle he couldn't figure out.

A beautiful riddle that he wanted to get his hands on and solve.

Sometimes he had to fight the desire to shut you up with a kiss.

And that's a big damn problem.

“Your Rocky Balboa is here," Jack said as a greeting when he saw Robby approaching.

Robby sighed. "How bad is it this time?"

"Well, stitches on forehead, stitches on right cheek, stitches on left arm, stitches for a stab in the hand. And one dislocated right shoulder.” Jack enumerated. "I must say, looks like gang shit, brother."

Nodding slowly, Robby sighed again. "I know, but the police disagree."

Jack looks at him with raised brows. "For real?"

"Yeah, some detective came here. I reported her on the second visit, y'know?" Robby rubbed his face, already feeling tired and his shift hadn't even started yet. "The detective took her, said he'd keep an eye on her. Then, when I called him again, he said she was telling the truth and just to patch her up."

"Not at all suspicious." Jack whistled low, then got his backpack and threw over his shoulder. "Alright, I'm out. She's on her usual spot, sleeping."

Robby nodded, sighing for a third time. "Thanks, brother. Rest well, see you later."

He slowly made his way to the nurses' station, Dana nodded her head pointing somewhere behind her.

"Don't even bother going to see her. She's gone."

Robby blinked at her slowly. "What the hell?"

"Yeah, Whitaker went there to offer coffee and found the bed empty." Dana said, a knowing smile on her lips, sliding a paper towards him. "She left this, though."

Grabbing the piece of paper, Robby looked for a long moment, then looked to the ceiling as if he would find the answers there.

'See you soon, handsome. I'll bring coffee next time.'

You showing up during the night shift for the first time was a sign from the universe that Robby didn't catch. The following visits to the Pitt were before sunrise, and your injuries got progressively worse.

And whatever you were doing was starting to get to you. Emotionally and psychologically, as if physically wasn't enough. It was easier to notice your exhaustion, like you didn't get a chance to relax properly for just one minute.

“I'm telling you, man, I saw her somewhere before.” Shen insisted, after the ninth time you crashed into the night shift. “I think I've heard her voice on the news.”

Ellis rolled her eyes. “Why would she be on the news?”

“Dunno, can't remember.” Shen shrugged, attention returning to bed 13, where Jack was stitching you up. “Is she sleeping?”

“Yeah, think so.” Ellis answered, a bit of wonder on her face.

“Broken arm and broken fingers? A sprained foot, bruised ribs and several cuts? She's part of a fight club like Brad Pitt.” The younger attending conspired, crossing his arms as he took turns looking at the board and bed 13.

“Dr. Robby is going to flip tomorrow.” Ellis stated.

That night, Jack thought for a fleeting moment to report you again. Worried about what you got yourself into, but mostly important, worried about the effect you had on Robby's life. In the end, he didn't call anyone. Not even Robby. He let you sleep once again, waking you up before the day shift came. At least, both of you agreed that sometimes Robby didn't need to see how in bad shape you were.

Smiling in gratitude, you walked out silently and disappeared discreetly. No hesitation, even with all your injuries. Jack knew that kind of walk, that kind of behavior. He's seen this before, and deep down he wished to be wrong.

You were back to the ER two weeks later, during the day shift. It was a curse and a blessing. Limping, the cast on your arm shattered, busted lip and a nose bleeding. Dana was the first to notice you, but Princess was the quickest to move to search for Robby.

“Welcome back to the living hours, darling.” Dana greeted, meeting you halfway and turning you to room 8. Her trained eyes quickly evaluated you from head to toes. Nodding to herself, the charge nurse declared, “Robby will be here soon.”

You frowned. “Can't you call, I dunno, Samira?”

“No can do,” Dana shrugged. From where she was standing in the doorway, she could see Princess pointing in her direction and soon Robby was striding over with a worried expression on his face. “Your doctor is already here.”

“Dana, please-”

The charge nurse ignored your call and left you behind, with no time or route to escape, soon enough you were staring into a pair of sad brown eyes. You don't say anything, keeping your mouth shut for the first time since meeting him. Robby let out a shaky breath, trying to compose himself. Then his eyes roamed over your body, categorizing each wound by priority level.

“Dr. Santos, since you're here, get the necessary supplies to take care of the patient.” Robby ordered, his eyes still locked on you.

You arched an eyebrow, surprised for not having noticed the younger woman's silent approach, but incapable of breaking Robby's stare. Without saying anything, he stepped closer and reached for your face. His touch was gentle, tilting your face to assess the bleeding from your nose.

“Does it hurt?” Robby asked quietly.

His somber expression made you swallow your sassy comment, and whisper cautiously, “No, not anymore.”

He nodded, but you knew he didn't believe you. Robby shifted his eyes lower, narrowing as he noticed the rip in the right thigh of your cargo pants. “And your leg?”

“Fell down funny, but nothing broken or needing stitches.” you answered trustfully, holding back the need to shrug because you knew Robby wouldn't appreciate it.

Letting his hands fall off your face, you instantly missed his touch and warmth. Robby stepped back when Santos returned to the room. He watched the intern arrange the material and put the gloves on, then turned away, declaring a simple, “Dr. Santos, let me know when you finish her treatment. I'll see how the others are.”

“This was as good as a trainwreck,” Santos stated bluntly.

You snorted humorously. “I shouldn't have come.”

Santos didn't comment right away, choosing to wipe the blood from your face. When you were clean and she deemed the bleeding had actually stopped, she muttered closely. “He's always worried about you, y'know? At least when you come, he's sure you're still alive.”

You didn't need to ask her who she meant, it was clear enough. And it made you feel guilty for creating such a deep bond with him. At first, it wasn't anything, just you being silly and trying to distract yourself a little in the middle of the chaos you were in. Of course things quickly changed, there was a spark and connection. You felt greedy coming to The Pitt to get a little dose of Robby. Maybe you were being only selfish in the end.

A voice startled you from your thoughts. “Why can't you listen to me for once, troublemaker?”

Your head snapped towards the voice at the same time Santos turned around. Leaning on the doorframe was the detective responsible for you. You groaned. “Francis, what are you doing here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Take a guess, silly.”

“He called you?” you shouldn't feel offended nor sad about the fact, but something inside you didn't like it one bit.

Santos whistled. “Trainwreck.”

You looked incredulously at her. The intern didn't look back, focusing on renewing the cast on your arm.

“He wasn't ratting you out, in fact, he asked me why I wasn't doing my job properly.” Clint had the audacity to snicker, but composed himself after seeing your glare. Clearing his throat, he stated. “I'll give you a ride home.”

Saluting with two fingers, Clint walked away, probably to make a fool of himself to the nurses.

Nine minutes later Robby was back. An unreadable expression on his face and gloved hands. He watched Santos finish the cast on your arm in silence. A tall imposing figure at her back. And when she moved to see your thigh, Robby stopped her.

“Dr Mohan needs help to speed up the treatment of the patients.”

Santos opened her mouth like she was going to say something, but decided against it in the end. Nodding, she glanced at you before leaving in hurried steps.

There's a short pause.

“Do you want me to take off my pants, doc?”

“Jesus Christ,” Robby exhaled shakily, sliding a hand across his face.

“It's fine, I'm wearing lace.” You said softly, giving him a flirtatiously smile.

Robby squared his shoulders, stepping up and standing dangerously too close. His ears and neck turned red. He warned huskily, “Behave.”

You nodded and stayed quiet. Realizing that you would obey his warning, he checked your thigh with a feather-light touch. Robby sighed after noticing the angry bruise.

“I'm sorry for making you worry all the time,” you said, trying to keep your voice casual.

Robby took a breath, nodding once. His brown sad eyes staring at your soul. “Are you ever going to tell me the truth?”

Of course he would ask that. You knew that everyone in that ER pretended to believe in your lie (because they couldn't think of a loophole thanks to Clint coming to rescue you). Unfortunately, you couldn't risk telling him what you were really doing in Pittsburgh. Risk him. It was safer for him to think you were a gang member. Or a lunatic. He'd never survive if he knew the mess you were trying to clean up.

So you decided on a promise, you owned him at least that. “Yes, Michael.”

“But not now.”

“No.”

Not wanting to push, he excused himself. “I'll prepare your discharge papers.”

Robby didn't return with the papers.

Clint was the one to come get you, papers in hand. When you got out of the room, Robby was nowhere to be found. So you accepted defeat with a heavy heart, and left without looking back.

Meanwhile, Robby was sitting alone in the break room, cup full of coffee to try and drown his worries.

“She's gone.” Dana declared as she opened the door, raised eyebrow and a knowing look in her eyes. “Thought you'd wanna know the coast is clear, so you can stop hiding.”

“I'm not hiding,” Robby lifted the coffee he was holding. “See, I'm taking five to recharge.”

“The detective is handsome, right?” Frank joined them at the break room, a little smirk on his lips. “Blonde, fit, husky voice, blue eyes…”

“Came running to her rescue like those movie heartthrobs.” Dana sassed.

“Fuck.” Robby groaned, standing up and swiftly walking between them to get back to work.

Frank called after him, “Just saying!”

Like other times, you didn't come back to the follow-up care. However, Robby felt in his gut something was definitely wrong. The detective didn’t answer his calls, but sent an ominous text saying you were fine and staying low, whatever the hell that meant. The routine in the ER continued, forcing Robby to focus on patients and the chaotic rush of managing residents, interns and students. The worst part was when he was home alone. He tried to drown his thoughts and worries about you with housework and sleep.

You were gone for two months. Robby wasn't sleeping well, he felt like a ticking time bomb. And it got worse with Dana and Jack constantly asking if he was okay. He definitely wasn't. Detective Francis came by once during the night shift, handed over a note signed by you. Robby asked Dana to read it first, his heart clenching in his chest as he waited for the worst. He was always expecting the worst. When he heard Dana laugh, he felt his shoulders slump in sheer anxiety.

'Broke my old phone. And then noticed that I never directly gave my number to you. I'll be quitting my job soon. So let’s go out on a date, okay? I’ll wear something nice just for you.'

You were trouble. So much trouble. You’re gonna be the death of him. But that stupid note made him smile and feel like he was his stupid 20s something all over again. He texted you a simple ‘behave’ and kept smiling for the rest of the shift. Robby didn't even mind Dana and Jack teaming up to make fun of him. He went home making planes, thinking that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to finally work out for him. After almost one year of you turning his mind upside down, he should known better.

Night shift was finally slowing down around midnight, only two patients were staying until morning. Jack was updating the charts while Shen and Ellis bickered over some dumb shit they saw online when the radio crackled to life. Woman with multiple trauma, in her 30s, crashing down. ETA 3 minutes. The team was quickly to move.

Shen and Ellis went outside to help the emts with the victim. Jack stood back to prepare the trauma bay with the rest of the staff. No one was prepared to see you on the stretcher, completely covered in blood, unconscious and at death's door. Jack felt like he had been thrown back to when he was out in the field saving soldiers years ago.

“Bridget, call Robby now!” Jack yelled, his voice hard and determined.

Jack always knew this moment would come, at least it was him taking you to the OR. And he knew that whatever happened there, Robby needed to be here too. Robby would never recover if he wasn't by your side at a critical moment like this. Would never forgive himself. In the mean time, Jack would gladly Jack would gladly take the burden of opening your chest, to stop the internal bleeding, search all the bullets, cauterize all your wounds, fix your broken bones, make your heart beat with his own hands. It took hours, but Jack wouldn't lose you at that table.

Robby arrived in the ER like a raging river. Bloodshot eyes, hyperventilating, trembling hands, messed hair. He didn’t hear or see anyone around him, no one was capable of preventing him from reaching the OR. The worst part? He didn’t scream or cry out loud, his legs just gave up right there at the door.

He watched silently as Jack, Shen, Ellis and Walsh worked together with the rest of the team to save you. Rocking back and forth, Robby covered his ears but was unable to look away. There was so much blood. It was as bad as Pittfest, maybe worse, because all that blood covering floor, machines and feets was just yours.

“Please. Oh, God. Please. Not her too. Not her.” Robby repeated in a weak voice, drowned out by all the chaos.

It wasn't until he came face to face with Jack that he realized you were no longer at the table. He felt all the air escape him, heart in his throat. There was a ringing in his ear, he couldn't understand what Jack was trying to say. Robby closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the nose. Then, he looked into Jack's eyes for answers.

“She’s fine, brother. She’s alive. Breathe. We’ve got her.” Jack repeated over and over, waiting for Robby to come to his senses.

He sucked in a breath, hands clasping on Jack’s shoulders. “She’s safe?”

“Yeah, brother.” Jack nodded, watching him closely. He held Robby by his arms and helped him get up. “We took her to the pedes room, for privacy and safety. She’s gonna stay with us.”

“What the hell happened?” Robby questioned, dragging his hands on his face before looking around the now empty OR.

“I don’t know, man.” Jack shook his head, at loss. Then added, “I asked Shen and Ellis to find out, thought. Let’s get out of here. Wanna see her?”

“Yeah,” he answered softly.

Jack accompanied him to the pedes in silence. When they stopped walking, Jack looked at him carefully. “She’s sleeping now, so stay as longer you need and then meet me at the hub.”

Left alone, Robby took several deep breaths before finally opening the door and getting inside the pedes room. You were right in the middle, lying in bed with an oxygen mask and wires connecting you to the machines. He slowly came closer, standing beside your bed. His eyes analyzed every bruise, every detail. with trembling fingers, he caressed your face and brushed away the hair that had fallen into your face. You were gone for two long months and now you were there. He almost lost you on the same day his heart had filled with hope of having a chance with you. A broken laugh escaped him, the overwhelming turmoil of the situation catching him once again.

“Shit, sweetheart.” Robby whispered wrecked, eyes still wet from all the tears and voice raw of emotion. He leaned over to place a kiss on your forehead. “You have no idea how much you mean to me.”

He didn’t linger. Opting to search for Jack and get answers. He took one last look at you and carefully closed the door behind him. He found Jack and the others with one of the tv of the hub turned on the news. Frowning, Robby hurried his steps.

'Former avenger member known as Shrike tears down crimelord, and brings to light political corruption and executives connections linked to the growing wave of violence and crime in Pittsburgh. Witnesses at the scene helped the hero who was seriously injured in the aftermath, but no one knows where she was taken. What we know is that Shrike's face is all over social media for the first time after bravely using her helmet to disarm a criminal who was holding a child hostage–'

“Oh Lord,” Robby gasped, the world around him tilting down. He closed his eyes tight, hands supporting his weight on the nurse’s station.

“I knew it!” Shen squealed somewhere behind him, voice full of enthusiasm. “I said I heard her voice on the news!”

“Shut up, Shen.” Ellis elbowed him hard in the stomach. Shen let out a faint grunt of discomfort but fell silent.

Jack came closer, standing beside him and squeezing his shoulder. “She’s gonna be okay, brother.”

“I could have lost her and I wouldn’t have know.” Robby whispered, mind still reeling trying to process all the situation. “All this time I thought-”

“Does it matter now?” Jack tilted his head, trying to make eye contact with his friend, a serious expression on his face. “You can't blame yourself for a disguise she created for safety.”

Suddenly, rushing through the ambulance area, Detective Francis materialized in front of them. No, not detective Francis. Clint Barton, the avenger Hawkeye. He was still dressed in his suit, but he was carrying the famous purple bow and arrows. Robby was glad that the ER had reached a lull, with few patients to witness the situation.

“How is she?” Clint asked, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head and squinting his eyes because of the bright light. “Got held up finishing the cleaning.”

“You.” Robby hissed.

Clint raised an eyebrow, scratching his chin unperturbed. “Yeah?”

Jack sighed. “She had surgery and is under observation. She lost a lot of blood, we removed seven bullets. Her right arm was broken in three places, had a deep cut on her temple and head trauma.”

“Well, it could be worse.” Clint nodded, shoulders relaxing. He offered a crooked smile, “She’s had worse, actually. But thank you for taking care of her stubborn ass.”

“He's so cool,” Shen whispered to Ellis, but loud enough to be heard.

Everyone ignored Shen’s comment.

“I'll take you to where she is,” Jack offered, hand pointing to the path in invitation. “I think it's best not to draw any unwanted attention right now.”

“Right.” Clint sighed, starting to follow Jack. Stopping abruptly to face Robby. “For what it’s worth, she took your safety into consideration. It's personal to her.”

The hero then followed Jack's footsteps again, disappearing down the hallway to the most secluded and discreet room in the ER.

Robby let out a shaky breath, leaning forward again, tense shoulders and head in hands. He felt like shit. Emotions and reason at war inside him. He kept repeating in his mind that she's alive, she's alive, she's alive, she’s alive like a mantra. But he remained afraid that he would wake up at any moment and be told that she had died on the trauma table.

Jack found him a few minutes later, at the ambulance entrance, sitting against the hospital wall. Knees close to the chest, arms resting on his legs and hands holding his head. Getting closer, he noticed that Robby had tears on his face, but he wasn't crying desperately like before. Jack stopped beside him, leaning against the wall, and drew in a long breath. Looking at the watch on his wrist, it was already two in the morning.

“She’s awake,” he informed, an incredulous huff escaped him. “The cut on her temple is superficial now.”

Robby snapped his head up, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“The little shit has a slight better healing metabolism, according to the hawkguy.” Jack shook his head, still not believing everything that happened. “Not like the crazy dude called dead something, or like Captain America, but there’s something. That’s what he said.”

Throwing his hands up, Robby cursed softly. “It just gets better and better the emotional rollercoaster.”

“Go home, brother.” Jack said, after looking at his friend for a long moment. “Try to rest a bit before your shift.”

Robby nodded once, slowly getting up from the ground. “Yeah, guess I’ll need all the rest I can get.” Glancing at Jack, he smiled faintly. “Thank you for calling me.”

“See you in the morning.” Jack replied, tilting his head in acknowledgement.

Rest was forced due to exhaustion. Robby barely touched the bed and passed out, everything that happened that night catching him as a wrecking ball. Four hours of sleep later, he was re-entering the ED grounds. The place bursting with energy more than normal, night shift and day shift staff completely agitated.

Dana approached him before he could reach the hub, her expression a mix of seriousness teetering on the edge of mischief. “Glad you decided to join us. Your circus has been on fire for too long already.”

Confusion settled onto his features, “I didn't get enough sleep to deal with any shit before clock in.”

“Oh, you're going to want to get involved in this one.” Dana snickered with a smirk. “Pedes room rings you a bell?”

Robby straightens up at that, glancing worriedly at the nurse charge. When she didn’t elaborate, he changed his route. Hurried his steps towards the pedes, throwing his backpack in the locker on the way. Jack was already there, standing at the pedes’ door with Shen and Perlah.

“What’s going on?” Robby asked, worried eyes trying to catch a glimpse inside.

Jack held up a hand to stop him, “She’s awake and has visitors-”

“I should make a birdcage and lock you two in there! That's not being careful!” a male voice boomed inside the room, making Jack fall silent. Despite the volume, the voice sounded more worried and exasperated than anything. “That's why I created your fucking suit, to avoid shit like this!”

“What the fuck?” Robby muttered.

Shen giddly chimed in, “Tony Stark in the flesh, dude.”

“He came from the roof not even twenty minutes ago.” Perlah informed dutifully, arms crossed.

“It's time enough,” Robby muttered.

The door opened suddenly. Tony who was about to leave stopped abruptly. He looked from Jack to Robby, and then Shen and Perlah, before his focus returned to the two senior attendants.

“I’ll be contacting the hospital for a donation to the ED as a thank you.” Tony declared simply, he glanced inside the room towards the bed before fixing Robby with curious eyes. “Take good care of her, that's my only warning.”

Without missing a beat, you hissed behind him. “Tony!”

“That’s my cue, I know the way out.”

And just like that Tony Stark, the famous IronMan, passed like a hurricane. Clint was the next to come to the door, a tired expression on his features. “Thanks again, guys. I’ll be going too for now. Gotta sleep.”

“You were drooling not even half an hour ago!” You retaliated, arms crossed petulantly.

“She’s all yours, man.” Clint said, clapping Robby’s shoulder and ignoring you. He then turned to Jack, “Can you help me gather everyone of the night shift? Wanna know everyone’s names.”

It was obvious why the hero was asking that. So Jack just nodded, and tilted his head for Shen and Perlah to go with him. The four of them quickly left Robby alone with you. He remained rooted in the doorway, staring at you on the bed. Looking breathtaking. As if you hadn't given him a terrible panic attack out of fear of losing you forever before he even had the chance to hold you.

“Are you going to stand there forever?”

You asked, eyes full of vulnerability. He didn’t answer out loud, just crossed the threshold and closed the door. He came closer with careful steps, taking one of your hands into his. You stared at each other in silence, then Robby brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles.

“Please, don’t scare me like this again.” he pleaded. “I thought I was going to lose.”

You drew a sharp breath. “Michael-”

“I know you had to do what was necessary, sweetheart.” He cut you off softly, kissing the palm of your hand before bringing to his face. “I’m proud of you, don't get me wrong. But you’re important to me.”

“So,” you started, using your hand holding him to tilt his face down towards you, nose brushing against his. “You already know everything?”

“That you’re the amazing Shrike? That I want to know you inside out? Date you? Love you?” Robby whispered on your lips, almost touching. “Yeah, I already know.”

You closed the distance and kissed him, heart fluttering overwhelmed with emotion. His arms held with care, but he kissed you back all-consuming. Months of pent up emotions and tension pouring into the kiss. He licked hotly into your mouth before breaking the kiss. He rested his forehead on yours, sighing deeply in contentment.

“What do you think about home-cooked meal on a first date?” Robby breathed, one eyebrow shooting up in amused curiosity.

“If it's you, Michael, then it's perfect.” You whispered sweetly.

“Good, because you’re not leaving my sight anytime soon.”

Your laughter echoed through the room, making Robby smile goofily. Yeah, maybe, just maybe everything's going to finally work out.

thank you for reading and supporting my writing 💜

comments, likes and reblogs are welcome and appreciated!

[saphiraprince22]

AHHHH this is so cute, i melted

I also want the fur baby and its daddy

the cat's out of the bag 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader

warnings: teeth rotting fluff

summary: during a storm, you rescue a stray kitten and spend the next week trying to keep her hidden from your boyfriend.

word count: 2k

author's note: i love cats and dogs, genuinely would run a little zoo of my own if i could. enjoy my loves and stay safe out there! please drop a like or a reblog if you enjoyed! <3333 based on this request

i love soft!bucky with my whole heart

It started with a storm and a pair of very, very round blue eyes.

You hadn’t meant to adopt a cat.

The plan was simple. Boring, even.

Drop off your mission report to Val, grab a too-sweet latte with Yelena while listening to her complain about Walker’s latest disaster, and then spend the evening wrapped in your favourite blanket, bingeing your comfort show for the fifth, okay, seventh time.

That was it. No drama. No interruptions. Definitely no unexpected pets.

But fate, and a suspiciously open cardboard box near the alley dumpsters behind your usual deli—had other plans.

That’s where you found her.

Or rather, that’s where she found you.

You hadn’t even noticed the box at first. You were halfway through texting Yelena about her ridiculous idea for matching leather jackets when a faint sound stopped you cold.

A mewl, soft, reedy, desperate. You turned, heart already twisting, and there she was.

Soaked. Shivering. All fluff and no fight.

Her white fur was a grimy, matted mess, stained gray from the rain and dirt. She couldn’t have been more than a few months old—tiny and fragile, huddled against the crumpled side of the box like it might still protect her.

When your shadow fell over her, she didn’t flinch. She just blinked up at you with those huge, too-wise eyes, let out one pitiful little cry, and tucked her nose into her paw like she was already giving up.

And that was it. You were done for.

You crouched without thinking, hands already moving before logic caught up. She was cold, so cold you swore you could feel it through your fingertips when you scooped her up and tucked her against your chest.

Your jacket came off next, hastily unzipped and wrapped around her as you stood, shielding her from the steady drizzle like instinct had overridden every ounce of your common sense.

She didn’t struggle. Didn’t even try to claw or hiss. Just curled tighter against your chest, her body trembling as a soft, tentative purr vibrated against your sternum.

You looked down. She looked up.

That was the moment.

You didn’t have a name for her yet. You didn’t have a plan. Hell, you didn’t even know if pets were allowed at the compound.

But none of that mattered.

You walked the rest of the way with one arm wrapped around your jacket, cradling a soggy, wide-eyed ball of fur like she was the most precious thing in the world.

You didn’t even make it two steps into the building before Bob spotted you and said, flatly, “You’re keeping it.”

You didn’t argue. Because he was right.

You hadn’t meant to adopt a cat. But it turns out, she’d already adopted you.

"Your name is Alpine," you whispered as you tiptoed into your shared bedroom with Bucky, cradling the tiny fluff ball like a state secret.

She was warm in your arms, damp fur already drying against the softness of your shirt, her little body nestled in like she belonged there. "And you, my girl, are a secret agent."

Alpine blinked up at you with slow, sleepy eyes. Then she let out the tiniest sneeze, her whole body jolting with the force of it.

You smiled, tucking her closer. “We’ll work on stealth.”

Operation Hide-The-Cat was officially underway.

You were surgical in your efforts. Strategic. Diligent. The litter box went in the back of your closet, camouflaged behind a wall of boots and a perfectly draped robe. Her food and water bowls were slipped into a lower drawer you’d emptied and converted into a makeshift dining nook, lined with a towel and everything.

You bought a ridiculous amount of pet wipes and dry shampoo to keep her from smelling too obviously like cat. Her toys were buried between pillows and blankets, and her treats were stashed behind rows of books on your shelves, labeled as "protein bars" in case anyone peeked.

Alpine had more square footage and amenities than some junior agents in the compound.

You even rigged the air vents with dryer sheets to mask the scent, knowing full well Ava liked to crawl through them when she was bored—or looking to scare the shit out of someone. If she found out about Alpine, it would be game over.

Not because Ava would snitch. But because she’d absolutely try to recruit her into the team.

The first few days were a breeze. Alpine slept for hours, nestled in the crook of your arm or burrowed into the soft blankets you arranged like a throne.

She ate delicately, gave you tiny headbutts whenever you reached for your phone, and purred like a small engine when you read aloud at night. It was like living with a warm, sleepy marshmallow who occasionally attacked your socks.

Then she discovered Bucky’s jacket.

It was just hanging there—carelessly draped over the back of your chair, like he always left it when he stayed over in your room.

Dark blue, soft with wear, the kind of thing he grumbled about losing but never actually took back. It smelled like him—pine and clean soap and just a trace of that cologne he insisted he didn’t wear.

The same jacket he’d left behind after that quiet night in, when the two of you had curled up on your bed with takeout and old black-and-white movies. You’d fallen asleep on his chest halfway through Casablanca, and he hadn’t moved a muscle until morning.

You never gave it back.

Apparently, neither could Alpine.

You caught her the first time while brushing your teeth, half-asleep, groggy, and wondering what the soft thump-thump-thump was behind you.

There she was, in all her tiny glory, rolling back and forth on the jacket like she’d claimed it in the name of the feline empire.

You watched in disbelief as she kneaded her little paws into it—making biscuits like it was hers, purring so loud it echoed off the tiles.

From that point on, it was a losing battle.

Every time you turned around, there she was—wrapped in it like a burrito, dragging it off the chair like a victorious hunter, or burrowed into its folds with her head poking out like royalty in a four-poster bed.

You tried to relocate it. Hang it up. Even hide it. Somehow, she always found it.

You started picking fur off it obsessively, lint rolling like your life depended on it—every sleeve, every seam, every goddamn inch of it.

But it was too late.

Because when Bucky walked in three nights later, gaze sharp and mouth already forming some sarcastic comment about your tendency to “hog all the blankets,” he paused mid-step. His eyes dropped to the chair. His brows furrowed.

Then he picked up the jacket.

Held it at arm’s length.

And pulled one long white hair off the collar.

You froze.

Alpine, traitor that she was, chose that exact moment to sneeze again���from under your bed.

Day Seven.

You were in the kitchen reheating leftovers, Alpine nestled warm and content inside Bucky's jacket like a smug little stowaway.

She’d made herself a nest just under the zip, her tiny head poking out beneath your chin, her soft purr vibrating gently against your sternum.

Her paws were tucked against your chest, and her tail flicked lazily beneath the fabric, occasionally brushing your ribs like a mischievous secret waiting to be exposed.

You stirred the pasta one-handed, trying not to disturb her. She’d been sleepy and clingy all morning, refusing to be left alone in the pile of blankets you’d made for her on the bed.

You’d tried sneaking away twice, once for the bathroom, once for food, and both times she’d meowed like you’d abandoned her forever.

So here you were, cooking one-handed with a clingy fur baby zipped into your jacket like the world’s neediest hot water bottle.

That’s when your boyfriend walked in.

Fresh from training. His shirt clinging to him like a second skin, damp with sweat in all the distracting places.

He had that casual, unbothered look about him—like he didn’t even realise how effortlessly distracting he was.

He paused the second he saw you.

His brows drew together, subtle but sharp. “Hey,” he said, voice low as he crossed to the cabinet for a mug.

“Hey,” you echoed, far too casually, heart skipping when Alpine’s tail twitched right as he passed behind you. You subtly shifted your stance to hide the movement.

Bucky glanced over his shoulder, frowning faintly. “...You purring?”

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, mug in hand, a smirk just barely beginning to tug at his mouth. “I swear I just heard purring.”

“No you didn’t.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing slightly, “Are you purring?”

“Why would I purr?” you asked. "That’s not even something people do.”

“Not usually, no,” he said slowly, taking another step forward, eyes dropping briefly to the suspicious lump in your hoodie.

You held your ground. “I’m cold.”

“In June?”

You cursed the climate-controlled compound. Couldn’t they have made it slightly more believable?

And then—of course—Alpine chose that exact moment to stretch.

A soft meow slipped out of her as she extended one paw toward your zipper like she was participating in the worst game of peekaboo. Her little white head pushed through next, blinking sleepily at the sudden light.

There was a long beat of silence.

Bucky just stared.

Alpine blinked up at him, completely unbothered, tail flicking like she was proud of herself.

And Bucky—

He smiled.

Not a smirk. Not one of his usual crooked, knowing grins. A real smile. Slow and soft and a little stunned, like it had crept up on him without warning. Like he hadn’t expected it. Like he hadn’t expected you.

“You adopted a cat,” he said quietly.

“Rescued a cat,” you corrected quickly, your hand already stroking her head out of pure guilt. “I didn’t mean to. She was just... there. In a box. In the rain. She looked at me. And sneezed. I didn’t stand a chance.”

Bucky stepped closer, something unreadable in his eyes. “She yours?”

You nodded. “Technically, she’s off the books. Like… extremely off the books.”

He crouched slightly, careful and deliberate as he reached out and scratched behind Alpine’s ear.

She melted instantly. Eyes fluttering shut. Purr ramping up like a motor.

You watched, heart thudding.

“Well,” he murmured, not looking away from her, “she’s got good taste.”

“In jackets?” you teased, a little breathless.

“In people,” he said, finally meeting your eyes.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Alpine let out a pleased little chirp, completely oblivious to the tension she’d just wandered into.

You exhaled slowly. “Guess the secret’s out.”

Bucky chuckled. “Wasn’t much of a secret. Pretty sure Yelena saw her yesterday licking marinara off the kitchen counter.”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the fridge. “Of course she did.”

“She took a video,” Bucky added, laughing now.

You covered your face with your hand. “She’s never letting this go.”

“Relax,” he said, voice warm. “No one’s kicking her out. She’s... kind of perfect. A little menace. Like you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His expression was open, easier than you’d seen it in days. Like Alpine’s very presence had cracked something in him.

“You mean that?” you asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. She can stay.”

You grinned. “But she has to share the jacket?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean my jacket that you permanently borrowed?”

“You left it here, technically.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “Semantics, sweetheart.”

Later that night, when you wandered into the living room with a book in one hand and Alpine’s new toy in the other, you stopped in the doorway.

There they were.

Bucky was stretched out on the couch, hair still damp from his post-shower rinse. One arm tucked behind his head, mouth parted slightly in sleep. And curled right on top of him, nestled into the center of his chest like she’d been born to be there—Alpine. Her tiny paws rose and fell with his breathing, purring so loud you could hear it across the room.

Neither stirred. You didn’t say anything.

Just stood there, smiling softly, heart full and warm in a way you hadn’t expected when this week started.

[saphiraprince22]

Do you know the trend where if you have a significant other in the military you say they can’t come into your house but amendment 2 or 3 which say “ no quartering of soldiers without consent”

That with cyclone or Bob

All Shook Up - Bob x Reader

Word Count: 1.0k

Summary: After seeing a trend where military spouses tell their loved ones they aren't allowed inside under the 3rd Amendment, you decide to play a prank on your sweet, returning husband Bob—that is until you get the words out, and he reacts in the only way Bob knows how.

Warnings: fluff, domesticity, husband! Bob, very mild accidental hurt/comfort.

Authors Note: This idea is so funny to me! I'm already working on Beau's version, and I'll definitely be posting that soon.

Read on AO3

The sun had just begun setting when you put your plan into motion. Grinning to yourself as you set dinner to cook in the oven, you check out the kitchen window for any sign of Bob's car. Your husband had been away on a training exercise all week and had just called you thirty minutes ago stating he was close to home.

Minutes later as you spare the driveway another glance, you see Bob climb out of his car, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. You couldn't mask your almost childish excitement as you left the kitchen and trod over to the door. Even after the years you'd been together you never got over just how handsome he was. But today you had other things in mind.

You hear the soft thud of his boots on the porch followed by the jingle of his keys before the door opens.

"Honey I'm home," Bob calls out just as you appear.

His brow furrows when you don't answer, instead just standing and watching him without an ounce of your expected warmth.

"Honey?" He tries again, "Is everything all right?"

You let another long second pass, his brows furrowing, before you answer.

"Oh, yeah," you say casually, "you just can't stay here."

Bob's eyes instantly widen behind his glasses. His gentle gaze fills with a look that is somewhere between confusion and heartbreak.

"I..What?" He questions.

You clear your throat, initial plan shattering but doing your best to follow through with your prank in light of his expression, knowing it'll be easier to explain in the end when you're both—hopefully—laughing. 

"It is my right as an American citizen to exercise whatever rights I have the liberty of holding—including the third amendment of the United States Constitution, no quartering of soldiers and related military personnel without consent," You say, still standing in the entryway opposite Bob and the half open door.

Bob blinks, expression leaning more towards the confused end of things. For a second it looks like he's about to say something, only to remain silent. He glances at his hand still holding the doorknob, then over his shoulder outside before slowly—slowly—backing out and closing the door all without a word.

You let the silence hang for a second before you yourself grow confused. You had expected him to laugh or maybe fight back, or...really anything except actually leave . Yet as you're left standing there, your first instinct is to chase after him.

Crossing the distance and pulling the door open, you see him about to get back in his car.

"Bob!" you call out, earning a hurtfully hopeful glance back over his shoulder from the man, "I'm just messing with you!" you continue.

Bob's gaze drops and a brief flash of regret goes through you. He looks genuinely bewildered, as if he's going back through and cataloging months and years' worth of interactions to figure out where all this was coming from.

With a sigh you close the door behind you and step off the porch, padding softly down the steps until you're close enough to wrap your arm around the waist of your hopelessly sweet husband.

"I promise, It's just a prank, Bob," you reassure his worrying mind, "I thought it'd be funny, not that you'd just…”

You trail off, gesturing vaguely at everything as a brief flash of knowing crosses his eyes.

"Oh," he says after a long pause, brows still furrowed but tone far less tense, "I was so confused."

He returns your embrace, setting his bag on the ground and slinging an arm gently around you.

"I thought maybe something happened I didn't know about."

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you look up at him.

"You thought I'd kick you out over something you didn't even know?” You ask incredulously.

"Maybe If I forgot an anniversary or didn't text you goodnight–" He stammers, raising his free hand to rub the back of his neck, "I don't know what you think is worthy of invoking the constitution over, but it felt serious."

By now a soft blush has risen onto his cheeks and you can't help but place a kiss there, his flushed skin warmed under your gentle touch.

"You are too sweet for your own good, honey," you muse with a laugh, "You thought this was it? Really?"

"Well, I...It sounded serious!" He defends again with a bashful smile.

You can't help but laugh again, looking up at him in near warm-hearted wonder.

"You're always welcome to quarter here, or anywhere else I stay, for that matter."

Bob lets out a breath of relief, whatever tension was still held in his body leaving as your words provide the last bit of reassurance he needs.

"I...really didn't want to sleep in the car.”

You pat his back with a laugh and guide him up the steps and back inside before closing the door behind you both.

"Welcome home honey," you try again, a hint of joking still in your tone, "A place you'll always have a bed."

"Good to know," he chuckles softly, "Please, don't scare me like that again."

"I promise," You smile, pulling him in for a proper kiss this time, "I'll make it up to you."

"Yes please," he sighs, only to be distracted by the smell of roasting chicken coming from the kitchen.

"You...made dinner?" He asks gently, always so surprised by the little things even when they're a part of your daily routine.

"Of course I did. Can't have you going hungry, now, can we?"

Bob blinks then nods faintly in agreement.

"Good, go get changed while I finish up down here."

At that Bob practically melts in your arms like he does every time he comes home, never more relaxed than he is in your presence—even if it's your attempt at a prank that shakes him up to begin with.

Taglist: @rosiahills22 @marchingicenotes7 @bayisdying @princessofglitterland @callsignaries @blue-aconite @oliviah-25 @luckyladycreator2 @shakira-sasha @eliseline @xoxabs88xox @lisedanie @alexxavicry @madamemelancholysstuff @dozcan123 @withakindheartx @teti-menchon0604 @sass-masterkittenmama @kmc1989

[saphiraprince22]

They are literally that couple 🍷

[saphiraprince22]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE CONFESSES HIS LOVE FOR YOU

a/n: A MAN WHO YEARNS IS A MAN WHO EARNS !! also sorry if some of these sound repetitive, i was trying to make it fit the request

ZAYNE

You don’t remember exactly when you fell in love with Zayne.

Maybe it was the first time you caught him smiling — one of those rare, quiet things, tugging at the corner of his mouth like a secret only you got to see. Or maybe it was the way he remembered things about you: not the big, obvious stuff, but the little things — the way you take your coffee, the songs you hum when you’re distracted, the way your hand hovers just a second longer over old books.

It’s a quiet sort of adoration you carry for him. A fragile, sacred thing you keep pressed between your ribs where no one, especially not him, could see. You’re careful with it. You don’t flirt, you don’t push, you don’t hope.

Because how could someone like Zayne —sharp-eyed, steady, impossible Zayne — ever look at you and see what you so desperately feel?

You think you’re obvious sometimes. You catch yourself glancing at him for too long, leaning a little closer when he talks, laughing too quickly at his rare, dry jokes. But he never reacts. Never lingers. Never looks at you with anything other than that patient, unwavering calm.

So you resign yourself to the quietness of it. To loving him the way you love the stars —beautiful and distant and entirely untouchable.

Until today.

It starts the same as any other late evening. The sun has long since dipped below the horizon, the sky outside bleeding dark against the windows. You’re at headquarters, lingering over paperwork you don’t really need to be doing, pretending you aren’t waiting for him to pass by.

But tonight, Zayne doesn’t pass by.

He stops.

You don’t look up right away — you’re afraid if you meet his eyes, he’ll see everything you're trying so hard to hide. But you can feel him there, standing still, like he’s anchoring himself to the spot.

“Can we talk?” His voice is low, careful. It’s not a request.

Your heart trips over itself, but you nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

He moves to sit across from you, hands braced on his knees. He doesn’t fidget; Zayne never fidgets. But there’s a tension around him tonight, a quiet strain that unsettles you more than any sharp word or raised voice could.

For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at you with those unreadable eyes, the ones you’ve tried so hard not to drown in.

“I’m not good at this,” he says finally, voice tight. “Feelings. Words.”

You smile, soft and aching. “I know.”

And you do know. You’ve known it since the beginning. Another reason why you could never expect anything more from him.

He exhales, sharp and quiet. His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t have them,” he says. “I do.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard. It hurts, but it keeps you grounded.

“Zayne, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” he cuts in, sharper than usual. Then his voice softens, almost pleading. “I do.”

Your breath stutters in your chest.

He drags a hand through his hair, a rare sign of unease. “I thought if I waited, you’d see it. If I stayed close enough, protected you enough, you’d know.”

You blink, stunned. What?

“But you didn’t.” His voice breaks a little on the last word, and you swear the world tilts.

“Zayne…” Your voice is barely a whisper, fragile and unsteady.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, like it costs him something, like it matters. And the way he’s looking at you — raw, open, desperate — you realize it does.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He keeps going, filling the silence like he’s afraid if he stops, you’ll slip away.

“I tried to be patient. Tried to give you space. I thought — maybe you didn’t feel the same. Maybe you couldn’t.” He laughs, a rough, broken sound. “But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being near you.”

He leans forward, hands braced on the table now, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“I love you,” he says again, quieter. “I don’t know how to stop.”

It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted and everything you’ve convinced yourself you could never have.

You sit there, heart hammering, the words echoing inside you, cracking through every wall you’ve ever built.

And then — then — it clicks.

All the moments you thought were meaningless — the way he always sat just a little closer than necessary, how his hand would linger an extra second when he handed you something, how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

He’s been loving you this whole time.

Your chair scrapes against the floor as you push it back, standing on legs that feel too weak to hold you. His eyes track you, but he doesn’t move.

You reach out, tentative, fingers brushing against his. His hand turns instinctively, catching yours, grounding you.

“I—” Your voice shakes. You swallow, try again. “I love you too.”

For a second, neither of you moves. Just breathe, just exist, tethered by the thin thread of your joined hands.

And then he’s standing too, pulling you into him, arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You press your face into his chest, feeling the thud of his heart under your palms.

“I didn’t think—” You start, but he cuts you off, pressing his forehead against yours.

“You don’t have to think,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”

And you do.

For the first time, you allow yourself to stay.

XAVIER

You don’t know when it started — falling for Xavier.

Maybe it was gradual, like the slow fade of dusk into night, quiet and inevitable. Or maybe it was instant, the first time he looked at you with those dark, uncertain eyes and gave you one of those half-smiles that always seemed like a secret he didn’t know how to share.

You’re not sure. All you know is that it’s there —deep, rooted, impossible to ignore.

And you tell yourself he could never feel the same.

Because Xavier is… Xavier. Brilliant and quiet and achingly kind in a way that sneaks up on you. He’s the kind of person you could spend a lifetime deciphering and still not uncover all the hidden corners. You adore him — so much that it aches sometimes — but you tuck it all away. Keep it safe and hidden.

You think you're obvious. How could you not be? The way you light up when he walks into a room, the way your gaze always finds him first, the way you linger when you should walk away.

But he never says anything. Never acts like he notices. And part of you believes that’s answer enough.

So you stay quiet. You stay close. You love him the way you might love a painting in a museum— beautiful, unreachable, behind glass you don't dare to touch.

Until tonight.

It’s late. Too late for either of you to still be here, but somehow you are. The halls are empty, the hum of the city outside a distant murmur. You’re sitting in the quiet of the common room, a forgotten file in your lap, pretending to read.

Xavier’s across from you, a book balanced in his hands, though you can tell he hasn’t turned a page in a while.

You’re used to this, the comfortable silence that lives between you. But tonight, it feels… different. Tighter. Like the air is too heavy, like something’s straining to break free.

You chance a glance at him, and find he’s already looking at you.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t even pretend.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and rough.

“Hey,” you echo, trying to smile, to keep it light.

But something in his expression holds you still. There’s a tension there, a hesitance you’ve never seen before, like he’s standing on the edge of something and doesn’t know if he should jump.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You blink, confused. “Say what?”

He exhales sharply, fingers tightening around the book before he sets it aside with more force than necessary. His hands clench in his lap.

“That I’m in love with you,” he says, almost too fast, like the words have been bottled up for so long that now that they’re out, he can’t stop them. “I — God, I am. I have been for a while. And it’s—”

He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, a rare crack in his usually calm exterior.

“I kept thinking you must know,” he says, softer now, almost pleading. “That you must’ve figured it out. I thought I was being obvious.”

Your heart is a wild, thrumming thing in your chest. You’re sure he can hear it.

“You…” You struggle to find your voice. “You love me?”

His eyes, dark and raw, find yours again. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I do.”

You sit there, frozen, the words crashing over you, rearranging everything you thought you knew.

Because suddenly, all the little things — the way he always found reasons to be near you, the way his gaze lingered when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he smiled softer, laughed quieter when it was just the two of you— they all come into focus.

He’s been loving you this whole time.

It’s overwhelming. Terrifying. Wonderful.

“I didn’t think…” You shake your head, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “I didn’t think someone like you could ever—”

“Don’t.” His voice is rough, trembling with an emotion he usually keeps so tightly guarded. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you’re not — like you’re not you. I love you. Not because you’re perfect or because I think you’re some idea of something. I love you because you’re you.”

He stands then, almost like he can’t sit still anymore, and paces a short, agitated line in front of you before stopping, turning to face you.

“And I’m scared,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’m scared I screwed this up by not saying it sooner. But I couldn’t — I didn’t want to ruin what we have. I couldn’t stand the idea of you… pulling away.”

You’re standing too before you even realize it, hands trembling at your sides. He’s so close, you can feel the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his breathing.

You reach out, tentative, unsure, and your fingers brush his. His hand turns, catches yours, threads your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you too,” you whisper, the words catching on a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I have for so long.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. And then he’s pulling you into him, arms wrapping around you in a hold that’s fierce and desperate and grounding all at once. You bury your face in his shoulder, breathing him in, feeling the way his heart races under your palms.

He presses his face into your hair, voice muffled but still so achingly tender.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmurs. “I should’ve—”

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “We’re here now.”

And he holds you tighter, like he’s never letting go

RAFAYEL

You love Rafayel the way one might love a sunset — fiercely, hopelessly, knowing you can never hold it in your hands.

It’s not difficult to fall for him. He’s all sharp edges and brilliant color, a storm of laughter and teasing words, but there’s a tenderness beneath it all that you catch glimpses of when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You adore him quietly, carefully.

Maybe a little obviously, though you tell yourself you’re subtle enough. A lingering glance here, a softened laugh there. You memorize the way he runs a hand through his hair when he’s tired, the rare vulnerability that creeps into his voice when he talks about his art, the way he looks at the world — like he’s always halfway in love with it.

And you’re convinced he could never feel the same.

Because he’s Rafayel — bold, brilliant, impossible. And you? You’re just... you. Not the sort of person who catches the attention of someone like him, no matter how many times you catch your breath when he’s near or how much of your heart you’ve already given away without ever meaning to.

You’ve made your peace with it. Or you tell yourself you have.

The gallery is quiet. Closing time passed an hour ago, but you linger, sitting in the center of the main room, the lights dimmed to a low, golden hush.

You’re pretending to be absorbed in one of his latest pieces — a swirling storm of color and shadow that somehow feels alive — when you hear him.

“Still here, Cutie?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a tightness you don’t usually hear.

You turn, offering a small smile. “Couldn’t leave without seeing this one again.”

He’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, the lines of his body tense. There’s a furrow between his brows, and his usual easy smirk is nowhere to be found.

“Rafayel?” you ask, soft.

He stares at you, silent, like he’s trying to work something out in his head. Then, before you can blink, he moves — crossing the space between you in a few long strides.

You stand automatically, heart leaping into your throat.

“I’ve tried to be patient,” he says, and his voice— his voice is thick with emotion, almost trembling. “Tried to wait for you to see it. Feel it.”

You blink, confused. “See what?”

He laughs — bitter, low, almost broken. “Us. Me. You. The way I…” He shakes his head, jaw tightening, like the words are fighting him.

“I thought you knew,” he says, softer now, almost defeated. “I thought I was obvious. I’ve never exactly been subtle, have I?”

Your heart is pounding so hard it’s a wonder he can’t hear it.

He steps closer, so close you could reach out and touch him, but you don’t. You’re frozen, waiting for something you can’t even name.

“I’m in love with you.” The words drop into the space between you like stones in a still pond. “And I have been for longer than I care to admit.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He laughs again, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “I’m not good at hiding things. Every look, every touch, every time I called you ‘darling’ or ‘beloved’ — I wasn’t playing. I meant every word.”

You’re shaking, you realize. Just a little.

“You love me,” you whisper, like you don’t dare believe it.

He huffs, frustrated. “Yes. Yes.” His hand lifts, almost touches your cheek, but falls back to his side. “And I’m terrified. Because you’ve spent all this time looking at me like I’m the stars and you’re just a passerby. Like you couldn’t possibly be allowed to reach out and touch. And I…” His voice cracks. “I would let you burn me alive if it meant you’d look at me the way I look at you.”

It hits you all at once.

The teasing that was always just a little softer with you. The way his eyes lingered when you thought he was being flippant. The gentleness threaded through every sharp-edged word he ever gave you.

He’s been loving you all along.

And you were too blind, too scared to see it.

Tears blur your vision, but you don’t move to hide them. You just step forward, closing the last bit of space between you, and reach for him.

Rafayel’s breath stutters as you lay your hand over his heart, feeling it hammer wildly under your palm.

“I love you too,” you whisper. “I just never thought you could—”

His hand snaps up, catching yours, holding it against his chest like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You are the only thing,” he says, fierce and trembling, “that has ever made me believe in forever.”

You laugh, watery and shaking, and he leans down, forehead pressing against yours, the air between you shivering with everything you’ve never said.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, like a vow. “And I’m not going to let you doubt it ever again.”

You nod, closing your eyes, feeling the weight of it, the overwhelming, beautiful truth of it.

You’re his. He’s yours. And this time, there’s no mistaking it.

SYLUS

Loving Sylus isn’t hard. He’s magnetic, all sharp smiles and easy arrogance, the kind of man who walks into a room and changes the gravity of it. He teases you mercilessly, throws smirks like careless sparks, and you catch each one like it’s precious.

You adore him — quietly, carefully.

Sometimes you wonder if it’s obvious, if he notices how you fold under his grin, how your heart stumbles whenever he leans in too close or calls you darling in that low, amused voice. But then he’ll laugh and turn away, leaving you to chase the echo of it alone.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he couldn’t possibly feel the same. Sylus is effortless and sure in a way you could never hope to match.

You think you’re being subtle — that he doesn’t see.

You’re wrong.

It happens one evening when you least expect it.

You’re at Elysium, the lights dimmed low, most of the operatives long gone. You’re sitting on one of the lounge sofas, thumbing through reports you can’t bring yourself to focus on, when Sylus drops down beside you with the kind of fluid grace he wears like second skin.

“Burning the midnight oil, sweetie?” he drawls, voice low and teasing.

You glance at him, trying to keep it casual, even though your heart is already picking up speed. “Someone has to.”

He leans back, arms spread across the back of the sofa, fingertips just barely brushing your shoulder.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending.

“You know,” he says, voice a touch softer, “for someone who works so hard, you sure are bad at hiding things.”

You blink, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sylus tilts his head, studying you with that maddeningly amused expression. “It means you’re not as good at pretending as you think you are.”

Your stomach twists painfully. He knows. God, how long has he known?

You look away, cheeks burning, about to make some excuse — some terrible, awkward excuse — when his hand brushes yours, deliberate this time, and stills you.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, and there’s something in his voice now — something heavier, less playful.

You do, because how could you not?

He’s closer than you realized, eyes darker than usual, no trace of a smirk in sight.

“I’ve been waiting,” Sylus says, low and steady. “Waiting for you to figure it out. Thought maybe you’d catch on after the fifth time I found an excuse to be wherever you were. Or the tenth time I called you darling and looked at you like you hung the stars yourself.”

Your breath stutters.

He gives a soft, humorless laugh. “But you’re stubborn. And worse, you don’t believe you’re worth being loved by someone like me.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he’s already leaning in, voice dropping even lower, even rougher.

“So let’s make it simple,” he murmurs. “I’m in love with you.”

The world tilts. Your heart seizes.

“You—” You can’t seem to find your voice. “You’re just teasing—”

“Not this time.” His hand finds yours again, warm and steady. “This time, I’m dead serious.”

You search his face, desperate, disbelieving — and find no hint of his usual mischief there. Just something raw and terrifying and real.

He squeezes your hand, grounding you.

“I love you,” Sylus says, slower this time, deliberate. “I love the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I love the way you challenge me without even realizing it. I love how you make me want things I didn’t think I could have.”

You’re shaking, and he must feel it, because his thumb brushes soothingly over your knuckles.

“Say something,” he says, voice softer now. “Please.”

You swallow, hard, and it still feels impossible — like if you speak, the moment will shatter.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

And just like that, the tension breaks.

Sylus exhales — a breathless, almost disbelieving sound — and then he’s pulling you toward him, not roughly, but with the kind of certainty that makes your knees weak. His hand cradles the back of your head, his forehead resting against yours.

“Took you long enough,” he murmurs, but there’s no bite in it — just a kind of aching tenderness.

You laugh, a watery, broken thing, and feel him smile against your skin.

“You really love me?” you whisper, still fragile with disbelief.

He leans back just enough to look at you properly, eyes bright and unbearably fond.

“More than I know what to do with,” he says, smiling — not the usual smirk, but something real, something yours.

And when he kisses you — slow, careful, devastating — it feels like coming home

CALEB

It was never a question, not really. Falling for him was as easy as breathing. Caleb, with his boyish smile and the sunlight in his laugh, the way he could find beauty in the ugliest moments and make you feel like maybe, just maybe, you were part of that beauty, too.

Sometimes you think it must show, that surely he must feel the way you unravel every time he leans too close, the way your heart trips when he looks at you and the whole world blurs at the edges.

But he never says anything. He stays the same— teasing, bright, devastatingly kind — and you stay tucked in your corner of impossible wishes, convinced he could never love you back.

Because Caleb is Caleb — light and easy and good. And you’re just someone who loves him too much to risk ruining what little you have.

You tell yourself it’s enough. It has to be.

And then, one night, it all falls apart.

The apartment is quiet, the rest of the world hushed and far away. You’re curled up on one of the old sofas, a book forgotten in your lap, your mind somewhere else entirely.

You don’t even hear him until he’s standing right in front of you.

You blink up at him, startled, and your heart stumbles at the sight of him — disheveled, restless, not the usual carefree Caleb you know. There’s something raw about him tonight, something stripped down and aching.

He looks at you like he’s been holding his breath for a very long time.

“Caleb?” you whisper.

For a second, he just stares at you. And then —then — he drops to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping the edge of the sofa like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold onto something.

Your whole body stills.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “I can’t keep pretending.”

You can’t breathe. “Pretending what?”

“That I don’t love you.”

The world tilts, and you’re sure he can hear the way your heartbeat fractures under your ribs.

“I’ve tried,” he continues, and now his voice is shaking, his hands trembling where they grip the couch. “I’ve tried so damn hard to be patient. To stay close without wanting too much. I told myself it was enough just to be near you.”

He laughs, a hollow, broken sound. “But it’s not. It’s not enough, and it never was.”

Your hands are fists in your lap, nails biting into your palms to keep yourself from reaching for him, from believing this is real.

“I thought maybe you knew,” he says, softer now, desperate. “I thought maybe you saw it —the way I look at you when you’re not watching, the way I come alive when you’re near. I thought maybe you felt it too.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move.

“I love you,” he says again, fierce, raw. “God, I love you. And it’s killing me not to tell you, not to have you.”

And then, slowly, like he can’t stand not touching you for another second, he reaches out, taking your hands in his, prying them open, cradling them like they’re something fragile and precious.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he pleads, voice barely more than a whisper. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away. I swear I will.”

You stare at him — at Caleb, your Caleb —kneeling in front of you, holding your hands like they’re lifelines, looking at you like you’re the center of his whole universe.

And suddenly it all crashes into place.

The way his eyes soften when they meet yours. The way he always found a reason to linger, to stay close, to make you laugh just when you needed it most. The way he yearned — oh, how had you never seen it before?

He’s been loving you all along.

You reach for him before you even think about it, your hands trembling as they cup his face, your fingers threading into his hair.

His eyes flutter shut, a shudder wrecking through him.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I love you so much.”

He exhales, a sound of pure, shattered relief, and then he’s surging forward, pulling you into him, burying his face in your shoulder, arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You cling to him just as tightly, feeling the way he trembles, the way his breath stutters against your skin.

“I thought I’d lost my chance,” he breathes. “I thought I was too late.”

“Never,” you whisper. “You’re never too late.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the desperation in his eyes nearly undoes you.

“I’m yours,” he says, voice fierce and trembling. “If you’ll have me, I’m yours.”

You nod, tears spilling over now, and he kisses you like it’s the first time he’s breathed in months — deep and aching and real.

When you finally pull apart, he presses his forehead to yours, still holding you like he doesn’t quite trust the world not to take you away.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, over and over, like a prayer.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

[saphiraprince22]

OH MY GOD

This is perfect

Lavender

Summary : The princess is engaged to her childhood best friend, though her true love is her royal guard, James Barnes.

Pairings : royal guard!Bucky Barnes x royal!reader (she/her) with a sprinkle of nobility!Bob Reynolds x Royal Guard!John Walker (Sentryagent)

Warnings/tags : Royal AU. Lavender Marriage AU, Medieval AU, Forbidden Love. Fluff, angst, domestic abuse, Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol and drug abuse, withdrawal symptoms. Death (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : For context, a lavender marriage is mixed-orientation marriage used to hide one or both partner's sexual orientation, in this case, it's Bob's. I have been way into Sentryagent lately lol. Enjoy!

You were eight years old when you met Robert Reynolds, the Viscount’s only son.

Your father, the King, had just finished praising the Viscount in front of the court. “A man of unwavering loyalty,” he said, “and discipline enough to raise a boy a family can be proud of.”

You hadn’t missed the way his eyes flicked toward you after that.

Because… you were a girl. A princess, yes, but not the male heir he wanted— not the warrior he’d dreamed of. So no matter how many languages you spoke or how well you danced, you were never enough.

So when your father summoned you one morning, with his signature stern eyes and stiff voice — “Dress properly. We’ll be riding to Viscount Reynolds’ estate this afternoon” — you obeyed without asking why.

—

The Reynolds estate was vast, but bleak.

The Viscount was a tall man with a voice like gravel and a handshake that left bruises. His wife barely spoke as she flinched at sudden movements and never met your eyes. 

And you met his son that day. 

He was two years older, pale and with bleached-blond hair and brown roots, standing rigid at his father’s side.

The Viscount’s hand clamped on the boy’s shoulder like a brand.

“This is Robert,” he said. “You’ll be seeing more of him.”

You glanced at your father, who nodded approvingly.

You were a child— you didn’t understand politics. You just knew the boy in front of you looked like he hadn’t smiled in a long time.

—

Over that summer, you saw more of Robert than anyone else.

The adults had their meetings and their wine-filled dinners. You and Robert would wander in the royal gardens and stables. You showed him how to sneak down through the servants’ path to the cliffside chapel. He brought you a book on war magic you weren’t allowed to read and took turns pretending to cast spells.

Over time, you became friends. And you noticed things.

You noticed how Robert always flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never looked his father in the eye. How, sometimes, he would disappear for a week and come for a visit into the palace with bruises under his sleeves and say nothing at all.

One day, when your father took you to Viscount's estate for another visit, you found him hiding in the wine cellar, his hands shaking.

“He hit you again,” you said. It was a statement, and not a question.

He didn’t answer. You sat beside him on the stone floor, hugging your knees.

“My father gets angry too,” you whispered. “Mostly at me. Sometimes at my mother.”

Robert looked at you sideways. “He hits you?”

“No.” You shrugged looking down. “He just… looks at me like I’m a mistake.”

Robert didn’t know what to say, so you took his hand.

From that day on, you were his best friend.

He taught you how to throw knives, and you taught him how to braid hair (because you said, one day you’ll need to if you fall in love with a wonderful lady, and he had blinked and whispered something about never falling in love ever, ever, ever, especially not with a lady).

You cried into his shoulder the first time your governess slapped you across the knuckles and called you willful. He sat beside you until your hiccups stopped.

He came to the palace, bloodied and shivering the night his father beat him for refusing to spar with full force against a servant’s son. You cleaned his wounds with trembling hands. "I’ll be queen one day," You promised. "I could change everything."

He believed you.

—

When you were nine, the Viscount and King summoned you both to a formal supper.

For the first time in your life, The King — your father —  looked at you with a look eerily close to approval.

The Viscount smiled and said, “They’ll make a fine pair one day.”

You didn’t know what he meant then, mostly because you were too amazed to see your father proud of you.

You were ten when your mother told you they had begun properly discussing a union between the Reynolds and royal bloodlines.

You were eleven when she said, “It may not be romantic, but it will be useful.”

By then, you were too smart not to realise, and too loyal to Robert to protest.

Through the years, you and Robert stayed close. He snuck into your rooms during visits and left books under your pillow. You covered for him when he started sneaking wine from the cellars at fifteen. He held your hand when your mother collapsed from exhaustion at the spring festival, and you held him when his father broke two ribs and told him to “walk it off like a man.”

Over the years, you knew him better than anyone, but you didn’t love him like the storybooks said you should. But you did love him like a brother, like a shadow, like a tether.

—

You were a teenager when Robert told you his biggest secret.

That day, you found Robert on the balcony of the southern library during a ball.

He was leaning on the railing, half-drunk— and unhealthily so. Perhaps this was when he developed his drinking problem— but you didn't know better then.

He wasn’t wearing his court clothes. Just a loose shirt, half-open at the throat.

And when he turned and saw you standing at the doorway, he didn’t smile.

“Thought you’d be with the other ladies,” he said quietly.

“I’m never with the others.” You stepped closer, folding your arms. “They’re boring and I don’t like them.”

That earned a breath of a smile from Robert.

You tilted your head. “Why are you up here when you could be dancing downstairs?”

Robert exhaled slowly, taking another swig of his drink. “I… needed air.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s wrong, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Robert?”

He gripped the balcony so hard his knuckles turned white. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You stepped beside him, leaned against the railing with your shoulder just brushing his.

“I…” he started, looking down. “I’m gay.”

There was a long silence.

He stared out at the horizon like it might collapse under the weight of it, like the word was taboo enough all by itself, it might cause lightning to strike.

And then, you snorted a very unprincess-like snort. “Duh.”

His eyes snapped to you. “What?”

You turned and grinned. “Robert, I’ve known since you were thirteen and said Prince Ramires from the southern isles had ‘remarkably sculpted calves.’”

His mouth opened in disbelief. You… knew?

“Also,” you added, ticking off on your fingers, “you’ve never once looked interested in the ladies they parade around at court. And you cried over that squire from Delphia when he got reassigned. And you almost fainted the first time John Walker walked by with his shirt off last summer.”

Robert groaned, covering his face. “Gods, I hate you.”

You laughed and tugged his hand down gently. “No, you don’t.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were glassy. “You’re… not angry?”

“Angry?” You blinked. “Bob, I’m relieved.”

He frowned. “What?”

You leaned back on the balcony, sighing up at the sky. “This marriage thing… We… we knew we were never going to work.”

He stared at you in stunned silence. You smiled, a little sad. “Not in the way mother and father wanted.”

“My…” He swallowed hard. “My father would kill me.”

You reached out and took his hand in yours and squeezed it tight. “He won’t. Not while I’m alive.”

He looked like he might cry, so you bumped your shoulder against his.

“Look,” you said. “You’re my best friend. I love you. If the only way to keep you safe is to pretend to be your loving future wife, then so be it.”

“You’d… do that?”

You gave him a smile that had more steel in it than warmth. “I’d lie to a kingdom to keep you safe, my friend.”

—

The court had been waiting for the royal wedding for years.

By the time you were seventeen, it was no longer a rumour but a certainty — The Princess and the Viscount’s Son. It sounded good on paper. It was, after all, strategic. The Reynolds line was loyal, wealthy, and popular with the merchant class. 

So the court waited. And waited. But the wedding never came.

Every year, you would find another excuse to postpone it. Every year, another season that just wasn’t quite right.

When you turned eighteen, the Queen’s secretary suggested spring nuptials.

But Robert had started disappearing into books and wine. He stood before the King and claimed he needed a year to properly study the kingdom’s laws before assuming such a duty.

Your father frowned. You shrugged and folded your hands, “That seems wise.”

At twenty, there was a grain crisis in the northern provinces — shipments delayed by corruption and an early frost that devastated the harvest. You took command of the response personally, traveling with advisors and outmaneuvering five noble houses trying to profit off the shortages.

You stood in court and said, “I cannot, in good faith, wear white while my people are starving.”

Your father clenched his fists. Your mother sighed.

Robert smirked, already halfway into a goblet of wine.

—

By the time you were in your early twenties, you had already postponed your wedding so many times the court stopped asking for dates.

This time you did not postpone it for harvest shortages, nor for diplomacy. This time, it was because the province of Eastmoor had fallen under siege. Foreign banners you didn’t recognise waved over cliffs that had once been the first line of defense to your kingdom. Mercenaries, warships, and whispers of colonisers taking up the coast echoed in the palace.

The court had plans, of course. 

Your father chose to wait. He wanted to negotiate. He wanted to let Eastmoor fall, then write strongly worded letters.

Your mother said it would pass. Your advisors said it was “too dangerous” for a princess to be involved in military strategy.

You stood in the council hall in full armour.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said, “I am riding out there, now, because I cannot let my people — our people — die.”

—

You rode with the army before dawn, hair braided like a crown, and your royal seal tucked beneath your breastplate.

When you arrived in the fortress, no one expected you to last the night. After all, a princess in the first line of defense was unheard of. You weren’t supposed to lead, let alone fight. Generals twice your age scoffed at your orders and whispered behind your back—until you led two successful supply raids and personally pulled an injured soldier from the wreckage of a burning cart.

General Thaddeus Ross nearly had a stroke when he found you shouting orders in the trenches beside his lieutenants.

“What the hell is a royal doing here?” he roared, face red.

You didn’t even look up. “Winning your battle, General.”

—

That night, with blood under your nails, you ducked into the command barracks to meet the new reinforcements from the western provinces. You were expecting another tired unit, maybe another cluster of half-starved recruits.

You talked to some of them, and sent them to eat and rest.

That’s when you met… him.

He was leaning against the support beam, helmet tucked under one arm. He had broad shoulders, long brown hair tied in a bun, stormy blue eyes that tracked your every step like a puzzle worth solving.

He straightened as you approached. He bowed like a gentleman ought to, but his devilish smirk was absolutely insolent.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, cocking his head. “The princess. General Ross said you chewed out a colonel this morning.”

“Colonel Phillips tried to reroute medical supplies for his personal guard,” you said. “I chewed accordingly.”

He laughed. It was pretty. 

You paused, looking at the colours to discern his rank. “What’s your name, sergeant?”

“James Barnes,” he said smoothly. “Reporting for duty, though I wasn’t told duty came with quite such… royal company.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you promoted.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for a pay raise,” he reassured. 

There was a charm to him, old-school and effortless. You didn’t trust it, but your heart raced anyway.

“I’ve heard of you, Barnes,” you said. “You did the mission at Redwater Pass?”

His mouth ticked upward. “Word travels, huh?”

“They said you pulled eight survivors from a collapsed garrison under fire.”

“Well.” He looked away, like it embarrassed him. “Only seven made it out. But I’ll take the compliment.”

You studied him. “And they also said you flirt with anything that breathes.”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who outrank me and could order me executed."

“Be careful, Sergeant,” You tried not to smile, but failed. “That sounds dangerously like sedition.”

“Then I hope the punishment is merciful,” He took a step closer, voice dropping just enough to be felt. “Or at least memorable.”

You stared at him. Shifting against the sword across your back and your heart suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.

And then — like the gentleman he truly was — he stepped back.

“Permission to accompany you at tomorrow’s briefing, Commander?” he asked, properly now.

“Granted,” you said, clearing your throat. “But only if you behave.”

—

Three months later, you were still in battle

Eastmoor was still under siege. 

You were still in your armour, still in a fortress whose stone walls trembled at night with the echo of cannon fire.

Your sword arm ached in the mornings. You’d stopped flinching at screams weeks ago. The nights were colder now, so soldiers whispered of frostbite and horses died of exhaustion. The kitchens served hard biscuits and salt-dried meat. You lost five men last week to sickness and two more to grief.

But you endured.

Because you were the Princess. Because you promised your best friend you would protect this kingdom as long as he was in it.

And in the middle Eastmoor’s endless siege — James Barnes became your companion.

He was not a court ally. He was not a polished nobleman dancing around a title. He was not a childhood bond forged in trauma. Just… James.

He brought you food when you forgot to eat. He stood guard at your tent when the generals whispered seeds of doubt in your mind. He made you laugh on days when you thought you'd forgotten how.

And he introduced you to his two closest friends — Sergeant Samuel Wilson and Sergeant Steven Rogers. Sam had a quick mouth and a quicker wit. Steve was wise through and through, so when he spoke, it felt like stone tablets from a mountaintop.

They called him Bucky.

You didn’t.

You still called him James — because you liked the way it sounded in your mouth, and he never corrected you anyway. Because he always straightened his posture when you said it. Because it felt like something just between the two of you.

You and James became inseparable. You started sharing rations and maps. You shared stories late into the night when neither of you could sleep. 

You were close. But not like you were with Robert.

With Robert, it had always been a familial bond.

But James…

With James, it felt different. It didn’t feel… platonic.

He brought you extra rations when he could. He taught you how to dice potatoes with your knife when the cooks refused to make anything decent. He told you stories about the western border, about bar fights and river races and the time he got kicked by a duke’s prized racing goat.

He always flirted — always — but he never crossed the line. Not even when you leaned in a little too close, or let your hand brush his while passing a map, or looked at him too long, like he was a question you were too scared to ask.

Because James Barnes was a gentleman. And he, like everyone else in the kingdom, knew the Princess was betrothed to the Viscount’s son.

He never said it, or asked, or pried.

Even when he climbed into your cot one night, after you woke up screaming from a nightmare.

That night, he didn’t say a word. He just held you, chest to your back, both of you tucked beneath the coarse wool of your blanket. 

His hand was over yours, his breath was steady against your hair.

He didn’t kiss you.

But you felt him having to restrain himself. He wanted to, but wouldn’t.

Because you were promised to another.

And you couldn’t correct him. Couldn’t tell him that your betrothal was a lie — a necessary fiction to keep your best friend safe. You couldn’t out Robert like that. Not even for James. 

So you said nothing.

And James — Bucky — in his own tent, alone, never said a word.

He just curled his fingers around himself in the dark, thinking of you — and hated himself for wanting a woman he could never have.

—

One night, when you couldn’t sleep and the enemy was just beyond the ridge, you sat alone outside the tent with your knees tucked up and your nerves rattling in your bones.

James appeared beside you with two cups of hot tea in wooden cups, and said, “Didn’t think royalty drank with common soldiers. Thought you lot were made of marble.”

You whispered, “Marble cracks.”

He took a seat beside you in the dirt, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“Didn’t seem like you were cracking earlier today,” he said. “You had three soldiers shaking in their boots.”

You let out a short laugh. “That was a performance. This…” You exhaled. “This is real.”

He looked sideways at you, but didn’t push.

“Truth is,” you said after a pause, “these last six months…. they’ve been my first real taste of combat.”

His brow rose in disbelief. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “I was trained in tactics since I was nine. Combat, too. Every royal child has to do it—it’s part of some ancient rite of passage. My father hated it and said it was unbecoming of a girl.” You glanced at him. “But I… I did it anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You’re doing really well,” he finally said. “I’ve fought with generals twice your size who couldn’t hold a line like you can.”

“Thanks.” You gave him a grateful smile. “I think my parents assumed I’d break down the first time I saw blood.”

“The king and queen don’t know you very well, then.”

You looked at him, a little startled by how certain he sounded.

He drank his tea and leaned back, his eyes distant. “I’ve been in and out of the field since I was seventeen. My first real command came just a couple of years ago. Too many of my men were older than me.”

You tilted your head. “That’s… You… I— I always thought you’re young for a sergeant.”

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “But when most of the older men die and you’re the one dragging the wounded out, someone puts stripes on your armour and tells you it’s yours now.”

You were quiet, and he went on.

“One of the worst was near here, at Dry Lake,” he pointed to the horizon, deep into enemy territory. “It was dead land. No real trees, just white stone and thorn bushes that hurt like shit.” His voice dropped. “We were outnumbered two to one. The palace sent no reinforcements. We fought in the dark for four days.”

“I…” you filtered in your mind for the battle of Dry Lake, and remembered one where your father refused to send help because they needed the money to redecorate the throne room instead. You had been mad, but had no real power to do anything. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, “We… I— survived.”

You looked at the horizon again, remembering the significance of Dry Lake when you realised…. “That’s where their supply lines are coming from now. Eastmoor intel just confirmed it.”

“Makes sense," He nodded. “It’s hard as hell to reach. But I know it.”

You leaned forward. “You know it?”

He nodded again, casually. “Like the back of my hand,” He confirmed. “I spent a month mapping it before that mission. There’s a blind spot on the southern rise— over the second hill. If you go quick, you can get in and out without being spotted.”

You turned fully toward him. “There’s a blind spot?”

He blinked, confused. “Yeah? Didn’t your scouts report—?”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes sparking into a flame. “They said it was impenetrable. But if there’s a weak spot—”

“We’d need a small unit,” he said, catching the shift in your tone. “Stealthy. No banners, no formal lines.”

You were already moving, setting your cup aside and crawling toward a patch of mud under the tent’s edge. You pulled a stick from the firewood pile and began sketching fast—outlines of the cliffs, the supply routes, the reinforcement paths, the pass to the south.

He leaned beside you, eyes flicking over the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to a sharp dip in the ridgeline. “This is the blind spot. Wind direction covers most of the sound. No direct line of sight from the southern watchtower.”

“And from here,” you said, drawing a curving line toward it, “we could reach the inner depot. Cut them off before they reach Eastmoor.”

James looked up at you with his brow raised. You looked back at him, eyes alight.

“This could turn the war,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Then I guess we’re going for a walk.”

And that night, the princess and the sergeant stayed crouched over a patch of earth and ash, building a revolution from dirt and memory.

—

The next morning, the war room smelled of ink, sweat, and desperation. Maps cluttered the center table, weighted down with daggers and metal pins. The commanders were already gathered when you entered, the scorched royal sigil stitched into the collar of your cloak.

James followed half a step behind, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Your Highness,” General Thaddeus Ross said with a strained nod, lips tight like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I trust you slept well. We have urgent matters.”

You moved toward the table. “Indeed we do.”

He pointed to a cluster of red markers near the front lines. “The enemy reinforced at the river bend. I propose we hit them at dawn with another wave of heavy infantry to scare them back. We press their flank and bleed them out.”

You heard James’s teeth clench beside you.

You inhaled slowly. “General Ross, with all due respect… we don’t need to send more people out to die.”

The room turned silent.

Ross scoffed. “This is war, Princess. Not a diplomatic summit.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But we don’t win wars by throwing barely-trained boys into another wall of blades. We win by cutting off the enemy’s legs so they can’t stand at all.”

Ross straightened, his voice rising. “You’re not a general—”

“But I am your princess.” You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. “We need to take Dry Lake.”

James glanced at you with the faintest trace of a grin.

You reached down, plucked a quill from the board, and moved it with deliberate calm across the map’s surface.

“Dry Lake is the root of their supply chain. Everything—food, weapons, sanitation—flows from there. Our scouts have confirmed it. Sergeant Barnes fought there. He knows the terrain like the back of his hand.”

Ross’s brow furrowed. “You’re trusting a field rat over command?”

“He’s a field rat with more frontline experience than anyone in this tent,” you said, locking eyes with him. “And unlike half the men you’ve knighted for their performative tactics, he’s survived hell and brought others back with him.”

Ross scowled. “Even if what he says is true, the route is suicide.”

“There’s a blind spot,” you said. “We’ll move quiet and fast. In and out before they know we’re there.”

“And who do you suggest we send?” Ross sneered. “Another wave of children?”

“No,” you said simply. “I’m going.”

Ross barked a laugh that died the second he realised you weren’t joking. “You—?”

“I,” you repeated, “will go with a specialised unit. Sergeant Barnes will lead the team.”

James finally spoke. “I’ll take her royal highness, Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Rogers.”

Ross opened his mouth, as a murmur spread across the room.

Stephen Strange, the head mage who had been summoned to the camp a week ago to provide shielding spells to the troops, nodded approvingly. “It could work.”

Ross started again, louder this time. “This is highly unorthodox—!”

You held up a hand.

He fell silent.

You… shushed a general?

Then you turned back to the table, marking the Dry Lake pass with a line of soft red ink.

—

Hours later, you stood outside the supply tent, finishing your letter by the light of a setting sun. Your words were carefully inked, but you hastily added the last line.

‘I met a soldier. He’s charming.’

You paused, read it again, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the royal crest.

Peeking from behind you, you heard heavy boots crunched against gravel. 

James.

He stepped beside you. “You always write letters before near-suicide missions?”

You slid the sealed message into the courier pouch. “Only when I think someone deserves to know I’m still breathing.”

He nodded, then glanced at the wax seal. His sharp eyes flicked up. “Who’s it to?”

You hesitated. Then, said plainly: “Robert Reynolds.”

James went still.

You saw the flicker of recognition. Of course he knew it.  

And his eyebrows shifted—tightened—not angry, not jealous exactly… but you could tell he was… sad. Disappointed, maybe, not that he had any right to be.

“Oh,” he said in a low voice. “Your… betrothed.”

You looked away. “It’s not like that.”

He laughed under his breath, without humor. “Could’ve fooled me. You called him charming.”

You turned to him, and clearly, he only caught a glimpse of the last word. “I was not talking about him.”

“Who, then?” His brows furrowed.

“I said…” you bit your lip, “I said I met a charming soldier.”

That made him pause.

“Is that…” He blinked, brow furrowed. “Is that about me?”

“I didn’t name you,” you muttered, crossing your arms, but you couldn't bring yourself to deny it. 

“But it is,” he pressed, “And you’re writing that to the man you’re going to marry. So… forgive me if I’m trying to understand what exactly that means.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t have the words. Because gods, it wouldn’t change anything, but you hated the thought of him getting the wrong idea.

Your voice softened. “It’s not a love match, James. Robert’s family. He’s… safe. That’s all.”

His lips twitched. “Safe. Right.” He nodded, looking away toward the horizon. “That’s a hell of a thing to be.”

You stepped toward him, just a little— but before you could speak, before you could answer—footsteps crunched behind you.

“Commander!” Sam Wilson’s voice broke through the moment, light and teasing. 

Behind him, Steve Rogers followed, far more buttoned-up. “All packed and ready.”

You stepped away from James and straightened your cloak. “Good. We ride in ten.”

Sam clapped James on the back. “Ready to be miserable together?”

“Always,” James said, though his eyes never left you.

—

The sun had barely begun its descent when you arrived at Dry Lake.

Once, it may have held water. But now, it was little more than a cracked bowl of dust and scattered fish bones, the perfect hiding place for the enemy’s supply cache. If you cut their supplies, they’d choke before they even reached the frontlines.

You, James, Steve, and Sam had come here to cripple their colonisation effort, to set fire to their grains and cloths and weapons. And you had succeeded. 

The flames had taken root fast, licking greedily up the wooden scaffolding, devouring sacks of food and rows of arrows. Their stores were gone. The next battle would be waged with hunger in their bellies.

The enemy noticed and came running. You four fought well enough as you made your escape until…

James fell to his side, his hand clutching the torn leather at his bicep, blood pouring fast. 

An arrow had pierced his arm, perhaps a vital artery. 

“Hell of a shot,” he muttered as he slumped to the ground.

You were at his side in an instant, your hands already working, pulling free the satchel at your hip. You pressed your body close, shielding him from the wind. “Don’t talk,” you said, more command than comfort. You tore through the cloth. The arrow was deep. If it hadn’t splintered on the bone, it would’ve gone straight through.

James met your eyes. “Is it bad?”

You bit back panic as your fingers pressed cloth against the wound, your other hand tightening a leather strap around his upper arm. 

“It’s not,” you said, even though you didn't believe it.

His breath hitched. “You’re a bad liar, your highness.” 

Behind you, Steve’s war cry echoed over the ridge, and Sam’s call followed after. They were buying time. 

You had to move.

You hauled James onto your shoulder, refusing to let him die. The ridge wasn’t far, and the horse waited beyond.

As you moved, James leaned against you. His head dropped near your ear. “I owe you a drink,” he whispered.

“You owe me your life,” you replied.

He smiled faintly. “That too.”

The enemy reached the blaze too late. Their supply cache was nothing but smoke and smoldering ruin, and the four of you were gone before they knew it.

—

You returned to camp just as the sun broke over the horizon. Cheers erupted as soldiers recognised your figures trudging through the haze—they saw the smoke of the supplies burning, after all. But the three of you— Sam, Steve, and you— barely looked up. James was still unconscious, slumped across your horse, fever bleeding into his skin. The arrow was gone, you had done what you could, but the wound had festered, spreading like angry red vines like fire beneath the bandages.

You didn’t care for the applause. You cared for the dying man in your arms.

You didn’t slow down until you reached the infirmary tent. 

Stephen Strange was already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, spellwork coiling around his fingers.

“He’s burning up,” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

Strange looked once at James and nodded. “He won’t make it with the arm. The infection's already gone too deep. We have to take it.”

You didn’t hesitate as you helped strip James down, held his shoulders as Strange muttered the sedative spell. Magic laced through the air like incense, orange light brushing over James’s temple. He stopped writhing, his breathing steadying even as sweat drenched his hairline. He whispered your name just before the spell took him under.

You didn’t look away as Strange prepared the blade. If he had to lose a part of himself to survive, you’d be there for him.

The moment a small incision was made, a messenger burst through the infirmary tent, panting with rolled parchment clutched in his hand.

“Urgent dispatch for the Princess,” he gasped.

You didn’t turn around. “Not now.”

He stepped closer urgently. “It’s your mother. She says come home at once. The palace—”

“I said not now!” You snapped, never releasing James’s hand. You could feel the magic pulsing in his body.

The messenger tried again. “Your majesty, please.”

Majesty? You thought to yourself. You were princess. The appropriate title was your highness. 

“Go,” you gritted under your teeth.

“Please,” the messenger almost begged, “It’s your father. The king— he had fallen ill last week. Your mother begs for your return.”

Still, you didn’t move. Your voice was tight. “James will wake up disoriented,” you whispered, not caring about your father one bit. “If I’m not here when he wakes up—he’ll think I left him.”

“Your majesty,” the man said, emphasising your title now. “Your father is dead. He passed three days ago, just after nightfall. You are queen now.”

What?

You staggered, hand slipping from James’s for the first time. Everything inside you pulled apart at the seams. 

Queen. 

You were Queen. 

Steve stepped beside you. You didn’t realise you were trembling until he steadied your arm. “Go,” he said softly. 

“No,” you breathed. “No, I can’t—he needs—”

“We’ll tell him,” Steve promised. “We’ll tell him you were here.”

“We’ll find you,” Sam added, “But now, the kingdom needs its queen.”

Your throat tightened around a sob you didn’t allow to escape. You turned to Strange, wild, desperate. “Will he live?”

Strange didn’t look up from his work, but his voice was firm. “You have my word.”

Only then did you let go.

You kissed James’s brow, whispered an apology against his fevered skin, and turned toward the exit of the tent, where the world was already waiting for you to wear a crown.

As you mounted the horse that would take you away from him, you looked back once — not at the camp, not at the soldiers — but at the tent.

Where your heart still lay.

—

Two weeks had passed, yet it felt like years.

The first day back at the palace, you were crowned queen. Last week, you buried your father. 

You buried him in silence. He had not been a good man. He had been stern, proud, and cruel when it suited him. But he had also been your father, and that wound had no clean edges. 

Yesterday, you heard news that the siege of Eastmoor has ended. Steve, Sam, and the others had won. Dry Lake’s victory had turned the tide. The supply line was gone, the coloniser routed. 

Robert stayed beside you through it all. He drank every night, though, and did whatever drugs were available to him on the day. He offered, but you didn’t drink, you didn’t take anything that could inhibit your senses. The kingdom needed a leader, after all. 

The two of you sat in your chambers that evening. 

“We have to get married soon,” you said quietly, as if the words hurt your throat. “After Eastmoor, after my father’s death. The people will want stability. Perhaps a reassurance we can provide an heir.”

Robert didn’t answer at first. He only stared into his cup, swirling the wine before sipping. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing— that he was not capable of falling in love with you no matter what. This was a marriage of convenience. A lavender marriage. 

There were worse things to be in this world.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “And… I know it’s early, but when I’m royal, could I… Could I be assigned John Walker from your father’s old guard? I trust him.”

You turned to him, finally chuckling for the first time in days. You always found his crush on the blonde royal guard amusing. 

Then, you took the cup gently from his hand and set it on the table.

“You’ve been drinking too much, Bob,” you said with a warning. “If you keep it up, you’ll out yourself in public.”

He looked away, ashamed.

“And yes,” you added more gently. “John Walker can be arranged.”

Robert looked at you with a half-smile, the one he used when trying to be kind without overstepping.

“And you?” he asked. “What about that soldier you mentioned—the charming one? You haven’t said his name once since the coronation.”

Your heart flinched like a wound recoiling from salt. You looked out the window, where the clouds were bleeding pink into dusk.

“He’s recovering,” you said. “His arm is gone. But Strange kept his heart beating. I asked for a raven every morning. If one doesn’t come, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

Robert didn’t press. 

—

One morning, the raven did not come.

You waited and waited longer than you should have, but it still did not come.

Strange had said James was healing—recovering well, even—but now, there was only silence.

Your mother, the Dowager Queen now, entered your chambers quietly. She still moved like royalty, even when the crown no longer sat on her head, and she seemed all the better for it. 

Your mother can be cruel at times, but she was more bearable without your father hovering over her. Over the last week, you had started wondering if she was as much of a victim as you had been.

“There are three soldiers in the throne room,” she stated. “General Ross insists you grant them their promotions yourself.”

You stood stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

She frowned. “No. He’s being insufferable about it.” She looked at you then, head tilted slightly. “I told him it was your decision. You are queen, after all.”

You sighed and rose, your steps growing slower the closer you came to the throne room—until the guards pushed open the great oak doors.

And then you saw them.

Steve. Sam.

And… James

Standing tall in worn uniforms, backs straight, shoulders proud.

Steve bowed first, followed by Sam. And then James— James, with his left sleeve rolled back, revealing… a metal arm? 

Etched into the steel were faint runes, still glowing with residual enchantment. It must be imbued with Strange’s magic— as the metal arm moved with fluidity, like it belonged to him, like it was him. 

He addressed in a bow, voice calm and clear. “Your Majesty.”

You stood frozen, unable to speak. The court watched silently as you stepped down the dais.

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, you pulled all three of them into your arms.

Sam laughed first, surprised. Steve chuckled under his breath. And James— James didn’t say a word, but you felt his human hand pressing lightly against your back.

Behind you, gasps rippled through the nobles, but you didn’t care.

You let the hug linger longer than was proper. “Come,” you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

And with a flick of your hand, you dismissed the court. Your mother raised an eyebrow from her perch beside the throne, but said nothing. Without awaiting approval, you turned on your heel and led them through the gilded doors, down the familiar halls, past tapestries of dead kings.

When you walked into the drawing room, the hearth was already lit. 

You gestured to the table and welcomed them to your couch.

As they sat, your guards posted themselves outside. The doors shut behind you with a soft thud.

When James smiled, and your lungs finally remembered how to work again.

“You didn’t think I’d let a little arrow stop me, did you?” he said.

You didn’t laugh. You reached across the table, wrapped your fingers around his metal ones. The Sorcerer’s guild sigil was branded on his palm— further confirmation that this was Strange’s work.

“Stephen didn’t send a raven,” you whispered, eyes misted.

He tilted his head, sheepish. “He wanted me to tell you myself.”

Steve poured the tea, Sam passed the cups.

And in that room, you allowed yourself—for the first time since you wore the crown—to breathe like a girl again, not just a queen.

You had survived the siege, and the best parts of it had survived with you.

—

The tea had long gone lukewarm, the cakes untouched.

The four of you talked about nothing and everything for hours. Sam had made some offhanded remark about the last skirmish near the Black Coast, and Steve had chimed in with a clever observation. The sun filtered through the tall drawing room windows, catching in James's hair, now streaked faintly with gray at the temples, though he was no older than you remembered. The war had just… aged everyone. It changed everyone.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes gleaming. “You know,” you said, swirling your cup a little, “I heard Ross recommended I promote all three of you to Captain and assign you to your own units.”

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I like the sound of Captain Wilson,” he tasted the title on his tongue, “Not bad, huh?”

“Thank you,” Steve chuckled. “Though I have some notes on the uniform.”

“Of course you do,” you rolled your eyes.

You turned to James, waiting for a grin, a snarky comment, something, anything.

But he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said.

What?

“No?” you echoed, incredulous.

He set his cup down, “I’d like to decline the promotion,” he reiterated..

“I— What?” you asked.

He straightened his posture a little, his metal arm twitching. “If it’s alright with you, Your Majesty, I’d like to request transfer to the Royal Guard. Specifically—” he looked directly at you now, “—as your personal guard.”

You stared at him. “You want…I…?”

“You saved my life,” James’s voice was smaller than you had ever heard it. “Let me spend my life paying that back.”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “James…”

His eyes flicked to Steve and Sam, then back to you. “I need to do this.”

You felt something shift inside you, perhaps a crack in the armour you’d built since the war ended, since you were crowned, since the weight of the kingdom had fallen onto your shoulders.

“You…” you took a deep breath, “You don’t owe me anything, James.”

He smiled— a little sad, a little stubborn. “I know. That’s why it matters.”

Steve, ever gentle, gave you a slight nod—no pressure, just support.

Sam leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Gotta admit, hard to top that kind of commitment.”

You stood, slowly, and walked over to where James sat. He rose with you, as a guard should. As he would.

You placed your hand over his heart, and felt it beating steady beneath your palm.

“You’re sure?” you asked him, one last time.

James nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”

The others must’ve noticed the shift in the air. Or maybe they’d just known Bucky too long.

Steve stood, handing his teacup to a servant with a quiet “thank you.”

“Well,” he said with a stretch, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll leave you two to catch up.”

Sam followed, giving you a knowing glance as he passed. “Try not to promote him to Head of the Guard just yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Out.”

They laughed, and were gone.

You smiled, easing yourself into the seat next to him. 

The conversation resumed. It was so easy with him. The banter, the side glances, the way he leaned just a bit too close and you didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you teased at one point, resting your elbow on the armrest, chin in hand.

He looked at you as though you were the moon itself. “Every day.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered. “More than I can say.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe them.”

You didn’t answer. You sighed instead. Of course. Of course this was going nowhere. James Barnes was nothing if not a gentleman, and as long as he thought you were Robert’s, he would not touch you.

“Why didn’t you come to the palace sooner?” you said weakly.

“Stange took a while perfecting the magic on my prosthetic,” His eyes flicked to the fire. “I didn’t want to come back half a man.”

“You’re not,” you said fiercely. “You’re more than any man I’ve ever known.”

Your hand reached out and grazed his metal shoulder. His breath hitched.

You leaned in, too close to be proper, too close to pretend. His hand hovered near your waist.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. His did the same.

And then….. It was almost.

He pulled away right before your lips touched his, like it burned him to be close to you. “No,” James whispered, almost to himself. “No. You’re promised to another.”

“James—”

He shook his head, rising to his feet now, his voice barely controlled. “Let me protect you,” he said, as though offering the only thing he had left. “Even if I can never have you.”

Your voice trembled. “But—this. You can’t deny this. Do you—” You hesitated, heart pounding. “Do you love me?”

His eyes closed, like the truth hurt to hold. “It doesn’t matter if I do.”

You wanted—so desperately—to tell him that Robert was your dearest friend and nothing more. That Robert could never love you the way James did.

But it wasn’t your secret to tell. So you swallowed it and watched him go.

As he reached the door, you spoke up, just loud enough for him to hear, “Welcome to the Royal Guard, James Buchanan Barnes.”

—

James’ first day as your Royal Guard was your wedding day.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He stood at your right, just behind the dais, dressed in newly tailored armor etched with the sigil of the Crown and a silver sash denoting his new position. The metal of his arm shimmered with runes. His hair was pulled back, neatly tied, but his jaw was clenched. He didn’t smile— he hadn’t since you’d told him the date.

Across the hall, John Walker stood at Robert’s side. His uniform was immaculate. John was loyal, just like Robert needed him to be.

The musicians began tuning, and the chapel buzzed.

Robert entered quietly through the back, his ceremonial jacket half-buttoned and hair slightly mussed. You found him in one of the side chambers, pacing, a flask of liquid clutched loosely in his hand.

You raised an eyebrow as he turned, clearly buzzing with whatever powder he'd just snorted— his eyes were dilated, mouth was twitching. “Bob.”

He didn’t look at you, as he tipped the small vial back into his pocket.

“Don’t start,” he whispered. “It’s my wedding too.”

You reached out and yanked the vial from his pocket, ignoring the startled glance from a passing attendant. You didn’t care.

“Be sober, Bob,” you snapped under your breath. “Just today. Please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you glared. Not as a queen, but his best friend.

He swallowed instead.

Your brows softened, reaching up to straighten the collar of his jacket. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t understand.”

He flinched at that, letting out a half laugh, half wounded bark. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you’d seen the Viscountess Reynolds, his mother. She had arrived in velvet and pearls, beautiful as ever, but when she leaned in to kiss your cheek in greeting, the neckline of her gown shifted just enough to reveal fresh scars across her collarbone— the kind you only got from being dragged by the hair or shoved down stairs by his father.

Now, his hands trembled as he tried to do up the final clasp of his jacket.

“I can’t stand up to him,” Robert said quietly. “I never could.”

“You will be king soon,” You finished the clasp, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “We will fix things.”

Robert only scoffed, looking down to his feet. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Robert glanced toward the door leading to the main hall and whispered, “Is that your James?”

You didn’t look. “He’s not mine,” you said flatly, though your voice wavered just enough to betray you.

“Sure,” Robert snorted. “And I’m straight.”

That finally earned a weak laugh from you, brittle around the edges.

“He asked to be my guard,” you finally said, eyes drifting at last toward the man in silver. James was standing unnervingly still, eyes tracing the exits, the crowd, your path. “First thing he did when he returned. He rejected a promotion. He didn’t even want gold. He just asked for… proximity.”

“Romantic,” Robert whispered, adjusting his cufflinks. “Dangerously so.”

“He thinks I’m yours,” you said, your fingers tightening around the silk in your hands.

“He thinks wrong,” Robert said under his breath.

You turned to face him fully, seeing through the crimson and gold and inherited guilt to the boy beneath it all. “What do you suggest we do to fix that, then?”

He froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the answer was simple but impossible to speak aloud.

And then— he said nothing.

Because if you both told James the truth—that he wasn’t yours, that he’d never been yours,—and James let that slip to anyone…

Not that he would— James was loyal to a fault. But accidents happen, and the court whispers. 

And if his father found out, he would take it out on his mother.

Again.

So Robert could never come out. Not to James. Not to anyone but you. Not while his father was still alive.

And you… you would be breaking protocol if you married a commoner. So no, you had no choice either.

“I’ll let him believe what he wants,” you said quietly, reassuring that his safety was still your priority. “For now.”

—

Half an hour later, you were alone in the small antechamber just off the chapel, when James stepped inside. James knocked once—barely a courtesy—then shut the door behind him.

“I will escort you to the aisle,” he said. His voice was even, but his eyes never quite met yours. “It’s my ceremonial duty.”

You turned from the mirror with a small smile. “You just wanted to see me before everyone else did.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“I’m told I make quite the vision in white.” You tilted your head, stepping closer, the hem of your gown whispering across the floor. “Though I assume you might prefer me in nothing.”

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes darkening.

You only smiled wider. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t move as his muscle twitched, the magic plates of his metal arm rippling. “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he said eventually, “You’re marrying another man.”

You winked. “I act as I please.”

“Even now?” His voice was hoarse. “Even here?”

You reached out, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “Especially here.”

He caught your wrist— gently, firmly.

“I signed up to protect you, to pay my debt,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours. “Not to want you.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence wrap around the two of you like smoke.

“So,” you whispered, “what now?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he looked at you like you were a blade he’d willingly fall on. “I will escort you down the aisle,” he said at last. “And I stand behind your husband while he vows to love you.”

—

During the wedding, James stood at the edge of the ballroom like a statue carved in restraint.

He had watched it all.

The vows. The way your fingers had lingered on Robert’s jaw.

You danced with your new husband like you loved him. And one way or another, you did, James could tell. Your fingers were on Robert’s collar, your lips brushed close when you whispered in his ears.

But then… you threw a smile over your shoulder when you noticed James watching.

He didn’t know when it had stopped being simple. He only knew he hated the way his stomach flipped when you looked at him too long.

And then, when Robert turned to talk to some merchants— you slipped away to a different room, and James followed.

You were waiting in an empty room, lit only by moonlight bleeding through the lace curtains. Your crown had been left behind, your heels discarded. You were barefoot on the marble, still breathless from the crowd.

“Dance with me, James,” you said when you closed the door. 

He stiffened where he stood, admiring your beauty, but objected. “Your husband—”

“Is busy,” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “And besides—” You smiled, half-mischief, half-command. “I am your queen. I demand you dance with me.”

He flinched. He hated the game of it. Hated how quickly he folded when you pouted, like after months in the fortress together, you knew exactly how to gut him.

“Just this once, Your Majesty,” he caved.

Your smile deepened like you’d won a prize at a fair. You pulled him to you, hands on his shoulders, and began to sway to the muffled sound of a distant waltz leaking through the walls. 

Your bodies fit too well, your palms too warm on him. You rested your head just beneath his chin, your perfume threading into his nostrils like smoke.

“You hate this,” you whispered.

“Yes,” James said hoarsely.

“And yet…” You lifted your eyes to his. “You’re holding me like I’m yours.”

He said nothing. Just tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

And then his lips brushed your temple. “If I close my eyes,” he choked out, “I could almost believe…” EVen after all this, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t ask what. You knew.

So for that one dance, that one stolen moment in a room no one would remember—James pretended he was your bride.

What he didn’t know was that, just beyond the carved stone walls, out in the rose-wrapped garden, your new husband was secretly dancing, too— his hand in John Walker’s.

Everyone was pretending tonight.

—

You danced for far too long.

By the third song, your breaths matched. James held you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. You let your cheek rest against his chest, while his hand was on your waist, almost possessive.

The fourth was your undoing.

You looked up at him. Your lips parted as he looked down at your mouth.

Without thinking, you both leaned in. Not fast or sudden, but like magnets pulled across a field—like gravity finally had its say. Your noses brushed. His eyes flicked shut. His mouth was right there—

And then, “Oh. There you are.”

James tensed like a blade unsheathed.

Robert stood in the doorway, composed as ever. He held one glove in his hand and adjusted the cuff of his ceremonial coat like he’d just stepped out of a perfectly uneventful conversation.

“Our carriage is here,” he said casually. “Whenever you’re ready.”

James stepped back like he expected to be burned at the stake. His hands instantly dropped from your waist to his side. He didn't dare meet Robert’s —his king’s— eyes. 

You, on the other hand, tilted your head with that maddening calmness. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Robert nodded, gaze flicking to James only once. Instead of anger… The new king smiled at him before turning and leaving.

James didn’t breathe.

“What the fuck?" He said finally, confused that the king was not mad that his queen almost kissed another man on their wedding night. 

You looked back at him, eyes unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You—” His hand gestured toward the door. “Your husband just walked in on us—nearly kissing—and he just… said the carriage is ready?”

You shrugged. “It is.”

James took a step toward you, something like desperation leaking through his restraint. “Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned up and whispered in his ear, voice satin-smooth. “Go on, James. Return to your post.”

—

James followed at a respectful distance as the royal carriage rolled into the castle gates.

He wasn’t sure what he expected— perhaps he had to wait outside your door as you consummated your marriage to your new king-consort. Instead, he found silence. 

He and John Walker stood outside the great hall as the royal couple disembarked and strolled up the staircase—not hand in hand, not arm in arm, but side by side.

Robert was the first to speak. “I'm exhausted. Tell them to delay any council until after ten.”

“I’ll handle it,” you said, already unpinning the heavy jewels from your hair as you walked through the halls of the castle.

John gave James a look that said this is normal. James didn’t know whether to be relieved or more deeply disturbed.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. Your hand rested lightly on Robert’s arm— not intimate, but affectionate.

“Good night, Bob,” you said.

He gave a lazy, but genuine smile. “Don’t stay up plotting.”

“Don’t stay up snorting your vials.”

Robert gave a short laugh. “Yeah yeah. See you tomorrow.” And then he vanished down the east corridor.

You turned and disappeared down the west.

James stood frozen halfway up the stairs.

John Walker just raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

James blinked. “They’re not even sharing a room?”

“Never have,” John shrugged. “Probably never will.”

“But… it’s their wedding night.”

John gave a chuckle and patted his chest, almost condescendingly. “Thought you’d have caught on by now.”

James stared after both vanished figures. His chest felt tight, but not from anger— Hope, maybe.

“You’re telling me there’s nothing between them?” he asked.

John leaned against the bannister. “There is love. But no—not like you think. She’s not his, and he’s not hers.”

James’ voice was barely a whisper. “Then who is?”

John said nothing.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, James watched from the shadows more than he dared speak.

At first, jealousy churned in his gut every time he saw you and Robert together. Every time you leaned toward him at dinner, every time you whispered in his ear, every time his hand sometimes rested on the small of your back — it all grated at James like sand under a gauntlet.

But the more he watched… the more your relationship fell apart.

There were no heated glances or lingering touches. The castle’s rumor mill spoke not of affairs, but of arguments. Of debates in the library, scoldings in the garden. You were often seen chastising Robert like a wayward brother, not a husband.

You and Robert read together most nights in the stone-walled library, the hearth crackling beside you. Robert preferred fantasy books, but you would much rather read books of battle, strategy, and old world histories. When Robert drank too much of the wine, or vanished for hours and returned glassy-eyed from powders he should never have touched, you gave him a long-winded speech about how he should confront his father instead of running. 

Then, James saw what you did when Robert stumbled through the courtyard one morning after a long night, barely able to walk straight. You didn’t run to him. You crossed your arms, nostrils flared, and you scolded him in front of his men.

“You smell like horse piss and ruin,” you hissed. “If John hadn’t dragged you back from whatever ditch you fell into, the court would lose their king.”

And Robert had winced, not at the words, but like a boy ashamed before a sister.

John Walker stood nearby, as he always did. If Robert was wildfire, John was the iron cage that kept it from spreading. Ever since he was assigned to the king, he was ever far from his side.

—

Eventually, you and James got close again, relearning how to find conversation without the siege echoing in the background.

It began with quiet moments in the library, when James stood silently behind you while you read, pretending to check the exits. 

You’d gesture to a passage you liked. He’d nod.

You offered him tea one night. He took it without a word.

And that was how it began again.

Then came the late-night walks on the outer walls, when neither of you could sleep. He'd fall into step beside you, boots echoing across the stone, the runes on that kept his metal arm going catching the moonlight.

One night, you vented to him. "I’m getting tired of cleaning up Bob’s messes," you said. “He drinks before the council meetings now. Half the court knows and he doesn’t even care. I can’t keep covering for him, and John can’t even pull him out of it anymore.”

James said nothing, but his human clenched.

You leaned against the cold stone wall, rubbing your eyes. “He used to just... disappear sometimes. And that was fine. But now, he stays. He stays and implodes. And I don’t know what to do. And John doesn’t know what to do”

You glanced at him — the man who had followed you through fire, siege, and now, into the palace, and waited for an answer that never came.

—

That night, a nightmare caught up with you

You were back in the fortress, seven months into the siege of Eastmoor— a battle that had taken a toll on your psyche.

In your dreams, your hands were red again. The sky was falling, and the enemy was inching closer to victory—

You woke up with a gasp. A scream, really. And then the door opened.

James stepped in, eyes scanning the room like a threat had breached it— as the royal guard ought to.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I, um—” You could barely breathe. “I– it was a nightmare.”

He took a few steps toward you but didn’t touch you, yet. “Should I get your husband?”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t thinking, not clearly. As far as your mind was concerned, you were still in the fortress in Eastmoor.

“No,” you said. “You. I want you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, James,” You patted the empty space in your bed meant for your husband, “Please.”

James didn’t ask questions, though he should have. Laying in the queen’s bed must be wrong, it must be unlawful. 

But he did not see the queen now. He saw the same princess he comforted during the siege.

So for you, he climbed into the massive bed like it was your tiny cot all over again. He pulled you close like no time had passed at all.

Your head found his chest, your arm wrapped around his waist. His metal arm curled protectively around you.

It felt like breathing again.

Eventually, in a whisper you probably shouldn’t have let slip, you murmured, “Your arm… it’s colder now against my skin. I like it.”

You felt him go still.

Then, slowly, his grip around you tightened just slightly. “It’s different now,” he said.

“I know,” you said, “back in the siege, you held me with human arms.”

“Back in the siege,” he murmured, “you weren’t married.”

Your chest ached. “Back in the siege— I was engaged,” in an act of defiance, you kissed his jaw, “Perhaps nothing had changed, James.”

Perhaps.

—

The night after that, you found yourself… lonely.

The ball had long ended. The music had faded into silence, and the castle’s golden corridors were empty, save for flickering candles and the occasional guard shifting on duty.

You stood in your chambers, half-undressed, your gown draped across the chaise and your corset still tight around your ribs. The ladies-in-waiting were gone — two bottles of plum wine between them and loud giggles all the way down the corridor to their quarters.

You didn’t need them. So you called for your personal guard.

James stepped inside with the same careful poise he always carried, metal fingers curled lightly at his side, eyes trained ahead.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

You were standing at the mirror, your back to him. The corset was laced tightly, and your arms were too tired to reach all the way back after dancing and standing in pointless celebration for hours.

“I need help,” you said.

His brow twitched. “Should I fetch your ladies?”

“They’re drunk,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’ll lace me in a knot or put me in bed face-down. You're the only sober one I trust.”

He stiffened, still half in the doorway. “Shall I fetch your husband?”

Your eyes met his in the mirror. “I do not want my husband, James.”

He didn't move, so you clarified. “You know this: we do not love each other that way.”

His eyes flicked away, fist tightening. You could almost hear his metal arm creak as he shifted.

You tilted your head, turning around and motioning for him to lock the door. “James,” you said quietly, “please. Just take it off. Just… help me breathe.”

There was a long pause before he said. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

He moved closer. You felt him before you saw him — you felt the warmth of his breath just barely disturbing the curls at the nape of your neck. His metal hand ghosted up the edge of the laces, never quite touching his skin. You could hear the steady exhale through his nose, see the way his eyes stayed firmly locked on the ties, not the curve of your spine beneath them.

He was trembling, but one by one, he undid the laces.

Your breath eased with each loosened thread, your ribs finally expanding. The silk began to slacken, and the pressure lifted. When he reached the last tie, the corset slid down, and you let it fall to the floor.

James turned his head instantly, out of respect. He stared at the candlelit wall, his shoulders stiff. Because of course — of course looking at the queen’s bare skin was a punishable offense.

Even if he found you to be the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Look at me, James,” you said.

He hesitated. Then slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head. “As you wish… Your Majesty.”

His eyes found you.

You watched it happen — his breath catching, the lashes fluttering, the pupils dilate just slightly. His eyes roamed, reverent and restrained all at once. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he was meant to fall or fly. Like he was looking at both a dream and blasphemy.

“James,” you said, stepping closer. Your hand reached out, brushing his jaw, your fingers curling around the stubble there. “James, kiss me.”

He froze. And for a second, you thought he might flee, like he always did when the fire between you got too close to all-consuming.

But instead, he muttered the words again. “As you wish, you majesty.”

His lips met yours.

It was not a sweet kiss. It was not careful. It was earned. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in deeper, and you melted into him. You surrendered into the safety, the tension, the want. His mouth was rougher than you'd imagined, hungrier, but his hands, both human and metal, trembled as he touched your waist, as though afraid you’d disappear.

You didn’t.

You reached up and pulled him with you toward the bed.

He hesitated for a heartbeat.

You could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tremor in his breath— how hard he fought to stay in control. Because even now, even now, half undressed and trembling with need, you were still the queen.

And to touch you like this? To see your bare skin, to hunger for you the way he did? Punishable by hanging. Maybe worse.

But you didn’t care.

Not when your body buzzed with the ghost of his hands. Not when your lips still ached from the heat of his kiss.

You stepped up to him again, bare and unashamed, and ran your fingers down the seam where his leather jerkin met his collar.

"James,” you murmured. “Am I so terrifying?”

His answer was hoarse. “It’s not you I fear.”

You smiled, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Is it fear of what we’d do?”

He turned then, finally, eyes locking with yours—and your knees nearly gave way.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. The line of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts rising with each breath. His hands flexed at his sides— like a man desperate to touch bound by chains of his own making.

You took his hand—the metal one—and placed it on your bare waist. His eyes widened. The muscles in his throat worked like he was swallowing back a cry.

“You won’t be hanged for worshipping my body, James.”

He tensed.

You leaned in, whispering against his lips, playful and wicked, “Trust me. My husband would be thrilled someone is taking proper care of his queen.”

That did it.

A choked sound escaped him. Half laugh, half groan.

His mouth was on yours again, and this time it was feral.

There was no more hesitation. His hands roamed palming your hips, dragging you closer like he needed to fuse your flesh to his. He kissed you like a starving man, tongue sweeping your mouth, devouring every gasp you gave him.

He kissed you until you were moaning into him, pressing yourself shamelessly against his body, feeling his arousal beneath his ceremonial uniform. When you ground against him, he gasped and grabbed your thighs, lifting you off the ground.

You wrapped around him like instinct.

Your back hit the nearest wall, and his mouth was on your neck, then your chest, worshipping like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

"James," you whispered, dazed and drunk on him, "Lay me down."

He paused, but this time, it was only for a heartbeat.

You could feel it again— duty. The guilt trying to claw its way back in. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest heaving.

“If someone finds me here—”

You cut him off with a wicked smile and a roll of your hips that had him groaning into your throat.

“Then let them,” you whispered. “Let them see what it looks like when a queen is loved. Not paraded. Loved.”

Fuck.

So he carried you to the bed— careful and quick, like he couldn’t bear the space between you for another moment. He laid you down gently.

His gloves came off first, then the buckles, the straps. You helped, trembling fingers undoing each layer of leather until he was bare before you, all skin and battle-worn scars.

Your hands ran over his chest, his ribs, the scar near his hip.

“You’ve nearly died serving your country,” you whispered. “Let me serve you.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. But fuller.

And then he was on you.

Mouth on your throat, your breasts, your stomach. He trailed kisses down your belly like he was marking a path— one only he was allowed to take. 

When he settled between them, you gasped.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against your heat.

You laughed breathlessly and fisted his hair.

“Don’t you dare.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

And then you were gone.

It didn’t end with one moment. Or two. It kept going— like time had broken and collapsed in over itself. The night stretched out like a rubber band. When he finally was in you, you gasped his name like a benediction.

That night, he made love to you like it was a promise.

And when your fingers gripped his back and your thighs wrapped around him, he whispered it again against your throat, your ear, your lips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

By the time the candlelight faded and the moon began to dip, your bodies were tangled in sweat and silk. His arms held you tight, his lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he never wanted to move ever again.

—

The room was lit by dawn when you stirred.

Your body ached, but not unpleasantly. It was the ache of being wanted. Your limbs tangled with his, the sheets a mess. James lay beside you, face buried in your neck, human arm tucked tightly around your waist. His metal hand rested just beneath your breast, cold even in sleep, and your fingers laced through his hair, gently brushing the sweat-damp strands from his brow.

He looked younger in sleep. Not the decorated soldier, not the sworn royal guard. Just James. 

But then— Knock knock knock.

You heard a panicked voice behind the heavy door, “Your Majesty! Forgive me—there’s something wrong with the king!”

You were upright in a heartbeat, the sheets falling from your chest. James jolted awake, instantly alert, reaching for the dagger on the floor out of sheer instinct.

“What?” you called, voice tight.

The maid’s voice trembled. “He’s… he’s not making sense, your majesty. He asked for his love. Please—he won’t speak to the physicians.”

You swallowed hard, heart thundering. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sheet.

“I’ll be there shortly,” you managed to say, voice barely queen-like.

The footsteps retreated down the corridor.

James turned to you, one hand braced on the mattress, the other brushing your arm.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded. 

He helped you up, his hands sliding over your hips as you stood. He retrieved your underdress first — the pale silk one — and held it out for you. You stepped in. His hands pulled it up, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left on your thighs. 

You reached for your corset, and he laced it swiftly. 

The gown was next. Then the jewels. 

But just before he fastened your capelet, you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half to him. “What the hell is wrong with my best friend?”

—

The doors to the King’s chambers slammed open.

The scent hit you first — bile, sweat, and something acrid underneath. Robert, once stately in the way statues were stately, was now hunched over a basin, retching. His skin was pale and waxy, the collar of his sleeping robe soaked in sweat. His fingers trembled as he gripped the carved edges of the bowl.

You ran to him, heedless of protocol, kneeling at his side.

“Robert—Bob! —what the hell happened?”

He groaned, barely able to lift his head. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Gods, it hurts. My skin’s crawling—fuck, my bones—I can’t—I can’t—”

You caught him as he nearly collapsed sideways.That’s when he realised,  He asked for his love, not for you. “Where is John?!” You demanded. 

A maid jumped back, eyes wide. “H-he’s in the barracks, Your Majesty—”

“Then why in all the saints’ names did you fetch me?”

You held Robert in your arms, his body wracked with tremors, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. “He doesn’t need the crown right now. He needs John.”

Just like that, the maid fled in a hurry, skirts flying, tripping over her shoes in her haste.

Robert whimpered into your shoulder, fists tightening in the silk of your sleeve. “I stopped,” he said, voice raw and cracked. “Stopped the tonic. The powder. The drops. All of it. I stopped and I—” He broke off, gasping. “It hurts. It’s withdrawal, isn’t it?”

Your heart shattered.

“Oh, Robert…” you whispered. “Yes. It is.”

You stroked his hair. No royal physician had dared to question what he'd been taking nightly. The concoctions disguised as “meditative supplements.” It dulled the grief, and he was addicted to it. 

“You idiot,” a new voice drawled from the door.

John Walker stepped into the room, shirt half-buttoned, belt slung over one shoulder, hair wild from sleep.

And Robert—broken and barely conscious—lifted his head just enough to see him.

A smile broke through his tears.

“My love…” he breathed, slurring. “You came…”

My love? James, who had been watching, thought. 

You rose slowly, letting John take your place, letting him gather Robert into his arms like he’d done a hundred times before in the dark. Robert clung to him immediately, sobbing against his chest.

James watched it all— Robert unraveling in another man’s arms— and he understood everything.

This marriage… had never been about love.

It had been a shield.

And last night… last night, when you begged him to undress you, when you said you didn’t want your husband—he hadn’t truly believed it. But now?

Now he saw it.

You stood there in full regalia — crown still glinting in the sunlight, hands stained with bile,  — and James Barnes finally understood just how much of yourself you had sacrificed for your best friend.

You didn’t turn to him. Your eyes stayed on Robert and John, whispering to each other on the bed, the king sobbing quietly as his lover held him tight.

“Tell the royal apothecary to prepare valerian, black thistle, and willow bark,” you said quietly, “Nothing stronger. I want him monitored, but not sedated.”

James gave a short nod. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

—

Hours later, the medical chamber was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. It smelled faintly of chamomile, sweat, and burnt sage. The healer had finally left an hour ago, and John had gone to rest in the adjoining room. He hadn’t wanted to leave Robert’s side.

You had offered to keep watch. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, crown replaced by a simple braid, your gown less ceremonial now. You watched Robert stir beneath the linen sheets, pale but no longer trembling. His lips were cracked, his cheeks hollow, but when his eyes blinked open and found yours, he looked… better.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing hair back from his damp forehead.

He managed a small smile. “Hey.”

You offered a small smile. “You lived.”

He winced. “Barely.”

You nodded. “I…” you started “I’m proud of you.”

He blinked.

You said it again, firmer this time. “I’m proud of you for being sober last night.”

Robert swallowed hard. “I… I had to be,” he looked down in shame. “The void inside me was eating me alive.”

You didn’t speak. You let him say it — let him dig up his demons.

“Every time John looked at me, I could see— he worried. I’m afraid he'd realise that I wasn’t the man he—” His voice cracked, and he turned his face to the pillow. “I did it for him.”

You sat with that. Let it settle like dust in the silence between you. You only reached into the stack of papers on the bedside table. You handed him one sheet — rolled and ribboned — and waited.

He took and unrolled it slowly.

His brows furrowed. “This is… an arrest warrant?”

You nodded. He blinked. 

Then paled when he read the details. “It says… my father.”

“He will stand trial for domestic abuse and assault.” You nodded. “For what he did to you when you were a boy, and for what he did to your mother.”

Robert’s mouth opened, but no words came. His body seemed to freeze 

“I—how?” he finally whispered. “How could you…? Your father made sure he was untouchable.”

You leaned back slightly, lacing your fingers together. “Not anymore.”

He looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

You smiled again before reaching into the pile again and handed him the second parchment. This one was thicker.

“A new constitution,” you said. “I’ve been working on it since the day I became queen. I’ve been rewriting the laws he built to protect himself — with loopholes and titles and bloodlines. ”

Robert stared at it. Then at you.

“This,” you said, quiet now, “was always the plan, remember? I was going to be queen and change everything.”

—

You found John in the garden that afternoon.

He was seated on the stone bench beneath the myrtle trees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. The air smelled like rosemary and smoke, and the world was quiet save for the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant coo of doves on the chapel roof.

He looked up when you approached.

You sat beside him, leaving space in between. You watched the birds for a moment. “He loves you so much it’s practically carved into his bones.”

John let out a breath, mouth twitching. 

“He better,” he muttered. “I’m the only one stubborn enough to keep dragging his ass back from the edge.”

You chuckled softly. “He’s lucky.”

John was quiet again. Then, without looking at you. He said, “You’re a good queen.” He glanced sideways — really looking at you for the first time in weeks. 

That surprised you more than anything.

“John,” you mentioned, scooting a bit closer. “I promise we’ll figure something out. For the four of us.”

John nodded, because he knew a queen like you would keep her promises.

—

That night, you had a bath that had long gone tepid, but you remained sunk in it anyway, head resting against the marble edge, too exhausted to move. 

The guards had taken Viscount Reynolds into custody before sunset. You hadn’t even changed from your court robes before collapsing into the water. Robert was resting, John sleeping on the seat beside him.

You’d thought you were alone.

So when the door creaked open, you barely stirred. Perhaps you would have protested, but you knew who it was without needing to look.

“Your Majesty?” James’ voice was low.

He was supposed to be on patrol, but then again, after last night, you supposed James Barnes had started making his own rules when it came to you. 

“The maid let me in,” he said, stepping into the bath chamber, steam curling around his shoulders like fog on a battlefield. “She thought I was just... doing my rounds.”

You tilted your head toward him, wet hair clinging to your cheek. “You are.”

“I should’ve known,” he said finally. “God, I should’ve known.”

You blinked up at him, weary but curious.

He knelt beside the tub, close enough for you to see the flicker of guilt and realization behind those glacier-blue eyes. 

“All this time I thought…” His voice faltered. “I thought this marriage of convenience was for your sake.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “But you did it for him.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He reached for the towel and extended it to you without a word. When you rose from the bath, bare and dripping, he didn’t ogle or avert his eyes. He looked at you like a man seeing sunlight after years underground.

He wrapped the towel around your shoulders, hands brushing your collarbones. His fingers grazing your throat. Then, his finger wandered lower, trailing the towel down your arms, over your sides, your hips.

“I should’ve seen it.” He whispered. “A lavender marriage. Of course. Of course.”

You turned toward him, now wrapped loosely in the towel, water still beading on your skin.  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely more than a breath. “And through all of it, you were alone.”

You nodded, just once. 

“I understood— why you could not tell me,” he said. “But I should have known.”

You choked on a breath. His lips brushed your temple, then your neck — where he kissed you slowly, his mouth dragging like an apology over your skin. 

You leaned into him, the towel slipping slightly as your body pressed against his. You didn’t care about propriety or adultery or the crown or the hundreds of walls you had built to survive.

Only him.

—

Nine months later, Audrey was born.

The storm had broken that night. The midwives whispered that thunder called powerful souls into the world. 

Robert was there. Sober, as he has been for nine months now. He was silent and respectful. You caught his eye once, mid-contraction, and he nodded. He knew his role.

But it was James, who never left your side.

James, who kissed your sweat-drenched forehead between each scream.

James, who whispered, "You’re doing so well.”

James, who wept the moment Audrey cried, like her first breath was drawn from his lungs.

And Audrey — little Audrey — was the most breathtaking creature the kingdom had ever seen.

The royal painters fumbled with their brushes. The nursemaids tittered behind gloved hands. Even the court astrologer dropped her polished stones when she saw the child’s eyes.

Because… no one could deny it.

Audrey’s eyes were not King Robert’s eyes. 

Audrey’s eyes were James Barnes’ eyes.

That piercing, impossible shade of sky blue. Not Robert’s deep-sea navy.

Her nose had that subtle tilt, just like James’. And when she furrowed her brow in sleep, it was unmistakable. She looked just like her father.

No one dared say it aloud, not even your mother, who was too blinded by the joy of the new heir to care whose it was.

After all, did it matter?

You were still queen. Robert was still king. And Audrey — Audrey was born of both your legacies, whether the blood aligned or not. 

But it was you and James who rocked her on the balcony. You and James who walked the palace halls at night with her bundled to your chest. You and James whispered lullabies while Robert and John, from a respectable distance, drank their tea and watched from afar, wondering if they would ever have the freedom to adopt one of their own. 

—

Captain Sam Wilson arrived three weeks after her birth, his hands gentle when he held her. He looked into Audrey’s eyes and smiled — not with surprise, but certainty.

Captain Steve Rogers came a day later. He took one look at the child nestled against James’s chest and clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” Steve said.

James, uncharacteristically quiet, only nodded.

“Looks like someone I know, Buck.” Steve added, and then winked. 

Still, no one said the obvious. Not the Council. Not the court. Not the papers — who tiptoed around it with all the delicacy of men walking barefoot through a field of glass. They never once printed a whisper, though the resemblance was plain as sunlight.

Because Robert was fine with it.

And because Audrey — future Queen Audrey — would never know the coldness of being born of duty.

Only of love.

—

And three years later, no one questioned it when the court awoke to solemn news: His Majesty King Robert and His Guard, John Walker, had perished in a tragic carriage accident— down a treacherous cliff along the coast road.

No bodies were ever recovered. There were no state funerals.

Just an announcement and a wreath laid. Enough of a ceremony to satisfy the historians.

No one questioned the gaps in the story. Not the missing witnesses. Not the absence of grief in your eyes.

Because by then, no one dared question your rule.

You were the Queen who ended wars, who fed her people during famine, and who still found time to kneel beside her daughter’s cradle, plait her hair each morning, kiss her scraped knees, and hum old lullabies before bedtime.

No one questioned why you never remarried, because everyone already knew who your heart belonged to.

And though no one ever dared say it aloud, it became courtly knowledge— that when Little Princess Audrey climbed into the Queen’s Guard’s lap and called him Daddy, the Queen only smiled.

—

Audrey was eight now.

She stood on the cushioned bench beside the window, small hands pressed to the glass as the carriage jostled gently down the hidden woodland road. Her nose wrinkled at the fog on the pane, and she wiped it clean with her sleeve, eyes wide as the first trees of Eastmoor forest came into view.

“They’re gonna be waiting, Mama,” she whispered excitedly, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Uncle Bob always waits by the gate.”

You smiled softly from your place across from her. “Yes, sweetheart,” you said. “He’ll be right where he always is.”

James sat beside her, one arm curled protectively around her back, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger — always the soldier, even now. But when Audrey turned toward him and leaned her head on his shoulder, his posture relaxed instantly.

“You think they’ll have apple tarts again, daddy?” Audrey asked, muffled against the leather of his jacket.

“I think,” James replied, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, “that Uncle Johnny’s probably already burned the first batch and made Uncle Bob swear not to tell anyone.”

Audrey giggled. The carriage bumped over the hidden trail, veering off from any official road — the route known only to you, James, and a handful of trusted men who owed their lives to the crown.

You had managed to keep this trip off the books. No guards followed. No scrolls recorded it, nor was ever spoken of aloud in court.

But every year, when the leaves turned gold, you made this journey.

—

The house wasn’t grand — in fact, it was plain by royal standards. It was a weathered stone cottage with ivy crawling over its eaves, surrounded by a canopy of trees. Smoke curled from the chimney as chickens wandered freely through the grass and a horse whinnied lazily from the back stable.

And standing just beyond the crooked gate was Robert.

He looked different now — leaner, a little older, his once regal hair streaked with gray. He wore a simple tunic and boots caked in mud. When he saw the carriage, his face broke into a smile that could’ve lit the kingdom.

Behind him, John emerged from the doorway, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, laughing as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.

Audrey burst out the moment the carriage stopped, launching herself into Robert’s arms.

“Uncle Bob!”

He caught her, lifting her easily into the air and spinning her once before hugging her tight. “There’s my little rascal,” he exclaimed. “Eight years old already, huh?”

She beamed, clinging to his shoulders. “And I brought my history scroll so you can help me cheat on my essay!”

“Oh, bless the saints,” John groaned, laughing as he took her next, peppering kisses to her cheeks. “Don’t tell your governess I’m a bad influence.”

Audrey knew better than to tell the governess anything. After all, they were both, as far as the official documents were concerned, dead.

You stepped down from the carriage with grace, gown gathered in your gloved hands. James was at your side, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

Robert met your eyes over Audrey’s shoulder.

“Still queen?” he chuckled.

“And you,” you replied, voice warm.

“Come in,” John interrupted, ushering you all toward the door. “I burned the first tart but the second one’s edible.”

—

That night, after Audrey had fallen asleep upstairs in the little loft she’d claimed as her own, you and James sat on the porch beside Robert and John. 

James was leaning against the railing, Audrey’s toy rabbit tucked under his arm. You were curled beside him, boots unlaced, your head resting on his shoulder.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” John said, sipping his sparkling water. “You faked our deaths. Got us out of the palace.”

“I said I would figure something out,” you replied.

Robert looked at you with the same grateful look he’d given you the day you’d handed him the arrest warrant and said, “I’ll never be able to repay you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” you said, reaching across to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you, ever since we were kids.”

“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy?”

You looked up at James, who kissed your temple without needing to be asked.

“Of course,” you said simply.

John raised his glass. “To promises kept,” he said.

“To peace hard-won,” Robert added.

James lifted his own. “And to love everlasting.”

You clinked glasses. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the weight of the kingdom laid on your shoulders. 

You were just four souls on a porch— while upstairs, the future of the throne slept soundly in her bed.

-end.

[saphiraprince22]

AHHHHH

They are so cute, I really miss Jeonghan

growing sideways 📧 jeonghan x reader.

yours, whether you like it or not,

📧 pairing. co-workers!jeonghan x reader. 📧 social media au & epistolary (told through emails). 📧 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: co-workers. romance, humor. 📧 includes. mention of alcohol; suggestive language; profanity. workplace rivals, corporate jargon, engineering terms i definitely butchered, use of y/n l/n for e-mail purposes. title from noah kahan’s growing sideways; waaay too many kahan references, really. style and format insp. by cinnamorussell’s tell all your friends i’m crazy (i’ll drive you mad). 📧 notes. this is a bit long, but we ball. in one of my first conversations with @diamonddaze01, we dreamed up workplace rival yoon jeonghan. i offer it, now, as part of a month-long celebration for the person i’ve dedicated a good quarter of my work to. tara, i’ll never meet someone who won’t know about you. nanu ninnannu pritisuttene! 🔭

Liked by feat.dino, everyone_woo, and others jeonghaniyoo_n   if my engine works perfect on empty, guess i’ll drive 

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vernonline woah indie ahhh caption user1 Looking good, Jeonghan! Let’s catch up soon x user2 who tha baddie in the back in the second slideee ↳ sound_of_coups 👋 ↳ user3 no the one on the right sry :/ ♥︎ Liked by creator user4 congrats to whoever’s bouncing on it ! junhui_moon Aura 1000000% ↳ jeonghaniyoo_n what language are you speaking

Liked by sound_of_coups, dk_is_dokyeom, and others yourusername   romanticizing life (before i go insane) 

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user1 need to know where that phone case is from user2 Are you EVER not working dk_is_dokyeom THAT’S MY GIRLBOSS ╰(▔∀▔)╯ ↳ yourusername ❤️ user3 i wanna be you when i grow up <3 xuminghao_o Lovely ♥︎ Liked by creator

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)

Yoon,

I reviewed the validation draft you uploaded this morning. Fascinating interpretation of clause 4.3.2. Bold of you to skip the stability data appendix entirely. I can only assume it was an artistic choice.

Also, the raw tensile data from the 0528 batch isn’t included. If it was meant to be in the shared drive, it wasn’t in any of the usual folders (QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > missing_files > probably_Jeonghan’s).

I’ve attached my edits. I added actual numbers.

Regards, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: Test Platform Validation Report (EU Submission)

Thank you for the prompt review. I assumed your obsession with clause 4.3.2 would outweigh your impulse to nitpick, but alas—some things never change.

The stability data was excluded intentionally while awaiting results from the accelerated aging test. If you opened the protocol (second folder under QA_Share > FR_Validation > tensile_data > definitely_not_missing), you’d see that.

As for your edits, I appreciate the effort. It’s cute when you pretend Excel likes you back.

Best, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

Yoon,

Not that I expect you to read full briefs, but just in case you skimmed this one: yes, the transfer protocols need to be locked before next Friday if we want the France site to hit qualification by Q3.

Your last edits to the QAP template were inspired. I didn’t know it was possible to confuse ISO 13485 with a haiku.

I’ve restructured the equipment IQ section. You’re welcome. You’ll need to coordinate with Wonwoo at the Lyon site for vendor access, assuming you remember to email him this time.

I’ll see you in Lyon.

Disrespectfully, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

Of course I read the brief. Just because I don’t annotate every margin with red ink and superiority complexes doesn’t mean I don’t understand the deadline.

I’ll coordinate with Wonwoo, assuming you don’t scare him off again with your charmingly blunt emails. (I still have the screenshot of him calling you “intimidatingly competent.”)

By the way, your IQ revisions look fine. Shockingly legible this time. Congratulations.

I’ll see you in Lyon. Try not to sabotage the coffee machine this trip.

Until customs detains us, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

If Wonwoo was intimidated, it’s because I sent him instructions written in complete sentences. A rare treat, I know.

You still haven’t confirmed the calibration matrix. We’ll need the traceable certs before equipment ships, or do you plan to charm EU regulators into letting us slide on documentation? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve seen you talk to vendors.

Also: bring the correct adapter this time. I’m not sharing an outlet with you again.

Best of luck (to me), L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: EU Submission - FR Manufacturing Coordination

The calibration matrix is in the tracker: third tab, fourth column, next to the thing labeled “READ ME, PLEASE” Try it. It’s fun.

And yes, I plan to charm the regulators. You, on the other hand, can stun them into compliance with your piercing PowerPoint transitions.

As for the outlet. I’m bringing an adapter. And a surge protector. For reasons.

Looking forward to our time in France. Nothing says “teamwork” like four days of jetlag and passive aggression.

Yours in regulatory purgatory, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

YJH 👿 (Work) [8:13 AM]: why do you type so aggressively. the guy next to me thinks you’re yelling at me You [8:14 AM]: he’s not wrong. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:15 AM]: did you really need three highlighters in your carry-on? You [8:15 AM]: yes. the pink one is for your mistakes. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:16 AM]: romantic You [8:16 AM]: if you die on this trip it’s going to be from a highlighter to the throat. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:17 AM]: worth it You [8:17 AM]: you are the worst seatmate in existence. YJH 👿 (Work) [8:18 AM]: you snore when you pretend not to be sleeping and your pointy elbow crosses the line You [8:18 AM]: so we’re calling it a truce? YJH 👿 (Work) [8:19 AM]: we’re calling it foreplay

☾ You have silenced Notifications.

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from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

Yoon,

Per our debrief notes (the ones not written on a cocktail napkin), I’ve uploaded the final QAP revisions and vendor qualification summaries to the shared drive. You can stop emailing me pictures of our hotel room as  “documentation.” Though impressive dedication to fieldwork.

Also, your expense report still lists the mini bar from Tuesday night. Pretty bold move, considering you insisted you only drank half the bottle.

Respectueusement, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

You’re welcome for the in-room stress testing of French plumbing. I was being thorough.

Also, I did only drink half. You drank the other half and then told the front desk I was your emotional support engineer.

Re: shared drive. I see your formatting crimes continue. I fixed your spacing in the risk assessment table. Try to be better.

Yours across all timezones, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

Yoon,

I’d fix my spacing if you’d stop adjusting my bullet styles just to mess with me. And next time, maybe don’t volunteer us for the plant tour while hungover. Watching you nearly fall into a vat of solvent was not the regulatory impression we wanted.

Stop calling me yours, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

P.S. You still owe me one (1) bed. I’m adding it to your performance review.

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: FR Submission Debrief + Documentation

Not my fault someone booked the hotel late and got us the romantic suite. You’re lucky I didn’t call room service for rose petals.

I’ve uploaded the final sign-offs and confirmation from the French regulatory contact—who says we’re the most “thorough and theatrically matched” engineers she’s worked with. I think that’s a compliment.

Let me know if I’ve missed any appendices. Or if you want your highlighter back.

Yours, even if you deny me (hotel registration said so), Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

P.S. I liked sharing the room with you. Not because of budget errors or international confusion. Just because it was you.

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from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Great audit notes, as usual. I’ve attached my edits for the CAPA log. We’ll have to discuss column F, because your formulas hate me.

Also, bold of you to post a photo of flowers on a Tuesday. Does SVT approve PTO for midweek romance now?

Am I being cheated on?, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Yoon,

Corrected the formula logic in column F. Try not to break it again.

And yes, Tuesday dates are a thing now. Believe it or not, some people find me tolerable enough to see more than once.

Shocking, I know.

Regrets, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Don’t worry. I’m sure your second date will be charmed by your bullet point consistency.

Personally, I’ve never seen the appeal of dating someone like you. Too sharp. Too bossy. Too quick to judge formula errors.

Fortunately, SVT doesn’t require us to like each other outside of Gantt charts.

Yours, whether you like it or not, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Supplier Audit Timeline + Other Things

Yoon,

Believe me, the feeling is mutual. I'd sooner date a malfunctioning tensile tester.

I fixed your math in the timeline estimates. Again. Please don’t bother me for the rest of the week. I’m going to be busy preparing for date number two.

(You wish I was) Yours, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp 

You [11:42 PM]: he ghosted me. u jinxed it. You [11:43 PM]: i shaved my legs for nothing. hope ur happy. You [11:44 PM]: he said he liked my slides. he LIED!!!!!!!!!!!!!! You [11:45 PM]: sitting alone at a bar rn contemplating the meaning of life.. and if i can blow u up telepahteitcally.... YJH 👿 (Work) [11:45 PM]: *telepathically YJH 👿 (Work) [11:46 PM]: which bar. You [11:47 PM]: fucking MANSPLAINER You [11:47 PM]: don’t come near me EVEREVER

YJH 👿 (Work) requested your location.

You started sharing your location with YJH 👿 (Work).

You [11:50 PM]: fuckfcuckfuckity my fat fucking thumbs FMLLL YJH 👿 (Work) [11:53 PM]: i’m coming. don’t order tequila until i get there. or do. i want to see the disaster myself. You [11:55 PM]: jerk YJH 👿 (Work) [11:56 PM]: always. save me a seat, heartbreak girl

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from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

Yoon,

Your revised equipment validation timeline looks solid. I’ve flagged the dates where QRA and process requal overlap. You’ll need to talk to Ops to make sure there’s no resource conflict.

Also, thanks. For the other night.

Don’t make a thing out of it. Reluctantly yours, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp 

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

Wow. A “thanks.” What is this, a truce?

Noted on the QRA overlap—I’ll sync with Ops and shift our timeline by 2-3 business days. I’ve attached a revised Gantt for your very critical review.

Also: you owe me fries.

Yours with no reluctance whatsoever, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

P.S. Don’t let your guard down. I’d hate for you to start thinking I’m nice.

P.P.S. You’re beautiful when drunk. Infuriating, but beautiful.

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

Attached: my comments on your Gantt chart (see rows 14–27). Also, your font choices are unhinged. You’re lucky you’re marginally good at your job.

Fries are contingent on you not mentioning the karaoke. Sober now, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

P.S. You’re nice when you think I’m too drunk to remember.

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp subject: Re: Equipment Revalidation Schedule 

I’ll swap the font if it means less red pen in my inbox.

And don’t worry, I’d never mention your rendition of “Dancing Queen” in front of senior management. Or that you made me sing backup.

As for being nice: I was just making sure you didn’t fall asleep in a nacho basket. Again.

Drunk on you, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

P.S. I remember everything you said. Even the parts you don’t.

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user1 fly safe, babygirl user2 ermmm.. am i witnessing a soft launch ?! min9yu_k I’d know that YSL bag from anywhere 😏 user3 How can I be youuu :( user4 is that a BOYFRIEND?! junhui_moon strategic non-response to any of the comments here #respect

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

Attached: updated protocol outline and projected data submission window. Added notes re: temperature excursions flagged by the lab.

Unrelated, but I saw your latest post. Interesting how you managed to frame the lighting just right on that cafe table. Almost as if someone you work with took the photo.

Also, bold choice uploading a cropped version of that one picture of me holding five tote bags. Very “soft launch,” very subtle.

Launched like a rocket ship, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

This isn’t the time.

The humidity chamber failed mid-run and half of the accelerated aging samples are compromised. I’ll need to retest from baseline and revalidate the controls. Not sure yet if it pushes our submission, but I’m flagging it with QA.

I suggest you review section 6.2 of the protocol instead of obsessing over my Instagram.

L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

Didn’t mean to distract. I hadn’t seen the alert yet. Engineering just looped me in on the chamber issue. I’ll prioritize sourcing backup samples and contact Tech Ops to check chamber calibration across all zones.

You’ll have data. We’ll make it work.

(But if you were soft-launching me, I looked great.)

Trying too hard, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

Yoon,

Appreciated. Sorry I snapped.

I just really didn’t want this run to go sideways. I know it’s not your fault—but I’ve been fielding calls since 7:00 a.m. and I’m a little fried.

Yours and then some, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

P.S. You looked ridiculous, but sure. Let the internet wonder.

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

You can yell at me any time. Preferably not before coffee, but I’ll survive.

QA says they’ll expedite sample disposal so we can start the new batch by end of week. I sent you a revised Gantt. And a snack. Don’t fight me on it.

Yours in whatever way you’ll have me, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

P.S. Internet speculation is already intense. I’ve received two DMs inquiring if I’m truly off the market. Is this your twisted little way of staking claim?

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline 

The snack was suspiciously well-timed. You’re lucky I like sesame.

Re: QA—I’ll update the submission calendar and notify Regulatory we’re adjusting the stability window.

And tell your fans I’m flattered, but my standards are higher than “guy who argues about font weight in shared spreadsheets.”

Yours for some reason (When did I succumb to this?), L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: France Stability Testing Timeline

For the record, I wasn’t arguing. I was advocating for consistent formatting.

Also: I’m sorry. For earlier. I should’ve checked the system alerts before joking around. You always catch things first, and I forget what it’s like to be under that kind of pressure all the time.

Let me know what else you need. I mean it.

Yours for equally no reason (I bookmarked the first time you signed off with ‘yours’, btw), Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

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from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Apologies for the Timestamp 

Yoon,

I realize this is past hours. I won’t pretend it’s an emergency—it’s just the draft for the stability test realignment we discussed. I needed to get it out of my head or I wouldn’t sleep. It can wait until morning. I just didn’t want to forget.

Sorry. Again. Sleep well, or party well, or whatever it is you’re doing tonight.

Terribly sorry, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 

Got your email—yes, timestamp noted.

I’m out. Drinking. Loud music, terrible lighting, questionable tequila. I’ll look at the draft during actual work hours. I promise.

Also, you do know that you’re allowed to exist outside work. Don’t apologize for thinking too hard. That’s half your brand.

Buzzing like a drunk bumblebee, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

Yoon,

Enjoy your night out. Try not to bully the DJ. May your drinks be overpriced and your lighting flattering.

And hey—hope you pull. You deserve someone mildly tolerable for a few hours.

Cheers, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp 

The drinks are terrible. The lighting is flattering. I’ve technically pulled, but she’s more interested in the bartender now, which is fine because—

I miss you. You, and your midnight overthinking, and your Excel color codes, and the way you always say “don’t wait up” but still check your inbox five minutes later.

I miss you. Stupidly. Even while I’m here.

Yours at my own risk, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

Yoon,

Pray tell why you're getting drunk and you're "pulling" what I can assume to be ABGs whose names you won't even know in the morning, and yet you're still in the club, emailing me? Missing my drunken emails?

Why? Are the girls of Wall Street not enough for you?

Totally not jealous, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

I can answer this so simply, it won’t even be fun.

The girls of Wall Street will never be you.

No one will ever be you.

I'm not enjoying my night as much as I should because you're not here. I'm in the club, drunk AND emailing you. That should tell you everything.

Come out with me next time. Wreck my plans. Ruin the music. Steal my coat.

I may be playing with fire, but to hell with it.

Burning myself, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp 

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

I can feel you overthinking all the way from here. You’re probably thinking that I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and regret all of this. That I will be unable to face you at work come Monday, when I am no longer drunk out of my mind and thinking you are the most brilliant, most gorgeous, most infuriating person alive. 

You will be right. Thankfully, though, these are—what do the kids call it? ‘Receipts’. You will have a paper trail. These emails will be between you, me, and that Australian guy from IT. 

He will know, and you will know, that I may have the most miniscule work crush on you. 

Jesus Christ. What am I? A high schooler? 

Let’s try that again: Love is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed. What I’m feeling for you isn’t love. It’s so much more than that.

Love sucks, and I need to sober up, Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

Get home safe, Jeonghan.

Yours, with questions, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

You just called me Jeonghan.

Yours, with answers (maybe), Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

from: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp to: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

That’s your name, isn’t it?

Stop e-mailing me while you’re at the club.

Fine. Yours, L/N Y/N she/her ln.yn@svt.corp

P.S.: I may have the most miniscule work crush on you, too.

from: Yoon Jeonghan yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp to: L/N Y/N ln.yn@svt.corp Subject: Re: Apologies for the Timestamp

i am  goi n    to die

Yoon Jeonghan he/him yoon.jeonghan@svt.corp

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[saphiraprince22]

I would eat this series up, if I wasn't in class now

Can't wait to get home to read

MARAUDERS X GIRL DAD

NOTE. this series is going to be heavily requests-based and most imagines/scenarios will be below/around 1k words long, short and sweet~ but, to start, i'll write a quick imagine for each

key : new = ⟡

JAMES POTTER

DADDY INTRO. professional ice hockey player with a wife and a baby girl (you) who he lovingly calls his princess

IMAGINES.

BABY

coming home from practice

TODDLER

⟡ mah lub (my love) : referring to him by a fond endearment

CHILD

SIRIUS BLACK

DADDY INTRO. mechanics shop owner for motorbikes and cars and famous motor artist, not married with a professional nanny and a baby girl (you) who he lovingly calls his mon chou

IMAGINES.

BABY

...

TODDLER

⟡ affirmations : your dad proves he's a better father than his own

CHILD

REMUS LUPIN

DADDY INTRO. started as an amateur writer but is now the CEO of a successful publishing company. is happily married to his university sweetheart with a baby girl (you) who he lovingly calls his honey

IMAGINES.

BABY

...

TODDLER

⟡ da'ing (darling) : referring to him by a fond endearment

CHILD

A/N : this was lovingly requested to me a year ago and it took me a really really long time to figure out how i want to go about it. i'm going to keep to very short, fluffy imagines and i gave everyone some background to inspire a variety of scnearios/imagines that may be requested -- nevertheless, this is a girl dad au and reader is the adorable daughter of our favourite boys!

[saphiraprince22]

MARAUDERS X GIRL DAD

NOTE. this series is going to be heavily requests-based and most imagines/scenarios will be below/around 1k words long, short and sweet~ but, to start, i'll write a quick imagine for each

key : new = ⟡

JAMES POTTER

DADDY INTRO. professional ice hockey player with a wife and a baby girl (you) who he lovingly calls his princess

IMAGINES.

BABY

coming home from practice

TODDLER

⟡ mah lub (my love) : referring to him by a fond endearment

CHILD

SIRIUS BLACK

DADDY INTRO. mechanics shop owner for motorbikes and cars and famous motor artist, not married with a professional nanny and a baby girl (you) who he lovingly calls his mon chou

IMAGINES.

BABY

...

TODDLER

⟡ affirmations : your dad proves he's a better father than his own

CHILD

REMUS LUPIN

DADDY INTRO. started as an amateur writer but is now the CEO of a successful publishing company. is happily married to his university sweetheart with a baby girl (you) who he lovingly calls his honey

IMAGINES.

BABY

...

TODDLER

⟡ da'ing (darling) : referring to him by a fond endearment

CHILD

A/N : this was lovingly requested to me a year ago and it took me a really really long time to figure out how i want to go about it. i'm going to keep to very short, fluffy imagines and i gave everyone some background to inspire a variety of scnearios/imagines that may be requested -- nevertheless, this is a girl dad au and reader is the adorable daughter of our favourite boys!

[saphiraprince22]

Hi, it's so good to see you here @kquil

AFFIRMATIONS

GIRL DAD SIRIUS BLACK X DAUGHTER READER | imagine

ଳ. tags : fluff ; domestic fluff ; girl dad sirius black ; toddler reader ; sirius black is scared of being a dad ; reader is too precious ; trauma healing ; being a parent should not be taken lightly ; very fluffy ; hurt/comfort?

ଳ. length : 1.2k

ଳ. sum. : sirius black proves to be a better father than his own

navi. | series m.list

Sirius looks to James, his brother in all but blood, for many things, and it started on the very first day they met. From the carefree silliness to the teasing quips and the lover-boy inclinations, they were all picked up from James. Of course, this didn’t make Sirius an exact copy of his best friend; he had his particular idiosyncrasies, too. He loved the look of ink on his skin; he embraced artistry in its many forms—tattoos, motor engineering, music, and fashion. He adored the feel of leather against his skin and exalted in the liberation only achieved by riding his vintage motorbike. Sirius was still Sirius, but whenever a shadow of hesitance clouded over him, like a brewing storm rumbling overhead, threatening to consume him whole, that was when he looked towards the one person he trusted most. 

He looked to James when integrating into school for the first time; he looked to James when eating sweets for the first; when participating in sport for the first time; when falling in love for the first time, so many of his first times, no matter how important and small, Sirius always looked towards James for assurance and inspiration—to learn and be taught how to go about doing something new. James has never failed him. And Sirius trusted in that when he looked to James once again, when he found you, his precious daughter, on the step of his front door. It was a frightening moment, and Sirius was flooded with memories of his childhood, tormented by the parents who should have protected him from all evils, supported his growth as a person, loved him unconditionally, and done… more for him, but received nothing, received worse. 

Could he do that for his daughter when he didn’t know the first thing about what a good parent was?

That was the one thought that made his entire world stop spinning, stuttering in place as it verged on collapsing. You looked so small, bundled up in blankets, snoozing peacefully in comfort, unaware of the ruination of your newly informed father via a note that he was now, in fact, a father. Sirius doesn’t know what pushed him to keep you; he knew he wasn’t ready, but he bit his tongue and moved before his spiralling mind could catch up to him with dreadful sensibilities that would have him turning the other way and offering you up to child services. 

Despite maturing from adolescence into adulthood, Sirius still heavily relied on his fighting reflex kicking in to make the decisions for him. Granted, it wasn’t always the best decision, but he was doing wonderfully now, and so his senses warranted some praise and trust. 

That night passed in a blur as Sirius ran to James’ house—he didn’t have a car, only his motorbike, but that wasn’t safe for the baby—rang his best friend’s door panting and wheezing as he offered you up as if he were reenacting the Lion King (a movie James highly recommended he allow you to watch someday when Sirius was desperate for some peace). 

As you slept and woke up and fussed and cried and slept again, only to stir and cry yourself awake, James and his wife offered their guidance. Drawing experience from raising their own daughter, they taught him with patience and kindness, and understanding, something he noted and aimed to replicate with you. You deserved everything, and a gentle voice was the least he could offer. 

James and his wife, the saints that they were, happily allowed him to stay over for the week so that he wasn’t alone when taking care of you for the first time. They also ensured that one of them would always be on standby for him should he need any questions answered. Soon enough that first night, Remus paid him a visit too and offered even more guidance and help while his wife helped provide bagfuls of nappies and formula to get him started right. 

He was so grateful to his friends that day, more than he’s ever expressed to them before. Because of them, he had the confidence to care for you alone and the confidence to trust in himself when it came to raising you well. By believing in him first, James, Remus and their respective partners have helped shape him into a better father than his own father could ever hope to be. And you became his light, the centre of his world, you’re the number one lady in his life now. 

“Daddy?~” You appear at the doorway, easily stepping into his home studio early in the morning. He was swamped with work and needed to make an immediate start on the tattoo design a client had commissioned him to create. Hence why he was up earlier than usual—at 5 o’clock in the morning—with a mug of strong coffee and bed hair, hunched over his drawing desk. He’s gone through several sheets of paper for the first few sketches and still has yet to be satisfied with a design, while his iPad lay in wait close by for when he was ready to transfer a satisfactory, rough draft onto a digital sketchbook for refinement. 

“What is it, mon chou?” Sirius asks, thankful for the break in his frustratingly stagnant workflow, but also equally surprised to see you up so early. It made him chuckle to see you in a similar state of dress—if only everyone were allowed to wear their pyjamas at all hours of the day, the world would be a little happier. 

“Are you workin’ already, Daddy?” Adorably rubbing your eyes with a closed fist, you step up to him and raise your arms with a silent plea to be scooped up, which Sirius happily does. He sits you on his lap with a suppressed yawn, smiling fondly as he watches you look over his subpar sketches with just as much awe as his fleshed-out designs. 

“Yup…” he sighs, resigned to his work as he presses a kiss onto your temple before reaching for his coffee. 

“Wow!” You audibly awe, the weight of drowsiness disappearing from your small frame as you give his sketches one last look before turning to look at your fatigued but smiling father. With a small hand, you reach up to gently pat his cheek, “I’m so proud of you, Daddy~”  

Your actions and words make Sirius pause, his joints locking up as his frame visibly tenses before his body collapses into itself. His coffee forgotten, Sirius circles his arms around you and hugs you close, trying not to succumb to his urgent need to squeeze you as tightly as he can; he doesn’t want to hurt you carelessly. You’re too sweet, too kind and too underserving of a man as inferior as him, and yet, you look to him as if he dotted the sky full of stars for you, as if he securely fitted the moon so that whenever night came, you always had a bright light guiding you. In your beautiful, adoring eyes, he sees the reflection of a man unworthy of your unconditional love, easily picking out his many shortcomings, and yet, you look to him for your firsts. Your first word, your first step, your first smile, your first laugh, he was the person you looked to with the same faith, hope and love he had always had in his best friend. You were that person for him. 

And what an honour that is. 

“Thank you…for being proud of me, baby.” Sirius almost sobs into your soft hair, pressing kiss after kiss onto your temple until you are a giggling mess, “I’m so proud of you, too…”

navi. | series m.list

a/n : this one was a little sombre in some areas but still quite fluffy, sirius deserves so so much, i swear to god! he will be healing with his baby though! that's a guarantee! also, i would like to remind everyone that you are loved and precious and bring so much to the world, you deserve to be treated kindly by everyone and most importantly, yourself <3

[saphiraprince22]

I love this series

Sam is going to lose his last brain cell like this

Nat is definitely keeping an eye out for the love birds and if i were them i fear what she will ask as payback

And i cant wait for them to get married

I LOVE THIS SERIES

Vibranium Dust

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Natasha helps to cover your secret relationship with Bucky.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, smoothies

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sunlight poured into the common area, casting a soft golden glow over the polished floors. The smell of waffles and fresh coffee lingered in the air, and Natasha was already in the kitchen—perfectly calm, black coffee in hand, hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to say I am awake, but only barely.

She was perched on a stool at the island, watching the toaster like it owed her money.

From down the hallway came the soft shuffle of two people trying very hard not to be suspicious.

Enter: you and Bucky.

Casual. So casual. Painfully casual.

You were walking a few inches apart, but you had the unmistakable look of someone who definitely hadn’t slept in their own bed. Bucky’s hair was still a little mussed in the back, like someone’s fingers had been in it. There were two mugs of coffee—one in each hand—but Bucky handed one to you with a quiet murmur and a glance that lasted just a little too long.

And the kicker?

Matching faint marks on both your necks.

Not obvious unless someone was really looking.

Natasha was always looking.

She didn’t say a word. Just sipped her coffee slowly, like she was watching a nature documentary in real time.

That’s when Peter Parker bounded into the room, bright-eyed and on his third toaster waffle already.

“Morning, guys!” he chirped, opening the fridge. “I’m starving. Stayed up way too late, almost beat that new boss in Elden Ring though, so worth—wait—uh—”

He turned, catching a glimpse of you both standing side-by-side by the counter.

Then he squinted.

Then he really squinted.

First at you. Then at Bucky. Then at the identical, slightly smudged marks just beneath both your jawlines.

And his eyes went wide.

“Wait a sec—” Peter blurted, brow furrowed. “Is that—do you guys both have, like—did you—?!”

SLAP.

A waffle smacked against his shoulder with the force of justice.

Peter jumped back. “WHAT THE—?!”

Natasha lowered the plate she had “accidentally” thrown from across the room and gave him the flattest look known to mankind.

“Oops,” she said blandly.

Peter stared at the waffle now sliding off his hoodie. “Why did you throw breakfast at me?!”

“Reflex,” she said. “Thought I saw a threat.”

“I was just—!”

“You were squinting too hard. I don’t trust that kind of squint this early.”

Peter opened his mouth again, but Natasha was already in front of him, stuffing a fresh waffle into his hands like a peace offering-slash-distraction.

“Eat. Now. No thoughts.”

Peter stared down at the waffle. “I feel like I missed something huge.”

Natasha gave him a tight smile. “Nope.”

He looked back at you and Bucky, who were both suddenly very interested in your coffee.

Suspicious. But now waffled.

Peter narrowed his eyes. “This feels like a cover-up.”

Natasha raised one brow. “I have seven knives hidden on my body right now.”

Peter blinked. “...Right. Cool. Got it. No more questions.”

He slowly backed out of the room, waffle in hand, glancing over his shoulder like someone who knew he’d seen something important but had no idea what.

The door slid shut behind him.

Silence returned.

You turned to Nat, eyes wide. “You threw a waffle at him.”

“You’re welcome,” she said taking another sip of her coffee. “He was about to connect the dots. You’re lucky I keep frozen backup.”

Bucky blinked at her. “How did you even know—?”

“I’ve been doing this since Budapest,” she replied, already pouring herself another cup of coffee. “Covering messes. Cleaning up disasters. Assaulting teens with carbs.”

Bucky coughed, laughing behind his mug. “You’re unbelievable.”

Nat gave him a lazy smirk. “And yet, here I am. Keeping your secret romance alive. You’re welcome.”

You tried to suppress a laugh, shaking your head. “What do we owe you?.”

“Oh, I’ll collect eventually,” she said. “Probably at your wedding. Or the next time Sam walks in and you’re on each other’s laps.”

You and Bucky exchanged a look of mild guilt.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “...Don’t tell me that already happened.”

You shrugged. “Depends on how you define ‘lap.’”

Nat turned back to the waffle maker. “God help you both.”

Then she smirked.

“Just don’t make me throw a pancake at Sam next. That one might fight back.”

Later that day, the gym was bathed in the sterile, fluorescent glow of overhead lights, the rhythmic clang of weights and the hum of treadmills echoing off the walls. The Avengers’ training facility was in full swing—Steve was off somewhere doing morally upright cardio, and Sam had claimed the squat rack like it was a personal vendetta.

You were pretending to stretch near the mats. Bucky was a few feet away at the pull-up bar, doing reps like he wasn’t aware you were there. Like he hadn’t just had his hands on your waist behind the weapons locker twenty minutes ago.

Casual. Again. Painfully casual.

Unfortunately, Sam was not stupid.

He paused mid-set, towel slung over his shoulder, and gave Bucky a long, narrowed stare.

“Hey, cyborg,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow. “You got a reason you keep looking over at the mats like they’re gonna explode?”

Bucky dropped from the pull-up bar, landing light. “Just keeping an eye on form. Stretching’s important.”

Sam didn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”

You coughed and reached for a resistance band, clearly trying to look occupied and not like you were considering fake-stretching your way into another room.

Sam turned to you. “And you. You’ve been in here for forty-five minutes and haven’t actually done anything.”

“Prepping my muscles,” you said brightly. “Activation is vital.”

Sam squinted. “You said that last week. I don’t think ‘activation’ is a real word outside TikTok.”

Before you could come up with a clever reply (or fake an injury), the gym door slid open.

Enter: Natasha Romanoff.

In full tactical leggings, tank top, and a towel over her shoulder like she was born to win spy-themed gym class.

She took one look at the room—at you, at Bucky, at Sam’s suspicious expression—and her eyes narrowed half a millimeter. A full diagnostic scan, complete in under two seconds.

Then she smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.

“Hey boys,” she said, sauntering in like a cat who had personally hidden all the bodies and then sold the house. “Did I miss the passive-aggressive circuit training?”

Sam pointed an accusing finger. “I know something is up with those two.”

“Oh?” Nat said, walking over to the weight bench and casually loading two plates like it was nothing. “Like what?”

“Like—” Sam gestured vaguely between you and Bucky. “Like that. They’re being weird. Too quiet. Avoiding eye contact. Or making too much eye contact. It’s suspicious.”

Nat laid back on the bench and started benching like she wasn’t doing more than half the team could with one arm.

“They’re always weird,” she said conversationally. “That’s just their vibe. Moody tension and repressed feelings. It’s practically aesthetic at this point.”

You tried not to choke on your own breath. Bucky let out a short cough that might’ve been a laugh.

Sam folded his arms. “Then explain why Bucky had glitter on his shoulder this morning.”

Nat paused mid-rep.

Slowly lowered the bar.

Sat up.

“Glitter?” she repeated.

“Yup.” Sam crossed his arms. “Glitter. Sparkly. Suspiciously Y/N-colored glitter.”

You opened your mouth, but Nat beat you to it.

“That wasn’t glitter,” she said calmly. “That was vibranium dust.”

Sam blinked. “Vibranium...dust?”

“Yep.” She nodded seriously, patting the bar like she was weighing the lie. “We were running a containment test in the lab last night. Microparticles. Stuff gets everywhere. You think glitter’s bad? Try cleaning up experimental Wakandan debris.”

Sam looked alarmed. “Wait, is that dangerous?”

Nat stood, grabbing her towel and tossing it over one shoulder with impressive nonchalance. “Only if you inhale it and start levitating. Which you haven’t. Yet.”

Sam stared at her, now mildly concerned. “You’re messing with me.”

“Am I?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “Or are you just mad you didn’t get invited to science night?”

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek.

You were biting your lip so hard you were in danger of drawing blood.

Sam threw his hands up. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m watching you two.”

“You always do,” Nat said, giving him a wink. “That’s why we like you. So diligent.”

Sam turned and walked away, muttering under his breath about “paranoia” and “glitter conspiracies.”

The second the gym door closed behind him, you let out a slow exhale. “Vibranium dust?”

Natasha turned to you with a look of satisfied brilliance. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Bucky stared at her. “Do you just… make this stuff up on the spot?”

“Please,” she said. “I’ve got at least twelve pre-loaded cover stories ready for rotation. That was number six. Glitter emergency protocol.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “You’re terrifying.”

“Flattering,” she said, walking toward the exit. “Just don’t make me fake a fire drill next time. Or explain to Tony why his security footage mysteriously cut out between 2:04 and 2:17 PM.”

You and Bucky exchanged a glance. Guilty. Grinning.

“Define cut out,” Bucky said.

Nat pointed at him without looking back. “You’re paying for the next round of waffles.”

A few minutes later you and Bucky sat side-by-side on the padded bench against the far wall, legs brushing just enough to feel it.

He took a long sip from the smoothie in his hand—strawberry banana, courtesy of the cafeteria downstairs—and passed it to you without a word.

You drank, leaning your shoulder gently into his for just a second longer than necessary, then passed it back. “Still can’t believe she said vibranium dust.”

Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “The fact that Sam believed it is the best part.”

“I almost lost it when she said you might start levitating.”

“She said it so seriously, too,” he added, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I think Sam started checking his pulse.”

You giggled, covering your mouth with your hand. “Honestly? If you did start levitating, I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re like three bad days away from unlocking a new superpower.”

Bucky smirked and leaned his metal arm along the back of the bench, fingers brushing the top of your shoulder. “What, and ruin the mystique? I like being a grounded kind of guy.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Very grounded. Except when you're scaling walls like a cat burglar and sneaking into my room at 2 AM.”

He leaned in slightly, grin deepening. “You left the door open.”

“That was not an invitation.”

“Sure,” he said, voice low and amused. “You accidentally leave the door open. Every time.”

You nudged him with your elbow, grinning. “Well, being cute definitely lets you get away with it.”

“Get away?” he teased, handing you the smoothie again. “Pretty sure you’re the one sparkling like a disco ball.”

You took a sip, shooting him a mock glare over the rim of the cup. “Funny—you didn’t seem to mind glitter last night.”

Bucky raised both eyebrows, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “I didn’t complain about a lot of things last night.”

Your face flushed instantly, and you turned your attention very intently to the smoothie.

He chuckled softly and bumped your knee with his. “Hey.”

You looked up.

There was something softer in his expression now—less teasing, more gentle. More real.

You smiled, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it did whenever he got like this.

“You know we’re living under Natasha’s secret protection program, right?”

Bucky chuckled again. “We owe her so many waffles.”

“Should we, like… get her a thank-you basket or something?”

He tilted his head, pretending to consider. “Or a knife set. Personalized. For all her dramatic snack-based violence.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder, finally relaxing into the quiet.

He grinned, eyes twinkling.

“Let’s just enjoy the mess for now.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway.

He leaned in and kissed your temple gently.

“Until then,” he murmured, “I’m fine with being suspicious and sparkly.”

You laughed against his shoulder. “You’re the prettiest glitter boy I’ve ever seen.”

Meanwhile,  Sam stood in the tech hub like he was about to interrogate a war criminal.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he said grimly, pointing at the nearest wall panel. “We need to talk.”

The AI responded immediately, perky and just a little too cheerful.

“Wilson. Trying to order kale again? Or looking for another playlist called ‘Suspicion Vibes’?”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “I need answers, not attitude.”

“Noted. Proceed with your deeply serious query.”

He took a breath, crossed his arms. “Was there a vibranium containment test last night?”

A pause. “There was not.”

“Are you sure?” he said, like he was challenging a witness in court. “No lab experiments? No Wakandan tech stuff? Not even, like, a little vibranium flaking off something?”

“Sam,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said patiently, “vibranium doesn’t flake. It’s not a croissant.”

Sam blinked. “But Nat said—”

“—that you might start levitating?” The AI’s voice went dry. “Yes. That was a bold lie. Impressive delivery. Truly Oscar-worthy.”

He frowned. “So the stuff on Bucky’s shoulder?”

“Cosmetic glitter.”

Sam stared at the panel like it had personally betrayed him. “Glitter?!”

“Technically non-toxic, low-grade craft store glitter. Pink. With silver specks. Possibly strawberry-scented.”

Sam closed his eyes. “I knew it. I knew it wasn’t vibranium. But I doubted myself. I Googled symptoms of levitation.”

“You also drank a kale smoothie and did twelve squats in a row ‘just in case,’” F.R.I.D.A.Y. added helpfully. “The footage was... memorable.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I got played.”

“If it helps,” she said sympathetically, “Natasha Romanoff has a 96.7% success rate in lying to male teammates under emotional duress.”

Sam pointed at the screen. “That’s weirdly specific.”

He sighed deeply, deflated. Then a thought occurred to him.

“Okay. Fine. New question. Pull today’s gym footage. I need to confirm something about Bucky and Y/N. I swear something’s going on there.”

There was a suspicious pause.

“Mmm... can’t do that.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because someone—definitely not Natasha—scrambled the security feed between 2:04 and 2:17 PM. That section is now just ambient whale sounds and footage of Steve doing yoga from 2014.”

Sam stared, horrified. “I KNEW IT. She has tech sabotage plans. This place is a circus.”

“You’re just mad you’re not one of the clowns in the spotlight.”

Sam glared. “You think this is funny?”

“You spent an hour today whispering about ‘dust particles’ like a man uncovering alien life. I think it’s hilarious.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Eventually: “...Can I at least have access to hallway footage?”

“Sure. But fair warning, Y/N was holding a smoothie and smiling at Barnes for four seconds longer than the platonic limit. Viewer discretion is advised.”

Sam groaned again, turning to leave.

“Would you like me to prep a PowerPoint titled ‘This Is Clearly a Relationship’?”

“I’M FINE.”

As he stormed down the hallway, the interface behind him blinked softly.

“You are not fine,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said sweetly to herself. “But you are very, very funny.”

A/N: its me again, hi!! i’m really sorry for the delay in posting this new part. things have been super busy lately, i’m currently in my final year of college, and it’s been a bit overwhelming with all the assignments. thank you so much for your patience and understanding! i truly appreciate it. i’m doing my best to get back on track and update more regularly soon. <33 ily guys

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