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[akshayaquapri]

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[bacchuschucklefuck]

Hi! I just need to ask after seeing your recent Bad Kids Class Swap piece - do you have an online store/do you think you might ever consider printing the piece as a poster? I’m in love with it and I know I’d absolutely buy it right away XD

huh you know what let's get a poll goin! lemme know if folks want to like buy prints from this blog and such. there are literally Two (2) pieces eligible for prints here anyway lol

more information: I'll probs use inprnt if I put up a storefront and I'll only put up standalone illustrations for prints. fully leaving the future open for this one I'm truly not pressed either way abt this

[the-shedevil-writes]

Polaroids (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. WORD COUNT: 2.3k WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on. 

But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.

They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one. 

The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her. 

He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him. 

They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life. 

His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight. 

It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons. 

After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it. 

That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away. 

Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with. 

The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing. 

“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.

Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him. 

“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?” 

Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman. 

He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.

Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller. 

“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with. 

“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.

“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.

He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go. 

“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”

“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now. 

“No!” He grinned.

The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did. 

He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement. 

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.

Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!” 

Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.

“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.

He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming. 

That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly. 

“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.

He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.

She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.

“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.

He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly. 

She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it. 

He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”

She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home. 

“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.

She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.

He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”

That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.” 

He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.

And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had. 

“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.

She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”

“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.” 

A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said. 

He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently. 

“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.

He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.” 

She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.

The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.

He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’. 

And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for. 

Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by. 

[luvrrszn]

nasty old dog

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY x FEM!READER

summary silent, broody...how can you resist your mysterious older neighbour?

warnings fluff-ish, age gap (early 20s, late 30s), nsfw (smut), bad brain-rotted writing

a/n heh......send requests pls

masterlist

the first time you meet him, he’s standing at your front door in full tactical gear.

not just a vest or boots—everything. black from head to toe, a skull-print balaclava covering most of his face. there’s a duffel slung over one shoulder, and your parcel in his hand.

you freeze.

he doesn’t say anything at first—just stares at you. and then, quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“this came to mine.”

you take the box slowly, fingers brushing the gloves he hasn’t taken off. your eyes flick to his—dark, heavy-lidded, with a hint of tiredness that makes something twist in your chest.

“…thanks,” you manage, trying not to sound nervous.

he nods once and turns without another word. just disappears into the apartment across the hall like this is normal. like he’s normal.

you close the door and stand there for a long moment.

“…what the hell.”

—

you tell yourself not to be weird about it. but every time you see him—taking out the trash, coming back from a run, carrying enough groceries for a family of five—you get more and more curious.

there’s something about him. the way he’s always alone. how he never quite makes eye contact. how your cat likes to sit by the front door, ears perked, tail twitching, every time his boots echo down the hallway—like she knows exactly when he’s coming home.

he’s strange. broody. definitely hiding something.

so of course you bake cookies.

and occasionally leave them on his doorstep.

because you're a nice neighbour!

because you’re nosy. and maybe a little reckless.

and because god help you, your mysterious neighbour is hot.

—

at first, it's subtle. a soft nod when you pass by each other in the hallways, and even an occasional gruff "mornin'" from the man.

simon doesn’t exactly do small talk—but he starts remembering your name, starts holding the lobby door open a little longer when your arms are full of groceries. he even helps you carry them once. gruff, silent, but his hand wraps fully around the handle of your tote bag like it weighs nothing.

there’s a moment, that day. where your fingers brush his. and he flinches—not from you, but from himself. like he wasn’t expecting how warm you’d feel. how soft your hands were, untouched by the horrors of the world.

then it’s a sticky note.

you find it one night, stuck on your fridge in all caps, scrawled with a heavy hand:

“FIXED YOUR SINK. STOP USING THE DUCT TAPE.”

you don’t even know how he got in—must’ve used the spare key you gave your building’s maintenance guy. you leave a tupperware of cookies on his doorstep the next day. he doesn’t say anything, but a week later, your broken curtain rod is magically fixed too, and your empty tupperware sits on your kitchen counter.

and somehow, this becomes your thing.

he drops by after missions—always late at night, always quiet. you never ask questions. he never offers answers. but he shows up with oil stains on his shirt and shadows under his eyes, and you let him in, let him rest. you even start cooking bigger portions, just so he'll have some home-cooked food to eat when he drops by at night. you don't ask questions, you don't say anything. you just give him some food as he tugs off his skull balaclava.

sometimes he falls asleep on your couch, jaw slack, brow still furrowed like he’s expecting a fight even in sleep. other times, he just… sits with you. watches whatever’s on the tv without a word. you talk. he listens. and every now and then, when you say something funny or dumb or weird, the corner of his mouth twitches. barely noticeable. but it’s there.

eventually you get comfortable with him. you curl up against him during movie nights, head resting on his chest. his arm rests on the back of the sofa behind you. his hand doesn't wrap around your shoulder. he makes sure there's some sort of distance between him and the little young thing sitting beside him.

you learn he likes his tea strong. that he only takes sugar when he’s had a rough day. that he reads, sometimes, when he can’t sleep. that he has a soft spot for your cat, even if he pretends to ignore her—pretends not to notice when she curls up beside his boots. (you even catch him smiling at her once, but you pretend not to notice)

you start to learn the rhythm of him. the little ways he says “i care” without ever saying it at all.

eventually, you stop pretending he���s just your neighbour.

but he doesn’t.

he keeps his distance, even as he inches closer. never lets himself touch you for too long. never stays the night, no matter how late it gets. you catch the way he looks at you sometimes—like he wants something he doesn’t think he should want.

he’s careful. too careful. because you’re bright and soft and still figuring things out. and he’s lived a thousand lives in the dark, each one heavier than the last.

and maybe that’s why it nearly breaks something in you when one night, after a silence stretched too long, he just says it.

quietly. like he’s scared he’ll ruin it.

“i sleep better here.”

you don’t say anything. just reach for his hand and squeeze. and this time, he doesn’t pull away.

—

and one day, he comes back more broken than usual.

you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he lingers in the doorway like he’s debating whether or not he should’ve even come. his jaw is tight. his knuckles are bruised. and when he finally steps inside, he doesn't say a word—just drops his gear by the door, like always, and sinks onto your couch like gravity's finally gotten the best of him.

you sit beside him, quiet. you let the silence stretch.

until you finally ask, “si, are you okay?”

he doesn’t answer right away. just stares ahead, breathing deep, like your soft little apartment is the only thing keeping him tethered.

“had to do lotsa' things i didn’t wanna' do,” he mutters eventually. voice low. rough. “a lot more than usual.”

your hand finds his and you squeeze. your grip is gentle. grounding. “you’re home now.”

he turns to look at you then. and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch—something sharp, haunted. but under it… there’s hunger too. not just for you, but for the comfort you bring. for the peace he only finds in your presence.

and maybe that’s what makes you brave.

maybe that’s why you shift closer, crawl gently into his lap, hands bracing on his broad shoulders. you feel the way his body tenses beneath you, the way he swallows hard when your fingers ghost along the back of his neck.

“let me take care of you,” you whisper.

“sweetheart…” he warns, already shaking his head.

you start grinding down on him a little, just to test the waters. but his hands come to your waist. but they don’t push. they just hold. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“i do,” you murmur, leaning in so your lips ghost along his jawline. “i know exactly what i want. i want you, si."

his breath stutters. you press a kiss just below his ear. his grip around you tightens into somewhat of a hug.

“don’t do this,” he says, but his voice is wrecked. you notice the slightest tremble in his hands and voice. barely noticeable to anyone else, but you can feel it.

“why not?” you whisper. “i know you want me too.”

“you’re young.” he finally says it. the thing that’s been sitting heavy between you both.

“you’ve got your whole damn life ahead of you. you shouldn’t be wasting it on some old bastard who drags death with him wherever he goes.”

“i’m not wasting anything,” you whisper, pulling back. you look into his eyes and your hands come up to hold each side of his head. “i’m choosing you, you old dog. doesn’t that count for something?”

and it’s like that finally breaks him.

because the next thing you know, his mouth is on yours—desperate, almost angry, like he’s been trying to hold himself back for months and he just can’t anymore. his hands grip your hips tight, dragging you closer, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you in his lap.

and when he kisses you again, it’s not hesitant. it’s hungry.

his lips are hot, almost feverish against yours, and you can feel the desperation in every movement. his hands are everywhere—palming your hips, sliding beneath your shirt to feel the warm curve of your waist, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

and you? you just melt for him.

you thread your fingers through his short crop of hair, tugging gently, and he groans low in his throat. you whisper his name, over and over, like a prayer, like something sacred. and it's music to his ears.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, “you don’t know what you do to me, sweet girl.”

but you do.

you feel it in the way he grinds up into you, slow and controlled, like he’s still trying to restrain himself even now. like he doesn’t want to hurt you. like he wants to worship you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you with something close to reverence.

“i want all of you, si,” you whisper. “please.”

his jaw clenches, like he’s fighting every instinct to be good, to be safe, to keep distance. but you see the moment he gives in. the moment he realises you’re not afraid of him. you want him. all of him.

he stands with you in his arms, effortless, and carries you to your bedroom. he lays you out so gently you nearly cry. and when he finally takes off your clothes, it's like unwrapping something precious—his touch is rough in places, but careful where it matters.

“you’re so fuckin’ soft,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along your collarbone, “so goddamn perfect.”

your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, and he helps you pull it over his head. you take a moment, just looking at him—all scars and strength and something broken that only you ever get to see.

“you’re beautiful,” you say, and his breath hitches.

he kisses you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him feel alive. like the war stops when your mouth is on his.

and when he finally slides into you, it's slow. unbearably slow. you feel every inch of him, the stretch, the fullness, the way his breath stutters when you moan his name. but he fits perfectly. like he's the puzzle piece you've been searching for. like this was meant to be.

one hand toys with your nipple while the other rubs soft circles on your clit.

he’s whispering things between gritted teeth—“that’s it, sweetheart,” “so good f'me,” “i’ve got you”—his voice like gravel and honey in your ear.

and when he finally loses the last bit of restraint, it’s devastating—his rhythm picking up, hips snapping into yours, his forehead pressed to yours as he groans your name like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

"f-fuck si—oh yeah right there—oh!" your moans are almost pornographic, only spurring simon on as he picks up his pace. faster, deeper, and soon you feel the familiar warmth in your belly as your stomach coils.

you fall apart beneath him, trembling, gasping, held together only by his arms around you and the heat of his breath against your cheek. your walls tighten around him, squeezing him. and soon he follows with a low, broken sound and your name on his lips like a plea.

he spills deep inside you, your walls milking him for all that he is.

and then it’s quiet.

his body curled around yours, still catching his breath as he pulls out of you. your fingers tracing lazy circles along his chest. his thumb brushing soft over your waist like he can’t stop touching you, like he doesn’t want to.

you feel his lips press into your hair as he mutters, barely audible:

“don’t know what i ever did to deserve you.”

[mssishipi]

say cheese — pjs, sjy

— in which jake and jay capture the most beautiful, fucked-out masterpiece on film.

warning: explicit content (smut), threesome (rough dom jay, soft dom jake, sub reader), blowjob, deep throating, facial, unprotected sex, multiple sex position, hentai like expressions, picture taking, some mxm scene (don't like? don't read), double vaginal penetration, straight up porn. MDNI.

note: this is rotting in my drafts, i really need to clean since my storage are full (128 gb is not enough for my fucking files lol)

"I can't believe you spent a hundred dollars on a Polaroid camera."

You huffed, arms crossed as you stared at Jake, who was grinning ear to ear while unboxing his parcel. Across the room, Jay chuckled, his fingers absentmindedly adjusting the tuning pegs on his guitar.

Jake barely acknowledged your complaint, too absorbed in peeling away the tape and lifting the lid of the box. His eyes practically sparkled as he gently pulled out the camera, running his fingers over its smooth surface.

"I've been jealous of my friends showing off their Polaroid pictures—sticking them on their phone cases, tucking them into their wallets, pinning them to their walls," Jake explained, turning the camera over in his hands. "I just had to get one for myself. Besides, Polaroid film is so aesthetic. I wanna start a collection."

You scoffed, unimpressed. "We have a printer, you know. I could literally edit a photo with a Polaroid frame and print it out for you. Same look, less money wasted."

Jake shot you an incredulous glance, his nose scrunching slightly before he turned back to the instruction manual. "It’s not the same," he muttered, flipping through the tiny booklet.

Jay, who had finally set his guitar down on its stand, stretched his arms before strolling over. "You know what’s so special about Polaroid photos?" he mused, plopping down beside Jake and watching as he struggled to insert the film. "It’s the fact that it’s a one-time shot. No retakes, no backups. That exact moment, captured forever in its rawest form. And because there's only one copy, it's yours alone. It makes it feel... special."

You raised a skeptical brow, watching the two of them fumble with the camera like a pair of kids assembling a Lego set. 

"It's called being practical," you said, holding up two fingers in a peace sign to emphasize the word.

Jake finally managed to snap the film cartridge into place, and the camera let out a satisfying click. He gasped in delight, shaking Jay’s shoulder. "It’s in! It's ready!"

Jay grinned, leaning back on his hands. "Then take a test shot. Let’s see if it works."

Jake eagerly lifted the camera, aiming it at you. Your eyes widened. "Wait, no—"

Click.

A soft whirring sound filled the room as the camera ejected the developing photo. Jake snatched it up, waving it in the air with excitement. "Ohh, this is gonna be so good."

You groaned, covering your face. "I wasn’t ready!"

"That’s the beauty of it!" Jake beamed. Jay laughed, watching as the image slowly began to take shape. "If you hate it, just take another one."

You shot him a deadpan look. "Defeats the whole ‘one-time special moment’ argument, don’t you think?"

You leaned in to get a better look at the Polaroid in Jake’s hand. The moment your eyes landed on it, your mouth fell open in horror. Your expression in the photo was atrocious—wide eyes, lips slightly parted, caught mid-protest.

Jake, instantly reading your mind, grinned wickedly. Just as you reached to snatch the photo, he yanked his hand up, holding it high above his head. "Oh-ho, no way! This is a masterpiece!" he cackled, his laughter echoing through the room.

"Jake, give it!" You lunged, but he danced backward, still laughing, the Polaroid waving mockingly in his grip.

"Throw it away, fuck you!" you huffed, but instead of complying, Jake grinned and tossed the photo to Jay.

"Catch!"

Jay snatched it midair, immediately taking off across the room. Your eyes widened. "No—Jay, don’t you dare!" 

The room erupted into chaos. You bolted after him, but before you could get close, Jake grabbed you around the waist, locking his arms around you in a tight hold.

"Not so fast!" he teased, holding you back as you squirmed in his grip, your feet kicking wildly, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to break free.

"Give it!" you shrieked, voice pitching with sheer indignation. "I’ll let you guys take another one—just give it to me!"

Jay stood on the couch, tilting the Polaroid in his hand as he examined it with an amused hum. His gaze flickered toward you, still trapped in Jake’s arms, your face twisted in frustration.

"I need a Polaroid to display in my wallet too," he mused casually.

You rolled your eyes and marched toward him, reaching for the photo, but Jay smirked and lifted it just out of reach.

"You can take a picture of me anytime and display it however you want," you huffed, stretching on your toes. "But not this one."

Jay watched, clearly entertained, as you finally managed to snatch the photo from his hand. You immediately scowled at the image. 

"We need a lot of photos with you," Jake chimed in from behind. Ignoring them, you dropped onto the couch, still glaring at the Polaroid.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. I just need to fix my hair first before we take another one."

Before you could move, Jake suddenly wrapped his arms around you again from behind, pulling you close against his chest. You barely had a second to react before he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin.

"No need for that, love," he murmured, his voice low and affectionate.

You stiffened, gripping the Polaroid tightly, heat rising to your face. Jay raised an eyebrow, watching the two of you with a smirk.

“Tongue out, baby,” Jake groaned, gripping his cock, his one hand holding the camera as his eyes locked onto your flushed face. 

You knelt before them, naked, skin damp with sweat.  The heat of their gazes burned into you. 

Obediently, you let your tongue slip out, and beside him, Jay let out a low groan, his fist working himself faster at the sight.

The sharp click of the Polaroid camera echoed through the room, the flash blinding for a second. Before you could even register the moment, Jay’s fingers tangled into your hair, yanking you forward.

A startled gasp left your lips before his cock pushed past them, the thick weight of him filling your mouth. You choked out a moan, hands gripping your knees, keeping still as his grip tightened.

"Fuck—just like that," Jay hissed, forcing you down further, his other hand fisting his base as he watched you struggle to take him. His grip was rough, tugging you back only to shove you down again, setting a ruthless rhythm. 

Tears pricked your eyes, spit dribbling down your chin as you gagged around Jay’s cock. Beside him, Jake smirked, watching intently, his own fist gliding lazily over his length. 

Click.

“Fuck,” Jake groaned, lowering the camera slightly, his gaze trailing over you—your swollen lips stretched around Jay, your flushed cheeks stained with tears. "So beautiful."

Jay chuckled breathlessly, his grip tightening in your hair as he angled your face toward the camera. “Yeah? Then let’s give him another good shot, baby.”

Without warning, he pushed deeper, his cock sliding past the tight ring of your throat. You gagged, body jerking, but Jay only moaned, holding you there, forcing you to take it.

“Holy shit,” Jake exhaled, capturing the moment with another click. His eyes darkened as he watched your lashes flutter, the way your throat contracted around Jay. “Hold it, baby. Just a little longer.”

"Me too, please."

Jake grabbed your free hand, guiding it to his cock, groaning the second your fingers wrapped around him. He was hot and heavy in your grip, pulsing with need, and as soon as you started stroking, he let out a low whine.

“Ahhh, you're so fucking sexy,” he breathed, hips twitching upward, fucking into your fist as he snapped another photo.

The Polaroid films were scattered across the floor in messy disarray—blurry flashes of you on your knees, your lips stretched around Jay, your eyes glossy with tears, your hand wrapped around Jake. Each moment captured, each one more obscene than the last.

Jay let out a sharp breath, his grip in your hair unrelenting as he started thrusting into your mouth. Your throat tightened around him, gagging as he pushed deeper, his groans growing desperate. Jake wasn’t any better, fucking into your palm, his breath coming out in ragged pants.

You forced your head back, Jay’s cock slipping from your swollen lips with a lewd pop as you turned your attention to Jake. His breath hitched, eyes blown wide as you wrapped your mouth around him, tongue swirling over the tip before sinking down.

"Fuck—" Jake groaned, head tipping back, his grip tightening on the camera as he barely managed to snap another photo.

Your hands worked them both—one stroking Jay’s slick length, squeezing just right, while your tongue alternated between them, switching back and forth, keeping them both on edge.

Jay hissed, hips twitching into your grip, his thumb swiping over your cheek, smearing spit across your flushed skin. “So fucking greedy,” he muttered, watching the way you licked up Jake’s shaft before turning back to him, taking him down again.

Jake cursed, his free hand gripping the back of your head, guiding you down further. 

Jay shifted, slipping from your grasp, moving behind you instead. Your mouth slipped from Jake’s cock, a needy whine escaping you as Jay manhandled you into position.

"I need to fuck you so bad," Jay murmured against your ear, his hands gripping your waist. 

You hummed in response, too focused on the way Jake kneel to adjust and tugged you back toward his cock. Obediently, you opened your mouth again, tongue flicking over the head before sinking down. Your head bobbed eagerly, taking him deep, and both of them chuckled at your desperation.

“Such a good girl,” Jake groaned, brushing your hair back to get a better view.

Behind you, Jay spread your ass cheeks, groaning at the sight of your glistening cunt, slick and ready for him. His cock pressed against your entrance, sliding slowly along your folds, teasing—rubbing against your labia, down to your clit, making you moan around Jake’s length.

Jay watched as your pussy clenched around nothing, making his cock throb. He let out a shaky breath, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along your spine, trailing up to your nape before whispering filth into your ear.

“So fucking hungry,” he groaned. “Let me feed this needy little pussy.”

Then, without warning, he pushed inside.

A sharp squeal tore from your throat, body jolting forward at the sudden stretch, but Jake was there, his grip firm on the back of your head, keeping you in place.

“Stay still, baby,” Jake murmured, voice low and commanding. Behind you, Jay’s fingers dug into your stomach, trapping you against him as he bottomed out, your walls squeezing around his cock.

“Fuck,” Jay groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he felt you pulse around him. “You’re so fucking tight." His hands moved up, grabbing your breast, kneading the soft flesh with slow, deliberate squeezes.

Jake’s breath came in heavy, his cock twitching against your tongue as he shakily lifted the camera. His fingers gripped it tight, the moment too perfect to miss.

Click.

Jay smirked at the flash, looking directly into the camera, his cock buried deep inside you while his hands continued to toy with your body. Meanwhile, your face was a wreck, tears clinging to your lashes, cheeks flushed, mouth stretched full around Jake’s cock. 

"Try to smile for the next photos, hmm?" Jake murmured, brushing his fingers over your cheek, smearing your spit and tears.

“Yeah,” Jay mused. “Give the camera a pretty little smile while we ruin you.”

Both of them started to move, fast and rough.

Their moans turned breathless, high-pitched with pleasure as they used your body, stretching you open, leaving no part of you untouched. Your tears kept falling, slipping down your cheeks as you struggled to keep up.

Jay’s hands roamed everywhere, gripping your waist, squeezing your breasts, trailing down to your stomach, pressing against the outline of his cock buried deep inside you. Meanwhile, Jake was losing himself above you, his head tilting back, jaw slack as his hips stuttered, his tip hitting the back of your throat over and over.

"Hey, give her mouth a little break," Jay gritted out between clenched teeth, his pace never faltering as he slammed into you from behind. His fingers dug deeper into your hips, anchoring you in place.

Jake groaned, looking down at you, watching the way your lips stretched around him. 

He clicked his tongue, brushing damp hair from your face. “Tired already, baby?” he cooed, his thumb swiping over your puffy bottom lip. “Alright… but don’t think we’re done yet.”

With a final, slow drag of his cock over your tongue, he pulled out, tapping the tip against your cheek, smearing precum over your flushed skin. He sat back, stroking himself lazily as he watched Jay take over completely, his smirk growing as he reached for the camera again.

“Guess it’s time for some close-ups.” 

You squealed as Jay’s thrusts turned brutal. His hand went to your face, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing your lips into a soft pout as he fucked you harder.

Click. 

Jake adjusted his angle, the camera capturing everything—the way Jay was ruining you from behind, the exhaustion in your glossy eyes. His own cock twitched as he positioned himself between you both, rubbing the leaking tip against your flushed lips.

"Come on, my love. Smile." Jay’s voice was teasing as he whisper it. 

You tried—forced out a tired, dazed smile, your mind was too hazy with the pleasure. Click.

Jay groaned at the sight, gripping your chin to turn your face toward him, pressing a hot, messy kiss against your parted lips.

Jake chuckled, the shutter clicking again. Click.

Jay growled against your mouth, his pace turning erratic, slamming into you even deeper, hitting your sweet spot over and over. Your moans came out in broken cries.

Suddenly, Jay pulled away from your lips, his grip never loosening on your waist as he reached for Jake’s cock, guiding it into his own mouth.

Jake cursed under his breath, his thighs trembling as Jay’s lips wrapped around him, tongue flicking over the tip. You whined at the sight, leaning in without hesitation, your tongue trailing along the base, tracing every vein where Jay wasn’t covering.

“F-Fuck,” Jake gasped, his camera shaking slightly in his hand as he struggled to focus. His hips twitched, his body torn between watching and giving in to the overwhelming pleasure of both your mouths.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to steady the camera. Click.

The flash illuminated the scene—Jay sucking him off, your tongue lapping at his shaft, eyes eager with lust.

Jay pulled off with a slick pop, stroking Jake lazily. "Shit, you’re shaking already?" he teased, glancing up at him through heavy lids.

Jake let out a shaky breath, smirking despite himself. “Hard not to when you two look this good.” He ran a hand through his hair, barely holding back a groan as Jay flicked his tongue over the slit again.

Meanwhile, Jay’s thrusts never faltered, still driving into you, keeping you stretched around him. His free hand snaked back to your clit, rubbing it in slow circles that had you whining into Jake’s skin.

“Go on, baby,” Jay murmured, glancing down at you. “Make him cum.”

Jay pulled away, straightening his back, leaving you alone with Jake’s cock. You didn’t hesitate, immediately taking him back into your mouth, your lips wrapping around him as your moans vibrated against his length. The brutal pace Jay set behind you only made it messier, your body keening, your cries muffled as Jake groaned, watching you struggle to take it all.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks when Jake decided to thrust deeper, fucking into your throat without mercy. Your gag reflex flared, but you took it, letting him use you, letting Jay ruin you from behind.

“Shit,” Jake hissed, his fingers tightening in your hair, keeping you in place as his hips twitched forward. “You look so fucking good like this—choking on my cock while he splits you open.”

Jay groaned, his head falling back, completely lost in the way your cunt clenched around him, sucking him in tighter. 

"She's about to cum," Jay told Jake, voice breathless and strained. “She’s squeezing me so fucking tight.”

Jake gritted his teeth, looking down at you, he bites his lips as his stomach coiled painfully tight at the sight.

“Fuck—I’m gonna cum too,” he muttered, his hips jerking forward, his cock twitching on your tongue.

Jay let out a strained chuckle between moans. "Fuuuck, already? Goddamn," he whined, barely keeping himself together as he felt you pulse around him.

He pressed two fingers against your swollen clit, this time he rubbed it with ruthless, desperate circles.

"Come on, baby," Jay gritted out, his thrusts turning messy. "Cum for us—fuck, I wanna feel you shake."

Jake groaned as you whimpered around him, your body twitching violently, your thighs squeezing shut as the overwhelming pleasure took over. You couldn’t hold it back, your orgasm slammed into you, your walls clamping down so hard on Jay’s cock that it had him cursing, his rhythm faltering.

“Fuck—fuck, there you go, baby,” Jake grunted, watching your body shudder, the way your moans vibrated around his cock. With a sharp inhale, he pulled away, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. He replaced your hand with his own, stroking himself fast as he positioned the camera again, angling it just right to capture everything.

Your body still trembling from Jay’s relentless thrusts, but you forced your eyes open, letting your tongue loll out in anticipation.

"Paint me with your cum, 'Ikeu." 

Jake cursed under his breath, his hips stuttering as his orgasm hit. Hot ropes of cum spurted across your face, dripping down your cheeks, your lips, your tongue—just as the camera shutter snapped.

Click.

Jay grunted, his grip firm as he pulled you away from Jake's arms, his hands cupping your breasts, pressing your back flush against his chest. He carried you effortlessly, not once slipping out of you as he moved toward the couch.

You whimpered, your walls clamping down hard around him. Settling onto the couch, Jay wasted no time—his arms slid under your thighs, forcing your legs wide apart, keeping you completely open for him and Jake to see. His forearms bracing your trembling body as your hands clung to him for support.

He slammed into you again. The force had you crying out, your back arching. Your vision blurred, as the tears continue spilling freely down your cheeks.

Jake groaned at the sight, his cock twitching as he looked around at the polaroids scattered across the floor—each one capturing every filthy moment, every ruined expression on your face.

“Take it, take it, take it!” Jay gritted out, his focus solely on the way your pussy clenched around him, sucking him in with every thrust.

Your breasts bounced with each movement, the force of his strokes sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He was hitting that spot—that spot—so perfectly that your screams filled the room once again.

Your dazed eyes locked onto Jake, who was fisting his half-hard cock, watching the two of you with dark, hooded eyes. The moment he noticed you staring, he smirked and raised the camera again.

“Say cheese,” he teased, voice dripping with amusement.

Jay tilted his head over your shoulder, making sure to be in the shot, his cock still sliding in and out of you, the slick sound echoing in the air. Your body was trembling, overstimulated beyond reason, but somehow, you managed to raise a shaky hand in a peace sign, your eyes half-lidded, a ruined little smile tugging at your lips.

Jake grinned, angling the camera just right. Click. And by that time the flash illuminated, your orgasm hits.

“Ahh—fuck! Yes!” You screamed, your body convulsing as another orgasm ripped through you. Your walls fluttered, tightening so brutally around Jay that he nearly lost control.

Jay cursed under his breath, slowing his thrusts for a moment, trying to hold back the heat coiling in his stomach. Your pussy was gripping him too damn tight, milking him, begging for him to spill inside—but he wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet.

Still catching his breath, he smirked down at Jake. “Come here,” he panted, gripping your thighs tighter. “We’re gonna get a shot of you, too.”

Jake’s eyes darkened, his smirk widening as he give the camera to you. He knelt between your trembling legs, his hands gripping your thighs as he leaned in.

The moment his tongue met your clit, you jolted, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as fresh overstimulation crashed into you. Your fingers instantly tangled into his hair, pulling him closer as he flicked his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking softly.

Jay groaned, feeling every little tremor of pleasure ripple through you, feeling the way your walls pulsed around him as Jake devoured you.

“Shit,” Jay exhaled, his grip bruising on your hips. “You better get a good fucking shot of this, baby.”

He grabbed your trembling hand, guiding you to lift the camera. Your fingers barely steadied around it before the flash went off—click.

The image burned behind your lids for a second—Jake between your legs, tongue out, teasing your swollen clit while Jay’s cock was still buried deep inside you.

A whimper left your lips, your body shuddering violently as the pleasure became unbearable. Your legs tried to close instinctively, but Jake was quick to push them apart again, palms against your thighs.

“Stay open,” he muttered, his lips brushing over your slick folds. “Let me taste all of it.”

A drawn-out moan escaped you as Jake trailed his tongue lower, licking along the outline of Jay’s cock stretching you open. The sensation sent a shiver up Jay’s spine, his head falling back as he groaned.

“Fuck, Jake—” Jay gritted his teeth, feeling the wet heat of his boyfriend's mouth so close to where he was buried inside you.

Jake hummed in response, the vibration making you both shudder before he dipped lower, his tongue sliding over the mess of your fluids dripping down. Then, without warning, he took Jay’s balls into his mouth, sucking lightly, his hands still keeping your legs spread wide.

Jay let out a strangled moan, his grip on your hips tightening. “Stop for a moment—I don’t wanna cum yet,” he gritted out.

Jake pulled away from Jay just to latch onto your clit again, sucking hard. The sudden jolt of pleasure made you gasp, your back arching as another wave of heat surged through your body.

Jay smirked at your reaction, his hands sliding up your trembling torso. His fingers found your nipples, rolling them between his fingertips before giving them a sharp pinch. You cried out, your thighs twitching against Jake’s face, but he only held you down harder.

Jay started moving again—slow, teasing thrusts that had you gripping the camera weakly, your fingers struggling to keep hold as your body trembled under their combined assault. Every part of you was being used, overstimulated to the point of madness, and you could barely process the sensations anymore.

“Jake, open up,” Jay breathed. Jake lifted his chin from your stomach, parting his lips obediently. 

“Ready the camera,” Jay commanded, his gaze flicking to you. Your fingers trembled as you struggled to lift it, your body still reeling from their touch.

Then, without hesitation, Jay pushed three fingers past Jake’s lips, pressing them deep onto his tongue. Jake groaned, his lashes fluttering as he hollowed his cheeks around them. The sight had your breath hitching, your grip on the camera weak as you barely managed to angle it. Click.

Jay smirked, watching the way Jake took his fingers so easily, how his lips stretched around them, drool beginning to pool at the corners of his mouth.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers free, only to bring them down to your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles with the slick mixture of Jake’s spit and your own arousal.

“Up,” Jay ordered, “we’re gonna fuck her stupid.”

Jake grinned, licking his lips as he stood, positioning himself above you. His hands gripped your trembling thighs, spreading you wide as he lined himself up.

“W-wait—” you gasped, barely able to get the words out before Jake groaned, pushing inside you in one slow, agonizing stroke.

Your body arched, a broken scream tearing from your throat as your walls stretched around him.

Jay moaned at the sensation, feeling the press of Jake’s cock against his, both of them buried deep inside you, stretching you beyond anything you thought you could take. 

“Relax, baby. I can’t get inside—fuck,” Jake groaned, his jaw clenched as he tried to push in deeper.

You whimpered, your breaths coming out in sharp, uneven gasps. The stretch was burning and your walls struggling to take them both.

Jay, still buried inside you, hummed against your ear, his fingers never stopping their relentless circles on your clit. “Just focus on this, baby,” he cooed, “It’ll feel good soon, I promise.”

Your fingers went slack, the camera slipping from your hands and hitting the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.

With a deep breath, Jake pushed again, his hips rolling forward, forcing himself inside inch by inch. Your walls fluttered desperately around them both, your body trembling as you tried to adjust.

Finally, he bottomed out, a deep groan escaping him as he settled inside you. Your head lolled back onto Jay’s shoulder, body completely limp between them. The stretch was overwhelming, but they fit—stuffed so deep inside you, pressed against each other, filling you to the brim.

Jake exhaled shakily, looking down at the way you swallowed them both. “Goddamn,” he muttered, he slowly starts moving inside you, his dick brushing on Jay's was making his mind lost it completely.

Slowly, he began to move, his cock sliding against Jay’s with each thrust, the tight space forcing every sensation to heighten. The friction and the heat was enough to make his mind go blank.

Jay’s jaw clenched, his fingers digging into your hips as he felt every movement, every shift inside you. Since he was underneath, his own thrusts were shallow, but the way Jake’s cock brushed against his still sent sparks of pleasure.

“F-fuck,” Jay groaned, “She’s so—tight—”

You cried out, back arching as the overwhelming stretch turned into pleasure. Every roll of their hips pushed them deeper, stuffing you so full that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“Ahh, ahh,” you moaned,  your voice is so shaky.

Jake smirked at the sound, gripping your thigh to keep you open. “You hear that, Jay? She’s losing it.”

Jay let out a breathless laugh, pressing a kiss against the side of your neck. “Not yet,” he murmured. “She can take more.”

And with that, he bucked his hips upward, meeting Jake’s thrusts perfectly, filling you over and over again, stretching you to your absolute limit.

“Fuck, no matter how many times we stretch you, you’re still so fucking tight,” Jake moaned.

Your mind was lost, floating somewhere between pleasure and delirium, your body completely surrendering to them. It wasn’t just the way they fucked you—it was how perfectly you fit together. The way Jay’s girth stretched you open, making you feel so impossibly full, while Jake’s length filled every inch, reaching places that made you see stars. And the way they both curved just right, their tips pressing into every sensitive spot inside you, leaving you utterly wrecked.

Your lips parted, a choked sob escaping you.

“Hey, you still with us?” Jay murmured, his forehead pressing against yours. Jake chuckled breathlessly, his fingers gripping your chin, tilting your face up to his. 

“She’s barely holding on,” Jake smirked, rubbing his thumb over your spit-slick lips before pushing it past them. “She's completely fucked out.”

Jay groaned, rolling his hips even deeper, setting a rhythm that made your entire body tremble. They moved in sync—when Jake pulled out, Jay drove in, and when Jay withdrew, Jake filled you again. The push and pull leaving you with no moment of emptiness, only the overwhelming sensation of being ruined.

Your moans vibrated around Jake’s thumb, eyes rolling back as pleasure consumed you. Your body was overstimulated, wrecked, yet you wanted more.

You always wanted more when it came to them.

Jay’s grip moved to your breasts, kneading them just the way he knew you loved, while Jake’s fingers found your clit, circling it with expert precision. They knew your body like it was theirs—knew how to break you down, knew exactly how to tear you apart.

And in this moment, the only thing your mind could process was their names.

“Jay, Jake! Fuck—fuck!” you cried, body arching between them.

Both of them were completely lost in you, drowning in the way you took them so perfectly. But still, their focus never wavered from your pleasure. Their thrusts turned rougher, deeper, until Jay’s movements stuttered first. With a deep, strangled groan, his hips slammed flush against you, spilling inside with a shudder, his hands still greedily kneading your breasts as he rode out his high.

Jake whined, his hips stuttering as he felt Jay spill inside you, the warmth of it making his cock twitch violently.

“F-fuck, that’s so hot,” he groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs as he chased his own release. “You’re so fucking full, baby, and you’re still squeezing me—shit.”

Jay hummed lazily, his grip on your breasts tightening slightly as he kissed the side of your neck, still buried inside you. “She’s greedy like that,” he mused, his voice husky. “She wants it all.”

And you were definitely going to get that.

Jake thrust into you harder, his fingers rubbing relentless circles on your overstimulated clit. The pleasure teetering on the edge of painful as he used you to reach his high. Your body can't stop trembling uncontrollably as your walls clenched down around him.

“Fuck, fuck—” Jake’s head tilted back, his mouth hanging open as his orgasm crashed over him. He spilled inside you with a deep, shuddering groan, his fingers still lazily circling your clit, forcing you to ride out every last wave.

You gasped, body going limp between them, trembling as the aftershocks wracked through you. Every nerve was on fire, your skin glistening with sweat, your mind lost in the haze of pleasure.

Jay leaned back against the couch, keeping you pressed against his chest, his fingers trailing lazy circles over your skin. He pressed soft, lingering kisses against your temple, whispering low, soothing words into your ear, grounding you even as your body continued to tremble.

Jake was the first to pull out, hissing as he did, still breathless. He reached down, grabbing the fallen camera from the floor, his fingers brushing over the discarded polaroids scattered around.

Jay shifted next, carefully lifting you, rolling you onto your stomach. A deep groan rumbled from his chest as he watched both of their cum spill from your wrecked pussy, dripping down your thighs. His hands spread you open just a little more, admiring the mess they made of you.

Jake knelt beside you, his fingers carding gently through your damp hair, his touch soft and tender. “Last shot, baby,” he murmured.

You barely had the strength to lift your head, but you did, your fingers resting against your flushed cheek. Your hair was damp with sweat, your lips swollen, your eyes hazy—completely fucked out.

Jake framed the shot just right, both of them beside you, the aftermath of their work on full display.

Click.

The flash flared and faded, casting a fleeting glow over the room before leaving behind only the three of you. On the floor, some of the polaroid slowly developed, its edges soft and hazy, immortalizing the moment in perfect, messy detail.

[requiemforthepoets]

you say good morning when its midnight ⟢ OP81 (part 5)

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PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader

SUMMARY: you and oscar grew up together, and despite being neighbors and best friends with her sister, hattie, you never really talked or had a conversation with him. until one day, where he randomly texted you out of nowhere.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: use of y/n, (a little) slow burn, humor, fluff, inaccurate information, no consistent face claims, all photos are from pinterest, weird, awkward, unhinge, reader is a little bit ball of a mess, long distance relationships, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 555

AUTHOR'S NOTE: part 5! sorry if the update took a little long, i was away for a vacation. but i'm now back, and i'll try to update this series as much as i can. also, this series will be my primary focus for the meantime. i would like to apologize if this is a bit rushed, indecided not to some parts since i wanna focus on the plot, but i hope you'll enjoy this one!

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

It was four days later when the front desk called up to your apartment at Kent Ridge Hill Residences, letting you know that there’s an express package that had arrived for you. Couriers weren't allowed to go up to the units, so you had to head down to the lobby to collect the package yourself.

You linked in confusion, slipping on your slippers as you mumbled a soft, “I didn't order anything.”

You certainly haven't ordered anything. Not even a midnight retail therapy binge your forgot about. Still, you took the lift down and approached the reception desk, signing of the delivery. The box was not heavy, but it was neat, its brown cardboard edges sealed perfectly with a transparent tape that has the “fragile” word printed on the tape, and your name printed clearly on the shipping label. It wasn't large, nust enough to cradle in both arms comfortably.

You carried the box back to up to your apartment, the elevator ride feeling longer than usual. Once you reach your apartment, you quickly went in and locked the door. You sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of your living room, scissors in hand. You stared at the package for a good minute like it might explain itself if you waited long enough, and then you began carefully slicing through the tape until the flaps peeled back.

As always, your curiosity won out.

You opened the box with care, like it might contain something so fragile. Inside, nestled in a bed of brown paper, were four things: a fridge magnet in the shape of Mt. Fuji that has the word "JAPAN” lettering under it, a tiny sakura petals swaying in a snow globe dome, a frog mug that is oddly shaped like a tiny pitcher, curved and handmade-looking—like it was plucked off the shelf of a sleepy Kyoto ceramics shop, and finally, a delicate matcha tea set—complete with a bamboo whisk, ceramic bowl, and a tin of fragrant powder so green that it could’ve only have come from somewhere special.

You felt your hear skipped a little in your chest. You definitely knew who it was from before you can even see the the note that was tucked neatly beneath the matcha set. But still, your fingers trembled slightly as you opened the small card, written in careful handwriting:

< I didn't buy you a postcard. I figured that’s somethinf you should do yourself, someday, when you’re finally there. I didn't want to take that moment away from you, but I thought I’d help you get started on the fridge magnet collection. Oh, the frog thing was just a spur of the moment thing, it reminded me of you and it looked like it should belong with you. - podium boi >

You read the note not only once, not twice, but three times. You couldn't help it and bit you lip, cheeks burning. The smile that grew on your face didn't stop for a long while. You tucked the note safely on your journaling notebook, then grabbed the fridge magnet and stood in front of your fridge, and with a soft click on the surface, you pressed the magnet into place. There was a quiet warmth blooming in your chest that you didn't quite know what to name just yet.

Postcard-less, for now. But not empty, not anymore.

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

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𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

𓆉𓆝𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓇼

taglist: @uuoozzii , @freyathehuntress , @littlemisskavities , @elieanana , @rexit-mo , @imagine-it-was-us , @satorinnie , @pessismisticpotato , @milkysoop , @random-movie , @supersanelyromantic , @greantii , @chirpchirp69 , @purplephantomwolf , @mimisweetz , @frogiemushr0om , @angxedxtz , @hevzo8 , @pandora108 , @ms-darcy23 , @sluttybitch , @proudshinsoukinnie , @pinklemonade34 , @gemi-boi , @elizamoe133 , @sideboobrry11 , @mrrayjay , @curlylando , @soleilgrec , @nothingjustaninchidentt , @suns3treading , @dramallama9 , @1-queenofpotatoes-1 , @suibianupyourass , @armystay89 , @verstappen-leclerc-inchident , @landossainz , @martygraciesversion381 , @larkkyoris , @iloveotters11 , @isagrace22 , @bagelsbitch , @gigigreens , @wolfbc97 , @esw1012 , @raesblues , @mashmashi , @chxseversion , @fairyjinn , @hoseokjin194 , @ihaveitprinteddout , @henryspersonalver , @fctnllvrs , @pinkdeadtopia , @noimnotmae , @henna006 , @quenanababy , @formulaal , @mits-vi , @urmomsgirlfriend1 , @yeahimcrying , @ardentsnowfall , @teamnovalak , @mmsimp

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Piece of you- L.MN

SURPRISE!! Today is a triple special day for me, so let's get started

First of all, it's my babygirl @sweetlifeofjoy 's bday!! Happy birthday, Nari! I hope you have a wonderful day, surrounded by those you love and I wish a lot of happiness 😊 And thanks for making my day a lot funnier whenever we talk... or flirt haha

Now, the second thing I wanna celebrate, it's Minho's debut on this blog yay! I tried to make something very Lee Know coded here, I guess it's giving off his vibes. I hope you all like it

And last but not least, I want to celebrate the 700 of us. I didn't even have time to thank you for 600 so consider that a combo. I am really really grateful for each one of you. Really. You make my little heart very happy 💜🤭

Word count: 1.0k

No warnings

Alexa, play Ink by Coldplay

Minho had been gone less than a day when you found the first note.

It was tucked beneath your toothbrush, folded into a tiny triangle with a doodle on the front— a cat  version of him, with exaggerated pouty lips and two big bright eyes that he asked Hyunjin to sketch. Underneath, in his unmistakable handwriting, it said:

“Miss me yet?”

You laughed, even if your chest ached a little. Opening it, you could listen to his voice in the ink.

“Brush your teeth, sleepyhead. I’m not there to kiss you good morning, but I still expect fresh breath when I call”.

You stood there for a long moment, grinning down at the paper, toothbrush forgotten.

The next one showed up that afternoon, in the hoodie you stole from his wardrobe. You slipped your hand into the front pocket and felt it— another folded piece of paper. This one had small hearts all over it and a simple message:

“Wear this one often. It smells like me. I gave it a final hug before I left. You're welcome”

You giggled, hugging the hoodie tighter.

Minho had always been the quiet type when it came to words, more teasing than tender, but it felt like he had left tiny pieces of himself all over the apartment just to keep you company.

Every day you found a new one. One was taped to the coffee jar:

“Drink water too. No, coffee doesn’t count. Neither does bubble tea. I'm watching you”

Another slid out from between your laptop screen and keyboard:

“Take breaks. Don’t sit there for six hours straight or I will find out”

And then there was the one beneath his favorite mug:

“Play our playlist. Skip the sad ones unless you’re missing me a lot. If you do listen to them, please don’t cry while holding my mug. It’s bad for the aesthetic”.

They were scattered everywhere— beneath your pillow, taped to the ice cream lid in the freezer, inside the pages of your current book. Each one perfectly timed, each one so Minho. 

One, though, made you stop in your tracks and cackle like a hyena. It was taped to the front of the air fryer, written in red ink:

“I SWEAR TO GOD if you break my air fryer while I’m gone, I will haunt you. Not gently. I’m talking about flickering lights and mysterious cat hair in your cereal”

And then, like the cherry on top, a tiny postscript:

“(Miss you though. Please eat something that isn’t chips)”

You shook your head, grinning like an idiot. Only Lee Minho could threaten you with ghostly vengeance and still make your heart flutter.

Another note had been left on the windowsill where the cats loved to take a nap. This one was softer, written with a little paw print doodle in the back:

“Tell Soonie he’s in charge. Doongie gets extra head kisses. And Dori… can’t be trusted, so watch him”

“If they look at you dramatically and cry like they’re starving, remember: they are liars. Do not fall for it. But also… maybe give them a snack anyway”

“If they sit on your lap, don’t you dare move. I don’t care if your leg goes numb. That’s the price of love”

“PS: If you fall asleep with them like that… just know I’m gonna be insanely jealous. But also please take a picture so I can melt over it for five minutes and then pretend I’m not crying in the tour van”

You were crying laughing by the end of that one.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail leading you right back to him, even while he was miles away.

But the note that made you sit down and press a hand to your chest, was under his pillow.

You only found it on the third day. You weren’t even looking, you were just making the bed out of habit, and there it was— thicker than the rest.

You sat on the bed and unfolded it slowly, heart stuttering.

“This one’s for the nights that feel heavy”

“You don’t have to be okay just because I’m not there to see it. I know you’re strong, but I also know you. So cry if you need to. Eat ice cream for dinner. Watch that movie we’ve seen a hundred times”

“Then call me in the morning. I’ll listen to every word. You don’t have to do this alone. You never have to”

By the time Minho called you that night, the notes were lined up across the wall, like a paper mosaic. 

He appeared on your phone screen, hair damp from shower

 “Wow”, he said when he saw the background, “I didn’t think you’d actually keep them”

You rolled your eyes, pulling the hoodie tighter around you. “Shut up, you wrote them! You thought I’d read them and toss them in the trash?”

“I mean, yeah”, he said, “That’s what you do with my texts”

“I react with a heart to them!”

Minho looked at you, inexpressible

“You reacted with a heart to ‘did you eat?’ like it was a love confession”

You bit back a grin, “Wasn’t it?”

He paused, pretending to think, then nodded. “Well, you are right. I’m very romantic”

You laugh softly before confessing, “Damn, I miss you”

“Yeah”, he said, rubbing the towel over his hair, “If I were you, I’d miss me too”.

You let out a loud, theatrical gasp and flopped dramatically back onto the bed like you’d just been betrayed.

“I can’t believe this! I’m dating a menace. An actual menace”

He blinked at the screen, “You’re so dramatic”

“You’re not even pretending to miss me!”

Minho shook his head in disbelief, “You’re wearing my hoodie, laying on my pillow, surrounded by my notes and you’re gonna sit there and act like I don’t miss you?”

You were still pouting

He rolled his eyes

“I miss you so much it's annoying” he said, “Happy now?”

“No! You said it was annoying!”

“Because I’m annoyed at myself, he grumbled, “For being this whipped”

You grinned.

“Say it again”

“No”

“Say it!”

Minho sighed like he felt physical pain

“I miss you”, he muttered, “More than the cats. But don't tell them that”

You melted instantly.

“See?” You are romantic indeed”

He huffed, but his smile lasted— warm, bright and entirely yours.

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep , @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

[memoiresofaneternaldreamer]

Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

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

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

Wordcount: 13.8K

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

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

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

Previous Chapter: Till Death Do Us Part

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

And at the heart of it all: an arsenal.

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

He holds up a new M1911 with a low whistle.

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

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

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

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

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

Mingyu’s been following her around ever since.

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

Instead, you turn toward the weaponry again.

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

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

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

A beep cuts through the room. Then another.

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone watches you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A wave of muttering breaks out across the feeds.

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

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

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

The silence that follows is suffocating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

A long silence.

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

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

The war room comes alive.

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

It’s like HQ—only grittier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push away from the table and begin pacing.

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

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

You nod slowly. “That’s the one.”

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

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

“Add it to the board,” you say.

One by one, the map fills in.

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

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

Then Woozi finally says what everyone’s thinking.

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

Seungcheol’s voice is calm. Final.

“We kill them. All of them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

Seungcheol laughs under his breath. Just once.

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

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

Everyone waits, watching the screen update line by line.

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

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

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

The team nods.

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

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

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

The silence stretches.

Then Samira speaks.

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

Everyone turns to her.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

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

You freeze. Your mind starts spinning.

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

They’re already typing.

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

Seungcheol speaks then. “Can you reactivate it?”

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

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

Everyone falls silent again.

Then Seungcheol looks up. His voice is low.

“Let’s go to work.”

Bucharest is colder than expected.

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

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

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

She’s now patching in from his personal terminal.

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

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

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

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

Now all you need is the target.

“Any movement yet?” you murmur.

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

You wait.

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

Then—footsteps.

You freeze.

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

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

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

Jiwoo’s voice crackles in your ear.

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

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

There’s a pause.

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

You draw your karambit.

Light floods faintly from beneath the hallway door.

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

The Vasile triplets.

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

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

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

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

Silence falls again.

Blood pools quietly between broken cracks of flooring.

Then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Give me three,” you respond.

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

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

He walks. Alone. No security. You smile.

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

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

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

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

He passes you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You walk away without looking back.

The first head has rolled.

Dubai is a city that refuses to sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

“Woozi?”

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

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

VIP booth. Surrounded by women.

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

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

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

He shakes the thought away.

Focus.

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

Bathroom break.

Seungcheol downs his drink and follows.

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

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

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

The moment of recognition is quick. Seungcheol is quicker.

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

“Goodnight,” he mutters coldly.

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

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

He turns right.

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

The chain yanks.

He rolls—just in time.

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

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

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

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

She slams her fist into his ribs.

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

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

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

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

They lunge at the same time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit.”

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

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

The second head has rolled.

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

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

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

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

“Good,” you reply, voice soft.

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

“That where we regroup?”

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze, head tilting slightly.

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

A pause.

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

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

Your blood runs cold. Then hot.

Varsha.

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

And apparently, your husband’s slept with her.

Your jaw clenches.

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

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

Safehouse reached.

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

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

His eyes light up the second he sees you.

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

God, he’s alive.

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

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

And then—

The name echoes again.

Varsha.

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

And then you slap him. Hard.

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

You don’t even let him recover.

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

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

You slap his hands away.

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

“Babe—”

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

He tries again, grabbing for your arms.

You swat at him like a feral cat.

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

“...what?”

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

You stare at him, blinking.

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

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

He smirks.

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “I’m not jealous.”

“You literally said you’d kill her.”

“That’s not the same thing—”

He laughs again.

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

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

You sigh, letting your forehead press to his.

“Good,” you whisper back.

And then he kisses you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

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

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

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

“Baby, what—”

“Shut. Up.”

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

You don’t tease. Not yet.

You lean in and envelop him in your mouth.

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

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

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

You take your time—too much time.

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

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

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

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

“Baby—shit—I’m close—”

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

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

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

You smirk. “And yet, you married me.”

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

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

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

You stop. Again.

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

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

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

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

“Shut up and take it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lean in close again, lips brushing the tip.

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

You lick your lips. “Maybe.”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

“But you love it.”

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

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

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

You lick it clean, smiling.

You don’t expect him to move that fast.

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

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

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

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

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

He kisses you like he wants to eat you alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, brain fogged with heat.

“What…?”

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

That finally snaps you out of it.

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

He smirks. “Good choice.”

And then your world flips on its axis. Literally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t give you time to adjust.

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

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

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

Your core clenches wildly around him.

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

You can only cry out ‘Yes’ in response.

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

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

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

“Suck.”

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

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

“Cheol— oh god—fuck—”

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

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

Seungcheol doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Game time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wonwoo went off.

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

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

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

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

A flash drive.

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

Your eyebrows lift. “The hell is this?”

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

“Yeah—hello?”

You narrow your eyes. “...You okay?”

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “That’s… impressive.”

“I know,” Reina says smugly.

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

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

More silence.

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

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

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

“Back at you.” You hang up.

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

“What?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

It’s go time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Visual on Kang?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“North tower first,” you whisper.

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

You shift slightly. “Southeast tower.”

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

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

Seungcheol nods, already sliding down the hill.

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

You move fast and low.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, you reach the top floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then silence.

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

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

He freezes.

“Seungcheol?” Kang rasps through the smoke.

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

He stiffens instantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smirk.

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

Kang glares. “What do you want?”

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

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

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

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

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

The system chimes.

Voice scan accepted.

He places his hand on the scanner. Another chime.

Fingerprint accepted.

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

Access denied. Retinal match not found.

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

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

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

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

Retinal scan accepted.

Access granted.

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

“Bounty logs,” Seungcheol says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The progress bar reaches 100%.

Final confirmation: Bounty Deactivated — Market Update Complete.

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

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

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

“Let’s go,” Seungcheol says.

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

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

“Oh shit,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

01:45.

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

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

01:02

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

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

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

00:54

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

“There!” Seungcheol shouts behind you, pointing.

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

He speeds up. You do, too.

00:32

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

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

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

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

He curls around you, breath hot against your ear.

“Hold on,” he whispers.

You shut your eyes. You feel his heartbeat.

00:01.

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

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

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

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

Then—

Silence.

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

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

Seungcheol lifts his head first.

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

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

Neither of you speak.

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

Then you mouth it:

Thank you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause, eyes narrowing slightly. “Lim?”

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

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

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

Seungcheol listens, his jaw tight.

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

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

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

You swallow hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And if we win?”

You don’t answer him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more chances after this.

No more exits.

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

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

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

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

The forest is silent. Still. Too still.

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

After nearly an hour on foot, there it is.

Lim’s estate.

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

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

Nothing. Complete blackout.

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

You nod once, tension coiling low in your stomach.

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

“But everything else?” he asks.

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

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

You both recognize it instantly: your window.

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

The guard never sees it coming.

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

The door creaks open with a soft hiss.

And then you’re in.

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

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

No alarms. No reinforcements. No Lim.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A deep, impossible darkness yawns within.

You don’t move. Neither does Seungcheol.

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

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

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

And then—

Bang.

“Agh—!”

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

“Cheol—!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t do this.”

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

The lights flicker to life.

And there she is.

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

Atop it: a single, silver revolver.

Your stomach drops. Lim smiles slowly.

“You remember how this works.”

You stare at the gun. At the chairs.

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

Russian Roulette.

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

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

The chair is waiting. Empty.

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

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

“Welcome home, darling,” she says smoothly.

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

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

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

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

One bullet.

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

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

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

She pauses, lips curling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s begin,” she says softly.

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

The handle points directly at you.

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

Click.

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

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

Click.

Still nothing. Your turn again.

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

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

You ignore her. Gun to your temple.

Click.

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

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

Gun raised.

Click.

Still nothing. Now you know. This is it.

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

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

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

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

Click.

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

Because that was the fifth shot.

And everyone in the room knows what that means.

The sixth belongs to her.

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

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

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

The virus deploys.

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

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

No more empires. No more Lim.

Your victory tastes like ash.

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

“Cheol…” you whisper, approaching him softly.

That’s when it happens.

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

Bang.

You freeze. But the pain never comes.

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

Madame Lim.

Shot through the chest.

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

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

“No— no, no, no, baby, stay with me—”

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

His skin is clammy. Pale.

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

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

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

You grab your comms, tears streaking down your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been six months.

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

And now—this. The boat. His boat.

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

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

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

Then— A creak of wood.

Bare feet padding across the deck.

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

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

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

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

For a long time, neither of you speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

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

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

A shadow moves at the stern of the boat.

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

Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beep.

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

Your heart stutters.

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

There it is.

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

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

The screen flickers to life. Code scrolls. Then—

A name.

Target: Kim Mingyu.

Alias: Fireball.

Bounty: 3 Million.

Your blood turns to ice.

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

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

You turn the screen toward her.

She sees the name. And freezes.

“What the hell did that idiot do now?”

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

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

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

[miupow]

★ ── LE SEXE, JE VEUX DIRE !

what happens when you give the hyung line an aphrodisiac 。 。 。?

꒰୨୧ ꒱ pairing。stray kids hyung line x fem!reader genre。 pure smut , pwp warnings。 aphrodisiacs , sex while intoxicated , breeding kink , primal play , vaginal fingering , oral (m. rec) , deepthroat , unprotected sex , creampies , masturbation (m. rec) , phone sex , diy porn , sex while filming

a/n ⸝⸝ requested skz version of my txt drabble! i’m lowkey not a big fan of this… but here it is anyway lol. [ 0. 7k words ] ⸝⸝ [ m. list ]

𝔅ANGCHAN

chris is completely sure the aphrodisiac candies you purchased wouldn't do a thing, just a silly marketing gimmick printed all over the foil packaging he turned over in his hands. but you had gotten them as a surprise, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt your feelings– so he casts aside his doubts and eats his share with a smile, ready to put on his best show of pretending to be affected. he wouldn't even be really acting, since you can get him going no matter what... yet to his complete shock reduced to a mess within minutes, panting and squirming above you, his hips canting up to press the swell of his clothed cock against the curve of your ass. his control slips when you grind back against him, pussy drunk and unable to think of anything other than fuck, claim, breed as he flips you over and mounts you like an animal. he’s definitely having you get more of these.

𝔐INHO

minho’s immediate response to you showing him the chocolates was to scold you for wasting money on worthless placebos. there was no way you believed that they would actually do anything, right? but he eats them with you anyway, because you’re very persuasive when you’re pouting. he’ll tell you they did nothing for him at all, as he’s knuckle deep in your pussy, your hot little mouth swallowing his cock to the hilt. he didn’t feel a thing, as he’s lining up his weeping tip to your entrance. he’s completely unaffected, watching with dark hazy eyes as his thick cum leaks out of your hole. those stupid chocolates had nothing to do with how he fucked you until the sun came up. and you let him believe it, because it gives you an excuse to try it again.

𝓒HANGBIN

changbin always finds some way to derail your plans… you had hidden some aphrodisiac chocolates your had bought in hopes of surprising him with them later, but you were never the best at hiding things— your boyfriend finds them within the first day. mistaking them for regular candy, he eats them without a thought; and hours later he calls you desperately from the studio, hiding in the bathroom with his pants around his knees as he fists his aching cock. the lewd wet sounds echo against the tile and harmonize with his pretty low moans, all filtering directly into the phone’s speaker and making your pussy throb. “i need you so bad,” he whimpers, his hand speeding up, “need your pussy so bad…” detailing in a needy groan every nasty little thing he planned to do to you once he got home, the growl in his voice enough to make your legs shake. you hated to ruin the mood, but you just had to know; “binnie, did you eat those chocolates in the pantry?” “um… maybe?”

𝓗YUNJIN

the candies were his idea, actually— he figured they were a perfect addition to the films he liked to make. you couldn’t even call them sex tapes, with how careful and artistic hyunjin was in filming them… but he loved to film often, and was always coming up with new ways to keep things new and exciting. sharing candies between kisses on camera, hands wandering as you lay tangled together on the hotel bed. the both of you growing hotter and needier as time went on, gentle caresses turning into rough manhandling, tugging at each other’s clothes til you were both bare in eachother’s arms. hyunjin looks straight into the camera with a smirk as he flips you over onto your hands and knees, your face buried in the pillow to muffle your scream when he slides his thick long cock into your wet pussy with one firm thrust. he reaches over to pick the camera up off of it’s tripod, angles it down so it gets a clear view of your asscheeks bouncing against his abs from the force of his thrusts, his big hand pressing down on your arched back as his cock splits your creamy cunt open. neither of you last as long as usual, deeply affected by the aphrodisiac and desperate for release— he makes sure to get the best possible angle of him pulling out and cumming on your ass, pearly white ropes of cum decorating your flushed skin like a painting. you’re his favorite work of art, and he just can’t get enough of showing it off.

[riddlesrizzler]

The Swan and The Fighter

summary: On her big night, a dancer’s performance shines brighter with the love and support of her boxer boyfriend characters: boxer! mattheo. ballet! reader warnings: mentions of bruising and scars. word count: 1.2k

The stage lights burned hot against your skin, casting an ethereal glow over your tutu as you stood in position, heart thrumming like the wings of a swan you were about to become. The air hummed with anticipation, the quiet murmur of the audience beyond the curtain almost drowned out by the pounding of your pulse.

This was it. Opening night.

You had spent months preparing for this moment, every plié, every fouetté, every aching muscle leading up to the role of a lifetime: Odette, the Swan Queen. It had been a dream since childhood, and now it was real. Your name was printed at the top of the program, your silhouette graced posters outside the theater. You had worked for this. You had earned this.

And yet, a flicker of nervous energy danced through you, setting through your fingers as they tremble, clutching the edge of your costume.

What if I fail?

"Breathe," you whisper to yourself, inhaling deeply, just as your ballet mistress had always told you. "You're ready for this."

The soft rustle of movement caught your attention, and when you turned, your breath hitched in your throat.

Mattheo.

He stood near the wings, barely inside the backstage area, looking completely out of place amid the sea of dancers and stagehands. He was all hard lines and rough edges, broad shoulders draped in a dark black hoodie that did little to conceal the sheer power beneath. His knuckles were bruised, wrapped in tape from his latest fight, and faint scars traced his jawline like stories of battles he never spoke about. His dark curls were tousled, like he'd run his hands through them a hundred times, and his stormy eyes looked onto yours the second you looked at him.

He held a bouquet of white roses.

Your heart clenched.

"You came," you breathed, stepping towards him.

He scoffed, rolling his eyes like it should have been obvious. "Of course I came. You think I'd miss this?"

Your lips parted, but before you could say anything, he reached for your hand, fingers rough but gentle as they closed around yours. His thumb brushed over your wrist, feeling the quickened pulse there.

"Nervous?" he murmured.

You nodded, exhaling shakily. "A little"

He studied you for a long moment, then, without warning, he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. The sensation was featherlight, a stark contrast to the violence he carried in his fists.

"You're gonna be perfect," he said, his voice low and certain. "You always are."

Warmth spread through you, chasing away the last lingering traces of doubt. You smiled, giving his fingers a squeeze before the call for places rang through the backstage area.

"I have to go," you whispered.

He nodded, stepping back but letting go just yet. "I'll be right out there."

With one last lingering glance, you turned and slipped onto the stage, stepping into the light, into the role you were meant to play.

—

The performance was a blur of motion and music. You became Odette, lost in the grace and tragedy of the Swan Queen's story. The world outside the stage ceased to exist; there was only the dance, the swell of Tchaikovsky’s score, and the aching beauty of the tale you wove with every movement.

And yet- you felt him.

Even in the vast theater, even with the hundreds of eyes watching you, you knew exactly where Mattheo was.

He was in the front row, watching with an intensity that set your skin aflame. He had never been one for the arts, had never understood your world of pirouettes and pliés, but tonight- tonight, he saw you. Not just as a dancer, not just as his delicate girl who patched up his knuckles after every brutal match, but as something untouchable, something breathtaking.

You danced for him.

—

By the time the final notes rang through the theater and the stage faded to black, your chest heaved with exertion, sweat glistening on your skin. The silence hung for a single, suspended moment.

Then- applause.

Thundering, deafening applause erupted from the audience, washing over you like a wave. You blinked, chest tightening as the realization hit you.

You had done it.

The curtain call was a blur of people. Bouquets were handed to you, cheers filled the air, and then before you even had a chance to process it all, you were rushing off the stage, heart hammering against your ribs.

You barely made it past the wings before Mattheo was there, his arms wrapping around you.

You gasped as he lifted you clear off the ground, spinning you effortlessly, crushing you to his chest. His grip was strong, unyielding, he like never wanted to let go.

"You were unbelievable," he muttered against you temple.

You laughed breathlessly, hands fisting in the fabric of his hoodie as he set you back down. "You think so?"

He huffed. "I know so." Then, with a smirk, "Might've broken a guy's nose for talking during your solo."

You stared at him, wide-eyed. "Mattheo-"

"Kidding," he grinned, but you weren't entirely convinced.

Before you could protest, he shoved the bouquet of white roses into your arms, his usual scowl softening. "These are for you. Thought they fit."

Your fingers tightened around the stems as emotion welled in your throat. White roses. The symbol of new beginnings, of purity and admiration.

You met his gaze, seeing something raw and unspoken in the depths of his dark eyes.

"Thank you," you murmured, voice trembling.

He shrugged, looking almost shy, which was rare for him. Then, before you could think, before you could dwell on it- you kissed him.

It was quick, just a soft press of your lips against his, but it sent electricity racing through your veins. When you pulled back, you saw the way his eyes darkened, the way his fingers twitched to pull you closer.

"You're mine, Swan," he muttered, voice rough as his forehead rests on yours.

You smiled, warmth blooming in your chest. "And you're mine, Fighter."

Mattheo smirked, brushing a thumb over your cheek before tilting his head toward the exit. "Come on, I'm taking you to dinner. You deserve the world after that."

You laughed, allowing him to lace his fingers through yours as he led you away from the stage, away from the cheers and the lights. because no matter how much you loved the ballet, no matter how much you belonged in that world-

You would always find your way back to him.

[trh0d3s]

Manager In The making!

Ch 3!

Saja boys x human manager reader

Warning this is not beta read so I’m sorry if it’s not as good as the others😭

It’s been a couple hours rooted to your spot only looking away from your computer at passing groups gushing and praising the new song. You can hear the music coming off their phone or leaking out of earbuds, singing the lyrics together or humming it to themselves.

 That’s what you’re aiming for in this career. You know sometimes your shortsighted, and rush ahead for opportunities that only bring you back down. This feels like a good thing being scouted to help manage something so amazing even, it can’t stop the feeling in the back of your head. Like something was wrong but you couldn’t put a finger on it, was it because they came from overseas? Maybe the black card? The leader gave it away so carelessly, you may have all your credentials and info on your resume but’s it’s Craigslist for Christ’s sake. You should be the one scared right now actually…

You look back to your computer you’ve spent so much time staring at the people around you it turned off. You try and turn it back on but no luck it’s died from constant use. Pretty good sign for you to take a break and grab the charger back at home, maybe a shower too? You ran out so fast that morning leaving yesterdays mess for today’s problem. You get up and clear out the table you were occupying, cups strewn around that some of the boys left. You grab the crumbled paper Jinu gave you and tuck it into your wallet next to the card.

Theres a small crafts shop that does prints close by usually run by teenagers or college students needing extra money or discounted supplies. They close late to accommodate students on deadlines, that’s how they get extra cash. Pretty good work ethic especially since it’s going to help you out.

You pass by on your way home, didn’t look as busy today the last couple days people were in and out Gathering supplies for shirts or big signs in hope their favorite idol group saw them.

You were a frequent customer when given work for off handed jobs but it’s been slow lately. You’d buy small bentos or the frequent cup noodle at the small corner in the back reminding everyone breaks where needed for success. You’d know, you spent countless nights at that small corner milling over what to get. That same same sign taped to the small freezer every time you opened it.

Right now, you just want to wash your hair. Sigh.

The apartment was still the mess you left it in, wrappers on the floor by the couch. A half-eaten burrito. Wonder where you got that from? Was it before when you got a case of beer or after during the hysterics.

You kick an empty can out the way that rolled into the hallway one goal in mind before having to suffer all over again. Pain is gain!

Cleaning up to the best of your ability, throwing away trash and fixing your living room to look like you didn’t have a pre mid life crises. State of mind is shown through the living space you got right? Got to at least act like you know what you’re doing.

The shower was short and sweet. NOT! You spent half the time scrubbing your hair, shoulders and arms. Think you could still smell romances hair gel on you. First thing get that man some better smelling hair spray or at least hair cream and drown yourself in your own cologne. No longer smelling like cheap hair gel and dying dreams, you step out wringing water out of your hair into a towel.

You look outside your window, sun long setting, the area should be clearing out by now and you desperately need to get back to work. Getting dressed and drying your hair haphazardly you walk out the door, the crisp air hitting you in the face.

You pull out your phone to message Jinu through that stupid email he has to meet you outside the same alley, you needed some assistance. You’re going to get some free labor out of this.

Only streetlights lit your path, shops closing up and the lonely supplies store around the corner. You don’t know how long your able to keep waiting for Jinu to show up. You sigh turning to direction of the crafts store to start already, should be expected of the manager to do everything by themselves. “Don’t blame me if I can’t map out where you’re dancing and you fall over like idiots…” Mumbling out with a huff, you can get this done in no time.

“Is our manager calling us names?” You swivel around ready to punch someone only to almost bump into Jinu, his hand covering his mouth in mock shock and betrayal. You hear a snicker behind Jinu and lean to the side to see who was laughing at your misfortune! It was baby laughing into his hand but he wasn’t laughing at you more at Jinu the rest of his entourage close behind.

“I think they were calling you an idiot Jinu!” Baby spits out catching the attention of the two loiterers, romance struts up to you in long strides, Abby close behind to pull you in under their arms trapping you between them. “We leave you for a couple hours, asking for our help then calling us idiots?” Abby drawls out in a fake sad tone “Thought we had something sweet heart” Romance chimes in leaning too close to your face, this must be what hell feels like.

You push his face away, palm to face trying not to shove too hard but he’s REALY trying to find out, maybe you should invest getting a spray bottle? Would do his hair and you a favor. “Nope. I’m not doing that right now. Why did all of you come anyway?!”  

Jinu steps up into the light the yellow of the street lamp reflecting across his eyes.

Trick of the light. Very dismissible.

“Can’t go sightseeing after dark? Just wanted to help our amazing manager out you know. I know how much numbers mean to you, so I’ll get our dance floor ready for you!” He chuckles to himself like he’s doing such a good deed helping their poor manager out. You really don’t care that much though not wanting to play into this high rise he’s trying to do. But You really did need to know the spacing.

“Then mind some of you follow me? I need some extra hands.” Jinu nods to abby and mystery to follow you, sharing a couple glances with each other that could only be translated to one thing. Behave. They followed you down the brick street, baby tagging along just to watch what you were doing leaving with a glance behind him. This was not what  he saw his night going.

Jinu watched you all leave, sending a crow to follow after you and keep track of his boys. Directing romance to stay and do what he promised he would do. Romance sighs before walking around the space pretending he knows what he’s doing.  Jinu looks back at where you left before walkong into the dark corners of the plaza. where he’s meant to be, passing shops, houses and streets to where he needed to be. Crossing between broken lights and dark corners truly a shadow in the dark.

  A small producer that worked regularly on game shows, he scouted him out before completely coming here it was why he brought everyone, needed you fully distracted. He was just a typical man with a typical life and typical sins.

Like greed and envy.

Gwi- ma whispers in the back of his mind, clawing and waiting. He’s hungry Jinu and you need to feed him. The hunger of decades nothing can satisfy him now. Jinu. Feed him. Feed him. FEED HIM

Click.

The man’s shoes stagger alone at the side of the street, a rough night at the bar it seems.  He Reeks, alcohol and sweat mixing with the air.  jinu can feel the disgust course through his body before coming out of the shadows, bumping into the business man. The man staggers off into the side walking under the flickering bulb of a street lamp.

“I’m sorry sir” He said in a rushed-out breath, rubbing his shoulder like it done something to him. He bows and steps closer. “Now if you could just look at me” He steps under the fluttering bulb, every flash yellow eyes shines in the darkness.

You look back down the street you just came in through. Did you forget something? No, you said your piece. You really only needed one person to help you carry the flyers back…

You huff walking to the supplies shop fully aware of the odd squad following you. Mystery a little too close for your liking but not uncomfortable. The corner of your eye baby is looking around; hands stuffed into his jeans but his gaze always ended at the back of your head. You whip your head around trying to catch him but he’s already looking away a cat catching his interest.

“While you’re with me. Got a particular style or am I allowed to choose?” That catches Abby’s interest, he’s hanging back staring up being too tough to notice us. Poser.

Baby looks back to you while holding onto mystery’s collar it looked like he was trying to chase after the said cat.“You can choose I wouldn’t know the style here” He drags mystery back beside you as Abby matches pace for once. “Choose his too I don’t think he’d mind” Mystery shakes his head no settling down next to you.

“Make sure to accentuate my best features-“Abby starts flexing next to you making you step back in mild disgust and amusement. Ew. Man sweat in your face. You can’t help but laugh though was he trying to impress you or himself? You chuckle and pat his bicep lightly pushing it down from its flexing position. “I’ll make you picture worthy”

You make it to the front of the store, soft lighting inviting you in. Opening the door you keep it open for the boys to come in, mystery lingers a little behind making sure your coming in too. Curious one he is. Like a puppy kinda?

The college student working at the register greets you with the same overworked greeting. He gives you all a glance before looking back down to his paper scribbling away. You look up to him, new worker? Haven’t seen him before but it’s usual for college kids. Usually when it’s big orders like this you have to get your own paper and ink. Shop policy but it’s not your money.

You travel down the small aisles the boys branching off into different sections, you already know where to go. “Abby come here and hold this” you peek over the aisle trying to spot him but he walks up behind you annoyed. “Arnt you the manager?” You interrupt him by putting two stacks of copy paper into his hands along with ink letting him fumble with it before finding balance. “It’s your fault you tagged along” you hum turning your back to him glazing over once more of the selection, maybe you should get some extra sticky notes and tape? He grumbles more as you add on to his pile begrudgingly following you as you walk to the back corner where baby was at.

Ah. The snack and small meal corner, how you missed thee. Baby was staring at a cup of spicy noodles chili pepper challenge must be one of the personal picks employees can do every month. Has be a prank who would want this? Oh. Baby wants this. Well, you can’t fall short on giving your employers what they want. You grab the noodles and throw it into the pile before looking for something for yourself. Abby has to move to the side to catch it like he’s playing goalie with your demands. This was why he didn’t want a manager in the beginning! But noooo Jinu said it would make them less suspicious if they had someone as a front!

You grab yourself a energy drink and triangle kimbap looking around for mystery but you can’t find him. You hear a voice calling for you at the back is that..? A short elderly woman comes out of the draw bead door a little too spry for her age especially at this time of night. “_______? Is that you _____?” She smiles at you the creases around her eyes crinkling seeing you.

“Miss nana?! Thought you were taking time off? you know late nights isn’t good for your sleep apnea” she waves you off making her way to the counter to shoo the college boy to the printer and start it up she knows what you needed, she always did. “You must be projecting loves. I’m still young and fit to work with the kids!”  She makes it to the counter where you finally see mystery in the corner looking at the small Knick knacks the women keeps around. “We haven’t see you in a while. Finally sleeping?” She leans in over the counter to look at your face before laughing. “Nope but it looks like you have work your enjoying again?” You chuckle at her comment pulling Abby along with you to the counter “and a boy toy?” She giggles into hand before seeing the other two walk up behind me. “Oh I see how it is”

You look up at her with the most bewildered expression. You? With them? Your employers? Rather pass out on the train tracks from exhaustion. “Yea no miss nana they are just my employers. We are actually setting something up in the square tomorrow you should check it out” You wave her off handing the papers and ink. Abby starts sputtering pointing to you and then him before back to you. “Lady I know I’m a whole package tied in a bow but I have more taste that” He leans into the counter a smirk on his face proud of himself but she only looks at him then to you. “You could do better” That forced you to look away and snort out a laugh, you love this women.

“All of this please miss nana and could you warm this up?” You hand her the cup noodle and she looks it over then up at you. “Remember the last time you had something like this?” The civil war flashbacks you’re having right now. That fateful day you were working under civil management. “Please don’t enlighten me.” Abby getting over his minor ego breakdown to get his crap together and swivel his head around to the older women. “Tell me then!” Baby walks up beside you curious about all the yelling.” tell you what?”

You look at him in betrayal you thought he was the good one?! Mystery’s your favorite now. “Miss nana please not now! I have a lot of preparing to do so embarrass me later!” She chuckles finding the predicament and red face hilarious. You were always so easy to mess with, wonder how you could  stay so long in your line of work. She goes to the back to grab the kettle of hot water and come back to continue talking. “How many copies you need loves?” She pours it in while you fish out the hard drive and black card to hand over to her. Her aged hands set down the kettle taking the hard drive and card in her fingers “200 copies if you don’t mind” you take the cup noodle she was preparing and hand it to baby while grabbing disposable chopsticks. Not sparing a glance at him more like shoving it into his hands and hoped he didn’t drop it.

You made sure the sides didn’t spill in your moment of distractedness, He looks down at his hands the hot noodles steam rising up into his face. It smelled good…He didn’t listen to the rest of your conversation gathering the noodles with his chopsticks to dig in. It’s been so long since he ate something so good, is this the evolution of humanity? Mystery leans in behind him curious so he holds up a noodle only for mystery to scrunch his nose at the spicy aroma. More for him then. Baby stands behind you in his own piece of heaven as you argue playfully with the old women about the card.

The old hag yells for college boy now known as Jin in the back handing him the usb and go print. He nods tiredly like on autopilot the underpaid worker is not as blessed as his name suggests. She looks back down at the black card after she swipes it under the card reader the purple sheen reflecting from the Luminescent then back at you. Two stacks of flyers dropped onto the counter with a thud the sound interrupting her train of thought.

“Mystery take this for me “You drop the stack into his hands not finding Abby behind you so you can’t make him suffer. “Go find Abby outside I think he’s chasing his lost protein powder  or something” He leans a little too close smelling the air for a second then doing as you say going outside. You decide to ignore this it’s probably from the cup noodles they gave baby earlier. “Miss nana are you staying long?” You smile down at her before checking your watch but she just looks at you and then the boys outside. Taking your hand in hers placing the card in it she speaks in a low motherly  voice. “Be careful hun  I know you are smart but being smart won’t help you if you are not careful” Did she know something? You open your mouth to comment on the change of tone but her face erupts in a smile and pushes your shoulders to the door. “Now go and finish up. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” She says lifting a brow waving you off with, a smile breaks on her face watching you erupt into redness again.

“Ah- I’m not you!” You run out into the street red faced in both frustration and audacity almost bumping into mystery who was standing at the door waiting for you. “Crap my bad…” you look up at him staring at you? You couldn’t tell so you just started going around taping flyers while he followed after you. “Abby get your butt over here!”

Abby looks away from the crow perched on the lamp post already annoyed. Great more Manuel labor. He sends the crow a glare but it only blinked at him before narrowing its own eyes at Abby. Stupid bird with a stupid hat. Even when Jinu wasn’t there he was still watching.

He walks over to you ready to take the stack from mystery only for him to pull away. Is this not what he was called for? You pay them no mind too busy taping flyers on windows smoothing out wrinkles. This is really starting to piss him off what are you good for if you can’t do this without help. Should’ve killed you when they had a chance, taken your soul to Gwi-ma and make him happy. He stalks up to you from behind letting his arm hang low as purple patterns travel and appear. His nails gleamed when he raised his arm ready to strike.

“ACK- HEY!”

You turn around to Abby getting attacked by a bird? With a hat. A bird with a hat is swooping down and pecking Abby.

This has to be the best day of your life.

 He’s swatting at the bird trying to duck away from it. “I’m sorry I’m sorry! I won’t do it again!” How did he piss off this dripped out crow? He starts running around baby and mystery trying to lose it but no avail. He’s messed up gotta pay the price. You shake your head in disappointment grabbing another paper from mystery’s stack you called him over so he WOULDN’T get into trouble. “Let’s just go…the others must be waiting” you turn away from Abby letting nature do its work, as you walked you taped up more around stepping back to see your progress. Shoddy but it’s to be expected, baby helps you out to after laughing his ass off watching Abby suffer, he saw what he was trying to do. When Jinu says not yet it’s not yet. Why didn’t he help you then? He was too busy chowing down and savoring his noodles, The Man has priorities.

You make it back to the plaza, romance was leaning against a empty stall Jinu was walking around the main area with a stick he found. He flicks his wrist discreetly and the crow backs off Abby retreating to the roof tops. He throws the stick to the side like a little kid getting caught to walk up to you with a smile. “So how do they look!” He takes a flyer off mystery’s stack to look it over eyes widening, it’s better than he expected. “Good work, we uh had a good run too I’ll send you the details” He pockets the flyer and grabs half the stack to dump in Abby’s arms. “You help our manager too” He announces looking Abby in the eye with a warning glare a bite to his tone.

You roll your eyes and motion mystery to follow you before throwing a roll of tape to romance. He catches it with a smirk before dropping it Peter quill style. Ha, loser.

With all this help you get done faster than originally planned, you were going to stay out later to finish up but it cut your timing. This must be really important if their out like this helping their manager. You try and Finish up, taping a flyer around one the the many roads leading to the square it has to be the last one right? Hopefully Abby’s actually helping and didn’t dump them somewhere. You hum to yourself ripping the tape with your teeth which may or not cut your lip a little. You know better but you don’t bother to actually remember to get proper tools.

You could feel your shadow getting closer to you, Mystery was standing over you again still holding what’s left of the stack he wouldn’t let you take it from him. Why was he standing so close? Turning to confront him he leans in close dipping down to inhale at your collar this time.

 “You smell good…”

 Pause, that was the first thing he’s ever said to you, just to smell you? He mumbled it but it was clear with how close he was to you. You did scrub yourself down and drown yourself in cologne, but personal space exists for a reason!

Mystery looks down at you through his bangs, why are you so red? He just said you smelled good. After years down under with a bunch of demons your sense of smell can be clouded. If he was honest, he liked it up here better but he can’t really say anything without consequences…. He didn’t care when you started hitting his chest out of shock, pushing him away. They didn’t feel like anything anyway. Humans are weird.

Your face explodes before turning into a glare smacking mystery’s chest to push him back. Mystery isn’t your favorite anymore! Why is everyone trying to mess with you today? You’re the damn manager! And he’s still staring at you…what part of over seas is this normal? The demon kind ______. (YOU DUMB BIT-)

You walk out of that alley back to the main square you are not dealing with that right now. You rather keep your sanity for another hour or what’s left of it. The boys seemed to be done already, discussing with each other quietly but the aggressive whispering from Abby told you that you shouldn’t butt in. So you send mystery to, he can pay his price by potentially getting jumped.

“Are you done already? Thank you so much!” You exclaim wandering to around to check out their work, not bad but not better than you of course.  You look down at your phone to check the time geez 12 already? “You should probably head back by now it’s getting late…” your words die down when you turn around to no one there. Ah, they disappeared again..….dam magicians.

Your phone vibrates a new notification coming from your email, you open it up letting the bright light illuminate your face. It’s a response to the submission to be on play games with us. Weird thing was…you didn’t even press send yet.

————————-—-Out takes—————————

Give mystery the chance and he will.

Mc: Between Abby, Baby and Mystery, there are three braincells. Mc: And Baby has all three of them.

If you got any comments on how I can do better please do tell me!

[uyinq]

THE CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE ☆ B.R

chapter 1 — incomprehensible

[bob reynolds x AFAB! reader, psychic!reader, empath?reader,slow burn,fluff,angst,slow burn,eventual smut, messy co-dependent relationships]

❱❱ WORD COUNT ﹕4,652

❱❱ SUMMARY﹕

The Thunderbolts need the Sentry, but they can’t have him without the Void. No matter how hard Bob Reynolds tries to hold himself together, he comes apart again and again, like a runaway train on decaying tracks. Unstable. Unstoppable. Dangerous. They decide he needs an anchor. Valentina finds you by accident, a psychic empath barely holding yourself together, broken in all the right ways to be useful. Your job is simple on paper: connect with Bob before and after each mission. Keep him calm. Keep him grounded. Keep the Void at bay. But the deeper you go, the more blurred the lines become– between Sentry and Void, between duty and feeling, between who’s saving who.

❱❱ WARNINGS ﹕ profanity, violence, trauma, eventual smut, psychological horror, mentions of: needles, injections, torture, and human testing

❱❱ NOTES ﹕ this is such an amalgamation of ideas lord help me

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ chapters ﹒﹒ masterlist

★ tags - empty for now (ask to be tagged!)

CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE : SENTRY PROJECT  —  SUBJECT FILE 08L

Designation: [REDACTED]

Classification: Psychic Empath

Status: Operational

Assignment: Psychological support for Sentry [Reynolds, Robert]

Notes:

Subject displays high neural receptivity with touch and proximity to others. Side effects on the Subject have not yet been quantified.

Directive: Maintain controlled contact. Under no circumstances is Subject to engage the Void directly.

— END LOG —

You were lost when Valentina found you.

Living above a dingy laundromat in a 500-square-foot apartment that was far too small to count as a home. She let herself in, turning her nose up at the… quaintness of it all. She plastered on her deceptive little smirk when you poked your head out of the bathroom, furrowing your brows.

“Am I getting evicted or something?” 

You remember saying, watching the way her eyes widened as she burst into condescending laughter. 

“No, no. Not really. Something much better than that.”

Then she handed you the file. A plain manila folder, “CLASSIFIED” stamped across the front in red. You flicked it open as she spoke, scanning military jargon and vague test logs–  impersonal language meant to describe you.

You remember glancing up at her, downright terrified, with a worried crease on your forehead. You thought you kept your head down once you were free from captivity, after Prometheon Labs was outed for genetically tampering with humans and their minds. You thought you could stay unnoticed.

You thought she’d come to kill you. Or blackmail you. Or worse– send you back.

But she gave you that fake motherly smile and touched your shoulder gently.

“We need someone emotionally resilient,” she said. “Someone who can handle the weight.”

You didn’t say yes.

You just didn’t say no.

The more you read, the worse it gets. 

His file is thick. Heavy. Dense with information you’re not sure you want, even if you need it.

“A victim of domestic abuse throughout his childhood… was addicted to orally-administered morphine during middle school… history of drug-related arrests for nonviolent crimes…” 

You groan at the fine print, even though you’re in the back of a moving cab. The whole thing reads like a warning sign duct-taped over a power plant.

No wonder he went full nightmare-mode and turned New York into a psychic hellscape. You’ll never forget that day– because for a solid hour, you were right back where you started. Clawing at restraints. Crying in silence. Begging for it to end.

When the driver lurches to a stop, you gasp and slap the file shut. The driver gives you a look in the rearview. You mutter a quick apology and pass crumpled bills through the divider before stepping out into sunlight and steel.

The newly renovated Avengers Tower looms overhead — bigger, sleeker, colder than you'd imagined. It feels less like a monument and more like judgment. It’s bustling with activity, analysts and interns buzzing around like bees in a hive. 

You scan your temporary keycard– the one Valentina gave you a few days ago – and the elevator dings open. Warm light. Brushed chrome. Sterile peace.

You hesitate.

But your feet don’t.

You step in.

You press the button for the top floor.

Whatever's waiting for you up there, bright future or dark end, you’ll meet it head-on.

When the doors slide open again, your breath catches in your chest. A quiet hallway stretches out ahead. You take one cautious step, then another, until your gut takes over and you start walking with more purpose.

A sharp left turn, and there it is.

A massive steel door, sealed with a gleaming “A,” stands between you and whatever this job actually is.

You scan your card. The center twists counterclockwise with a mechanical groan, and the door yawns open to reveal the newly renovated penthouse.

You know you’re in the right place the moment you feel it– that crushing weight that settles into your bones. The weight of being at the top of the food chain. At the top of the Tower.

You move quietly, footsteps soft as you enter, peeking around corners, instinctively cautious. A few steps down into the sunken center of the room, and you’re already planning your retreat. 

You're halfway to turning around when–

“Look who made it!”

Valentina’s voice cracks through the silence like a gunshot.

You jolt, whip around. Her heels clack across the floor as she emerges from a hallway you hadn’t noticed before, all polished smiles and cruel charm.

She’s beaming, arms wide, practically glowing with smug satisfaction, and she’s not alone.

Behind her, the new team follows in her wake.

The Thunderbolts.

It’s not as grand as you expected. They all look vaguely uncomfortable, like Valentina just dragged her children into the living room to show them off to her guests. 

You offer a polite smile. A nod. Valentina sweeps through introductions with a breezy indifference, rattling off names and blurting some oversimplified version of their abilities and feats.

Then she grabs someone lurking near the back by the arm.

You hadn’t seen him at first.

He looks… different than he did in the file. Still emotionally wrecked, still carrying that buried-glass kind of tension– but not quite the same. His hair is a sun-warmed shade of gold-brown, catching the light that spills through the penthouse windows.

And there’s something distant in his eyes. Like he’s here, but not really.

Valentina gives his arm a little tug and announces, all cheer:

“And this ball of anxiety is Bob.”

You’d chuckle at his introduction if he didn’t look so confused and uncomfortable.

Matter of fact… they all look confused.

Finally, someone says it. 

“And who the hell is this?” 

The voice belongs to the petite blonde with a thick accent, Yelena. She’s waving a dismissive hand in your direction like you’re someone’s plus-one at a funeral.

Honestly, it tracks. Very on-brand for Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to make secret plans, to neglect filling anyone in, especially at someone else’s expense. 

She just laughs it off, breezy as ever, letting go of Bob only to drape an arm awkwardly around you instead.

“Oh, did I not tell you? Seriously?”

She grins. You brace yourself.

“This is your new team member.”

The groan that echoes around the room is unanimous. A blond man throws his head back dramatically, while someone with a mop of dark hair just shakes his head in defeat. Yelena scoffs in disbelief– and you’re really starting to wish Valentina had maybe run this whole idea past someone before now.

“Team member?” the blonde snaps. “Look at her, Val. She’s dressed like a secretary. What’s she gonna do, ask our enemies for their coffee orders?”

Ouch.

You weren’t going for a secretary look. You were going for the ‘young-but-intelligent therapist’ look. 

“I think personal assistants take coffee orders, not secretaries.”  

The words are out before you can stop them. Crisp. Clipped. Not exactly friendly.

The room goes dead silent.

Then Bob laughs.

It’s an awkward little chuckle that breaks the tension, and everyone suddenly remembers why they were annoyed in the first place. 

Valentina steps behind you, squeezing your shoulders in a way that’s meant to be reassuring, but just feels like control.

“She doesn’t look like much, I get it,” she says, all syrup and smirk. “But she’s got powers. Real ones. She can touch one of you and render you completely useless with a little poke.”

The blond man– John Walker, if you remember right– crosses his arms.

“Do it, then.”

You glance back at Valentina, searching for reassurance.

She just gives you an overly friendly shove and a wide, sharp smile.

“Go on.”

Something about that smile says don’t fuck this up. Or you’ll regret it.

You step forward slowly. Hands loose at your sides. Not threatening– but not exactly sure what you are, either.

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you with that steely, judgmental stare.

You barely touch him– fingertips brushing the fabric of his uniform– and he hits the ground like a sack of bricks. 

Everyone takes a half-step back, one girl laughs, and the big man, Alexei, beams from ear to ear.

“I like her!”  The russian bear chimes, already pushing past everyone else to wrap you up in an abrupt, bone-crushing hug. You barely get to wheeze out a breath as he whisks you off your feet, squeezing you like he’s trying to kill you. 

“Welcome to the team, zaika!” 

Yelena hits him on the arm, her steely gaze fixed on Valentina. 

“Put her down, Dad.” 

The man pouts before releasing you, making sure you’re stable before he crosses his arms, suddenly remembering that he’s supposed to be angry with the woman standing across from him. 

“Fine, she has powers. But why do we need some sort of touch-starved psychic?” The Russian woman gestures wildly as she speaks, her words sharp enough to draw blood. You’d laugh if the target wasn’t you.

Valentina is suddenly beside you again. Too close. Her voice honeyed. Her smile pure performance.

She presses her head against yours, mock-affectionate.

“You don’t need her,” she says. “Bob does.

You get settled into your room without many issues. It’s barren, nothing like your cluttered apartment in Brooklyn. It feels like a hospital room, empty save for the essentials. The bed, the desk, the closet, the bathroom, the nightstand. 

You make a point of sorting out the few things you had delivered a few days prior, making sure your clothes are neat and sorted in your closet. That everything on your desk is square or touching a corner.

You plop down on the edge of your bed once you get settled, opening Bob’s file again while you gnaw on your lip. 

You flip through the pages, trying to figure out exactly what you can do or say to bring him back to Earth when he starts slipping without having to use your powers.

It feels… wrong. The whole idea of using your ability to pacify his sadistic counterpart.

You flip another page. Then another.

Psych evals. Mission transcripts. Eyewitness reports that were written with trembling handwriting.

There’s a pattern in all of it– not just chaos, not just destruction. It’s pain. Repetition. A man who wants so badly to stay good, and a force inside him that keeps pulling him apart molecule by molecule.

You stare down at one phrase, underlined three times in red.

“Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself rot from the inside.”

You close the file.

It does feel wrong. To be someone’s leash. Someone’s handler. To reach into someone’s head and force quiet when the storm rises. You didn’t sign up to be a human tranquilizer.

But it’s not like anyone asked him if he wanted to be the Sentry, either.

You’re still chewing that thought when there’s a knock at the door.

Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just… there.

You stand and cross to it, unsure who you’re expecting. When you open it, your heart stutters a little.

Bob Reynolds stands in the hall, hands in the pockets of a faded hoodie, like he just woke up from a nap.

His eyes flick past you, toward the bare room, then back.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then;

“Is she making you do this?” You shift, leaning against the doorframe with furrowed brows and a soft laugh.

“Define ‘this.’”

Bob shrugs a little, eyes flicking to the side like he’s embarrassed to ask.

“This… ‘anchoring’ thing. The… psychic babysitting.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks awkward, not afraid. Uncomfortable in his own skin.

“No. She didn’t make me.”

He nods, slowly, like that answer just raises more questions. You don’t blame him. You’ve got your own.

“Did she tell you what happens...?” he asks, voice quieter now. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

“She gave me a file,” you say. “But I don’t think that counts.”

A beat. Then another.

Then Bob murmurs:

“She thinks I’m a bomb.”

You frown. “Are you?”

He doesn’t smile. Just meets your eyes and says, plain and honest:

“Yeah.”

You don’t flinch. That feels important.

You cross your arms over your chest, considering him, then you give him a soft smile.

“Just tell me which wire to cut.” 

The room is white. Or grey. Or something in between. It's hard to tell under the LED lights that hum like bees in your skull.

No windows. One door. A camera in the corner pretending not to be watching.

Bob sits across from you, hands clasped, thumb digging into the edge of his opposite palm like he’s trying not to fly apart. You’re seated opposite him, a tablet on the desk between you. No notes yet. You’ve been sitting in silence for awhile now.

“So,” you start, voice light. “This is the part where we ‘establish baseline compatibility.’”

He looks at you. Then down at his hands.

“Right. Sure. That.”

You tap the tablet. Still not writing.

“I’m supposed to take readings. Monitor your stress levels. Track fluctuations in your–”

You pause and don’t even hold back a grimace. “–psychospiritual field.”

Bob snorts. You roll your eyes.

“Where do they come up with this shit?” You grumble under your breath, scrolling to another blank space that you’ll eventually have to fill out. 

The tablet isn’t helping. The room isn’t helping. The silence isn’t helping.

So you just shut the screen off and sink back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“If you could be any animal, what would you be?” The childish question catches Bob off guard, and he glances up to meet your gaze with a perplexed look. 

He raises a brow, suspicious. “Seriously?”

You shrug, legs crossed now, thumb tapping lightly on your upper arm. “We’ve been sitting in silence for ten minutes. Gotta start somewhere.”

He hesitates, thinking with a little grunt. “I don’t know. A crow?”

You blink. That’s honestly one of the last answers you expected. You watch him for a moment, the way he stares at you expectantly. You just give him a look that encourages him to continue. 

“Well,” he says, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “They’re scavengers. Messy. Smart. They remember people’s faces.”

There’s a pause. Then he adds, a little softer:

“They carry grief. Like a… like a flock.”

You study him, that quiet weight of something unspoken curling at the edges of his words.

“That’s actually kind of poetic.”

He snorts again, but there’s less edge to it now.

“What about you?” he asks. “What’s your animal?”

You grin. “Opossum.”

That draws an actual laugh from him–brief, involuntary, almost like it surprises him.

You sit up straighter, proud of yourself. “They fake their death when things get stressful. Wish I could do that.”

Bob shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “God help us.”

You don’t answer that. Just let the moment settle. Let the silence fill with something that isn’t heavy.

Eventually, you turn the tablet back on, slowly this time.

“I’ll mark this down as a ‘moderately successful initial sync,’” you say lightly.

Bob raises an eyebrow. “Moderate?”

“Well,” you glance at him sideways, “you haven’t stormed out or vaporized me yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”

There’s a beat of quiet. And then, surprisingly, a murmur:

“Thanks for not… Treating me like a bomb.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“I won’t,” you say. “Unless you start ticking.”

Your sessions with Bob start to feel like therapy. Not just for him, but for you. You’re nowhere near being a licensed psychologist, just because you can feel the way people think and alter the way they think doesn’t mean you know how to fix them naturally.

You haven’t used your powers on him. Not a single time. It feels like a violation. Like you’re reaching into someone’s head and forcing their cells to collide and neurons to fire a certain way– the way you want them to. 

Bob doesn’t deserve that. Not when he smiles so sweetly every time you make a joke under your breath or snap back at John like you’ve been on the team as long as everyone else. Not when he finds you in those awkward moments when you feel like a stranger in the Watchtower– like you somehow don’t belong just because you came in later. 

Valentina’s been trying to ease him back into missions, letting him monitor the team from the tower while they’re working. You’re with him the whole time, trying to keep his emotions and worries at bay when someone narrowly dodges a bullet or takes a kick the wrong way. 

It’s one of those casual afternoons, where the world is quiet and the Thunderbolts can actually unwind. It feels… odd, to say the least. As much as they’d fight tooth and nail to deny it, they like each other. Their banter is effortless, and their smiles and laughter are contagious. 

You’re curled up on your corner of the couch, sinking into the cushions and your hoodie, when Bob plops down beside you. He’s fully immersed in the movie from the moment he enters the common area, a bowl of popcorn in his lap as he leans back against the couch.

You watch him longer than you’d like to admit– the way his eyes twinkle in the dim lighting of the room when the scene gets a little brighter. The way the corners of his lips turn up at a poorly written joke or emotionally charged scene.

You turn back to the screen, reaching over for a handful of popcorn, when it happens.

You touch him. 

Just a graze of your fingers against his own.

The lights flicker, and a sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and down your spine.

You jump, yelp, and meet Bob’s gaze.

It’s flickering, blue, gold, black.

Gold wins. 

And you’re on your back in half a second. 

You hit the rug with a thud, the breath knocked clean out of you. Bob is hovering over you, jaw twitching and eyes narrowed. 

But it’s not quite Bob, is it? 

You had read enough to know it wasn’t him.

It’s Sentry. 

He had seen you plenty of times before. Felt your presence like a buzzing fly that wouldn’t quite go away. He didn’t think much of you–you were nothing to him. He didn’t see you as a threat or something that could reel him back in. Not until you touched Bob for the first time.

Then he felt you. Felt what kind of power was lingering in your touch. 

Right before he can get his hands on you– the blue comes back.

Your chest heaves. The room spins. Your head is still echoing with static and a thousand half-formed thoughts that aren’t your own. Heavy boots pound the floor. A hand grips the back of Bob’s hoodie and yanks, hard, dragging him off you.

Bob slams into the far wall with a grunt, more startled than hurt. He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to blink the world back into place.

You flinch at the sound but don’t move, too dazed to do anything but stare up at the ceiling lights–still flickering.

A gentler hand finds your arm.

“Hey. Hey. You with me?”

Yelena’s voice. Grounding. Sharp but not unkind.

You nod, or try to.

“Jesus,” someone mutters. Probably Walker. “That was not normal.”

You sit up slowly, ribs aching. The rug is rough under your palms.

Your eyes find Bob across the room, where Bucky is crouched down talking to him. Probably trying to keep him calm.

He’s sitting with his back against the wall, hands in his hair, curled in on himself. Mute. Shaking.

It wasn’t his fault.

But no one else in the room looks convinced.

Valentina bursts in not two seconds later, and the look she gives you is less concerned and more… calculating. Like she’s doing the math. Wondering just how useful you’re going to be after this.

Now, more than ever, you’re certain.

You have to be his anchor. 

The buzzing of the LEDs seems louder than usual.

Bob hasn’t looked at you once. He’s staring down at his lap, hands fidgeting as you type on your tablet nervously.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Your voice cuts through the silence, breaking him out of the invisible box he’s been trapped in for days. He still won’t look at you. 

He shifts, fingers curling tighter around the hem of his hoodie. The fabric is worn thin from how often he picks at it. You pretend not to notice.

“Bob,”  You whisper his name, hand sliding halfway across the table. You don’t touch him, though.

“It wasn’t you. It was me.” 

He swallows hard. His voice is a scrape of gravel when it finally comes.

“It was him.”

You blink. “What?”

“You touched me,” he says. “He noticed. He felt you. That’s why he lashed out.”

His hands tremble. He presses them flat against his knees like he can still feel the leftover electricity there.

“You grounded me,” he adds, and finally, he looks at you. “And Sentry didn’t like it.” 

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob takes a shaky breath, reaching out to find your hand. Your fingers touch– but sparks don’t go flying this time. It still feels a little unsteady, like a warped battery waiting to explode.

“He thought he was invincible until you touched me.” 

Your fingers twitch beneath his, but you don’t pull away.

You can feel it, even without trying. The echo of something immense. Coiled just beneath his skin like a dormant storm.

But he’s trying. Grounded. Human.

You meet his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what do you think?”

He hesitates. That flicker of gold threatens to rise again in his eyes, but it doesn’t. He keeps it at bay. For you.

“I think…”  He whispers, jaw ticking as he glances off again. “I’m scared he’ll hurt you. Because, as far as I’m aware, you’re his only weakness.” 

And that, somehow, doesn’t terrify you.

His words settle over you like smoke, thick and lingering.

You don’t know what to say at first. Weakness isn’t the word you’d use. But maybe it is, to something like him. To something that sees compassion as a fracture. Humanity as a flaw.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you to him, though.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap back to yours, something like surprise flickering there– followed by something gentler. Sadder.

“I lose myself to him all the time,” he says, his voice thick. “I just… don’t want to take anyone else with me.”

“You won’t,” you say, with more certainty than you feel. “Not if we keep doing this. Together.”

His hand tightens around yours again. Firmer this time. Like he’s trying to anchor himself to the words, to you.

“I don’t need a leash,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to be your leash,” you say, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I’d rather be your tether.”

That word sits between you for a long moment.

And then he nods.

“Okay.”

The next day, you’re in one of the Watchtower’s reinforced training rooms.

Everything is steel and sterile white. No windows. No warmth. Just flickering fluorescent lights, a two-way mirror, and the quiet hum of surveillance.

Bob stands across from you, arms loose at his sides. His hoodie’s gone. Replaced with standard issue training gear. You hate how clinical it all feels — how observed.

Valentina’s watching behind the glass. So is Bucky. You can feel him.

Your voice is soft, meant just for Bob. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just nods once. Tight. Nervous.

You take one step forward, slowly, like you’re trying to keep a cornered animal calm.

“Hold your hand out.”

He listens after a half-second of hesitation, holding his hand out, palm up, low enough for you to reach without struggling. You take a deep breath, your gaze scanning his face as you take another step closer.

“Relax.”  You murmur, and he tries his best to. But he’s failing.

“Just… tell me if it’s too much, okay?” You whisper, and he nods once. You realize he’s ready when his gentle features turn a little harsher, brows furrowing and jaw clenching.

You place your hand in his slowly, fingers gliding over his palm before they rest at the edge of his wrist. 

This time, the world doesn’t crack. But you can feel it wanting to. Something is simmering beneath his skin like lightning behind cloud cover. His palm twitches beneath yours, but you don’t pull away. You can feel it now– not just the storm, but the fear buried underneath. Not fear of you. Fear for you.

“What are you feeling?”

His throat works as he swallows.

“I don’t know how to let it out without…” he trails off, blinking hard, “...without giving him the reins.”

You nod once. “Then don’t let it out. Just tell me where it lives.”

His eyes meet yours. That gold shimmer is there, flickering again, barely restrained.

And slowly, he lifts your joined hands to rest against the center of his chest.

“Right here.”

Your breath catches. You feel it– all of it. Not just the power. The panic. The pain. The constant hum of restraint.

Behind the glass, Valentina shifts. You feel the sudden spike of her interest.

But you don’t look. You keep your eyes on him.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper.

And he starts to believe you. 

Your fingers are still pressed to his wrist when it happens.

One breath, you’re there– in the sterile training room, the chill of steel underfoot, Valentina watching behind the glass.

The next?

Black.

Not just darkness– absence. The hum of the lights is gone. The air is gone. The room is gone. You're gone.

You're standing somewhere else now, barefoot on damp concrete. The air is thick. Heavy. Pressed against your chest like a weighted blanket soaked through. You see yourself in the corner of the dim room, curled into a ball as you chew at the sleeve of your hospital gown. 

Your younger self is a mess. Red-faced, eyes bloodshot, skin worn and covered in angry red marks. She sniffles softly, eyes wide and unfocused as they dart around the room. The door behind you shifts, and it opens with a loud, familiar creak. 

You turn around, watching the man who plagues your nightmares saunter into the room. Standing in the hallway is Bob, eyes wide as he steps forward, trying to find your gaze.

This isn’t his void. It’s yours.

“I didn’t mean to–” He croaks. 

You don’t look when the memory starts to play out. You– screaming as he holds you down and injects you with whatever he feels like injecting you with that day. The way you try to fight him off is hard to ignore, and Bob is torn between stopping it and trying to distract you. 

"Where are we?" he asks, and his voice sounds wrong here. Softer. Distorted, like it's passing through water.

You can't answer. You can't breathe.

But then, something changes.

The pressure begins to ease, not because the void is gone, but because he’s grounding you this time.

Bob lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, he takes your hand. A mirror of what you once did for him.

"I'm here," he says, and the room begins to dissolve.

The voice fades. The shadows recede. The void doesn’t vanish, but it retreats. Yielding.

When you blink again, you're back on the cold training room floor, on your knees. You're gasping. Shaking.

Bob is right in front of you, shaking as he struggles in his mind. He’s scared to touch you again.

Scared to take you right back to that awful place in your head. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to see.”

You want to believe him. But it’s hard to when there’s a golden twinkle in his eye. 

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I epilogue

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: the last box is sealed, the key turned, and the future is now smaller, quieter—measured in soft laughs, careful steps, and the warmth of someone who stayed. there are still aches, and some ghosts linger, but they no longer lead.

⤿ warning(s): panic attacks

⟡ story masterlist ; previous

✦ word count: 2.6k

Boxes line the hallway like a trail of breadcrumbs—taped, labeled in your tidy block print: LINENS, TEA, FRAGILE, MISC OR MEMORIES. Every lift sends a dull ache through the ribs that never fully forgot the fall, but you manage, pacing yourself the way physio taught: lift with legs, breathe, rest. Sun slants through the doorway of the apartment you kept so neat for so many years, catching dust motes that dance like reluctant confetti.

Mr. Donnelly hovers near the radiator plant that once refused to die. He’s thinner, cardigan buttoned crooked, but his grin is boyish. “Raccoon-proof lid’s coming with you, right?” he teases, voice cracking with emotion.

“It’s practically an heirloom,” you answer, sliding the lid into an open box. The laugh costs a twinge of pain, but the heaviness in your chest feels lighter than it did months ago.

Donnelly’s eyes mist. He pulls you into a gentle, grandfather-safe hug—arms careful of your still-tender shoulder. “Neighborhood rounds won’t be the same,” he murmurs.

“You’ll keep the stairwell in better shape than I ever did,” you reply, patting his back. When he lets go, he presses a spare key of his own place into your palm. “Just in case,” he says. You squeeze it once, then tuck it into your pocket.

A knock—two quick, one slow—taps on the open door frame. Jack steps in, shouldering a duffel and wearing that battered leather jacket you once accused of having more patches than cow. He’s kept the beard, now trimmed but defiantly scruffy, and the sight sparks warmth behind your sternum.

He surveys the room, eyes dancing.

“Thought I’d missed the heavy lifting,” he says, setting the bag down. “Turns out you’re ahead of schedule.”

“Blame the chronic insomnia,” you answer, wiping a wisp of hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist.

Jack’s eyebrow arches, the playful one. “Doctor’s orders were no solo heroics.”

“Doctor wasn’t here at 5 a.m. when the tea crate mocked me,” you shoot back. That earns a low chuckle.

He crosses the small distance, palms settling on the sides of your face—careful of the tiny scar above your brow—and steals a kiss: warm, deep, edged with laugh lines. It tastes of peppermint gum and promise. You kiss him back until Donnelly coughs politely into his sleeve.

Jack eases away, eyes unashamedly bright. “Morning, Mr. Donnelly,” he offers, handshake firm.

“Take good care of her,” Donnelly tells him, voice gruff. “She’s got more lives than my ex-wife’s cat, but let’s not test that again.”

“Plan to keep her bored,” Jack says, scooping up the TEA  box. “New place has zero rooftop access, improved locks, and a big kitchen.”

The mention of your new place still hums strange in your ears—half thrill, half fear. You’re not moving into Jack’s loft (that conversation ended with both of you laughing at the idea of one bathroom), but you did choose an apartment two blocks from his, sunlight slanting through south windows, rooftop well-secured.

Little by little, independence and closeness found a compromise.

Jack hefts another box, the LINENS one, pausing when you wince adjusting your knee brace. “Break time,” he declares. “Physio rules.”

You don't argue and perch on the lone chair left unboxed while Jack and Donnelly ferry cartons outside. From that seat you can see the empty wall where photos once hung and other small details that showed this place had truly been lived in. The place doesn’t feel haunted anymore, just emptied of relevance—ready to be someone else’s normal.

The quiet invites reflection, so you pull out your phone and open the family thread—one you swore you’d never leave on read again after Laura discovered second-hand how close you’d come to dying. Your thumb hovers a moment, then you flip the camera and frame the living room’s bare walls, the single chair, the roll of bubble-wrap like an un-popped promise. Officially moved out. You type beneath the photo. New chapter loading. Love you three—updates soon.

Laura’s reply dots appear almost instantly, but before words land, a tiny GIF of confetti rains across the screen courtesy of Paul, followed by Lily’s voice memo: a giggling Good job, Auntie! Don’t forget the glitter in your new house! Laura’s text arrives last: Proud of you. No more martyr radio silence—daily report accepted in emojis and cake photos. ❤️ You send back a selfie—sweaty, mascara smeared a little at the edges, but smiling—then tuck the phone away, promise kept.

As if on cue, Jack returns, wiping sweat with the hem of his sleeve. He kneels, resting his hands on your good knee. “Pain scale?” he asks softly.

“Three,” you admit. “Maybe four when I breathe wrong.”

“Breathing’s overrated,” he says, smile crooked but eyes serious. “We’ll ice in the truck, med when we unload.”

You nod, trusting him the way you learned to on a roof at sunrise. Chronic aches will linger; nightmares still punch through sleep some nights. But therapy, good food and Jack’s hand during the worst waves—they’re scaffolding that holds.

Donnelly waves from the doorway, keys jangling. “Everything’s loaded. I’ll follow in my jalopy—make sure you two don’t ditch that raccoon lid on the highway.”

You laugh. Jack rises, helps you stand. Your body doesn’t argue today; maybe tomorrow it will. He threads fingers through yours, guiding you to the threshold.

“You ready to lock up?” he asks.

You glance around at the bare walls, the echoing floors, and despite the bittersweet tug, your answer surprises even you:

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

You turn the key, hand it to Donnelly for the landlord, and step into the bright corridor. Mr. Donnelly pats your shoulder one last time, then heads for the stairs. Your knee aches, your ribs protest, but the pulse at your wrist beats steady under Jack’s thumb, reminding you that healing, like love, is rarely quick but always possible.

Down on the street, autumn wind flutters loose tape on cardboard. Jack opens the passenger door, steadies your brace, and kisses your temple before you climb in. The window frames Mr. Donnelly waving like a proud uncle. Jack starts the engine, turns the dial to your favorite blues station, and pulls into traffic heading east—toward sunlight, tea, and whatever comes next.

. . .

The plan had been simple—Friday-night tapas on Carson Street, your first real evening out since the cane went back in the closet.

You showered early, traded compression sleeves for a floral blouse, even swiped on lipstick you hadn’t worn since for ever. But as you twisted at the sink to add the finishing touches to your look, a bolt of pain speared from rib to spine—nerve lightning you’d hoped was dying out. It stole your breath, and with the breath came memory: slick scaffold, the whump of bone on metal, Moylan’s whisper in your ear.

The bathroom lights tilted. Steam from the shower crowded close, suffocating, and suddenly you were back on the roof fighting for oxygen.

You braced both hands on the counter, forcing slow inhales the therapist drilled into you—four counts, hold, eight counts out—but your heartbeat wouldn’t quit sprinting. Jack’s text chimed and it up your phone—Leaving now. Can’t wait to see you twirl.

You stared at the words until they blurred, anger flaring hotter than pain. Twirl? With this body? With memories clawing up your throat? You silenced the phone, locked the screen, and curled onto the bath mat, palms over ears as if that could dam the noise inside.

Ten minutes later someone jiggled the front-door key—Jack’s spare you’d given him “for emergencies and forgotten lunches.” You didn’t answer. Keys clacked, hinges sighed, and his boots crossed hardwood, steady, searching.

“Hey, running late?” he called, voice light but laced with concern.

He stopped outside the bathroom when he heard the stifled breaths. The door cracked; you shoved it hard, catching him in the shoulder.

“Go away,” you snapped, vision tunneling.

Jack didn’t flinch. “Pain spike?”

“Not your problem.” You backed against the tub, arms wrapped around ribs as if that could bolt them in place. A sob escaped, acidic with shame. “I-I can’t even button a shirt without seeing him—how am I supposed to go out like nothing happened?”

Jack stepped in, slow, palms visible. “Then we skip everything,” he said softly. You glared, chest heaving. “Skip tonight, skip me—doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it matters to me.” You snapped as he crouched, careful of your knees, and you shoved him again, heel of your hand against his chest. “You want ugly?” you hissed. “This is it. Panic attacks, rage, the works. Go date somebody whole.”

He caught your wrist—not in restraint, but as if pinching a bleeding line. “Whole is a myth,” he murmured. “I’m missing a leg, remember?”

The quip should have made you laugh, but tears crushed it. You slid down the tub, hands over face, shoulders shaking. Jack sank beside you, back to the cool tile, and said nothing else. A minute. Five. Just the two of you breathing, your ragged inhales gradually syncing with his measured ones.

When words returned, they were whisper-thin. “It still hurts,” you confessed—ribs, knee, the memory. “Sometimes I hate this body.”

“I love this body,” he answered, eyes bright. “It’s the one that came back to me.”

Silence again, but softer. You let him guide your hand to his chest, feel the even pound there. After a while the pain eased to a livable hum, the room finally steadied.

“Tapas another night,” he said, pushing a stray lock behind your ear. “Tonight: couch, rice packs, bad rom-com?”

A shaky laugh. “And tea.”

“Always tea.”

He helped you up, pain flaring then ebbing under his grasp. In the living room he propped pillows just so, tucked the heating pad under your ribs, queued the cheesiest movie he could find. Halfway through, when the heroine tripped into the hero’s arms, you caught Jack studying you—not with pity but with fierce, patient affection. You thought of your shove, your anger, the ugly side you’d warned him about.

“Still here?” you murmured.

“Still here,” he echoed, and kissed the scar at your brow like a vow.

The movie’s credits crawl in silver letters across a pink-and-cotton-candy sky. Your tea sits half-finished on the coffee table, steam ribboning into the lamplight. Jack’s arm is a warm bar across your shoulders, palm idly tracing circles at the curve of your upper arm—slow enough that your ribs hardly complain.

You clear your throat, voice still raspy from the surge of panic. “I… also did something today.”

Jack’s thumb stills on your arm, waiting. “Yeah?”

“I handed Gloria my formal notice.” Saying it aloud again makes your pulse skitter. “Two weeks. I’m officially done.”

A beat of silence—then his arm firms around your waist, not possessive, just steady ballast. “How’d she take it?”

“She understood—signed it right away, actually.” You swallow. “I wanted to tell you over dinner, make it a celebration.” You gesture at his rumpled blouse now half-untucked. “But instead—boom.” You tap your temple, wincing at the memory of white-hot pain and rooftop ghosts. “Another episode.”

Realization crosses Jack’s face. “So quitting—good news—but also the straw on the haystack.”

“Pretty much.” You offer a shaky smile. “Sorry the fancy tapas plan went to hell.”

He shifts, starfishes a hand over your ribs in a gesture equal parts apology and promise. “This counts as a whole ass party when the news is this huge.” His eyes search yours. “And for the record—I’m proud of you. Even if the landing was messy.”

His beard is rough velvet against the fine hairs along your hairline. The living-room lamp has dimmed to a single amber pool, and the rain’s soft percussion muffles the city to a hush so complete you can hear the faint tick of the second hand on your thrift-shop wall clock. It’s the same beat that once timed your post-op vitals; now it keeps tempo for a quieter life.

“And Margot—” warmth swells behind your sternum just speaking her name— “pulled strings at Allegheny Community College. They need a clinical educator. I have an interview Tuesday morning.” You exhale, half terrified, half thrilled.

Jack leans back, eyebrows climbing. “Look at you. Should I start calling you Professor?”

“Please don’t,” you groan, though the grin won’t be contained. A bubble of giddiness rises—half fear, half freedom—and escapes in a laugh that shakes your sore ribs. You wince, and Jack’s hand instantly stills.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though he’s smiling too. “I’ll need you in one piece when I fend off every starry-eyed first-year who develops a crush on the hot new teacher.”

You snort. “Hot? They’ll be too busy watching me limp past the whiteboard.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Trust me—limp or not, you’ll spark academic heart palpitations. I’ll swing by on my dinner break, flash the ER badge, scare ’em straight.”

“Jack Abbot, campus watchdog.” The idea dissolves you both into breathy laughter. When your mirth fades, a hush settles—thick with kettle heat and bergamot. Jack’s fingers resume their lazy circles.

“So,” he says quietly, “new job, new apartment, no rooftop drama. Think we can call this a fresh chapter?”

“Feels like one.” You study the living-room shadows, faint tremor still in your knee but nowhere near the earthquake it once was. “There’ll be bad days. Pain spikes. Flashbacks.”

He smiles against your hair. “Whatever comes, we handle it."

The word settles warm and sure. You melt farther into him, head on his chest. Beneath your ear, his heartbeat drums a steady four-four rhythm—no alarms, no rooftop wind, just the man who stayed even when you shoved him away.

Another siren wails somewhere—life moving at hospital pace—but it fades under the domestic hush of this small room. You picture your future: wax-polished halls, rows of curious students. No scalpels, no midnight pages anymore. It hurts, but the possibility of teaching, guiding...nurturing, it swells your heart, still fragile, still hesitant.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “What’s first on your syllabus?”

“Drain-labeling protocol,” you say without hesitation.

Jack tips his head back and groans—half agony, half delight. You’re still laughing when he lunges, gentle but unstoppable, scooping you sideways onto the sofa cushions. His arm braces your ribs just right, the other cradles your neck, and his mouth finds yours with a hunger that’s all slow burn, no rush. His beard rasps your skin, sparks everywhere your nerves remember how to feel good.

Suddenly, the kettle in the kitchen clicks to a rolling boil—an impatient little whistle. Jack break of the kiss with another groan and starts to rise, murmuring something about pouring before the leaves scorch, but you fist the front of his shirt.

“Stay,” you whisper against his lips. “It can wait.”

He hesitates only a breath—long enough for you to drag him back down. The second kiss melts any lingering protest: slow, exploratory, tasting of bergamot and promise. Your fingers slide into his curls; his hand skims the healed curve of your waist as though relearning a map he hopes never to misplace again.

Steam puffs into the room from the unattended kettle, curling like a curtain around your laughter when you finally surface for air. Jack presses his forehead to yours, breath warm, eyes bright. “First you quit Surgery, then you corrupt tea-brewing standards,” he murmurs. “Total anarchist.”

“Only the important rebellions,” you reply, catching his lower lip between your teeth just enough to make him grin.

Somewhere beyond the rain-streaked window, streetlights blink through mist, buses groan, and life rolls its everyday credits. But inside this circle of lamplight and residual steam, beginnings feel soft as fleece, endings quiet as a held breath, and the two of you—tangled together on a well-loved sofa—taste what comes next one kiss at a time.

divider credit

[twistedreads]

Long way home— Nick Leister

summary- You and Nick are long distance and you decide to surprise him, now he can't seem to keep his hands to himself

warnings- smut, oral sex, P in V (😭) dirty talk, angst, funny, cute

a/n— I don't know why I haven't seen stories about Nick from my fault London, he's literally so fine.

Masterlist. part 2

The moment your plane touched down, your heart raced.

It had been months since you last saw Nick in person. Long-distance had been harder than either of you expected—late-night calls, time zones making everything more complicated, missing each other in ways that words could never quite capture. And now, finally, you were here.

Nick had been going through a lot lately. You could hear it in his voice, even when he tried to pretend everything was fine. You hated being so far away when he needed you most, and that was why you were here now—to surprise him.

His dad, William, had been in on it from the start. The moment you told him your plan, he had been more than happy to help.

“He won’t stop talking about how much he misses you,” William had told you over the phone. “Trust me, this is gonna be the best surprise of his life.”

Now, as you stood at the arrivals gate, your suitcase in hand, you spotted William almost immediately. He was standing near the railing, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans.

“There she is,” he greeted, pulling you into a hug. “Long flight?”

“Long enough,” you chuckled, pulling back.

“Well, let’s get you to the house before Nick starts suspecting anything.”

When you arrived at Nick’s house, William let you in and told you to make yourself comfortable.

“Nick’s out for a bit,” he said, grabbing his keys. “I have to run an errand, so just hang tight. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded, setting your bag down, already picturing Nick’s reaction when he saw you. But before you could get too deep in thought, a voice called from upstairs.

“Mom, did you steal my charger again? I swear to—”

A girl appeared at the top of the staircase, stopping mid-sentence when she saw you.

She had long, dark curly hair, an oversized hoodie that looked three sizes too big, and an expression that went from confused to amused in about three seconds flat.

“Well, unless Nick’s Dad had a secret love child in Spain, I’m guessing you’re Nick’s girl.”

You blinked before laughing, immediately liking her. “Yeah. That would be me.”

She leaned against the railing, eyeing you with a smirk. “Huh. Thought you were a catfish.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, come on. Nick landing a girl like you? Suspicious.”

That made you laugh harder, and suddenly, you knew—you and Noah were going to get along just fine.

She came down the stairs, plopping onto the couch across from you. “So, what’s the plan? You surprising him?”

“Yeah, his dad’s helping me set it up.”

“Oh, he’s gonna lose his mind,” she mused, shaking her head. “I swear, he mopes around this house like a sad Victorian widow when he talks about missing you.”

You snorted. “That bad?”

“Worse,” she said. “I was starting to think I’d have to print a picture of you and tape it to his pillow just to stop the sighing.”

You were wheezing at this point.

Then, out of nowhere, she sighed dramatically, leaning back. “Anyway, what about you? Spain treating you well, or did some asshole break your heart?”

“No heartbreak for me,” you replied. “What about you?”

Noah let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, you mean did my boyfriend of three years cheat on me with my best friend after I moved here?”

Your mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding.”

“Oh, I wish,” she said, shaking her head. “I was over here unpacking boxes, and meanwhile, he was back home unpacking my best friend’s pants.”

You gasped, your jaw practically on the floor. “That fucking asshole.”

Noah grinned, pointing at you. “See? I like you.”

A little while later, Nick finally got home.

William played his part perfectly, calling him downstairs under the excuse of You’ve got a package.

Nick, completely unbothered, walked into the living room, rubbing his neck. “What kind of package?”

That was your cue.

You stepped out from the kitchen, your heart pounding.

“Me.”

Nick froze.

For a solid three seconds, he didn’t move—just stared at you, his brown eyes wide like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

Then, before you could even breathe, he crossed the room in seconds, his arms wrapping tight around you, lifting you slightly off the ground.

“No fucking way,” he muttered into your hair, his voice shaky, disbelieving, as he held onto you like his life depended on it. “You’re really here?”

“I’m really here,” you whispered back.

Nick pulled back slightly, his hands cradling your face, his eyes scanning every inch of you, like he needed to memorize you all over again. Then, without hesitation, he kissed you.

It was soft at first, like he was still in shock, but then it deepened, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

Noah, from the couch, made a dramatic gagging sound.

“God, you two are disgusting.”

Nick, without looking away from you, smirked. “Jealous?”

“Not even remotely,” she deadpanned, shaking her head. “I’m happy for you, but if I hear any gross couple shit in the next hour, I’m moving out.”

Nick chuckled before kissing you again, softer this time.

“I can’t believe you did this,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I missed you,” you admitted, your fingers tangling in his hoodie.

“Missed you doesn’t even cover it,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

You smiled, and he smiled back.

Yeah, this was home.

Nick had never smiled this much in his life.

From the moment he saw you standing in his house, everything inside him felt lighter, like he could finally breathe again. You were here, and that was all that mattered.

And now, he wasn’t letting you go.

After a slow morning filled with teasing from Noah and warm smiles from William, you finally got to meet Ella.

You hadn’t expected it—you thought she was at work, but she had come home early, only to find you sitting in the kitchen with Noah, laughing over some ridiculous story about Nick from when he was younger.

“Oh,” she said, stopping in the doorway. “You must be her.”

Nick, who had just walked in to grab a drink, groaned. “Not you too, Ella.”

Ella smiled, stepping forward to shake your hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said warmly, before side-eyeing Nick. “Mostly from this one.”

You grinned, shooting Nick a look. “Is that so?”

Nick rubbed his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Dunno what you lot are talking about.”

Ella chuckled, patting his cheek. “Sweetheart, you can’t go from moping around the house like a lovesick fool to grinning like an idiot the second she walks through the door and expect us not to notice.”

Nick groaned, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door. “Alright, we’re leaving now—bye, everyone.”

Noah cackled behind you.

“Where are we going?” you asked as Nick led you outside, his fingers still wrapped around yours.

“Taking you out.”

You stopped when you saw which car he was leading you to.

A sleek black racing car sat in the driveway, looking like something straight out of an action movie.

“You’re letting me in one of these?” you asked, eyes widening.

Nick smirked, opening the passenger door for you. “Love, I don’t just let anyone in my cars.”

You rolled your eyes but climbed in, your pulse spiking when he got in beside you, his hands moving effortlessly over the controls.

The moment he pulled onto the road, the engine purred, the world around you turning into a blur as he sped through the streets.

“Nick—!” you gasped, gripping the seat, but the laughter bubbling in your chest betrayed you.

Nick glanced at you, his grin wild, free. “You scared?”

“No—just mentally preparing for death.”

He chuckled, his fingers briefly reaching over to squeeze your thigh. “I got you, love.”

And the thing was—you believed him.

Nick drove like he did everything else—reckless, passionate, and completely in control. The wind whipped through your hair as he shifted gears, the car hugging every turn like it was an extension of him.

It was thrilling.

It was him.

And when he finally slowed down, pulling up to a scenic overlook, you were breathless.

“That,” you exhaled, “was actually kind of amazing.”

Nick smirked. “Told you.”

He turned off the engine but didn’t move, just watching you. The city stretched out beneath you both, but all you could feel was the heat of his gaze.

“You look good in my car,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly.

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach fluttered. “You look good everywhere.”

Nick chuckled, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispered.

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “Me neither.”

And then he kissed you—soft, slow, like he wanted to make up for every second you had been apart.

The two of you spent hours out together—grabbing food, catching up on everything you had missed.

Eventually, the conversation turned to Noah.

“So, how are you feeling about the whole step-sibling thing?” you asked as you twirled your straw in your drink.

Nick shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not bad, actually. She’s kind of cool. Annoying, but cool.”

“She said the same thing about you.”

Nick snorted. “Figures.”

You traced over his wrist, where you knew his rope knot tattoo was.

“Still wild that you and Noah have the same tattoo.”

“Right? I thought she was messing with me at first,” Nick said, rubbing the ink absentmindedly. “But nah, we both got it for different reasons. It’s kinda weirdly fitting, though. Feels like she was always meant to be around.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand. “I’m glad you have her.”

Nick tilted his head, studying you.

“You’re my person,” he murmured. “But yeah… she’s kinda like the sister I never had.”

..

By the time you got back to Nick’s house, it was late. Noah was in her room, and William and Ella had already gone to bed, leaving just you and Nick as he led you upstairs to his room.

The moment the door shut, Nick was on you. His hands roamed your body, fingers tracing the curves of your waist, the swell of your hips. A shiver ran down your spine as his lips pressed against your neck, sending sparks of electricity through your veins.

“Nick—” you started, but he hummed against your skin, not having it.

“Mm?”

“I need to shower.”

He grinned, his hands slipping lower. “You smell fine to me.”

“Nick—” you giggled, pushing at his chest, but he was stubborn.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited to have you here?” he murmured, his lips now brushing against your cheek.

Your breath hitched.

“I’m savoring it.”

You swallowed hard, a flush rising to your cheeks as his words sent a thrill through you. You’d missed him—missed the way he made you feel—and now that you were finally together again, you couldn’t deny the hunger that had been building inside you.

“You’re needy.”

Nick smirked, tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. “You love it.”

You let out a laugh, fingers threading through his curls as you looked at him, taking in every detail—the warmth in his brown eyes, the slight flush on his skin, the way he was completely and utterly yours.

“I do love it,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

Nick’s smirk faded, replaced by something deeper, something softer as his eyes searched yours.

And then, as if the words alone had unraveled something inside him, you saw the shift—the way his entire expression melted, the way his hands tightened around your waist like he needed to memorize the feel of you.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, fingers trailing gently along his jaw.

Nick let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling heavier as his eyes flickered over every inch of your face. Then, without hesitation, he crashed his lips against yours.

This time, there was no teasing, no playful smirk—just pure, unfiltered emotion. The kiss was deep, slow, desperate, like he was pouring every unspoken word into it, like he needed you closer, needed you more than air itself.

His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer, and you let him, sinking into him, knowing that this—this—was exactly where you belonged.

Nick’s hands slipped under your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your breasts, and you felt your nipples harden in response. He groaned, his lips trailing down your skin, and you swore your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

He pushed you back onto the bed, his body covering yours as he kissed you—deep, hard. You felt his cock press against your thigh, knowing he was just as turned on as you were.

As he broke away, gasping for air, his eyes locked onto yours. “I want to taste you,” he whispered, his voice low and husky.

Your heart raced as you nodded, anticipation thrumming through you. Nick’s hands moved to undress you, slowly peeling away each layer. When the last of your clothing fell away, his gaze roamed over your body, drinking in the sight of you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice laced with awe. The soft glow of the night’s light cascaded over your bare skin, highlighting every curve and detail as he looked at you, completely captivated.

His fingers traced your body, sending shivers down your spine before he pressed another soft kiss to your lips. Then his mouth wandered lower, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. His hands explored you, deliberate and slow, as if committing every inch of you to memory.

A soft breath escaped you as your back arched slightly off the bed, drawn into the heat of his touch.

Nick’s face dipped between your legs, his tongue tracing over your pussy, and a moan built in your throat.

“Hello, beautiful,” he breathed against your core once he got a full view of it. “Long time no see.”

You let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes—until his tongue pressed against your folds, and laughter was quickly replaced by a sharp, pleasure-filled gasp.

Nick pulled away slightly, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, watching you with a knowing expression.

“You have to be quiet, love,” he murmured, his voice a low whisper. “Wouldn’t want to wake my parents or Noah, now would we?”

His hands glided over your inner thighs, his touch teasing, deliberate.

A shudder ran through you as he continued, the intensity building until you instinctively bit down on your fist to stifle the moans threatening to escape.

Nick chuckled at the sight, his grip tightening slightly. “That’s better,” he mused before returning to his slow, unrelenting pace.

He licked you, his tongue stroking your clit, and you let out a sigh of pleasure.

“Oh, Nick, that feels so good,” you whispered, your hands tangling in his hair.

His voice was a low rumble. “You taste amazing, baby. I’ve missed this so much.”

His tongue delved deeper, making your body tremble.

Your back arched, hips lifting off the bed, but his hands grasped your hips, holding you in place.

“More, Nick, please,” you begged, your voice breathless.

His tongue was relentless, his strokes precise, and you felt yourself building toward a climax.

“You’re so close, baby, I can feel it,” he murmured against your skin.

You bit your lip hard, his words a steady stream of encouragement.

“Come on, baby, let go. I’ve got you.”

The pleasure built, and you felt yourself unraveling. Your body shook as your orgasm crashed over you, your hips moving against his mouth as he helped you ride out the pleasure.

When sensitivity took over, you pushed his head away.

Nick lifted himself up, hovering over you, amusement flickering in his gaze.

“You still with me?” he teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You blinked open your eyes, a dazed smile tugging at your lips as you slowly nodded, satisfaction evident in the way your body melted beneath him.

But before he could say anything, you pressed your hands to his shoulders, pushing him back.

Nick let out a surprised chuckle, his smirk returning as you climbed over him, straddling his hips with newfound confidence.

“Oh, taking charge now, are we?” he mused, hands finding your waist.

You tugged at his shirt. “You’re overdressed,” you murmured.

Nick’s smirk widened.

“Let’s change that, shall we?”

Without hesitation, he pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion, revealing the lean, toned definition of his body.

Your gaze raked over him, drinking in every detail.

“God, you’re so sexy,” you murmured, tracing your fingers over the firm planes of his chest.

Nick hummed in pleasure. “Say it again.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his ear.

“You’re so sexy,” you whispered, your voice softer this time, laced with something deeper than just attraction.

Nick exhaled slowly, like the words physically affected him.

“You have no idea what that does to me,” he murmured.

His fingers tightened on your waist.

“I love it when you look at me like that,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“Then don’t look away.”

Nick smirked.

“Oh, trust me, love—I wouldn’t dare.”

Then he kissed you, and everything else faded away.

Nick’s lips crashed against yours in a kiss that was raw, urgent, and completely unrestrained. His hands roamed your body with a desperation that sent shivers down your spine, fingers digging into your hips as if grounding himself in the reality of having you here.

Your hands moved instinctively, sliding down his chest, feeling the defined ridges of his muscles beneath your fingertips. When you reached the waistband of his pants, you didn’t hesitate, fingers working to undo his belt.

Nick let out a low, satisfied hum against your lips, his smirk returning.

“Impatient, are we?” he teased, voice thick with amusement.

You pulled back just slightly, lips still brushing against his, your fingers continuing their slow work.

“Just helping you out,” you murmured playfully. Then, with a smirk of your own, you whispered, “Can I put you in my mouth?”

The moment those words left your lips, you felt his cock twitch beneath you.

“Fuck yes, please,” he groaned, voice strained with need.

You giggled as he quickly helped you remove his pants and boxers, leaving you both bare. Your eyes trailed down his body, drinking him in—the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch, the way his cock stood thick and hard, precum glistening at the tip.

You licked your lips before leaning down, your hand wrapping around his length.

Nick’s head fell back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as you began to stroke him, slow and deliberate. His breath hitched when you finally pressed your lips against the tip, teasing him with soft kisses before taking him into your mouth.

His hands immediately tangled in your hair, his grip tightening as he let out a deep, guttural moan.

“Oh, baby… that feels so fucking good,” he groaned, voice husky with pleasure.

You hummed around him, the vibration making his hips jerk slightly. Encouraged by his reaction, you took him deeper, your tongue swirling around his shaft as you worked him with your lips and hands.

Nick’s breathing grew heavier, his grip on your hair tightening as he watched you. His eyes were dark, full of lust and admiration as he whispered, “You look so pretty sucking me off.”

That praise alone sent heat pooling between your legs. Your clit throbbed with need, but right now, your focus was on him. You wanted to watch him unravel beneath you, wanted to make him fall apart.

As you continued to take him deeper, his breathing turned ragged. His fingers flexed in your hair, his hips twitching beneath you.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice strained.

You didn’t stop. Instead, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, determined to take every drop of him.

With a sharp moan, his body tensed, and you felt him pulse against your tongue. A moment later, he came with a groan, spilling into your mouth. You swallowed every drop, your tongue teasing him one last time before pulling away.

Nick’s chest rose and fell heavily as he came down from his high. When he finally opened his eyes, they were filled with something deep, something beyond lust.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, reaching up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

You grinned, playfully straddling his thighs. “I know.”

Nick let out a breathless laugh, his hands instinctively settling on your waist. But before he could say anything else, he reached toward the nightstand, fingers fumbling for the drawer.

Your hand gently wrapped around his wrist, stopping him.

He looked at you, brows furrowed in question.

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, voice soft but certain. “I’m on the pill.”

For a moment, Nick just stared at you, lips parting slightly. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, something deeply satisfied flashing across his face.

“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice lower now, thick with something that made your stomach tighten.

You hummed in confirmation, reaching down to wrap your hand around his cock again, stroking him back to full hardness.

“God, you’re killing me here, babe,” he groaned, his grip on your waist tightening.

Smiling, you lifted yourself up and lined him up with your entrance. His eyes locked onto yours, the heat in them undeniable. Then, slowly, you sank down onto him, gasping at the fullness.

Nick’s fingers dug into your waist, his breath hitching as he felt you completely wrapped around him.

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” he groaned, his voice raw.

Once you were fully seated on him, he gave you a moment to adjust, his hands caressing your hips, grounding you. A few seconds passed before you started to move, rolling your hips in a slow, steady rhythm.

Nick’s hands roamed up your torso, reaching your breasts. His fingers played with your nipples, tweaking and pinching them just enough to make you whimper.

“You have the most beautiful tits,” he groaned, voice husky. “I love the way they bounce when you ride me.”

You clenched around him at his words, a moan slipping past your lips.

Leaning forward, your breasts brushed against his chest as you picked up the pace, chasing the pleasure pooling in your stomach.

Nick’s hands slid down to your ass, gripping it tightly before delivering a sharp slap that made you gasp. A smirk tugged at his lips.

“You like that?” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement.

“Yes,” you admitted breathlessly, moving faster now, grinding your hips against his. Every time you moved, your clit brushed against him, sending pleasure coursing through you.

Nick’s words became filthier, his whispers hot against your ear. “You’re so wet, baby. I can feel your juices dripping down my cock.”

“Nick,” you moaned, nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re so fucking big.”

After a while, your movements slowed, your legs burning with exhaustion.

Nick noticed immediately, his grip on your waist tightening. Without a word, he flipped you onto your back, pinning you beneath him.

“My turn,” he murmured, his smirk wicked as he thrust into you.

You let out a sharp cry, wrapping your legs around his waist as he started to fuck you in deep, hard strokes.

His fingers found your clit, rubbing and pinching, sending you hurtling toward your climax.

“You’re so close, baby,” he groaned. “I can feel you tightening around me.”

You nodded frantically, pleasure consuming every part of you.

Nick’s thrusts grew faster, more desperate.

“Shit, I’m coming,” he cursed, his voice strained.

The moment you felt him pulse inside you, your own orgasm tore through you, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body shook as you moaned his name, nails raking down his back as he held you close.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies tangled together, chests rising and falling in sync.

Nick pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice full of emotion.

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Love you more.”

Nick let out a soft chuckle, his arms tightening around you.

“Not possible.”

[arbitrarykiwi]

Captured in Low Resolution

Thanos/Choi Su-Bong (Player 230) x fem reader one-shot

Summary: while in your boyfriend’s music studio you finally remember to ask him about that teeny, tiny, low resolution photo that’s taped to the corner of his main computer screen. It’s been there for a while, edged curled up and ink faded to the point where you can’t even see what it is! (4k words)

Warnings: prolly ooc thanos…I just felt this in my soul and had to write it, Sfw, Just wanted to write somethin cute for this silly lil crazed man, proof read but am dyslexic so expect errors LMAO

You didn’t know it but one of Choi Su-bong’s favorite pictures of you was the one he has hung up on the corner of his computer at his studio.

It’s so small, grainy and faded due to the shitty printer he used to print it on. It’s also folded at the edge, rolling up into itself the smallest bit and blocking damn near most of the image.

As you sit on the edge of the computer desk, legs kicking aimlessly as he sits in the desk chair right next to you. He’s leaned back, one of his hands on the mouse as he clicks along the computer screen, eyes trained on the file of music he was working on. His other hand was resting on your thigh, right above the knee, fingers tapping against your flesh in concentration.

You look back over to the small image taped to the corner of his computer, fingers reaching out to try and un-curl the edge to see it better. It’s still such poor quality.

“What even is this picture?” You call out, fingers running over the paper. “Hm?” He says, very obviously not paying attention, his eyes moving from the computer screen over to you.

You pout playfully at him, “Can’t believe you’re ignoring me” you say, crossing your arms. He rolls his eyes and moves the chair he’s in over a couple inches. The wheels drag on the floor until he makes it to his destination, situated between your legs.

His arms reach up, crossing the desk and going behind you so his hands grip at your ass, pulling you to the very edge of his desk, your feet resting against his thighs. He looks up at you, hands massaging up your ass and around to your hips. “I’m payin’ attention now! Ask me again.” He whines turning to place a short kiss on the inside of your knee as an apology before pulling away.

You giggle, looking down and grabbing his face. You hunch over and tilt his face up, placing a slow kiss on his lips. When you pull away, you reach back over to the small image and pull at the corner. “I said what even is this picture. It’s so blurry. I can’t make it out.” You mumble, eyebrows furrowed as you squint to try and see what it was.

He looks to the little picture you’re fumbling with and then back to you, a confused look on his face. “You don’t know what it is!?” He says almost as if he’s offended. He removes one hand from your hip, pulling it back to quickly fish his phone out of pants pocket.

You watch as he unlocks it, blown out pupils darting across his phones home screen until he finds the app he’s looking for- photos.

He’s opening the app and begins to scroll through his camera roll. You can see glimpses of pictures- shoes he bought, pictures of weed, pictures of his shows, pictures of you and him, random memes he’s saved.

And then suddenly he stops, clicking on a certain photo in his camera roll then flipping his phone to you.

You immediately see the high definition colors match the pixels of the poor quality photo. It’s of you, in the drivers seat of his car. With the direction the photos taken, he’s in the passenger seat. The purple floor board lights that are in his car are the only lights that illuminate the photo- you can see it’s night outside the window behind you.

Your hair is in a messy style, you’re wearing a pair of his pajama pants and one of his shirts. Both articles of clothing practically swallowing you. One of your legs is hiked up on the car seat, shin pressed against the steering wheel. You have a takeout box of your favorite food in your lap, one hand holding up the food that your were most likely in the middle of eating, the other picking at the side dish that’s still in the box. You’re laughing in the picture, presumably at something he said.

You look at him, not really thinking this exact picture was worthy to be on the corner of his main computer as a permanent relic over the year. There’s plenty of better ones. But he cuts off your thoughts, “s’my favorite picture of you, baby.” He says with a wide grin pointing at the phone. “You look so cute and it reminds of that night and you always look so fuckin good when you’re driving my car.” He rambles passionately.

“Anytime I’m stressed out because these stupid fucks here don’t listen to me- I look at that picture, remember that night, and suddenly I’m not wanting to kill them.” He says pointing over to the small picture taped to his computer.

He was referring to the many people he had working with him on his music on a daily basis- his manager, his drug addict friends, different collabs he has- they all enrage him frequently, but with that picture of you there as his saving grace, he’s saved himself from losing deals and getting into fights. All he had to do is look at that little picture and he was taken back to that night- the anger he had towards whoever pissed him off in the studio would subside and he’d be able to finish whatever needed to be done in the studio without further problem.

You giggle, hands reaching out to grab his phone from his hand. Wanting a closer look at the picture, still not entirely sure when or even where it was taken. When your eyes scan the image, your smile widens- finally remembering the picture.

————/————/————

You guys had been dating around 6 months at the time, you think. You remember you had begged him to take you out late at night to get your favorite food to go. You were starving and you were set on the one thing that just had to have no delivery option. He had made you drive his car, saying that if he were to go with you and get you the food you wanted- you would have to drive.

You agreed excitedly, slipping on your shoes, grabbing his car keys that hung next to his front door and nearly bolting out of his apartment and skipping all the way to the parking space his car was in.

You didn’t know it but Choi Su-Bong thinks he realized that he was head over heels in love with you that night.

Yes he knew he adored you, loved you- hell he was never one for settling down until he met you a couple years ago- you changed him. But that night he swears he fell for you all over again in ways he didn’t think was possible.

You don’t hear it, you’re halfway to his nice sports car, but he chuckles to himself, just watching you. You’re simply adorable. Your excitement for your favorite food even this late at night made his tired smile grow wider. He was really smitten.

He’s entranced by the way you expertly throw the car into reverse, peeling out of the parking lot of his complex. You’re humming to yourself happily, doing the little dance you always do when you’re about to get food you like.

You’re so excited about the food you don’t even take the extra couple seconds to set up the Bluetooth like you normally do- you always wanted to have music in the care. It’s adorable, he thinks, just how determined you are to get your late night eats.

What’s even more adorable though is the way your eyes light up, a gasp coming out when he takes over aux, putting on that one song you play constantly. The one he swears you can listen to 16 times back to back and love it just as much as you did the first time it came on.

He just can’t stop staring at you, a small smile on his lips as he just watches how you drive, one arm outstretched so your hand is on the wheel the other arm is rested against the window on your side, your thumb playing with the nails of your other fingers- feeling the glitter and gems of the fresh set, tracing the raised chrome “T”- the extravagant set courtesy of your boyfriends money.

He watches as you hum along to the song, as it continues you begin to sing along, your voice blending with the stereo. He can’t but help chuckle to himself when he notices your hand drumming against the steering wheel, your head bobbing along to the music. It was 2am and here you were, as energetic as ever, singing your heart out.

He admires how you seem to recite the lyrics like they’re mixed into the blood that’s in your veins. It’s like you don’t even have to think about what word follows the previous, it just comes to you like you’re the person who wrote the song.

You can feel his gaze on you and your singing is halted by a laugh bubbling up your chest when you can see him out of the corner of your eyes just watching you- your eyes darting over to him in the passenger seat, eyebrows scrunched in a questioning look before looking back at the road. “Why ya staring at me?” You say with a giggle, eyes going back to the road.

“Hm..” he hums in response, reaching over the center console to interlock his hand with yours, your arm that was once on the window moves to replace the other so you can hold his hand, your other hand takes the wheel. “I can’t just admire my girlfriend?” He finishes, giving your hand a squeeze. He even adores the way your eyes roll at his words, letting out a sarcastic “I ‘spose you can.”

He lets out a low hum in response, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of your hand. He doesn’t stop looking at you for the whole ride, taking in every detail of you.

You expertly maneuver his car along the expressway as you head to your destination with a determination, and throughout the whole drive he just finds more and more things that he finds endearing about you. He was going to have to make you drive him places more often if it meant he got to observe you like this.

You make it to the drive-thru, pulling around the curve and waiting patiently at the large light up menu. He begins to type on his phone, writing out his order so you could easily read it out when you got done ordering what you wanted.

You list off your order and he begins to hand you his phone, open to his order he just wrote out, but you don’t even turn to him- instead you list off his exact order perfectly without even having to grab his phone.

He sits back with a surprised laugh, you really did know him. It was charming how much you knew about him- even the little things like his order at this fast food place that you two have only gone to maybe 3 times.

You had to be a fucking witch, He thought, you had some sort of spell over him that made him fall for you effortlessly at any little thing you did.

You let out a sweet “Thank you!” To the worker as they tell you to pull up, turning to begin to pull up. You turn to him, doing a small excited dance and extending your hand out to him.

He grabs your outstretched hand, taking it in his and turning it to place a kiss on your knuckles as he grabs his wallet out of his pocket. When he pulls back, he rotates your hand back and places his card in your hand.

You give the card to the worker, paying. You get the card and receipt back, the worker closing the window and headed back to the kitchen. When you hand him back his card you lean over the center console and place a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, my love.” You say in a sweet tone that has him thinking he’s tripping- and he knows he didn’t take any pills today.

My love.

He’s replaying it in his head, trying to get the words and the way you said it permanently etched into his head. He’s not sure he’s ever been able to experience something so wholesome and exciting than when he met you. And every day he was continually surprised that you could still have such an effect on him with the little things you did.

“Of course, my beautiful flower.” He coos, hand reaching across the center console to stroke his thumb across your cheek a couple times. Your attention is pulled away from him by the bags of food being held out to you.

You take them happily handing them over to him for safe keeping as you pull around to the empty parking lot.

As you guys sit in the empty parking lot, eating the food- you told him you wanted to eat it then and there, not wait for the drive home- and who was he to say no to his sweet girl!?!- one of his own songs comes on the play list, his own voice coming through the speakers and filling the car.

“Oooohh!” You say excitedly, “that’s my mannn~!!” You call out in a sing song voice. He laughs, leaning over to place a quick kiss on your neck. When he does he can smell your perfume, it’s a scent he’s become addicted to. He lets out a low hum against your neck as he stays connected to you, sucking a small purple bruise into your skin. You bite your lip and giggle, reaching one hand up to run through his hair.

He pulls back from you, settling back into the passenger seat. He continues to eat, humming along to his own song. He swears his heart beats out of his chest when he’s about to take a bite out of his food and you begin rapping along.

It’s soft mumbles, just to yourself as you nod your head along to his music. You recite the lyrics perfectly. Sure, he knew you were subjected to listen to his music when you sat in his studio as he worked- but to know the lyrics like the back of your hand like this…he’s head over heels.

He watches on for a moment, just letting you be in your own world, not faltering once as you rap along to the recording of his voice. “How’d you learn this?” He questions with a laugh of disbelief, fuck, you’re so precious.

You look over to him, shocked he was even paying attention- you thought he was invested in the food that sits in the take out box on his lip like you were. “I listen to it all the time, duh! It’s on my liked playlist for when I drive.” You say confused, like you were surprised he was surprised.

His head is spinning to say the least. Maybe it was because he used to run around the worst type of people possible, always using him and not actually supporting his music. Or maybe it was because the ditzy flings he had before meeting you never cared to really listen to his music, only wanting drugs or sex. He wasn’t sure but he thought he was dreaming.

Choi Su-bong fell head over heels in love with you that night. He realized you were truly a precious little gift all for him. A pretty thing to show off and to keep him in line. Someone who loved him, and his music enough to learn all the lyrics and add it to your personal playlist. The way you were in the drivers seat of his car, wearing his clothes, singing his song has him launching over the seat to kiss you.

You nearly drop your food- clutching it to your lap as you kiss him back. It’s sweet, slow, and methodical. You can’t help but to melt into it. His lips move against you in practiced movements, his teeth gently bitting at your bottom lip- pulling it just a bit as he pulls away.

He moves back into the passenger seat and begins to go back to eating like nothing happened. You try and mirror him, trying to be stoic as you pick through your take out box.

He hears you giggling to yourself, and when he looks over and sees the sight- you trying your best to focus on your food, smile spread on your lips that were still wet from the kiss- he takes his phone out and takes a picture.

————/————/————

Back in the studio, you look back up to him, a wide smile on your face as you finally remember the night the picture was taken. “Awh!!! You’re such a softie…” you coo out reaching out to pull his face towards you, placing kiss after kiss along his face. When you pull back he scoffing, shaking his head dismissively, trying to act like you don’t affect him the way you do.

But you do.

“Not a softie..” he mumbles as he pouts. You look to the photo again, then back to him raising an accusatory eyebrow. He rolls his eyes at your persistence, “Fine…maybe you have me a bit soft…but you can’t blame me baby! You’re so fuckin perfect…” he says his hands running up the sides of your waist as he focuses on you. You jump off the desk, moving to climb into his lap on his desk chair.

He hums in approval when you sit down on his lap. He studies you, observing you like you’re an ancient marble carving on display in a museum. “My pretty baby.” He mutters, reaching up his hands to run them up the sides of your neck and to hold your face. “Mhm, your pretty baby.” You respond leaning in to kiss him. “All yours.” You mumble against his lips. He nods, biting at your lip. As he keeps the kiss going, he takes the small photo that you still held and tapes it back to the corner of the computer- where it belongs.

————/————/————

When he decides he’s done working in the studio for the day You stay the night at his place. Your mind buzzing with a perfect idea to surprise. You anxiously await to get started with your little project for when he goes to bed- you wouldn’t want to spoil it!

Hours later, he’s asleep on your bare chest, purple hair ticking your neck. One of his arms is thrown across you, pulling you tightly in his grasp. For someone who’s so intimidating and outgoing, when he’s asleep with you-he’s so soft, vulnerable. It’s a drastic change that only happens around you- and it’s one that you cherish every moment of.

Anytime you adjust yourself in bed, his arm around your torso holds you tighter like you’re going to run away. You never do though, you always stay with him. You try your best, and eventually manage to pull your phone off the bedside table, clicking it on to begin your plan.

The bright light of your phone floods the dark bedroom. He murmurs in his sleep, beginning to stir, his painted nails raking lightly at your rib cage when he moves. You quickly dim the brightness of your phone- a tricky task with one hand but you get it done. Your other hand runs along his arm and back in feather-light touches. It seems to settle him back into deeper sleep, his face rubbing against your chest, like he’s trying to get closer to you in any way possible and his hand relaxing once again.

With him back asleep, you continue your plan. You’re ordering the biggest print you can of the photo he loves so much, in the best quality, with the nicest wood frame you can find.

It takes a couple weeks to get everything and put it together. But soon you finish it and strategize on how you’re going to present it to him.

One day you found yourself in his studio. He’s at his desk, the small picture of you still taped to his computer. He’s working on some new music, his face focused as he sits at his desk, his mouth moving as he whispers lyrics to himself, trying to come up with something for this new song.

He eventually turns to you, offering to go out and get you food. And how could you say no? It gave you the perfect opportunity to see your plan into its final stages.

When he leaves the studio to go pick up food for the two of you, you get to work. You hang the picture up right above his monitor. It’s a tough job for one person, the large frame almost too big for you to hang up. But you struggle through- needing to see the end goal- his reaction.

You take a step back, looking on at the new addition with a proud smile.

Oh! Last thing!

You walk back over to his desk, leaning over it and removing the taped picture that was on the corner of his monitor, keeping it tucked into your palm. You smile to yourself, returning back over to your spot on the couch.

When he returns a while later, plastic bags of food for you. His eyes don’t even notice the new addition to his studio, he just looks straight to you on the couch He walks over to you, placing a kiss on your forehead then handing you the food.

“You go ahead and eat, baby. I really gotta finish this up.” He says, his eyes going back to his phone, an annoyed expression on his face. His phone rings out notification after notification, blowing up with messages that are surely rushing him to get the first draft of his lyrics submitted. His words are terse, almost harsh, but you know it’s not directed at you- it’s directed at the individuals hounding him on his phone.

He walks back over to his desk, he throws his phone down on the wood, eyes immediately diverting to his computer, ready to get back to work. Not even looking up to the wall.

He’s annoyed, he just wanted a nice calm day with his girlfriend but all these people bothering him about his music and raps just make him so fucking annoyed. When he feels himself getting more and more aggravated, his eyes immediately look to the corner of his computer monitor, trying to find solace in looking at the little paper picture he had taped to the screen, only to realize the small crumpled picture of you that he had taped there is gone.

He looks over his shoulder back to you, his eyebrows furrowed and a pout on his face. “You take my picture of you down?” He asks, you can hear the upset in his voice, it almost makes you break and spoil the whole surprise you set up.

You nod in response, biting your lip to try and keep your excited smile at bay. You open your palm, showing him that you had the small image. “What?!” He exclaims, turning fully back to you, his back now facing the wall you desperately needed him to look at. “Why would you do that?!” He says, looking at you worried, the frown on his face deepening.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, walking over to him and spinning him around to face the wall. Your finger pointed up at the once empty space above his computer monitor.

When he finally looks at the wall, his mouth drops open. When he looks up he expects to see the same old bare white bricks, but he doesn’t, he’s completely wrong. How could he have completely missed that?!

There’s a large framed copy of his supposed favorite picture of you, right above his main computer monitor. Much better than the small, grainy paper image he had taped to the computer.

You’re about to ask if he likes it when he cuts you off, scooping you up into his arms and spinning you around. “You’re literally the fucking best!” He cheers excitedly. He puts you down and you’re smiling like an idiot. “You like it?” You ask, looking up at him, your arms interlocked behind his neck. “Baby…” he says, leaning down and holding your face to place a long, overly exaggerated kiss you your lips, pulling back with a ‘muah!’, “this is the best gift ever.”

His thumbs stroke your cheek gently, he’s staring at you with an adoring gaze that makes you melt. “You needed somethin’ a little better than this small lil thing. It was gonna fade…even more than it has.” You say holding your palm face up in between the two of you. “So I wanted to get you something that wouldn’t fade and have it to where you can actually see what it is.” You say poking at his chest with a joking, scolding tone.

He nods, laughing, placing a kiss on your forehead before removing his hands from your face and grabbing the old image. His thumb runs across the image, a soft smile on his face. He then looks up to the wall where the new picture hangs, taking a couple steps towards the desk.

“Fuck you’re stunning, sweetheart.” He breathes out, studying the framed photo of you, it’s a constant reminder of how lucky he is. “This is just what I needed, thank you..” He says, just studying the picture with a love-struck look. He truly has won the jackpot with you.