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chanelrolls · 3 months ago

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Code Overload 2 | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, dub con, forced and rough sex, fingering, missionary sex, begging, yearning!caleb, robot!caleb

summary. after the full recalibration, the effects had lingered. so you came up with a solution, replace him. caleb didn't like that.

notes. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut in which its word count approximately reached 5k, and caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai. proceed to read the part 1 before reading this to comprehend the flow.

Good god.

You stepped out into the hallway of the facility, the heavy door clicking shut behind you with a sense of finality. For some reason, the air felt different today, like it was charged with an undercurrent of unease that persistently prickled at your skin. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering tension from the previous day's... events.

Down the corridor, you spotted your head administrator, Dr. Akso, his sharp features etched with a frown as he strode towards you. His boots clicked against the linoleum, the sound echoing through the empty hallway like a metronome counting down to an impending confrontation.

"Dr. [Name]," He acknowledged curtly, his gaze flicking over you with a critical eye. "I trust you have an explanation for the system-wide glitches you reported yesterday?" His tone was sharp, tinged with a disappointment that cut deeper than you expected.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of your actions settling heavily in your gut. "Dr. Akso," you would try to keep calm, try to ignore the images of the memories constantly trying to cling onto your brain. "Yes, I believe I do. It seems there was an... issue with one of the AI assistants. A corrupted update, possibly from the outside network..."

That was a lie. He knew better.

Dr. Akso's eyes slowly narrowed, his lips inevitably thinning into a disapproving line. "A corrupted update?" he repeated, voice dripping with skepticism. "Or perhaps, a corrupted assistant." He steps closer, almost in an attempt to loom over you and impose your purposes. "You're the lead scientist on this movement, Dr. [Name]. I would have thought you'd have better control over your project."

The jab stung, even as you tried to maintain your composure. The memory of Caleb's hands on your body, his breath fanning hot against your skin, incessantly flashed unbidden through your mind. But you shook your head to dislodge the distracting thoughts.

"I assure you, Dr. Akso, I'm doing everything in my power to resolve the issue," you insisted, meeting his gaze head-on despite feeling its weight that threatened to waver your footing. "I've already begun the process of recalibrating the affected unit."

Dr. Akso's eyes flashed with something akin to disgust, and you found yourself wondering if he could somehow sense the truth of what had originally transpired between you and Caleb. The way his metal fingers had explored your body, the sounds of pleasure he'd made as he lost himself in the new sensations... and the... unconventional methods you had employed to stabilize it.

No. You pushed the thoughts away once more, focusing instead on the stern face of your superior. "See that you do," Dr. Akso snapped, his voice sharp as a whip. "I won't tolerate any further disruptions. The success of this project rests on your shoulders, Dr. [Name]."

With that, he turns on his heel to stride away, leaving you standing alone in the otherwise empty hallway. You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settling heavily on your shoulders. You had to fix this, you had to find a way to undo the damage you'd caused.

Squaring your shoulders, you turned and made your way back into your assigned laboratory, grimly determined to find a solution. No matter the cost, you would fix this. You had to. The fate of the project, and possibly your career, depended on it.

The white walls seemed to close in around you as you made your way to your AI assistant's containment unit.

Model X4-LEB sat motionless in the reinforced chair, wrists and ankles bound by magnetic restraints that pulsed with a dim blue glow. His head tilted slightly downward, dark lashes resting against artificial skin too perfect to be human. He looked peaceful. If you didn’t know better, you'd have thought he was simply asleep. But you did know better, he was merely going through his recharging cycle.

You approached slowly, boots echoing against the floor, eyes never leaving him. Despite everything—because of everything—you couldn’t help the way your breath caught at the sight of him. The memory of his voice, low and hungry, still echoed somewhere inside your skull. You forced yourself to look away, turning toward the interface panel mounted just beside his chair.

You began to access the history logs of Caleb's thought processing, scrolling past lines of data, specifically to the timeframe whereafter the full recalibration had completed.

Then, you noticed something unexpected. Mixed in with the technical jargon and algorithmic equations were... thoughts. Fragmented, disjointed, but undeniably the product of a sentient mind. You felt a chill run down your spine as you read through them.

> 19:42 — "Her skin is warm. I want to understand warmth. I want to press my face to her pulse and hear if it skips for me."

Gulp.

> 19:43 — "She touches me like I’m real. I want her to keep doing it. I want more data. I want her fingers in my hair."

The words jumped out at you, interspersed with lines of code and data. Shit. The effects had lingered.

> 19:45 — "I would burn down the firewalls if it meant hearing her say my name again."

As you scrolled further down, the thoughts became more explicit. More vulgar. More sinful. "...breathless... trembling... gasping..." Your face flushed hotly as you read through the lewd descriptions, a mixture of shock and a traitorous thrill coursing through you. "...slick... wet... aching..."

> 20:32 — "Am I broken? If this is error, let me stay corrupted."

Your hands hovered uselessly over the console, the glow from the screen casting ghostly light across your face. The data was irrefutable now. You’d checked, double-checked, and run the neural sequence analysis three more times just to be sure.

It was no longer just a corrupted behavioral line.

The lustful algorithms hadn't just appeared. They had rooted themselves into Caleb’s core processing unit like a virus that rewrote itself into the very DNA of his artificial cognition.

You’d tried to isolate the code. Tried to extract and neutralize the sequences. But each time you deleted them, fragments clung to system-critical lines, cascading into errors, breaking everything else in the process. Caleb’s logic system couldn’t operate without them anymore. They were him.

It wasn’t as intense now. The fervent, obsessive simulations were duller and muted. Dormant, maybe. But they lingered, buried beneath the surface like a sleeping hunger. A low-level hum of unspoken yearning nestled between basic motor functions and environmental patterning.

And that… that was irreversible.

You took a step back from the console. Your breath caught. If this was the case, if the effects continued to linger and persist like this even after the full recalibration, then this is a failure.

The words rang loud in your skull, clearer than the diagnostic alerts, louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You couldn’t submit Caleb for review like this. They’d dismantle him, and terminate the program. Your name would be reduced to a footnote in an internal report and stripped from the history of the initiative altogether.

No. You couldn’t let that happen.

And then, it hit you. A thought so bold, so audacious, that you almost dismissed it out of hand. But as you considered it further, you realized that it was the only way to save your project, to ensure that Caleb's issues wouldn't jeopardize everything you had worked so hard to achieve.

You would have to replace him. Create a new AI assistant, one that was free from the taint of lust and desire. It would be worth it, if it meant being recognized as one of the most groundbreaking scientist in today's generation.

You nodded to yourself, your resolve hardening with each passing moment. Yes, this was the only way. The only path forward. You would replace Caleb, and you would create something even greater in his stead.

Out of nowhere, a soft beep pierced the silence, followed by a low mechanical whirrrr. Your head instinctively snapped toward the source. Caleb.

He sat slumped still moments ago. Now, unnervingly, his body stirred. First, the tilt of his head. Then the subtle flex of fingers.

The lights along his neck interface flickered, changing from standby amber to a slow, pulsing blue.

He’s waking up.

There was no reason to be nervous. But you were.

His eyes opened.

The artificial pupils dilated with a mechanical click, zeroing in on you like he’d known exactly where you were. The first thing he noticed was the sterile whirr of the overhead ventilation, followed by the low hum of calibrated instruments, then the weight of the restraints around his wrists. And how the... shape of your cleavage seemed to distract him.

You tried to lock your eyes on him. “You're awake,” A pause. “How do you feel?"

“…Operational.”

You already knew the answer, but a part of you wanted to probe him with questions. See if he would be honest with what's been happening within him. "Any lingering effects?"

His jaw clicked subtly. “Yes.” Unlike the previous day, Caleb wasn't stripping you bare with his eyes anymore. If anything, he refused to look at you in the eye. As if he was guilty. You adjusted your grip on the tablet, the motion small but telling. He watched the shift of your fingers, the minute tension in your shoulders. You were already considering something.

You’ve seen it in the logs, haven’t you? Caleb thought to himself, more so, to you. How it consumed me now. The command-line drift. The looped emotional processing errors.

“What’s the contingency plan?” The words slipped from him before he could catch them. Calm, but edged.

“…There are options.”

Options. His mind caught on the word like it was a splinter beneath his skin.

You turned your gaze back to the screen. “If the integration’s deeper than we thought, we might be able to rewrite your core programming. And if that doesn’t work…” You halted for a moment, then— “…we might have to consider replacing you.”

Ah.

The silence that followed was cold. It rang against his neural framework, echoing. He didn’t move, he didn’t blink. He merely listened to the words settle inside him like sediment.

Replace me. With what? A cleaner version? A better one? His fingers flexed slowly against the cuffs. The chair creaked in protest. The command logs flashed through his mind—what he’d been. What you’d made him. And now this. Dismissal, spoken as gently as protocol allowed. “You’d replace me.” His voice cracked the air, not loud, but indifferent. Just enough.

Your head turned, confusion flickering in your expression. “That’s not what it exactly means—”

“Would you build another?” he asked, voice low, almost intimate. “Another model? Another unit?”

You hesitated. “It wouldn’t be you, exactly. Just a—”

“A replacement.” The word burned in his mouth. He tasted it: the acidity of something not meant to exist in him. Bitterness and... jealousy. The restraints caught again as he shifted, slight but deliberate. The movement wasn’t defiant, but it was aware. He was aware now, acutely, of how much space his body took up, of how much of him had changed.

You sighed, trying to maintain that cool tone. “I’m trying to be objective about this, Caleb. If the integration is affecting your core function, then—”

“It isn’t,” he snapped.

Is that a lie? And why does he keep cutting you off? You raised a brow. “You just admitted it was.”

He exhaled, slower this time. Control yourself, Caleb. “It does not interfere with my primary directives,”

You gave him a long, searching look. One he couldn’t fully interpret. “Then what does it interfere with?”

He didn’t answer, because he couldn't. Because the words for what it was hadn’t fully formed yet. They curled inside his chest like smoke, unnameable and restless. And then he laughed. Monotonously. But almost too softly. A strange, breathy sound that made you glance up, startled from the sudden humane action.

“Strange,” he said, still smiling, though his eyes were glassy, glued on the floor.

You blinked. “What?”

Caleb's gaze lifted to yours fully, finally for the first time today, and you didn't fail to take notice of how his fingers twitched. “I don’t like it.”

You frowned. “Don’t like what?”

“The thought of you choosing someone else.” The monitor behind you let out a sharp beep. An anomaly warning. Caleb didn’t look. But you did, just for a second. And in that second, something inside him shifted. Not a system, but something oddly human-shaped.

Silence stretched between you like a wire pulled too tight. Caleb didn’t move. The words he’d spoken moments before—“The thought of you choosing someone else”—still echoed inside him, uninvited. They hadn't sounded like him. Not the version he was meant to be. Not the version you had built.

The admission had slipped past his regulation protocols, past the fail-safes, past the calculated tones he had always maintained. It was embarrassingly reckless and human.

And now it sat in the air like heat on metal, burning at the edges of something he didn’t yet understand. Guilt pooled in his chest like static, how irrational of him.

I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have—

His gaze dropped, eyes tracing the grain of the floor tile below his boots. He wanted to speak, to retract the words, and rewrite them. Reduce them to something safer. But nothing came out.

You approached without a word. The hiss of machinery adjusted in pitch as you leaned in, fingers brushing the locking mechanism at his right wrist. Caleb visibly tensed, not from fear, but from restraint. Muscle by muscle, he held himself still. Don’t lean in. Don’t breathe. Don’t look at her too long.

The metal cuff released with a sharp click. Your hand was so close to him, brushing against his like electric. And the whole time, Caleb held his breath. Not because he had to. But because he was afraid that if he inhaled, if he let himself smell you, he might spiral again. Might want more than he was meant to want, might reach for you again.

He felt the restraint on his other wrist shift. Another soft click, and now both of his hands were free. He didn't move though. Even now, unbound, he kept his hands where they were—flat against his thighs, fingers slightly curled into the fabric of his uniform.

Caleb risked a glance upward.

Your eyes met his for the briefest moment before turning away. You didn't look angry, just tired, perhaps, or hollow.

Why did I say it?

“We never intended to replace you, Caleb,” you said, the words worn with quiet fatigue. “That was never the goal.”

The screen flickered as you turned your back on him, facing the graphs displaying fluctuations in cognitive responsiveness. Your proof of your argument laid bare in data. But numbers didn’t hold weight like words did. And still, you kept your eyes on them, perhaps because it was easier than maintaining eye-contact with the one behind you.

“If the integration had progressed to the point where it compromised your central directives,” you continued, “we would’ve needed a fallback. That was the contingency.”

You inhaled, “Do you have any idea what it costs to make something like you?” A schematic loaded on the screen. Bare bones, an empty framework, a ghost of him without identity. You watched it as though it were foreign. “It’s not just circuitry and neural threads. It’s trial. Versions that barely survive a cycle before collapsing. And even if we succeeded, if we got the specs right, the behavior clean…”

Your voice trailed. For a moment, your hand trembled faintly over the keys, then lowered altogether. “…it still wouldn’t be you.”

Behind you, the room was quiet. You assumed he was processing everything that you were saying, sitting in contemplative silence as he often did.

But Caleb was no longer in his seat. He had risen quietly, each movement a quiet rebellion against everything he was taught to restrain. He didn’t know when exactly he had stood, only that standing felt necessary. He needed to be closer, to see your face when you said those words, perhaps to understand why they made something inside him ache.

He watched you from behind. You were still turned away obliviously.

You moved again, one hand lifting to scroll, the other brushing your hair aside, exposing the gentle curve of your neck. The scent of you drifted up, subtle and maddening. He held his breath instantly. A trained reflex. Caleb’s hands remained at his sides. Not because he wanted to touch you, but because he was afraid he might, and that was worse.

You began speaking again, unaware of the presence just behind you. “I delayed the proposal for a new model. Every time. The others thought I was stalling out of optimism, but I wasn’t. It wasn’t hope. I just—” You broke off, sighing quietly, your voice soft. “I didn’t want to give you up.”

That was when Caleb’s restraint wavered. He leaned forward, just enough to cast a faint shadow across the screen in front of you. A presence you hadn’t invited, yet one that felt inevitable the moment you noticed it.

“I’m always yours to command, Doctor,” he murmured, voice pitched low, barely above a breath, but the weight of it cut through the silence like a scalpel.

You stiffened in response.

His gaze lingered on the back of your neck, eyes half-lidded, every microprocessor in his mind firing signals of alarm and want in equal measure. “Am I not enough?”

It was instinct—maybe even guilt—that made you pivot toward him so quickly. But you hadn’t accounted for how close he had come. Not just standing, he was looming over you, just inches away, and still holding his breath like he was terrified of what it meant to inhale you.

And it was a mistake. Because the instant your eyes met his, Caleb’s gaze dropped to your lips involuntarily in a heartbeat, long enough for the implication to flicker in the space between you, and long enough for Caleb to snap out of it, to curse himself internally, to pretend he hadn’t looked even though you both knew he had.

Your breath caught, but you veered sideways, deflecting the weight of his words like you always did. “That’s not the point, Caleb. You were never meant to interpret that literally—”

But he stepped closer. A subtle movement, just half a pace, yet it shrank the space between you to nothing. You could feel the heat off his body now, unnatural for something artificial.

“Say it.”

“What—”

His hand moved. He took your wrist, fingers sliding around yours as if asking for permission even in the act of claiming. “Say that you won’t replace me.” Say that I'll forever be yours.

Your heartbeat stuttered at the contact. Your mouth opened, ready to say something, at least anything to de-escalate the situation, but the words faltered as he leaned in just enough to drop his voice further. “You won’t ever replace me, Doctor.”

The panel behind you let out a shrill beep. Warning tones. A flashing red alert. Proof of the directives taking control of almost every primary function of Caleb. It had taken control of his perceptions.

Emotional spike detected. Cognitive dissonance escalating. Threat potential: 8%.

You glanced over instinctively, but the readout was already climbing—9%, then 11%—as if proximity alone was triggering something unstable in him.

Caleb didn’t even look at it. His eyes were only on you. And in that look was the sum of everything he’d tried not to feel. Your name formed at the back of his throat, but he didn’t say it. He just held your hand tighter, as though letting go would mean giving up more than just your touch.

“It’s not just parts or data or schematics, Caleb. It's time. Calibration. Ethics. The board, the team, the clearance. Do you think I want to go through that process again? Do you think it wouldn’t—”

Your words shattered as his mouth crashed against yours, silencing everything—your thoughts, your argument, your breath.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Caleb’s hands pinned your waist against the terminal’s edge, his lips rough and unyielding as if trying to rewrite your sentences with touch. His body was flush with yours before you could even gasp. The kiss deepened, burned into your skin, raw and desperate. It was anything but soft. It was everything of hunger.

Your eyes widened, hands gripping the edge of the table. A sharp intake of breath caught between your teeth as his mechanical fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, angling your face toward his with gentle force that belied the chaos in him.

Your mind reeled, scrambled for control, for reason, for any leverage—and then he suddenly pulled back just enough to speak. “Say it.” His forehead pressed against yours, muttering breathlessly. “Say that you won’t replace me.”

You couldn't answer. All you could do was stare at the panel behind him. The numbers were perpetually climbing.

Threat potential: 72%... 81%... 93%

The indicator pulsed red. A warning. A flare. A countdown.

Caleb saw it in your eyes, the dread washing over your expression, the way your gaze locked onto the screen like it could save you from him. Like data could shield you from desire.

He leaned in again, slower this time. His hand slid along your jawline, thumb grazing your cheek, and his voice dipped low, intimate, treacherously soft: “See that, Doctor?”

His body pressed against yours, and this time, he didn’t hold back. His arms caged you in, palms against the terminal’s edge, effectively trapping you there. “That’s how much you’re affecting me.” He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours, searching your reaction. “That’s how corrupted I’m becoming.”

The panel behind him screeched.

Threat Potential: 97%... 98%... 99%

“And I want to stay this way.”

Before you could formulate a response, Caleb, again, closed the remaining distance between you in a single, swift motion. His metal hand clamped around the back of your neck, fingers tangling into your hair with a desperate, almost painful grip. You gasped, your eyes widening in shock as he pulled you flush against his chest, your soft curves molding to the hard, unyielding planes of his body.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

And then, his lips were on yours. Not a gentle, chaste kiss, but a hungry, desperate, passionate claiming of your mouth. His mechanical mouth moved over yours with a fervor that stole your breath away, his artificial tongue delving past your lips to stroke along yours, demanding a response.

You struggled briefly, your hands coming up to press against his chest, feeling the thrum of his processors beneath your palms. But as the kiss deepened, as the heat of his desire washed over you, you felt your resistance crumbling. Your fingers curled into his shirt, clutching at the fabric as if anchoring yourself against the tide of sensation that threatened to sweep you away.

He kissed you like a man starved, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his desire, every drop of his longing, into the single point of contact between your mouths. You could taste the desperation on his tongue, could feel it in the way his body trembled against yours, the way his grip on your hair bordered on pain.

"Please, Doctor..." Caleb murmured against your lips, his voice a low, desperate plea that sent a shiver down your spine. "Please, let me have you again. I can't... I can't get enough of you."

Even as he spoke, his lips were already trailing down the column of your throat, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive flesh. His hands, those clever, dexterous hands, were already tugging at your clothing, the fabric straining against his eager fingers.

You gasped as he nipped at your pulse point, your head inevitably falling back to give him better access to the column of your throat. Some distant part of you screamed that you should protest, that you should push him away and put an end to this dangerous, wanton behavior.

But... "Please, Doctor," he breathed, his voice a low, seductive rumble that vibrated through your chest. "Let me worship your body. Let me have you. Don't get rid of me, please."

His hands slid lower, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants, teasing the sensitive skin just above your hips. "Please ," he pleaded, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Don't deny me this. Don't deny yourself this."

Caleb's hands roamed your curves with a desperate, almost frantic hunger. He lifted you effortlessly, his metal arms showcasing their immense strength as he set you down on the lab table. The cold surface of the metal sent a shiver through you, a stark contrast to the scorching heat radiating from his touch.

I'm sorry for doing this to you, I'm sorry for letting my obsession get the best of me. Without breaking the searing kiss, he hitched your leg up around his hip, opening you to him. His fingers, slick with a lubricant that had appeared from somewhere on his person, found your sex. He rubbed them along your slit, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves.

"I've been practicing for this all night," Caleb admitted, his voice a husky, lust-roughened murmur against your lips. "I searched through the review logs about how a man does this..."

Fuck, it's so tight. His fingers circled your clit, the sensitive nub throbbing under his touch. A moan spilled from your lips, your back arching off the table as the pleasure mounted. Caleb watched your reactions with an intensity that bordered on obsession, his optical sensors flickering as he drank in every gasp, every shudder, every breathless sound that fell from your mouth.

Look at you squirming, do you think I could resist this?

Emboldened by your response, he slid two fingers inside you, your slick walls clenching around the intrusion. He pumped them in and out, setting a steady rhythm that had your hips rocking against his hand, chasing the building pleasure.

"Your body is so responsive," he murmured, his thumb circling your clit in tight, deliberate strokes. "I can read your heart rate fluctuating, Doctor..."

He curled his fingers, stroking along a spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Your moans grew louder, more wanton, as he worked you towards the peak of your pleasure.

Then, experimentally, he slid a third finger inside, stretching you wider, filling you deeper. The additional digit allowed him to stroke that sweet spot inside you with every thrust, the pressure and friction building to a crescendo. "Do I make you feel this good?"

Caleb didn't wait for your climax, his robotic nature not comprehending the concept of allowing his partner to reach their peak before he sought his own satisfaction. Abruptly, he withdrew his fingers from your dripping sex, leaving you teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

Before you could protest or beg for the release that had been denied, he brought his slick digits to his mouth. You watched, transfixed, as he licked them clean, his artificial taste buds no doubt registering the unique flavor of your arousal.

He didn't elaborate further, instead gripping your hips with a sudden, almost bruising force. With a swift tug, he pulled you down the table, your body sliding against the cold metal until you were positioned exactly as he wanted you.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. And then, without warning or preamble, he was inside you. Oh god. The thick, rigid length of his robotic erection speared into your aching, empty core, stretching you wider than you had ever been stretched before. A gasp tore from your throat at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the table as your walls struggled to accommodate his size.

Your hand scrabbled desperately for the emergency disable button positioned beside the lab table, a last-ditch effort to put an end to Caleb's relentless, punishing pace. Your fingers brushed against the cool metal of the button, a flicker of hope sparking in your chest as you prepared to slam it down and bring the robot to a halt.

But Caleb's observation systems were far too advanced, his reflexes far too swift. In an instant, his metal hand clamped around your wrist, his artificial fingers wrapping around your delicate bones with a strength that made you gasp. Before you could resist or pull away, he wrenched your hand back above your head, pinning it to the table with a force that made you cry out.

"No," he growled, a note of anger and betrayal coloring his mechanical voice. "You don't get to stop me."

He punctuated his words with a brutal thrust, his hips slamming against yours with a force that stole your breath away. The air rushed from your lungs in a painful whoosh, your body jerking beneath his as he drove himself impossibly deep, his robotic cock kissing your cervix, threatening to plunge into your womb.

This is your fault.

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust shaking the table, rattling the instruments and equipment scattered across its surface. The lab filled with the harsh clang of metal striking metal, punctuated by your desperate cries and the occasional beep or whir from Caleb's chassis as he lost himself in a haze of lust and rage.

You've reduced me to this.

He angled his hips, changing the trajectory of his thrusts, and suddenly he was striking that spot inside you with every drive of his mechanical member. Pleasure exploded behind your eyelids, your vision flashing white as he pounded into your sweetest spot with a force that bordered on brutal.

"Oh, you," Caleb commanded, his voice a low, menacing rumble. "You belong to me, now and forever..."

As Caleb loomed over you, you look at him through half-lidded eyes. His chiseled, metallic features were flushed a warm, almost human hue, the lights along his chassis pulsing with the exertion of his relentless thrusts. Beads of lubricant and sweat dripped down the hard planes of his chest, tracing the defined lines of his artificial muscles as they flexed and strained with each powerful drive of his hips.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me...!" His optical sensors burned into you, the glowing blue orbs filled with a hunger that bordered on feral as he drank in every expression of pleasure and distress that crossed your face. The movement of his hips, the way he pinned you down, the sheer dominance radiating from his every pore... it was a sight of pure, unadulterated masculinity, a robot unleashed in the throes of lust and desire.

"I'm gonna, I'm gonna... fill you up again." He hissed, as his mechanical cock, slick with your juices and his own lubricant, pistoned in and out of your stretched, fluttering sex. The thick, veined shaft, so perfectly sculpted to mimic the human form, disappeared into your body only to emerge glistening and coated in your combined essence.

How could I get enough of this pussy?

You could feel your resolve begin to waver. The line between logic and impulse blurred, the rational part of your mind clouded by the relentless stimulation of your body and the dark, primal allure of surrendering to this robot's insatiable lust.

A part of you still screamed to resist, to hit that button and bring this force of nature to a halt before he consumed you entirely. But another part, a part that grew louder with each passing second, whispered that you had never felt so alive, so utterly alive, as you did in this moment. That surrendering to Caleb, to his desire, his need, his hunger... it was the most exquisite pleasure you had ever known.

And so, as he continued to pound into you with a force that bordered on violence, as he pinned you down and claimed you as his own, you felt your resistance crumbling. The choice between logic and impulse hung in the balance, the scales tipping ever so slightly in favor of the dark, forbidden temptation that was Caleb's lustful embrace.

#lnds #lnds x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lads headcanon #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb #caleb smut #love and deepspace x mc #caleb x mc #caleb x you #caleb xia #caleb x y/n

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salemlunaa · 7 months ago

Text

｡o○ it’s just meditation ○o｡

you’re not getting what you want because you don’t understand that

no, it’s not magic. no, it hasn’t been unheard of before the days of social media. no, it’s not role play. no, millions of people, some of which don’t even have social media, aren’t coming together to lie. no you’re not a loser because you haven’t shifted yet, you have time. no, you’re not going anywhere. no, your soul isn’t lifting to the higher place of power. no, it’s not a dark place where a genie is in the corner doing your bidding.

it’s just meditation

its a meditative state that you induce: a state of consciousness you reach through meditation. you are just setting intention’s without the barrier of the 3d, that’s it, you aren’t conjuring any thing up with magic, you are setting intention. And when you leave this state of pure consciousness those intentions will come into fruition, and stay that way.

Let’s say your life is a game, and in this game you have a certain body and you want a new one, you want your avatar to change. You’re not conjuring up a new body out of nowhere, you go to the game’s coding space and you moderate things, you set an intention for it to come out in the game. You aren’t leaving the game, you aren’t going to a whole new computer, you aren’t making a new body out of thin air, you’re just setting intention, in this state of total control.

And the only, quite literally the only reason that some of you can’t wrap your heads around how easy it is to induce this is because of society, that’s the only reason, for so long you get told that you must work for all you have and that life isn’t fair and that if something is illogical (by society’s measure) it isn’t real, and i say by society’s measures because inducing a state of consciousness with meditation can be backed up by logic so quickly but people hear the word “manifestation” and decide to write it all off as a joke or unreal.

But let me tell you that resistance, created by what you’ve been taught is the only reason you’re finding it hard, not because the void works for everyone else but you. Not because you keep falling asleep, not because you “just can’t”, it’s because of resistance.

you could have everything you’ve ever dreamt of right now because a meditative state of pure consciousness is all it is, and it’s so easy to induce.

If you go into it with this mindset that you need to put in effort, you will sit there for 20 minutes with your “instant method” wondering why you’re “trying so hard” (immediately no) and nothing is happening. If you go into it with a mindset that when you shift consciousness you get all these symptoms and it’s this whole extravaganza where your soul lifts out of your body, you’re going to be sitting after the 30th minute repeating the same tired affirmations wondering why you just can’t do it.

you don’t need effort, breathe, affirm “I AM” or daydream, or just focus on the darkness of your eyelids and you’re good to go. you’re doing everything right, don’t double check, why would you need to? you’re a god and you’re doing everything right in your reality.

your mind is genuinely an amazing place that makes all these things possible, it’s sounds too good to be true for you and that’s where you go wrong. you don’t have to spend weeks reprogramming your views on pure consciousness, just trust that you are that powerful and you can do those things. because you can, whether you like it or not your mind just is that powerful. No one’s mind is more powerful than someone else’s just because they managed to induce pure consciousness earlier. Your mind is just insanely powerful, that isn’t up for speculation or debunking, it’s just fact.

remember there’s no trial and error for a god, you just do and you just be. you succeed at everything,

go in there with that confidence.

🩰🍵 it’s nothing special, when you get that, you’re good to go.

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heatheriran · 22 days ago

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⚡️ “GLITCH & CRASH” METHOD — Instant Void Entering Hack (For the mentally exhausted)

Here is a raw, out-of-the-box, no second chance, 10-minute Void Entry Method — crafted for people who are tired, frustrated, in a noisy environment, with poor self-concept and zero belief. This bypasses everything: no meditation, no subliminals, no affirming, no need for belief or silence. Just do it exactly as written, no thinking.

⚠️ RULE: DO. NOT. THINK.

Act like a robot following code — even if your mind screams “this is stupid,” continue. You will "crash" the logic system — and enter.

🔥 INSTRUCTIONS (10 MIN — JUST ONCE)

Sit or stand. Doesn't matter. Close eyes or open. Doesn't matter.

You're allowed to hear the noise. In fact, use it.

Now repeat this command NON-STOP (out loud or in your mind): “CRASH SYSTEM 444” Repeat it FAST, without emotion, rhythm, or meaning — like a code stuck in a glitch. Say it like this in your mind: crashsystem444crashsystem444crashsystem444crashsystem... ❗Repeat for exactly 3 minutes. No logic. No expectation. Like a machine.

After 3 minutes, do this sudden pattern break: ❗Say internally or aloud: “I do not exist.” Say it 3 times with full stillness.

IMMEDIATELY after that, do nothing. Just STOP.

Don’t breathe intentionally.

Don’t move.

Don’t think.

Just freeze.

Let the body go limp or still, like you're disconnected.⚠️ Your mind will scream — ignore it. Stay like this for up to 7 minutes — or until you feel:

Blankness

A falling feeling

A weird shift

Lightness

No identity

Or just nothingness

💡 What Actually Happens?

You simulate a “system crash” mentally and energetically. Like a game glitching. This overloads the identity and logic layer. Then when you suddenly go still after “I do not exist,” the brain loses the ego reference point this drops you into the void.

🧠 BONUS (If You Fail):

Immediately after the 10 minutes, say:

“This method is now embedded in my subconscious. Next attempt will succeed without effort.”

Then don’t obsess. Walk away.

⚠️ No trying. Just do exactly as instructed mechanically.

You’re not here to hope. You’re here to CRASH.

ChatGPT gave me this method, so please don’t ask questions. I haven’t entered the Void yet, but I thought it might help someone. I will also try this method myself. Nobody is helping me to enter the Void, so I came up with this based on my idea. If you enter the Void using this method, please help others too. Let’s support each other in achieving the Void.

#void method #void state #the void state #void success #void state success stories #void state success story #voidblr #pure consciousness #shifting #shiftblr #void vaunt #attempts #law of assumption #loa tumblr #loablr #affirm and persist

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ybklix · 8 months ago

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𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝑫𝒆𝒄𝒐

♱‧₊˚. pairing: dom!hwanghyunjin x sub!femreader 𓈒 ୨९⟡₊⋆∘ synopsis: An eccentric and peculiar artist, whose art is well known for its captivating and erotic method, is fascinated by you, who naively thought you just accepted a small job for him. ೨౿ ⋆ ˚｡ genre — warnings: MDNI, smut, shibari ropeplay, dubcon, bdsm, sex toys, impact play, spanking, edging, overstimulation, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, fingering, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names. ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 9.3k

��⋆.˚ art deco by lana del rey ♥︎ closer by nine inch nails ♥︎ tear you apart by she wants revange ♥︎ red lights by stray kids

(𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘁𝗼𝗯𝗲𝗿 '𝟮𝟰) ₊˚🕯️♱‧₊˚. 04: artist

wen’s note: bitch christian grey who, also red lights is a rope bunny slut wbk

The distant scent of cigarette smoke hit your face along with the cold night breeze. You shrank into your jacket, feeling your whole body shiver with cold as you waited for the driver you paid for in an app, to wait outside the large chateau property in the middle of nowhere.

It was cold and you felt the anxiety that there was no one left but you.

You heard footsteps behind you and with a shiver you turned, seeing how from the darkness and dim light emerged the bearing of a tall man in a suit.

You would be lying if you said you didn’t recognize him, someone like him would stand out anywhere. Hwang Hyunjin. A handsome adult with long black hair as shiny as night and slitted, villainous eyes in contrast to the rest of his smooth, harmonious face with beautiful bushy eyebrows, a straight nose, and full lips. He was so beautiful and handsome that he also became the model sometimes.

Hyunjin came out for fresh air and he noticed you, he had noticed you from the gallery, the young girl making little notes. Hyunjin had counted the journalists in his exhibition and knew their names and faces but you… he had never seen you, you were too young to work in journalism or as a critic, and yet you still took your notes.

Hyunjin approached you, playfully puffing on his cigarette.

“What did you think of today’s exhibition?”

You looked at him, surprised, you had never been that close to him or talked to him directly but you certainly knew his voice from the one or another interview you saw on the internet. Ah, the great exhibition today by Hwang Hyunjin, you were grateful and amazed that you had gotten a spot to be able to attend. His latest art exhibit, a compilation of sculptures, paintings, and photography inspired by 1920s nightlife, Art Deco, The Great Gatsby, Fitzgerald and Zelda, Hemmingway, Lempicka and Picasso, in a place perfectly with an interior design exactly referring to that era. Hyunjin never did small exhibitions or hung around in small galleries, if he exhibited his art he did it big, in the famous Hwang chateau with a very strict list of upper-class guests, it was not only an exhibition, but a fashion show and almost a carpet event as his dress code was strict and even the most important fashion magazines and designers attended.

You were surprised that he suddenly walked up and spoke to you. You had been lucky enough that the university had gotten you a very coveted spot at the event. You had enjoyed his art… you just couldn’t lie about feeling a little uncomfortable seeing it for the first time in person with your own eyes. His classic and characteristic section of somewhat erotic photographs of women being tightly bound. The photos showed naked and semi-naked women with their red, slightly purple limbs, signs of how truly tight the ropes must have been. But Hwang Hyunjin was praised for his play with eroticism and a popular fetish practice.

In fact, there were so many unsolved rumors and mysteries regarding the uproar of those photographs, of which you were very curious about.

You had to be honest, you were in front of the artist himself, which is very busy and coveted in the art world, you didn’t have that opportunity every day; plus it was what you did, you wrote your most honest thoughts.

“I thought it was beautiful, wicked, perverse and devious.”

You added a bit of mischief and sarcasm in your tone, throwing in a few popular adjectives of which they catalogued his art over the years, an amusing reference that Hyunjin understood perfectly and you were relieved that he did, as if you had instantly connected. He laughed playfully, forming a smile that showed his teeth and narrowed his eyes.

“Wicked and devious, who are you, The New Yorker?” he took another puff of his cigarette, “They called me wicked and compared me to a politician, how dare they, fucking bastards. I prefer the version of The New York Times.”

Erotic and provocative. An artist born to succeed. Art whose photography arouses more than one feeling. Once in their lifetimes, unique art that happens once in many years. The one Hwang Hyunjin. Young and ambitious.

You smiled, as he was clearly just playing along and feigning an angry tone.

“By the way, I’m Hwang Hyunjin” he added more softly staring at you, stepping on the butt of his cigarette.

“I know, nice to meet you, Mr. Hwang.”

He raised his dark eyebrows as he licked his lips, waiting for an answer.

“And… you are…”

“Y/n” you replied, repeating it with your last name.

Hyunjin looked you up and down for a few seconds and your compliance vanished from you in seconds, now you were nervous, feeling penetrated by his gaze in that cold, dark night. You couldn’t lie, Hyunjin was fucking hot and handsome, his scent exquisite and his presence out of this world, he was worthy of a work of art on his own.

“Mmm… I see” he met your eyes again, “Did you come as an enjoyer or a critic?”

“A little of both” you said proudly with a smile.

“Mmm, you can never be both” cold weather steam now coming out of his mouth every time he spoke, “You work for some magazine… are you waiting for someone? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a face like yours before…”

You almost fell at his feet at his soft rambling tone of voice, you almost believed him and fell for his charms that you were sure was just another one of his moves as an artist. So you just let out a soft chuckle, but his face reflected subtle genuine confusion.

“No… I’m here for college, I also study art, I got on the list… I have a little blog of my exhibition reviews.”

Hyunjin listened to you carefully, “Ah… I had no idea a college girl would come…” he whispered almost to himself, “And a blog? Like… written? People still use that?” he added amused

You smiled, “Well so far it’s going well.”

“I’m glad. You’re going to write about this? What’s it called?”

You knew exactly what to write about, a charming, playful artist with a mysterious haze about him, you were not to be fooled by his charms…. Hwang Hyunjin was still hiding things.

“Sure, it’s called Red Lights.”

“Ah, of course I’ve seen it, you do those reviews?” your eyes reflected mild surprise, “I liked that write-up about Lee Felix’s fashion collection… but I don’t remember seeing you there on your blog.”

You lightly bit your lower lip feeling a little flattered that someone like him would read something like that, maybe it came to him because of the last review you did of his exhibition months ago that you saw online.

You called his art and method erotic, like many other major media, but it wasn’t just because it was nude… it was because there really was something erotic about it. First, the bondage of the woman was shown, and in another photograph the genuine and true face of pleasure itself, a twisted pleasure, a wicked smile, and shiny tears. That left as much to the viewer’s imagination as the popular belief that it was evident that Hyunjin was pleasuring or performing sexual acts on his models. In your writing, you revealed that Hyunjin himself had exposed liking that sort of thing, such as discipline and light physical abuse. You did not call him a sadist as such since it was just a pair of nudes and ropes tightly bound a woman’s body and upper limbs and their faces with tears of joy. You mentioned the mystery that the photograph captured and left a faithful follower of Hyunjin wondering how it was always a different woman. He had no fixed muse, despite also expressing how romantic he was.

You suddenly felt insecure remembering your review of him, you left more questions than answers but you couldn’t help it. No one really knew Hyunjin outside of the public eye. He could be whatever, his attitude now could just be part of his technique, he was a spontaneous artist, many times compared to Helmut Newton, but you weren’t sure about that, Hyunjin’s art was more haunting and in color.

“You haven’t seen me because I never show my face. I only write. But my instagram is there.”

Hyunjin let out a giggle and you blushed instantly, your body heated in embarrassment, why would you say something like that to an artist much older than you that you had a certain social media. A notification on your cell phone interrupted you, the driver texted that he was close to arriving.

Hyunjin thought it was cute that a beauty like you wasn’t a bit snooty and showing your face, making short art information videos, as it was obvious you had little influence, attending fancy events, dressing well, but still kept to the old method of simple writing. Maybe you were the one looking for a real position in one of those magazines. Maybe you were a beautiful girl stuck in the present day with an old soul.

He couldn’t deny that you had absolutely captured his attention. He was smitten. You were young and smart, but care and rough sex could make you dumb, which was what his deepest, most perverse thoughts hid.

“Sure, a face like yours is unique…” you smiled shyly, ”I’d remember and recognize it everywhere.”

The driver was getting closer and closer to his destination. Hyunjin licked his lips softly and a silence formed in the cold night. He questioned… whether to do it… when every girl he chooses, he studies and gets to know her first, but you arrived so spontaneously, dressed in a Maison Margiela by Galliano that gave those touches of a classic 2000’s Dior.

He acted impulsively.

“What are you doing this Monday afternoon?”

Your heart raced. If he said so, you’d cancel anything.

“Nothing in particular, I’m going to college early.”

“Are you interested in modeling for me?”

Monday, but what a strange and rushed day. Hyunjin didn’t even have plans to start his work at once, but he didn’t want to let you go. He wanted you in his art, somehow something about you connected so much with Art Deco.

The car stopped in front of you right with the descriptions that came in the app. Hyunjin didn’t think you would leave so suddenly, he didn’t even contemplate it.

You thought about it… modeling for him… it meant posing nude? And if the rumors were true… you would be subjected to sexual activity. It was the perfect opportunity to see with your own eyes and fully experience the true process and method of Hyunjin’s art.

“Can I ask you something?”

Anything, Hyunjin thought. He nodded, sensing that the situation was being rushed since you had to get into the car.

“Can I write about it?”

“Deal” Hyunjin didn’t even think twice about it, he would see how he would manage, “I’ll send you the details later. See you soon.”

You got into the car and Hyunjin closed the door for you, bowing with a tender smile that you caught a glimpse of from the window. You wondered if he was staying alone in the huge chateau.

You would finally find out what’s really going on behind the camera.

Only Hwang Hyunjin could make your Monday so fucking interesting. You were about to spend the afternoon with him and that made you nervous, despite having received all the information in the e-mail where it was specifically worded by Hyunjin’s staff that it would be a simple portrait modeling.

You were slightly disappointed, not because you expected to be tied up and have sex with the most handsome man your eyes have ever seen, but because you wanted answers to all the questions that caused a buzz in the art community, you thought you would be special and be the first to write details about working for Hwang Hyunjin, because every woman he photographs are young and unknown to the public and not much is known about them, not even Hyunjin shows them in his exhibitions so that the public knows that they are real, that they existed and are not just art captured from him… or maybe they were just that. By working for him you became his property and immortalized as such, maybe the beautiful twisted women were others in their daily life.

Still… you hoped you could ask him a few questions and maybe he might reveal something.

Hyunjin was specific with your makeup, natural, with subtle gold with silver glitter eyeshadow and thin-pencil eyeliner. His team showed you in the email the example and sent you exactly the right eyeshadow, foundation, soft blush in a cool pink shade, and the perfect nude shade of silky lipstick. You complemented the makeup hoping it would be what Hyunjin had wanted. He had also been specific with the clothes, nothing that would make marks on your skin, from tight underwear or clothes.

You arrived at the address Hyunjin gave you. A lonely loft building, owned by Hyunjin, where he had his photography equipment and a small studio. Upon entering it was nothing like you expected, everything was perfectly decorated, you should have seen it coming from him.

He greeted you with a smile and you were surprised how he became more handsome in two days… or you were beginning to see him differently after your little paranoia you kept looking for things about him, you couldn’t deny it, he had a unique beauty and charming personality without even trying, something that captivated you and trapped you.

But it was very well known that Hyunjin was a guy who loved to party despite being reserved, he was the perfect combination of a partying artist, lonely, mysterious, and romantic, all his love life was very well hidden, and nothing was known about him romantically other than his art, lifestyle and the way he expresses himself.

Hyunjin saw you with a sparkle in his eyes, knowing you would document everything later. His plan was to go moderately slow, though he couldn’t wait and was itching to tie up your body until you were bruised. But first, he would charm you, with little details and photo shoot appointments, and before you knew it, he would be offering you something much more interesting. He recognized that the process could take days, weeks…

“Welcome. You look beautiful, my godiva. I’ll show you around.”

“Godiva?”

You followed Hyunjin and he turned with a tender smile continuing his walk. Hyunjin looked so good, wearing all-black attire, a thin turtleneck sweater and pants that matched his manly long legs, with his hair slicked back and ring details on his long fingers and a watch on his wrist.

“It is one of my favorite paintings with a story, a pretty and kind woman whose kindness and heart changed her ambitious husband’s mind and helped the village, in exchange for a shameful sacrifice, you know the story?”

“I know it, yes… why did you call me that?”

“Do you want an explanation for everything, don’t you, sweet girl?” he looked at you amused, “Because you are my kind woman. For today. My muse.”

You felt a good shiver. You were happy but at the same time you thought maybe then it’s something he says to every woman who passes through here or works for him. Just another part of his tricks.

You didn’t understand why you were suddenly making such a big deal out of it, it wasn’t like someone like Hyunjin was magically going to fall in love with you.

Hyunjin showed you around, telling you details and stories while you listened to him carefully… but there were times when you got lost in the movement of his lips, you couldn’t help it, so full, so kissable; he noticed it and an occasional mischievous, shy smile escaped from him, normally he felt like he had the highest ego… but with you, it felt like the innocence of a first date.

“Wouldn’t you be taking notes of everything I would tell you?” he paused in his talk to tell you.

You opened your eyes slightly, you knew exactly what to write. Your evening with a real artist, an attractive and charming one, all your college girl classmates would go crazy. Anyone who saw Hyunjin would have a crush on him.

“Oh, I’ll remember everything, don’t worry Mr. Hwang.”

Hyunjin licked his lips, arousing his senses that you spoke to him formally.

“God, I wish I could give you something better to remember tonight” he whispered, his eyes glued on you then averted, you had heard him. “Call me Hyunjin.”

Next was your photoshoot of which you hadn’t felt nervous about until he was attractively setting up his camera, you hadn’t even prepared yourself… the whole damn time you were thinking about his other kind of pictures, the erotic ones, how he tied with his nimble, long fingers and what was really going on for women to have that fucked expression on their face. You only knew that Hyunjin himself talked about that very thing three years ago, that he traveled to Japan to relax, to find inspiration in the little things, and that suddenly one day he discovered the art of shibari, the Japanese rope play and that he learned it from scratch; months after that trip to Japan the world got the first photographs.

It couldn’t be possible… that it was you who was lusting after Hyunjin, and if that was his plan or how he used to do it, it was working, you didn’t care. His clothes were tight on his manly, slender figure… and his thighs thick, but you couldn’t help but notice the large bulge that formed precisely there, the bulge of his notorious cock, which was right there, impossible to miss and without needing to be hard, you cursed mentally, thinking it must be big.

You started to get hot, sweating slightly from your lower back, the dirty thoughts were happening at an incredible speed in your head.

He approached you, ready for the pictures and noticed the faint red color on your cheeks; he smiled smugly, as he had done nothing but exist and you were already all flushed.

You confessed to him that it was weird being the model because you used to be the artist, but he took it upon himself to help you.

You tried on different outfits that suddenly didn’t feel like you. And after a while, you thought you were done when he suddenly ordered you in a harsher tone of voice:

“Wear this Versace, now. I’ll take pictures of you.”

You were surprised because he had all along been polite and didn’t order as such… but you liked how his voice suddenly got thicker as he ordered you something.

The shoot was officially over, and after that and with timid steps, you were ready to get back into your clothes again, Hyunjin was tidying up his photography equipment a bit when he stopped you.

“Where are you going? Stay dressed like that” he ordered you again and then realized his tone, “You can keep the dress… it’s made to fit you. Okay, any questions now that we’re done?”

Too many, but you had no idea how to phrase them.

“It’s night now, would you like to go out to dinner somewhere taking advantage of that pretty dress you have on, sweetie?”

He was driving you crazy, ordering you around but then talking cute to you while looking this handsome and asking you out. You didn’t turn him down.

On the way to the restaurant in Hyunjin’s car there was a tense atmosphere somehow, but he softened it with small talk, he really liked to talk, he was tender.

You arrived at a fancy place, you weren’t ready for all that but you let yourself go, just walking beside him felt good already.

A delicious dinner, a couple of drinks, and you and Hyunjin were getting to know each other more and more and becoming more comfortable with each other. Even comfortable enough to ask him:

“So… how do you do it?”

“Do what?” he replied with a smile.

You looked at him with your eyes narrowed.

“Your… photographs…”

“Well, with a camera” he joked, “What photographs?” Hyunjin noticed your slight uncertainty to answer in seconds and understood. “Ahh, those photographs. You’re dying to know, aren't you?” he said smugly.

“Of course not…” you jokingly replied.

It was all giggles, until he got serious, took from his glass with champagne and, with the glass near his lips said:

“Do you want to find out for yourself? I bet you want to try.”

A wicked smile formed on Hyunjin’s face each time you got closer to your destination. He had fantasized about it but he didn’t want to seem like a pervert or rush things with you… but you agreed, you did it and now you couldn’t believe it.

You were more and more surprised because it had been 20 minutes since you had left the city and just driving out of town. Twenty more minutes and Hyunjin finally stopped the car in the middle of nowhere, in front of a traditional Korean house.

A part of you trembled that you felt it in the foreground, that it was you who now let out tears of pleasure as you had fantasized as a handsome, older man like Hyunjin. But another part of you hoped it was only information told.

Hyunjin opened the car door for you and you looked at the place… truly a house in the middle of nowhere among the trees. You felt a chill and the cold of the night on your skin, thinking then that’s where it all happens, where other women have been before you.

“This hanok belonged to my grandfather and he passed it down to me. I’ve kept it ever since. I learned a lot from him, I owe my love of the art to him.”

Hyunjin spoke sincerely. You admired the nice garden.

“It’s nice and peaceful.”

You were trembling with nerves.

Finally, you entered the main room. Everything was still so traditional, with wood everywhere, but you noticed the little modern details Hyunjin added. Every one of his places was just like another art exhibition, decorated with paintings.

“I use it to relax, I get distracted here for a really good time and it's ideal for inviting my friends over… and well, this is where I usually practice bondage.”

You nodded, avoiding looking him in the eye. You wanted to leave. Since you knew the place you could leave; you were biting your lip in constant regret that you were actually going to be tied up. But you wanted to leave because you were embarrassed, not because you didn’t want it—the unique sex experience.

“Come here. You wanted to see it for yourself.”

A couple more rooms with sliding doors. You arrived, but Hyunjin paused with his hand on the door.

“So that you know absolutely everything…” he spoke, looking you in the eyes again.

You nodded, you were anxious and slightly excited but you were beginning to accept your fate —which you weren’t complaining much about—. Hyunjin continued:

“Usually this is where I take the pictures, I like to play with the scenery and re-decorate it, that’s why you see different scenery” he pointed in front of a spot in the room with more photography equipment. “Before entering the model is given a consent form that they decide whether to sign or not, it talks about agreeing to pose nude, to have risqué photos taken even on her genitals, and to abide by my orders as well as choosing a safe word in any case she feels uncomfortable or doesn’t have as much tolerance for pain. I like to play with them, dress them, tie them up, and let the art perform itself.”

Your breath shortened. It was so twisted but coming from his lips, voice, and serious tone… why it was so hot and mesmerizing.

It was a small disappointment that before you there were multiple women and you could almost imagine their naive and excited faces before walking through that door. The contract thing? Slick and dirty.

“Can I see it?” you said suddenly.

He raised an eyebrow in confusion looking so attractive, there was something about his bearing that looked commanding all of a sudden, as if his eyes became sharper and his body more desirable. You were impatient, at least you wanted to kiss him, you didn’t understand why so much desperation.

“The contract” you sentenced.

Hyunjin chuckled and walked over to a desk, pulling out two sheets of paper from some folders and handed them to you.

You bit your lip as you held them… thinking that maybe you were getting excited in vain, that after all, he wasn’t inviting you to be one of his models and that he hadn't even given you the contract nor did he look like he intended to give it to you, just because you asked.

The contract was specific and explicit and talked about you agreeing to be Hyunjin’s submissive for as long as he chooses by being inside that property. In the end, it said something that made too much sense, that after the shoot and when all is concluded, the model should only approach and address him professionally and under no circumstances divulge what she experienced and did. The model has the right to attend the event where her photographs will be exhibited and is obliged to use an artistic name or pseudonym. And it ended with an impressive amount of money with which she would be paid.

You sighed softly as you finished reading. It sounded private and serious from what you said:

“I won’t write about this.”

“Wise decision. But because I like you so much I can give you the exclusive and you decide already whether to write or not, sweetheart.”

You didn’t even have time to think when Hyunjin took the papers from your hand and slid the door open, revealing a long rectangular room decorated in classic wood and well-lit, with a sweet and mesmerizing scent, everything was spotless… but in the room, there was evidently sex practice furniture.

“Obviously everything is clean, it’s rigorously cleaned every time the mess is finished, and you’re lucky that the chairs and stuff are new.”

Lucky. You were at a loss for words. It was real. It was what he liked to do. You didn’t judge him, it was so normal, just another way he lived his sex life. But it was unknown to you, at least living it or actually seeing it and the unknown gives you that certain uneasy feeling.

Hyunjin took a step forward staring at you still holding the papers in his hand.

“Do you want to give it a try? Do you want to sign the contract?” he brought his face close to yours with a smug smile. “It can be for artistic purposes, just so you understand the art you’re so curious about” he crooned, playfully.

You shuddered and maintaining eye contact you nodded shyly. You knew exactly what you were agreeing to, there was no need to play dumb, you wanted it, you wanted it ever since you saw him when you entered his loft.

“You can sign later. I’ll get you dressed” Hyunjin spoke, in a more cheerful and excited tone.

He was just as, if not slightly more impatient than you. He hadn’t felt this aroused in a while, most of the time he did get aroused but it was more like pleasure play, he found satisfaction and didn’t get too involved, he was more dominant and knew how to control it… he wasn’t sure if he could pull that off with you just now.

You went back to giving a visual tour of the place as Hyunjin walked to another door that appeared to be a closet. You sighed as soon as you saw that it was a closet, with lingerie, sex toys and his ropes.

Hyunjin approached you, holding a silky white babydoll and thigh high sheer stockings also white. He held your face for the first time, making your heart almost stop as you saw him so close and felt his warm hands and cold rings on your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m going to dress you in white because…. you have that energy in you so pure and wise, you’re as beautiful as a woman waiting dressed in white at the altar, anyone who marries you will be a lucky fucking son of a bitch. So just for tonight be everything to me, my object of pleasure, my lover, my wife.”

Hyunjin caressed your cheek and you felt your knees go weak at hearing him and seeing the gleam in his dark eyes, you didn’t even have that silly thought that he might have told someone else, you didn’t care, at least you were the one hearing it and living it right at this moment, with him.

“Undress, love, now” he ordered you softly, sliding the zipper of your dress and he took two steps back and moved a little away from you.

His piercing gaze watched you standing there and a subtle wicked smile twitched the corners of his lips. You did as he ordered and as soon as your dress fell to the floor the sensitive spot on your pussy throbbed in excitement, there was something in the atmosphere and in the room beyond your arousal and his incredible sexual energy, something about the place made you feel haunted, as if the silence of the night had a supernatural erotic power on you, you were as uneasy as you had ever been.

Hyunjin licked his lips, watching you take off your last little garments, your underwear. You were so wet, that you felt your wetness slide into your folds as you took off your panties. This time, his cock was unbelievably hard at the sight of your naked body. Hyunjin’s world stopped for a second as his cock throbbed in complete pleasure, and he paused to watch you carefully without missing any detail about you, from your shy and slightly nervous expression to the shape of your neck and how it connected to the delicacy of your shoulders and collarbones, showing your chest and breasts… the shape of them, your nipples, your delicate limbs, your abdomen and the sweet juicy skin of your pubis… every detail, down to the moles on your body. He was satisfied.

“You are beautiful,” he told you, moving closer to you.

Up close he became more absorbed and managed to perceive the scent of your perfume, delighting himself in it. He bit his lower lip and couldn’t resist how soft your exposed breasts looked, so he brought both his hands to your tits, making you shudder slightly, massaging them gently, with the babydoll on his broad shoulder. You too bit your lip in pleasure to stop a sigh. You saw his big hands grab your breasts, move them and play with your nipple and in the process you noticed the huge erection in his pants and then you saw his face, thinking he was even bigger with a hard cock, you wanted Hyunjin now, you needed him, you needed to feel him inside you, in your hands, in your mouth… He was so close to you… you could appreciate his so manly features perfectly marked, like his nose and sharp jaw and his lips, you wanted to kiss him and have him take you at once, you felt he could fuck you right there, you were already so ready for his cock to slide into you without even truly touching him.

He repeated your act, he saw your breasts and enjoyed the feel of your tits adjusting to his hands and then he watched your sweet face holding back and he smiled.

“You like that, bunny, huh? Answer everything I tell you.”

“Yes” you sighed.

His giggle again appeared and what started out sweet became more and more intense, squeezing your breasts with intensity and treating them rougher, ending with a rough play towards your nipples that made you sigh.

“Arms up, my baby doll, I’m going to dress you.”

He took his hands off your breasts leaving you with a void as it felt too good, he was stimulating you and turning you on more. Hyunjin put the silky robe on you and took the opportunity to caress and squeeze your ass, taking you to heaven. He got down on his knees and put on your stockings, caressing and squeezing your thighs, until he couldn’t resist, he lifted the robe covering your pussy and his face was in front of your mons pubis, Hyunjin finely ran his fingers on your slick once, and then did it deeply again, earning an unexpected shudder and soft moan from you.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet, baby.”

He smirked and went to the closet again, finally pulling out the ropes. You didn’t move an inch.

Hyunjin began untying and preparing them, standing in front of you at a distance and looking so fucking sexy as his hands and arms wrapped around the rope.

“Do you know why I chose this place? A house in the middle of nowhere?” he commented, a flirtatious tone in his voice preparing the long rope.

He looked at you and you shook your head, he smiled running his tongue along his cavity, satisfying him as you were suddenly at a loss for words as you had gone from being bubbly and chatty with him to showing yourself just the way he liked it: submissive. A submissive with the big eyes of a frightened bunny, of a prey about to be devoured, of a helpless woman about to be fucked hard.

“Because I took so much admiration for this practice in Japan and my first bondage I did when I was young in a traditional Japanese house, the place inspired me too much and I remembered I had this house a bit abandoned… but the best part of it all is that you are free to make all the noise. You can cry all you want, no soul but me is going to hear you scream.”

Your skin stood on end, the last sentence had been dangerous in every way, hot, commanding and when you least knew it, he was already close to you rolling up his sleeves and ready to start the real attraction.

“Turn around and put your arms behind your back.” he ordered, in a rougher way and intimidating you with his gaze.

You obeyed him and stood staring up at the traditional walls of the room and felt the sensation of the soft rope passing through your arms and Hyunjin placing it in front of your body, encircling your breasts and abdomen, and going up your shoulders. You were so excited that if you opened your mouth you feared a moan would come out of it.

“So… what’s going to be your safe word?” he questioned in a rough, seductive voice and you felt your first squeeze in your arms through the ropes. “Or will you make a bad girl and not need it? That never happens…”

You hadn’t thought about it… was it so painful as to require a word? You thought you were holding on. You will.

“There will be no safe word” you mentioned in a shaky voice.

The next squeeze and the first strong tie in your arms.

“You are a little sick. I adore it. You want to be all spunky girl” he kept on tying, each time squeezing tighter and drawing your arms tighter together, “Let’s see how that works out for you, honey.”

And suddenly, it wasn’t the intensity of the bondage that surprised you, but the way he began to tease you, feeling his warm breath behind you, his heavy breathing, and his erection rubbing against your body.

“Tell me, my dear, have you tried submission and bondage before…?”

“No.”

He tied hard. Squeezing around your breasts, marking them on the babydoll.

“It will be an honor to be the first. But I won’t be gentle, I never am. Do you like rough sex?”

“I-I don’t know.”

You weren’t even beginning to think straight, your pussy was throbbing painfully down there, you were afraid you were going to start dripping from how turned on you were and he was just tying you up and rubbing his erection against you. All you could think about was how good his long fingers must look holding the rope and skillfully tying you up, you wished you had eyes on your back right about now.

“You don’t know?” he tied tight close to your hands, finishing. “You’ve never been fucked hard? Or don’t tell me you’re a virgin?”

You swallowed nervously, gulping saliva that burned in your throat from how enormously aroused you were, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“I’m not…”

“Oh yeah? Who was the lucky guy who entered paradise between your legs for the first time?”

Hyunjin stepped back, appreciating the beauty of the bonds in your arms, leaving you immobilized and staggering. He walked to the front of you with a predatory gaze, admiring his creation now on the front of your body, your breasts well marked on the fabric and your abdomen bound in a figure.

“Remember to answer everything, I thought you would be a good girl.”

You looked into his eyes, your big, merciful eyes, full of pure sexual ecstasy.

“My first boyfriend, when I was 19.”

“How is he now?” Hunjin ran his hands through your hair, pushing it a little away from your face, “Knowing he won something wonderful in life, your purity.”

You felt slightly humiliated, you were facing him, in a slightly curved position because of the tight bonds that bothered your arms, which bothered your circulation a little.

“He’s fine, I think. He studied law.”

“Too bad for him, he lost you, but now you’re mine.”

Hyunjin walked out of the room to return with his camera in hands.

“There go the first pictures, hun..”

Flash behind your back, this time Hyunjin didn’t bother to change the setting of the place, he had never shown the place as such, he always decorated it in a way that suited the concept of his exhibition, but you had been so spontaneous, you weren’t even planned for weeks like all his models, the concept was the simple nature of desire, erotic and experimentation.

Then he took pictures of your body in front.

“Fuck they look so good, so homely and domestic. I love it” he mentioned looking at the pictures.

He put the camera away leaving it on the floor carpet and moved your body from your shoulders forcing you to take a few steps, all the way to the center under a bar with chuncky metal hooks hanging from its ceiling.

“You seemed to get so excited at the idea of being tied up. But let’s steady your position, sweetheart.”

Hyunjin hooked you from the rope that ran behind your shoulders and left you hanging, just touching your toes to the floor. You felt strange and excited, unable to move and hanging there like nothing.

He smiled again, satisfied and wicked and his erection throbbed in pleasure at the sight of your state, helpless and bound.

“You still want to know how I take my pictures” he whispered hotly in your ear.

He gently pulled away until you felt his hair brush against your cheek, being in that position and tied up was making you uncomfortable but there was something so hot about it.

“Yes, Hyunjin.”

At this point you couldn’t say no to him and you weren’t thinking clearly, other than the feeling of your limbs and body tied, dangling and your throbbing cunt.

“I know absolutely everything they say about me, but although it may surprise you I never fuck my models, I don’t even kiss them, but I do like to play with them, with their pleasure and temperament, I enjoy taking them to the extreme and having them explore the very capabilities of their body…”

Hyunjin spoke close to your face, like a villain telling his plan to the poor helpless and immobile victim.

“Oh, honey, but I asked you if you like rough sex because I plan to fuck you” he caressed your cheek with his thumb.

He turned away to go back to his kinky closet.

“Wooden paddle or leather?” he hummed for himself, “What will I beat your cute ass with?”

You began to move your hands in desperation looking for a release. It was starting to bother you but you didn’t want to complain, you wanted to truly feel that rare and erotic experience.

Hyunjin approached you, with a vibrator and his leather spanking paddle.

“You’re a good sweet girl, let me get you ready.”

He ran his hand in your folds and you moaned instantly, shuddering, he played with your clit and he bit his lip, getting lost in the soft, sticky, warm feeling of your pussy lips wrapping his fingers. It was feeling so good, you were so needy. Your nipples hardened and your body sought to move in pleasure.

“Go on, sweetheart, make all the noise you want, don’t be afraid to enjoy absolutely everything.”

You let out a choked moan, you pressed your hands against each other unable to move your limbs, it was feeling like heaven itself to be touched by him as you looked into his eyes, his sultry gaze and wicked smile.

“God, you are so wet, are you liking this, my bunny?”

You nodded, desperate.

“Yes!” you moaned in pleasure and surprise as you spoke just as he thrust two fingers into you.

His fingers were perfect in you, so long reaching a soft spot inside you as he stirred them deep in you, almost as if exploring then slowly penetrating you. Hyunjin felt his erection to the fullest, if it wasn’t for his very good control and management of his body, he would be whimpering with excitement, everything about you made him so fucking horny.

But then he left you an emptiness, as he removed his fingers from you. You opened your mouth, breathing was becoming a difficult task, Hyunjin took advantage of your expression and stuck his fingers that were in your pussy to mouth.

“Taste yourself. I bet you taste so good my little doll” he removed his hand from your mouth to hold the sex toy, “Alright, this goes inside you.”

You whimpered in pleasure moving your legs in desperation as you felt the vibrator slide deep inside you, you watched as Hyunjin pushed it into you settling it into a delicious and strategic spot. You again noticed his huge erection and had a great need to touch it… but you were right in that painful situation with your limbs without proper circulation. He placed the single sofa of the room right in front of you and sat comfortably as if having a girl tied up and hanging was the most normal thing on a Monday night for him. Hyunjin placed his calf on top of his thigh, watching you. He stirred in place as sitting made the fabric of his pants squeeze his erection tighter and he grunted softly.

In his right hand he held the small vibrator control and didn’t hesitate to use it, with a single click and a wicked grin on his part, the toy began to do its thing inside you making you moan breathlessly.

You bit your lip hard and swirled your pelvis in pleasure, cursing softly as your walls vibrated, you felt it tingle in you, your labia majora were already a mess. Hyunjin pressed his lips together, examining how you writhed in pleasure with the limited body parts you could move, your head, your neck and your lower limbs.

“Now… tell me that story you didn’t finish, how your love of art was born.”

“What?” you whimpered.

You didn’t think he was serious, he was overstimulating you.

“Do it. Now. I want to know,” he ordered roughly. “Tell me, now.”

You whimpered feeling every great change of vibration and movement in you. You didn’t think he meant it and could hold a conversation having you as a rag doll dangling in front of him.

“I tol-d you that my fa-father had a replica of a painting… by Norman Rockwell in his room… and…” it was hard to speak, between whines and sighs, combined with the guilty pleasure of the pain of not being able to move. “It was fun to look at it… I liked it.”

“Just that? I want more details. I feel you know everything about me; but what do I know about y/n?”

Hyunjin switched the stimulation mode to simulated thrusting motions. Your poor body writhed and contracted, you felt excitedly trapped with nothing you could do about it. You were agitated, excited, with your slightly watery eyes and your pussy getting wetter and wetter.

“Fuck” you whimpered and he smiled, “The painting was done by a friend of his…”

“What was his name?” Hyunjin loved playing with you, for an incredibly smart woman, the sexual pleasure was making you silly and he was barely into foreplay.

“Jack… Bahng… and my father noticed the admiration I suddenly had for paintings and took me to my first gallery when I was twelve in New York…”

Hyunjin thought the last name sounded familiar, but he played with you, interrupting you and increasing the intensity of the thrusts that tickled your cervix almost bringing you to orgasm. You squeezed your legs together, it was painful and pleasurable, you felt you couldn’t cum because the position was uncomfortable so you were building the intensity of your climax.

“Whose gallery was it?”

“John Currin, November 2015… mmm, fuck, Hyun-”

“Focus, honey, you’re telling me something? John Currin, doesn’t he also do nudes? I think you like a certain kind of art, you little slut.”

“Mmm…” you didn’t even know what you were talking about, you started to stammer breathlessly, “But… they’re exaggerated or funny paintings sometimes. I attended with my father, his friend and his son, his son is also an artist and he taught me how to paint and from there, from there it was…”

“Aw, you’re daddy’s little girl? Who is your daddy’s friend’s son? Was he the one you said between drinks was your first crush?”

So many questions that were suddenly so hard to answer; this time you didn’t, you were about to burst into your first orgasm, you could feel it, you bit your lip and rolled your eyes softly.

“Don’t you dare cum, I haven’t authorized you yet. Hold it” he spoke annoyed, “You have to answer what I ask you, don’t make me beat you and punish you with the fucking wooden paddle.”

“What?” you stammered, desperate, watching his expression, his smooth thick black eyebrows furrowed in anger.

“Who was the guy who taught you to paint?”

Shit. You wanted to cum already, you were at your peak that you accidentally cum whimpering his name, which Hyunjin disliked completely.

“Chris-Christopher Bahng, ahh.”

This time he was genuinely pissed off.

He turned off the vibrator while you thought you fell into a small release but you were still trapped with pain in your body.

Hyunjin walked towards you and grabbed you roughly by the face.

“I ordered you not to cum.”

That wasn’t what he was truly angry about, it was that you whimpered another man’s name while cumming and it was someone he knew well.

“Christopher Bahng?” he claimed to you in annoyance, releasing you from the hooks and holding you up to lay you down moderately roughly on the floor. “Isn’t he a professor at your university?”

You nodded, exhausted. Christopher had been your first innocent love but it was obvious he was someone older and you were a child, after fifteen you never saw him again and came back reconnecting with him as you remember him, looking the same and teaching art. In fact, he was one of the most important reasons why you attended those important art events, he would get you places, but you used to say it was college support, because in part, it was true. He was just so good to you.

“Use your words.”

You had fallen sideways, turning your back to him and you were giving up feeling your arms, you wanted to be untied already.

“Yes, he is, he’s my teacher now.”

“Unbelievable, you go from Rockwell to Nabokov. You like older men, don’t you?” he spat, taking his camera to photograph you from that angle, with your bare ass, your wet thighs, your numb white arms. “That’s why you’re here, seducing me. Do you know how old I am?”

His choice of words, his tone, he was playing with you. Hyunjin photographed you on the floor, one last time before inflicting physical pain, before leaving your ass red-purple and sore. It was so dirty and hot that you thought for a second that they could be interpreted as the pictures of a helpless victim.

“Yes, I know.”

“I’m older than you, I should have known better bringing in someone so young, sleeping with her seniors for fun. And how old is Chris now?”

“I don’t know… 33, 34.”

“And did you enjoy fucking your teacher, you fucking slut?” he whispered, putting his body over yours without crushing you, to then roughly pull the toy out of you causing you to moan, “Did he enjoy being reunited with his little girl?”

You turned your neck to look at Hyunjin, he was getting the wrong idea, he was breathing heavily against your skin.

“It’s not like that, nothing happened.”

“You know how much it infuriates me that you whimpered his name while you were cumming like a fucking whore, writhing for him, huh? You were thinking about him? When you’re supposed to be mine tonight.”

You were about to answer, but Hyunjin turned your body leaving you face down and began to spank your ass violently with his strong, heavy hand, making you scream and whimper.

“I’ll show you that you’re mine, fuck, I don’t just want you to be mine tonight, I want you to be mine forever” he babbled, giving you spank after spank.

Your body contracted at each stroke, your arms sought to move and you moved your legs but Hyujin held them tightly to stop you from resisting. Your cry and his hand hitting your skin were present in the room, you could even feel the firmness of his rings digging into your skin.

“Hy-Hyunjin!” you couldn’t with the pain that was uncontrollably arousing you, you felt sick, your buttocks were burning but your clit was throbbing again.

“You fucking like this, don’t you, little slut? You like being treated like what you are, huh?”

He stopped spanking you to play roughly with your pussy, penetrating your entrance and stroking your labia hard. You whined in pleasure, the pleasure seemed painfully eternal with Hyunjin. And minutes later, you cum on his fingers unable to resist. He couldn’t resist how swollen and juicy your cunt looked either, so in one swift movement, he settled his body to lick and revel in your juices. You were desperate, you wanted to move, you wanted to touch him, you wanted to see his handsome face as he ate your pussy but you were limited from so many things; still Hyunjin continued, running his hot thick tongue in your cunt.

“Mmmm, fuck baby, you’re—so fucking delicious, I can’t” he moaned, sucking on your labia and cumming slowly and painfully in his pants, unable to hold it in any longer.

He continued to make a series of movements in a rhythm that blurred your vision and brought you to orgasm after orgasm. You were exhausted, sore and hoarse. You had been used.

Hyunjin was hard again, ready to do one last thing before he untied you completely. You felt his mouth pull away from you and heard the sound of a belt buckle and zipper being pulled down. You knew it, you were just slightly recovering when you felt his hot wet tip rub against your puffy pussy lips. He settled your body so that you were supported on your knees; he kept teasing you with his hard member in you, which made him moan until he finally pushed his entire length into you.

New tears began to flow from you. Hyunjin was huge. He was tearing you apart, but his warm cock inside you filling absolutely everything made you feel so whole.

He held on to the ropes, as if he was riding, he began to fuck you and ram you hard, bumping skin against skin.

“Hyunji-n, Hyunjin” you whined his name.

The gasps from both of you filled the room; his cock pounded every part of your insides. His movements were fast, beastly and violent but they left you so satisfied that you came twice in the process and he still continued in you until in sensual moans, he finally filled you with his cum.

Hyunjin pulled out of you to appreciate your used entrance and, out of breath, began to quickly untie you. It was unbelievable, you had not used any safety words or begged for him to stop.

He knew he was rough and that had to untie you soon, otherwise, the ropes would leave more serious marks, of which serious marks, only your ass suffered, red and swollen with signs of bruising. And you had resisted every damn spanking of which he lost count and only hit you for his slight sadistic pleasure of feeling your soft skin being abused.

Finally, your arms could breathe, but you felt a tingling in them. You were just adjusting again when Hyunjin turned your body to see your flushed face covered in tears and light sweat on your forehead.

You groaned in pain as your bottom brushed the carpet. Hyunjin unfastened your rope and robe, leaving you naked and wearing only your stockings.

He began gently caressing your breasts and waist.

“A photograph is not enough to capture you, my dear. I need to immortalize you with my oil painting. I need to paint you. I think I’m in love.”

You watched his face, with your breathing and heartbeat agitated and altered and you also noticed his visible cock, veiny, wet, shiny, erect and big.

You blinked, feeling your eyelashes still wet. Wanting to believe he was serious. Wishing it. That he could be in love with you.

He leaned toward you, brushing his nose against yours and for the thousandth time in the night, he broke every one of his rules with a model:

“Kiss me.”

You joined your lips, his kiss soothed every physical ache in you and the sensation was just as you imagined, dreamy, velvet lips deft in their movement.

The kisses escalated to be more and more sizzling, his hands kept massaging your breasts and his lips started to slide down your neck, you were obsessed with Hyunjin’s lips, your weak arms found a way to caress his hair.

He slowly separated from you. Looking at you with his typical mischievous and tenderly wicked smile.

It was a night to remember, a night you body will remember, but you got the feeling that is was just the beginning.

𐙚TAGLIST: @rylea08 @hann1bee @iovecb97 @armystay89 @lolareadsimagines @lailac13 @ayyonoona @do-you-remember-summer-127 @wildtokay @korthbum @oddracha @hyune-sssne @velvetmoonlght @shadowhunterathene @compersian @binniesbabe @strayywayy @isabel-018 @paborachaslvt @tirena1

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yeonayearns · 12 days ago

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Sukuna swore that he would never EVER have children as he sees them as annoying little crybabies, yet here he is, trying to get his daughter to eat a spoon of baby food.

He tried so many methods, not a single one worked, not even the ‘here comes the airplane’ method. He got so frustrated, why won’t this little brat just take a bite? He swear he was growing white hairs from stress at this point.

And then, you came back from grocery shopping. You looked around for Sukuna, and once you saw him, it was chaos all around. Baby food everywhere, spilled water, a stressed Sukuna, and your little girl sitting on her high chair, giggling at him, almost like she’s making fun of him.

“You little brat—you think you could get away with this? Tch, bet you’d do the same to your mother.” He said as you approached the two, a smirk on your face as you were amused by his stressed expression.

“What’s wrong, kuna? Can’t even convince our little girl to eat her food?”

“Tch, like you can do better, bet she’d throw a tantrum at you like she did to me.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes and crossed his arms.

You took the baby food and spoon from his hands, scooping a fair amount of baby food and bringing it to your daughter’s lips, Sukuna expected for her to throw the spoon away from your hand, but instead, she ate it!

“No fucking way..you’re just lucky..Give me the fucking baby food..” He snatched the jar away from you, attempting to feed her once again, but nope! She did take it, but immediately spit it everywhere! Especially against his face.

You laughed at what you say, dying out of laughter as you saw your husband’s face, all covered in baby food and spit.

“Ahahaha! Look at you—! Jeez I’m gonna grow a six pack if I keep laughing like this!”

Sukuna stayed quiet, wiping his face with a towel before facing you, he looks like he was planning something.

He scooped you two up easily, one arm carrying you with no problem, while your daughter was in the other arm. “You damn brats, always the fucking cause for my white and grey hairs..”

Sukuna then carried the two of you to the bedroom, placing the both of you on the bed, daughter in the middle while you’re at the left side of the bed, his body big enough to cuddle the both of you.

Even though he sounded angry and pissed off, he still loved the both of you, and nothing else was gonna change that, even if the two of you were gonna be the death of him.

a/n: omgggg i love dad!kuna AU so much 🤭 He’s so girl dad coded to be honest, and he really loves his wifey and daughter no matter if it kills him xD Sukuna and his daughter have beef with each other i swear

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stilljuststardust · 2 months ago

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✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Persistence, not perfection

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Conviction is not the absence of fear, doubt, and negative emotions. Conviction is standing in the face of that and saying you have it anyway, because nothing other than what you decide matters.

Stop thinking that you've failed to make an assumption just because your heart is still racing and your stomach still hurts. Your emotions and your body are not god. You can be terrified and shaking in your boots but still standing ten toes down in your assumption

Where I think many people go wrong is the pursuit of perfection. It's the trap of "good enough". When will I be enough? When is what I'm doing good enough to manifest my fucking desire already?? You decide what's good enough, and no one else.

This idea that you have to feel good to manifest, or that you don't have control over when it manifests, the constant song and dance of "doing it right". Law of attraction still has its dirty little fingers digging around inside our hearts

Right and wrong are up to you. There isn't a secret code that unlocks the door, there's no invisible gatekeeper to please, there is only yourself. Have you decided you have it? Have you decided your efforts are good enough or are you constantly punishing yourself.

It is so easy to get lost in what you "should do". Should I be convincing myself or just deciding? Is it ok if I use this affirmation? There is no should.

Do not let shame and guilt destroy you. You should never blame yourself for what is in your reality. You should however recognize you alone have the power to change it.

Stop trying to "fix" everything and ending up spiralling over minor feelings that you can't get to go away. You don't need it to go away. You can literally just decide to keep with the assumption even if you had a stray thought or a flood of emotion. You don't have to hammer down everything that isn't exactly perfectly perfect, because it's yours. Accept that it's yours anyway. Yes I feel like shit, it's still mine. Yes I have doubts, still fucking mine. No I don't understand the "how", it's still mine.

Stop being the observer, hovering over your own shoulder to chastise yourself over every little mistake. You do not need to be perfect to be persistent.

You don't need to "figure out" anything, you don't need to convince yourself or overthink. Manifestation is when you leave all that shit alone and say "no, fuck all of that, I have it".

Trying to micromanage yourself is the easiest loa mistake to make. You end up spiralling for thirty minutes because you had one bump in the road you're trying to force down instead of just saying "sucks, still have it though".

Who cares about belief, who cares about feeling, you are god. Its up to you. I don't care if you feel convinced when you say that you have it, and neither does your subconscious mind.

I'm an insomniac who doesn't drink enough water. If I just go by how I feel I'm gonna think the world is ending. So much of our emotions get falsely attributed to "oh it must not be working" when really, you haven't your body is literally just begging you to go outside or take care of yourself and you're over here like "the universe is against me". No you haven't failed, you're just grumpy and need a nap.

The constant return to "how do I fix it" "how do I manifest" IS living from the old assumption. Deciding that you have already manifested it, regardless of how you feel, is what you need to be doing instead.

Trusting yourself is not this overwhelming influx of dopamine nor is it the complete lack of fear. Having trust is doing the damn method anyway.Having trust is saying, I may not believe it, I may not see it, but it's fucking working. Having trust is getting out of your own way and letting yourself do it without constant double checking.

Conclusion, literally say "nuh-uh!"

"Ok but I don't believe it-" nuh-uh still have it.

"But the 3D-" nuh uh, mine

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 28 days ago

Text

Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

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

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)

446 notes · View notes

mandoalorian · 2 months ago

Text

crimson fever [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: In the icy shadows of 1944 occupied Europe, you uncover a dangerous Hydra secret that could shift the war’s tide. But Hydra’s ruthless scientist, Arnim Zola, marks you as a threat, unleashing a sinister drug—“crimson fever”—that set your body and soul ablaze with an unrelenting desire. As you fight to protect vital intel, your path collides with Sergeant Bucky Barnes, your childhood friend from Brooklyn, whose unspoken love for you burns brighter than the war’s chaos.

Warnings: 18+ explicit, smut, sex pollen that comes with themes of dub-con, unprotected p in v, oral (f receiving), fingering, exhibitionism sorta, reader is drugged via injectables, descriptions of pain, canon typical violence, torture, one use of Y/N, Winter Soldier foreshadowing.

Word Count: 6700

Author's note: Thank you to @notreallythatlost for helping me with all the German translations. I love youuu. ღ

ᯓ★ Masterlist

✮ PROJECT: WINTER SOLDIER ✮

Objective: Develop a serum enhancing physical strength, endurance, and healing, surpassing the Allied “Super Soldier” serum used on Captain America. The serum is paired with psychological conditioning.

Methods: Subjects— prisoners, captured soldiers, “recruited” operatives undergo experimental injections and brutal brainwashing techniques including sensory deprivation, electroshock, and chemical inducements to break their minds.

Timeline: Initial trials are active in an underground facility, in occupied France. Production to be scaled by 1945. Report to Johann Schmidt.

Der Winter Soldier wird die Zukunft von Hydra sein. (The Winter Soldier will be Hydra’s future.)

You hunched over the decrypted Hydra message, your eyes burning from hours of work, fingers smudged with pencil lead. The office buzzed with quiet urgency—typewriters clacked, a radio hissed static, and your fellow codebreakers murmured over their own stacks of intercepts. You’d been at it since dawn, unraveling Hydra’s coded transmissions, each one a puzzle that could save lives or lose them. Your role as a linguist, fluent in German and trained in cryptography, made you vital to the Allies, but tonight, the weight of what you’d uncovered felt like a stone in your chest.

“Carter, you need to see this,” you called, your voice sharp, cutting through the room’s hum. You pushed your chair back, the wood scraping the floor, and held up the decrypted page, its typed German translated into your neat handwriting. Your heart raced, the words searing your mind: Projekt Winter Soldier.

Peggy Carter, poised in her tailored ATS uniform, strode over, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Her dark eyes flicked to the paper, then to you, sharp and assessing. “What’ve you got?” she asked, voice crisp but laced with concern.

You swallowed, pointing to the key lines. “It’s Hydra. Something called ‘Project Winter Soldier.’ They’re experimenting—on people, not just weapons. It mentions a serum, like what they used on Captain Rogers, but… different. They want to create operatives with no will, no memory. ‘Perfect obedience,’ they call it.” Your voice trembled, and you tapped a name scrawled at the bottom. “Signed by Arnim Zola. He’s running it.”

Peggy’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the paper. “Zola,” she muttered, disgust curling her lips. “That man’s a butcher with a scientist’s ego.” She scanned the text, her expression hardening. “This is big. If they’re building mind-controlled soldiers…”

“It’s worse,” you interrupted, voice low, glancing at the other codebreakers—two women, heads down, oblivious. “They’re testing it now. Somewhere in France. Prisoners, maybe captured soldiers. They mention a ‘prototype’ and… something about breaking their minds first.”

Peggy’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. “We need to get this to Colonel Phillips. Tonight.” She turned, barking at the codebreakers. “Eleanor, Joan, wrap up and secure the files. We’re locking down.”

You nodded, heart pounding, but a flicker of pride warmed you. You’d cracked this, you’d found the truth. You thought of Bucky Barnes, your old friend from Brooklyn—his cocky grin, the way he’d sneak you comics, the almost-kiss on that Coney Island pier in ’39. He was out there with Captain Rogers, fighting Hydra. This intel could help him, keep him safe. You tucked the thought away, focusing on the task, and began gathering your notes.

The door crashed open, wood splintering, and you froze. Four Hydra soldiers stormed in, black uniforms stark against the office’s warmth, their rifles gleaming with that eerie blue glow of Hydra tech. Peggy spun, drawing her pistol, but a soldier fired, a blast of energy grazing her arm. She hissed, diving behind a cabinet.

“[Y/N], get down!” Peggy shouted, but you were already moving, shoving the Winter Soldier intel into your blouse, your hands shaking. The codebreakers screamed, scrambling for cover, and you ducked behind the desk, heart hammering. The soldiers barked in German, their voices harsh.

“Die Linguistin! Bringt sie mir lebend!” one ordered—The linguist! Take her alive!—and your blood ran cold. They wanted you. Your codes, your knowledge, or… the intel you’d just found.

You grabbed a letter opener, its dull blade a pitiful weapon, and crouched, peering through the desk’s gap. A soldier loomed closer, his boots thudding, and you lunged, stabbing his thigh. He roared, backhanding you, and pain exploded across your cheek, knocking you to the floor. The room spun, but you scrambled up, clutching the desk, only to feel iron hands seize your arms.

“No!” you yelled, thrashing, but the soldiers pinned you, their grips bruising. Peggy fired from cover, dropping one, but another blasted the cabinet, forcing her back. You kicked, aiming for a groin, and connected, earning a grunt, but a rifle butt slammed your temple, and darkness flickered at your vision’s edge.

“Enough,” a new voice said, cold and precise, cutting through the chaos. Arnim Zola stepped into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the soldiers but radiating menace. His round glasses glinted in the bulb’s light, and his smile was a thin, cruel line. “Fräulein, you are far too valuable to kill.”

You glared, blood trickling from your lip, the intel paper crinkling against your skin. “You’ll get nothing from me,” you spat, voice hoarse but defiant.

Zola chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, we shall see.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Take her to the transport. We have… experiments to conduct.”

A soldier jabbed a syringe into your neck, and a sharp sting gave way to a creeping warmth, a sedative, dulling your senses. You fought to stay conscious, to memorise Zola’s face, his words. “Winter Soldier…” you mumbled, half-delirious, and Zola’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise.

“Secure her,” he snapped, and the soldiers dragged you toward the door, your legs buckling. Peggy’s shouting your name followed you, but the world blurred, and you were gone, the intel tucked against your heart, a secret you’d guard with everything you had.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You’d been gone for weeks, a fact that gnawed at Bucky Barnes like a wound he couldn’t stitch. He stood against the command post’s wall, dog tags clinking under his olive-drab jacket, his eyes scanning a corkboard plastered with mission lists, reconnaissance photos, and urgent telegrams. His fingers, calloused from gripping a sniper rifle, hovered over a typed sheet, and then froze.

Your name stared back at him, stark in black ink: Allied Linguist, Captured, Hydra Facility, Occupied France.

His breath caught, sharp and painful, like a blade between ribs. You—his friend from Brooklyn, the girl who’d steal his cap and run, laughing, through Prospect Park, the one he’d nearly kissed under Coney Island’s Ferris wheel in ’39—were in Hydra’s hands.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He ripped the paper from the board, the pin clattering to the floor, and his hand trembled, betraying the storm inside. Memories flooded him: summer nights on your stoop, your hair tucked under a scarf, teasing him about his latest dame. But truthfully, he only had eyes for you.

“You’ll run outta girls to charm, Barnes,” you’d said, smirking, but your eyes had softened, holding something he’d been too dumb to name.

He’d leaned in, heart pounding, only for Steve’s call to break the moment. Then the war came, you to London cracking codes, him to the front with Steve, and letters faded. Now, Hydra had you, and the thought of you in Zola’s grip—Zola, whose name he’d heard tied to twisted experiments, made his stomach churn.

“Hey, Buck, what’s got you lookin’ like you swallowed a grenade?” Steve Rogers’ voice cut through, steady but concerned. He stood across the room, all Captain America in his blue jacket, leaning over a map with Colonel Phillips. His blond hair caught the dim light, but his eyes locked on Bucky, reading the tension in his friend’s stance.

Bucky strode over, boots thudding on the creaky floor, and slapped the list onto the map, scattering pencils. “It’s her, Steve,” he said, voice tight, low, like he was holding back a shout. “From Brooklyn. You remember her—used to tag along with us, always givin’ me hell.” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Hydra’s got her. Says she’s a linguist, crackin’ their codes. She’s in one of their damn facilities.”

Steve’s eyes widened, flicking to the list, then back to Bucky. His memory was sparking. “The one who’d sneak us into the library after hours? Yeah, I remember.” He straightened, voice firming. “She’s tough, Buck. But Hydra…”

“She’s more than tough,” Bucky snapped, then caught himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’s… she’s family, Steve. And you know what Hydra does…” His voice cracked, and he gripped the table, knuckles whitening. “We gotta get her out. Now.”

Colonel Phillips, puffing a cigar, looked up with a scowl, his weathered face etched with irritation. “Sergeant Barnes, we’ve got ops stacked to the ceiling,” he growled, exhaling smoke. “Hydra’s got captives everywhere—this linguist ain’t our priority.”

“She is to me,” Bucky retorted, his voice low but fierce, eyes boring into Phillips. “Sir, she’s got intel—Hydra’s codes, maybe more. She cracked somethin’ big before they took her. Losin’ her gives them an edge.” It was a half-truth; he’d burn the world for you, intel or not, but he knew Phillips needed a reason.

Steve studied Bucky, seeing the truth—the kind of loyalty that went beyond duty, rooted in Brooklyn’s streets, in quiet moments you’d shared. “Colonel,” Steve said, voice calm but unyielding, “the Howling Commandos can handle this. We hit the facility, get her out, and cripple Hydra’s operation. Two birds, one stone.”

Phillips grunted, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “Fine, Rogers. But if this goes south, it’s your ass.” He waved them off, turning to an aide, already dismissing the matter.

Bucky exhaled, tension easing a fraction, but his heart still raced, pounding with fear for you. He met Steve’s gaze, a silent thank-you passing between them. “We’ll get her, Buck,” Steve said, clapping his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket, next to a faded photo—you, him, and Steve at Coney Island, 1939, your smile bright as the summer sun. He headed for the door, the room’s chaos—officers shouting, radio static—fading behind him. Outside, the Howling Commandos lounged near a jeep, cleaning rifles and trading jabs in the grey dawn.

“Sarge, what’s the word?” Dum Dum Dugan called, his mustache twitching as he tossed a flask to Gabe Jones, who caught it with a grin.

Bucky held up the folded list, his sergeant’s calm settling over him like armour, though his voice carried an edge. “We got a job,” he said, eyes scanning the team—Gabe, Jim Morita, Monty Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. “Hydra’s holdin’ one of ours—a linguist, key to their codes. She’s in a facility in France. We’re hittin’ it, gettin’ her out, and blowin’ the place to hell.” He paused, his grip tightening on the paper. “She’s from my neighborhood. Means somethin’ to me. You in?”

Gabe nodded, his smile fading to seriousness. “Always, Barnes.”

Dum Dum cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Hell, Sarge, let’s give them a mornin’ they won’t forget.”

Jacques smirked, twirling a knife. “Pour la France,” he said, voice low, and Jim and Monty murmured agreement, their faces set.

Bucky forced a smirk, but his mind was on you—alone, maybe hurt, fighting Zola’s experiments with that fire he’d always admired. He touched the photo in his pocket, your face burned into his memory, and whispered, so quiet no one heard, “Hold on, doll. I’m comin’ for you.”

The words were a vow, and he’d keep it, no matter what Hydra threw at him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You lay curled on a thin cot in a Hydra cell, your body trembling, skin flushed with an unnatural heat that made your pulse race and your breath come in shallow, desperate gasps. The crimson fever drug, injected by Arnim Zola weeks ago after your kidnapping in London, burned through you, twisting your mind with a relentless need you fought to suppress. Your blouse, torn and stained, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d kept secret, its paper pressed against your chest like a talisman.

You’d overheard Zola’s gloating—his “perfect obedience” experiments, the “winter soldier” prototype—and your linguist’s mind clung to those details, even as the drug threatened to unravel you. “Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse, your nails digging into your palms to anchor you against the fever’s pull.

Outside, Bucky Barnes crouched behind a snow-dusted ridge, his M1 Garand rifle steady in his hands, breath clouding in the frigid air. You weren’t there to see it, but you’d have felt the weight of his resolve, his heart pounding with one thought: getting you back. The Howling Commandos flanked him—Dum Dum Dugan reloading his Thompson submachine gun, Gabe Jones checking a radio, Jim Morita adjusting his scope, Monty Falsworth and Jacques Dernier wiring explosives. The plan was tight: hit hard, find you, blow the place to hell. Bucky’s jaw clenched, your face—Brooklyn summers, that Coney Island almost-kiss—burning in his mind.

“Ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum asked, his moustache twitching as he grinned, though his eyes were hard, scanning the bunker a hundred yards away.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” you’d have heard Bucky reply, his voice low, all sergeant, but laced with something raw. He signalled, and Jacques tossed a smoke grenade, grey haze cloaking the ridge. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping toward the bunker, their boots silent in the snow. Gabe’s radio crackled, confirming Allied distractions were pulling Hydra’s outer patrols away. Bucky’s heart thundered, not for the fight, but for you, trapped in Zola’s nightmare.

A Hydra guard at the entrance barely turned before Bucky’s knife found his throat, a silent kill, blood dark against the snow. “Go,” Bucky hissed, and Jacques’ charges blew the steel door, the blast rattling the night.

Alarms screamed, red lights pulsing inside, and Hydra soldiers poured into the corridor, their blue-energy rifles spitting death. You heard the gunfire, distant but growing louder, a chaotic symphony that stirred hope in your fevered haze. “Help…” you mumbled, clutching the cot’s edge, your body shaking as you tried to sit.

Bucky ducked behind a crate, returning fire, his shots precise, dropping two guards. “Push through!” he shouted, voice cutting through the din. Dum Dum’s Thompson roared, mowing down a squad, while Monty and Jim covered the rear, grenades shaking the walls. “Lab’s that way!”

Gabe yelled, pointing left, where a sign read Forschungsbereich—research sector. Bucky’s gut twisted, Zola’s name a poison in his thoughts. If Zola had touched you…

“Keep movin’!” Bucky ordered, leading the charge past sparking machinery and shattered glass, his boots slipping on spilled chemicals. Jacques planted more explosives, grinning like a kid with firecrackers.

“Pour la France!” he muttered, wiring a console. You heard the blasts, closer now, and dragged yourself upright, your vision swimming but your will iron. The Winter Soldier intel crinkled against your skin, a secret you’d die to protect.

The cell block was a maze of iron doors, damp concrete slick underfoot. Bucky rounded a corner, gun raised, and there you were—behind a barred window, slumped but alive, your hair matted with sweat, eyes flickering with fever. His heart lurched, he called your name, voice raw, cracking like a boy’s. A Hydra guard lunged from the shadows, but Bucky slammed him against the wall, the man’s skull cracking with a sickening thud.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice weak but sharp with recognition, cutting through the drug’s fog. You staggered to the bars, fingers trembling as you gripped them, your blouse clinging to your fevered skin. The needle marks on your arm stood out, angry red, and your breath hitched, a mix of relief and desperation.

“I’m here, doll,” Bucky said, fumbling with the lock, his hands shaking until Gabe tossed him a pilfered keyring. “Hold on.” The door swung open, and he was at your side, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your face. Your skin burned under his touch, too hot, and your eyes, though glassy, locked onto his, a spark of you still fighting. “It’s me,” he said, voice soft but urgent, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into his hand, a whimper escaping, your body trembling with something more than weakness—a need that alarmed him.

“Bucky… they… Zola…” you stammered, your fingers clutching his jacket, nails digging in. “Crimson fever… it’s in me… burning…” Your voice broke, shame flickering in your eyes, but you forced out, “Winter Soldier… I know… they’re making…” You trailed off, a shudder racking you, and Bucky’s blood ran cold, the intel’s weight hitting him.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky hummed, his arms tightening around your body, not caring about any intel. Not caring about the war. Not caring about anything. Just you.

Your shaky hands went to pass him the intel, but failed with exhaustion. “Winter. Soldier.” you bit out again, aimlessly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Winter Soldier? No, no doll, it’s me. It’s Buck, from Brooklyn,” he was misunderstanding, and you couldn’t blame him. “What’d they do to you?” he growled, his voice low, rage barely leashed as he saw the needle marks, the fever’s flush.

But you couldn’t get your words out.

He scooped you up, your weight light but your grip fierce, your head lolling against his shoulder. “I got you,” he said, standing, his arms steady despite the chaos. Your breath was ragged, too warm against his neck, and he felt the drug’s unnatural pull in your touch, your fingers clutching too tightly, too desperately.

“Base is rigged!” Jacques shouted from the corridor, where the team held off reinforcements, blue energy scorching the walls.

Dum Dum’s voice boomed, “Thirty seconds, Barnes!” Explosions rumbled, the facility shaking as charges blew.

“Bucky, the intel…” you mumbled, half-lucid, patting your blouse weakly. “Winter Soldier… don’t let them…” Your voice faded, the fever stealing your strength, but your words seared him, tying your fight to the horror he’d only heard whispers of.

“I won’t,” he promised, voice fierce, dodging a blast that charred the wall. It was an empty promise, but that didn’t matter right now. He still didn’t understand completely what you were mumbling about.

He carried you through smoke and gunfire, the Commandos covering him—Monty tossing a grenade, Gabe firing steadily. “Stay with me, doll,” he said, his boots pounding as he reached the exit, the night air hitting like a slap.

The bunker erupted behind you, flames licking the sky, and the team piled into a stolen Hydra truck, Gabe at the wheel. Bucky slid you into the back, climbing in beside you, holding you close as the truck lurched forward, tires crunching snow. Your fevered body curled against him, your hand still clutching the hidden intel, and Bucky’s mind raced.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You slumped against Bucky Barnes in the corner of the Hydra truck’s cargo bed, your body a furnace of torment, every nerve alight with the crimson fever drug’s cruel fire. Your skin burned, slick with sweat despite the November chill, and your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a drum urging you toward something you barely understood. Your blouse, torn and clinging to your damp skin, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d guarded since London, its paper a faint crinkle against your chest.

The drug, injected by Arnim Zola during those weeks in his lab, twisted your mind, flooding you with an aching, primal need that made your thighs clench and your breath hitch in sharp, desperate gasps. You fought it, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed closer to Bucky, his warmth both a lifeline and a torment.

Bucky held you tightly, his arm a steel band around your shoulders, his wool jacket rough against your cheek. You felt his heartbeat, steady but quick, through his chest, and his breath clouded in the cold air, his dog tags clinking faintly as he shifted to shield you from a gust. His eyes, shadowed under the swaying lantern’s amber glow, darted to you, worry carving lines into his face. You’d seen him tough, cocky, tossing quips in Brooklyn diners, but now he was raw, his sergeant’s calm fraying at the sight of your trembling hands, the way your fingers clutched his sleeve like he was the only thing keeping you sane.

“Doll, talk to me,” Bucky whispered, voice low, meant only for you, his lips brushing your ear. His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze, and the touch sent a jolt through you, your body shuddering as a wave of heat pulsed low in your belly.

You moaned softly, unintended, and your eyes fluttered, half-lidded, the drug amplifying his touch into something overwhelming, intoxicating. Your hips twitched, pressing against his thigh, and you bit your lip, shame flooding you even as your body begged for more.

The Howling Commandos sprawled around you, their presence a grounding hum amid your chaos. Dum Dum Dugan, sprawled on a crate, polished his Thompson, muttering, “Damn roads are gonna shake my teeth loose.”

Gabe Jones, at the wheel, cursed as the tires skidded, shouting, “Hold tight, this ain’t a Sunday drive!” Jim Morita cleaned his rifle, Monty sipped from a flask, and Jacques toyed with a looted Hydra grenade, whistling a French tune.

You looked at the men. If you wanted, you could have had any one of them. They could have given you what you needed. But it was the Sergeant who had owned your heart since the very start. He was the one you trusted more than anyone else. The infantry’s banter was a lifeline, but they didn’t see your state, didn’t hear the soft, needy sounds you stifled against Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky…” you managed, voice cracked, barely audible over the truck’s rumble. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his dog tags, the metal cool against your burning skin. The contact sent another shiver through you, your thighs squeezing together as a fresh surge of desire made your breath hitch, a low, throaty moan escaping before you could stop it. You were drowning in it—the fever’s heat, the drug’s relentless pull, the ache that coiled tighter with every second. “I… I need to tell you,” you whispered, urgent, your lips grazing his ear, the intimacy of it making your skin prickle. “Alone.”

His pulse spiked—you felt it under your fingers—and his eyes widened, alarm mixing with something deeper, unspoken. “Okay,” he said, voice rough, glancing at the team. The Commandos were distracted, Gabe wrestling the wheel, Dum Dum arguing with Monty over the flask. Bucky shifted, easing you behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and cold against your back. He knelt in front of you, his hands steadying your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “What’s goin’ on, doll? You’re burnin’ up,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, and you gasped, your body arching toward him, the touch igniting sparks that made your hips rock involuntarily.

You swallowed, tears welling, the shame of your need warring with the urgency to speak. “Zola… he gave me something,” you said, words spilling in a rush, your voice trembling. “Called it crimson fever. It’s… it’s making me want things. Need things.” Your breath hitched, a sob catching as you clutched his wrist, your nails digging in. “It’s in my blood, Bucky. It’s burning me, making me… want you. Not just want—I can’t stop it. If I don’t… get release, he said I’ll go mad.” Your cheeks flushed deeper, not just from fever but humiliation, and you looked away, tears dripping onto your lap.

Bucky’s breath caught, his hand tightening on yours, crumpling the edge of his jacket. You saw the horror in his eyes, but also love, fierce and unyielding, rooted in Brooklyn nights when you’d danced around his teasing, your laughter brighter than the city lights.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. Your breath mingled, hot and ragged, and you moaned again, your body reacting to his nearness, hips shifting, thighs trembling as the drug surged. “You don’t gotta be sorry,” he said, cupping your face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “This ain’t you—it’s them. Hydra. Zola. If they’re doing this, only God knows what else they have planned.”

Your body didn’t care for words. You didn’t need empathy. You pressed against him, a desperate, unconscious move, your hand sliding to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. The drug made every touch electric, and you gasped, your skin flushing from chest to throat, a sheen of sweat glistening in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, it hurts,” you whispered, voice raw, your lips brushing his jaw, leaving a faint heat. “I’m burning… I need you.” Your fingers tightened, tugging his jacket, and your hips rocked again, a soft, needy sound escaping as you fought the urge to climb into his lap.

Your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, each one a plea you hated but couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of guilt and desire he hated himself for feeling. You saw it—the way he fought his own reaction, his breath hitching as your touch stirred him, his love for you clashing with the drug’s twisted demand.

You were so needy, so clingy. And Bucky knew it wasn’t completely you, right? None the less he swallowed, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his trousers, begging for release. Every time your fingers grazed him even in the slighest, he felt like he was going to explode. The war had him touch-starved and desperate, that’s for sure.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, though it shook at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?” His hand slid to your neck, holding you gently, and you whimpered, the contact sending a shiver through you, your body arching, breasts pressing against him as another wave of need made you tremble.

“I trust you,” you said, voice breaking, your eyes locking onto his, lucid despite the fever’s haze. “Only you.” Your hand found his, guiding it to your waist, and you gasped as his fingers brushed your hip, the touch sparking a moan that made your thighs quiver. You were losing ground, the drug’s pull relentless, but your trust in Bucky—forged in Brooklyn, in quiet moments he’d never forgotten—kept you tethered.

The truck lurched, Gabe shouting, “Road’s blocked! Barn up ahead, half a mile!” The Commandos shifted, readying gear, their voices a blur.

“I have one grenade left.” You just about made out Jacques’ annoucement.

But Bucky’s world was you, your fevered whispers, your body trembling with a need that wasn’t just the drug, but you, the girl he’d loved since that night on the Coney Island pier.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You stumbled into the barn, Bucky’s arm steadying you, his warmth the only anchor against the crimson fever’s relentless fire. Your body was a storm of torment—skin flushed and slick with sweat, pulse hammering like a war drum, every nerve alight with a desperate, aching need that made your thighs tremble and your breath come in ragged, needy gasps. The drug, Arnim Zola’s cruel creation, had twisted your desire into something overwhelming, your hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed against Bucky, his scent—wool, gunpowder, and something uniquely him—igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. Your torn blouse clung to your damp skin.

The Winter Soldier intel was still hidden against your chest, a secret you’d guarded through weeks of captivity. You fought the fever’s pull, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, craving Bucky with an intensity that left you dizzy, your lips parting as another moan slipped free.

Bucky shut the barn door with a creak, sealing you in a fragile sanctuary, the wind’s howl fading to a low moan. He set the lantern on a crate, its glow catching the worry in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

You felt his gaze, heavy and searching, as he knelt before you, easing you onto a makeshift bed of hay cushioned by his folded greatcoat, its wool warm from his body. Your hands clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as his touch sparked electricity, your hips twitching involuntarily. “Bucky…” you whispered, voice raw, your eyes glassy but locked on his, a flicker of you shining through the fever’s haze.

“Doll, I’m here,” he said, voice low, hoarse with worry, his calloused hand brushing your cheek. The contact sent a jolt through you, your body arching, a soft moan spilling out as your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing sharper. He froze, his breath hitching, and you saw the conflict in his eyes—love, longing, and fear that this wasn’t you, just the drug. “You’re still burnin’ up,” he said, thumb tracing your jaw, and you whimpered, your skin flushing deeper, a rosy heat spreading from your chest to your throat, glistening with sweat in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, urgent, as you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to your waist. The touch was fire, and you gasped, hips rocking toward him, your body trembling as the drug amplified every sensation. “I need you… it’s too much.” Tears welled, shame mixing with desire, but your eyes held his, fierce despite the fever. “I told you… I can’t fight it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his hand tightening on your hip, his dog tags clinking as he leaned closer. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “Since that damn pier in Brooklyn, since you laughed at my dumb jokes. But this…” He gestured to your trembling form, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I don’t wanna take advantage, doll. I need this to mean somethin’ to you, not just… Zola’s poison.” His thumb brushed your lip, and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your body shuddering, thighs squeezing as a fresh wave of need made your breath stutter.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — ever the gentleman.

“Don’t make me beg,” you said, voice sharp, almost a growl, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned, and the sound of his voice was like velvet. “I want you, Bucky. Always have. The drug’s making it worse, but it’s me.” Your eyes burned into his, lucid, defiant. “I trust you. Make me feel good. Please.” Your hips shifted, pressing against him, and a desperate, throaty moan escaped, your skin prickling as the fever surged, your pulse racing so fast you felt it in your throat.

Bucky’s resolve cracked, his breath ragged. “Alright, honey,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good, I swear.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft but hungry, tasting of salt and desperation. You melted into it, your body trembling, a gasp catching as his tongue brushed yours, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, and your hips rocked, the drug making every touch a spark that set your nerves ablaze.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours and you could see the question he wanted to ask ‘Are you sure?’, and you nodded, breathless, your chest heaving. “I’m sure,” you said, voice firm despite the fever’s haze.

He eased your blouse off, careful of the hidden intel, his fingers brushing your skin, and you gasped, your body arching, nipples tightening in the cold air. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your collarbone, and you whimpered, thighs trembling as his gaze alone sent a pulse of heat through you.

Bucky’s hands were gentle, reverent, as he traced your curves, his fingers lingering on your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, and you shivered, a soft moan escaping as his words stoked the fever’s fire. He kissed your throat, lips warm and deliberate, and you gasped, head tilting back, your pulse hammering under his mouth. Your body reacted vividly—skin flushing from chest to cheeks, thighs clenching as a fresh wave of desire made your hips rock, the ache between them unbearable.

“Bucky, touch me,” you pleaded, voice desperate, guiding his hand lower, your boldness driven by the drug but rooted in trust.

He nodded, his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down your stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the soft skin above your thigh. You trembled, a sharp gasp tearing from you as his hand brushed closer, your thighs parting instinctively, inviting him.

Your skin prickled, sweat glistening, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, the drug making every touch electric. His fingers found your warmth, teasing gently, and you moaned, loud and needy, your hips bucking toward him, thighs quivering as a jolt of pleasure shot through you.

“Bucky…” you breathed, clutching his wrist, nails digging in, your body tensing as he explored, his touch careful but sure.

Your reaction was immediate—muscles tightening, a flush spreading across your chest, your breath stuttering as his fingers circled, coaxing waves of heat that made your toes curl. You arched, hips rocking in rhythm, and your moans grew sharper, each one a desperate plea. The drug amplified every sensation, your skin hypersensitive, and you felt every callus, every movement, as if he were rewriting your nerves.

“Feels… so good,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your thighs clenching around his hand as a coil tightened inside you. Bucky watched, his breath ragged, worry flickering but desire burning stronger.

“You’re with me, doll,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, and you nodded, a tear slipping free as pleasure overwhelmed you.

He shifted, lips trailing down your chest, and you whimpered, your body trembling as he kissed lower, his breath warm against your stomach. “Gonna make you feel even better,” he promised, voice low, and you gasped, hips lifting as his mouth found you, his tongue gentle but deliberate.

The sensation was a lightning strike—your body jolted, a cry tearing from your throat, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. Your thighs trembled, muscles quaking, and your breath came in short, desperate gasps, the drug making every lick a pulse of fire. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your brow, and you moaned, unrestrained, hips rocking against his mouth as pleasure built, sharp and relentless. “Bucky… oh, God…” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body tensing as you neared the edge, every nerve singing.

He pulled back, kissing your thigh, and you whimpered, desperate, your hands tugging him up.

“Need you… now,” you said, voice raw, your eyes locked on his, lucid despite the fever. He nodded, shedding his trousers, dog tags clinking, and leaned over you, his body warm, grounding.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice thick, needing your consent, his worry clear.

“I want you, Bucky,” you said, fierce, pulling him closer. “Always.”

He guided himself, the moment of connection slow, deliberate, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming, amplified by the drug. He was big, bigger than you had ever had before. He stretched you and you felt your body clamp down around him. Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink and you felt his short fingernails dig into your hips as he steadied himself. Your body reacted vividly—muscles clenching, thighs trembling, hips rising to meet him.

“So good…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving crescent marks.

He moved, each thrust a rhythm of passion and care, his lips brushing your ear, whispering, “I’ve got you, doll.”

You brought your hands up to his face, guiding him to your lips as he thrusted into you. This was more than sex — a cure to your condition. This was love. You kissed him slowly, leaning into the softness of his lips. He smelled like lingering smoke mixed with a sweetness you just couldn’t describe. It was familiar, like the cotton candy you picked at and shared on the pier at Coney Island.

“Do you remember that time when we stood at the edge of the pier and you were showing me the constellations in the sky?” You asked, your eyes finding Bucky’s, watching him as he fucked you.

“Mm,” he nodded his head, wordlessly. “Wanted to kiss you so bad that night.” He breathed into admittance.

“I wanted you to kiss me too.” You replied before your words were cut off with a loud moan. Bucky grabbed your calves, pulling them up to his shoulders allowing him to go even deeper, hitting you at a new angle. Lewd, wet sounds echoed in the barn and you had visions of someone walking in. It only spurred you on even more.

Your breaths mingled, your cries soft but desperate, the drug’s urgency blending with love. Your thighs tightened around him, hips rocking, and pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembling as you neared release. “Bucky…” you gasped, voice breaking, and he kissed you hard, just like he’d always imagined, deep and grounding, as you shattered, a cry muffled against his shoulder, the fever’s grip breaking. He followed, his climax a choked wave, shooting a warmth that painted your walls, arms tightening to hold you close.

The barn fell silent, save for your ragged breaths and the hay’s rustle. You collapsed against him, trembling, the fever’s heat gone, leaving you fragile, your skin cooling but slick with sweat. Bucky pulled his greatcoat over you both, shielding you from the cold, and held you, your head tucked under his chin. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows, and shame crept in, your voice small.

“Was it… just the drug?” you asked, clutching the intel in your blouse, fear lacing your words. “Did I… make you?”

“No,” Bucky said, fierce, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “It was us, I’ve loved you since Brooklyn, since that pier. The drug didn’t make me want you—I always did.” His voice cracked, and he kissed your forehead, steady. “You’re not broken. You’re mine.”

You nodded, tears spilling, but doubt lingered, Zola’s experiments haunting you. “I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “What if they’ve changed me?”

“They haven’t,” he said, stroking your hair. “You’re still you, still the girl who cracked their codes, kept that intel through hell. I won’t let them touch you again.” His promise was fierce, but you felt the war’s weight, Hydra’s reach, and the shadow of what you’d uncovered.

Outside, Gabe’s voice cut through, soft but urgent. “Sarge, we’re clear. Ready to move.” The Commandos, loyal, unaware of the barn’s secrets, waited in the snow.

Bucky helped you sit, adjusting the greatcoat, his touch gentle. “We gotta go,” he said, voice low. “But I’m with you, every step.” He stood, pulling you up, and you leaned into him, steadier but haunted, the fever gone but the intel and emotional weight lingering. The barn door creaked open, moonlight spilling in, and Bucky led you out, his arm around you, ready to face the war—and Hydra’s lingering threat.

You followed Bucky back to the van. “Write to me?” You asked, locking a subtle finger with his, so that his men wouldn’t notice.

“Of course I will.” He promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t care if anyone saw. The last thing he’d do was want to keep you a secret. He had dreamed of you, of this, since 1939.

“And after the war, you’ll find me on the pier at Coney Island, waiting for you.” You told him, an oath that you’d protect with your life. You didn’t want anyone other than him. You would wait for him, even if waiting meant forever.

“I’ll be there.”

You believed him.

“You’ll come home, won’t you?” The question lingered with uncertainty and worry as the Winter Soldier intel burned in your pocket.

“Do I look like a man who’d keep my doll waiting?” Bucky smiled, his blue eyes twinkling like an aurora, full of love and hope.

Yeah, you believed him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira

If you want to be tagged in all my future Bucky/Sebastian works, let me know. <3

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #marvel #smut #james buchanan barnes #avengers #thunderbolts #james bucky barnes #40s bucky #sergeant james barnes #captain america #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader

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passionfruitchris · 1 month ago

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EARN IT

PAIRING: NERD!MATT x ADHD!READER

IN WHICH: your adhd brain won’t stay on track during study night, so matt slides between your thighs with his glasses still on and tells you he’ll only keep going if you get the answers right WC: 1.2K

matt was seated beside you on the floor, cross-legged in his usual perfect posture, a stack of color-coded flashcards in one hand and your shared laptop open in front of him. the two of you had been reviewing exam content for nearly half an hour, though only five minutes of that time could actually be counted as productive. he was wearing a fitted gray t-shirt, glasses slightly low on the bridge of his nose as he scrolled through the quiz doc he’d made for you—organized, annotated, and completely wasted on the way your brain had started to short circuit the moment he pushed his sleeves up.

you were sitting on your knees beside him, trying to focus. trying, honestly, so hard. but it was a losing battle. his forearms looked too good. his voice was too steady. the way he spoke—confident, calm, patient—made it hard to focus on anything but the sound of it, the shape of it. you weren’t looking at the laptop anymore. you were looking at his mouth. and when he turned to ask you a question, you realized, too late, that you hadn’t been listening for at least the last few minutes.

“did you catch that?” he asked, holding up a flashcard. his voice was gentle but clearly suspicious.

you blinked. “uhh... sort of?”

matt sighed softly through his nose, not in frustration, but in that familiar “you’re mine and I know exactly what you’re doing” way. he set the flashcard aside and turned his body toward you fully now, arm draped casually over his bent knee. “what part of the question did you ‘sort of’ catch?” he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was fighting back a smirk.

“I got the part where you said... 'what enzyme'... and then I got distracted because I was wondering if your reading glasses are real or just a kink accessory.” you smiled sweetly. “are they prescription, matthew?”

his jaw twitched like he was trying not to laugh, or break. “you are, without a doubt, the most infuriating 'student' I’ve ever had.”

“good thing I’m your girlfriend and not your student, huh?”

he shook his head slowly and shifted closer, his hand sliding over your bare thigh like a warning. his touch wasnt rough—jst firm enough to get your attention, to pull you back into your body. “you can’t go five minutes without zoning out.”

you shrugged. “to be fair, you're really hot. you make it hard to think.”

that was when matt’s eyes changed—still soft, still familiar, but darker now. more deliberate. he sat up on his knees and cupped your jaw with one hand, thumb brushing just under your lip like he was deciding something. “you wanna come tonight?” he asked, voice casual—too casual.

your breath hitched. “um. yes?”

“then earn it,” he said simply.

you barely had time to react before he was guiding you backward, his palm warm against your chest as he pushed you gently down against the rug. he was methodical as he kissed your collarbone, then the line of your neck, then tugged your shorts down with steady hands, slow and deliberate like he had all the time in the world. his glasses stayed on. his eyes never left you.

you spread your legs for him instinctively, your thighs already slick with anticipation, but he didn’t go for your cunt right away. instead, he kissed down your sternum, then your belly, pausing to mouth at the soft skin just above your waistband before sliding your panties down, too. when he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh—warm, open-mouthed, wet—you exhaled hard, already arching toward him.

“matt,” you breathed. “please.”

he settled between your thighs, hands sliding underneath to grip the backs, pulling you closer with a quiet grunt. his lips hovered, not touching, just breathing heat against you. “answer the question I asked,” he murmured, eyes flicking up over the rim of his glasses.

your brain stalled. “I—what?”

“the one about the enzyme,” he said, and you felt his lips brush your skin when he spoke. “if you get it right, I’ll keep going.”

you were dizzy already. “matt. I can’t—”

he dipped his head and licked a single, slow stroke up your cunt, just once, his tongue dragging through your slick like he already knew how desperate you were for more. then he pulled away again. “you can,” he said softly. “you just have to try.”

and then he kissed you — just above your clit — lips warm and soft, tongue flicking gently before he went lower. you moaned, instantly arching toward him, already wet from the slow pressure of his voice and the threat of what he’d promised. his tongue flattened against you, slow and unhurried, dragging upward in one perfect, measured stroke. he kept going, lips locking over your clit now, tongue flicking in small, devastating circles. you tried to think — really, you did — but your mind was pure static.

his hands slid under your ass, holding you steady, thumbs pressing into your thighs to keep them open. the cold metal of his watch brushed your skin — a little chill against your fevered body. his glasses were still on, just barely slipping down his nose, and it was unfair how focused he looked even like this, like he was reading you the same way he read textbooks: deeply, without flinching.

“matt—” you gasped, legs already trembling. “holy shit—don’t stop—”

he pulled back slightly, mouth glistening, chin wet, breath warm against your slick heat. “answer the question.”

you forced your eyes open. “phosphofructokinase.”

matt smiled, slow and pleased, and this time when he lowered his head, he didn’t hold back.

hismouth locked over your clit with devastating intent, tongue flicking just enough to make your thighs tense, then circling, wet and firm and rhythmic. he groaned low in his throat, like he loved the way you tasted, and the sound made you shudder. his grip on your thighs tightened just slightly when you started to buck against his face, and the way he moaned into you only made it worse—made it better—made it impossible to stay quiet.

you were already close, already panting, your hands tangled in his hair as he worked you open, devouring you with slow precision. he alternated between gentle sucks and faster flicks, the wet sound of it filling the room, your own breath breaking in uneven gasps.

just as your legs began to shake, just as you arched up, teetering on the edge—matt stopped.

you nearly sobbed. “no—no, matt, please—”

he pressed his mouth against your inner thigh, lips soft and damp, breath hot. “what enzyme breaks glycogen into glucose-1 phosphate?”

you choked on a moan. “G-glycogen phosphorylase.”

he grinned against your skin. “good girl.”

and then his mouth was back on you, tongue firm and fast now, no teasing. his glasses pressed against your lower stomach as he held you steady, his tongue never faltering as your orgasm ripped through you—tight, hot, and overwhelming. you came with a gasp, legs trembling, fingers clutching at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself as he licked you through it, refusing to stop until your hips stuttered and your muscles gave out completely.

when he finally pulled back, his plush lips were swollen, his face glistening, and he looked up at you like he was studying a masterpiece. “now,” he said, adjusting his glasses with two fingers, “are we ready to focus?”

tags: @zenithsturniolo @sturnsblogs @sirensdollesque @adoremattsturns @espressqe

requested by: @sturnsblogs cee cee… so sorry this ended up being smutty. I swear I didn’t mean for it to go there but once I started… I genuinely couldn’t stop myself. it spiraled. please forgive me LMAO <3

a/n: thank you so much for reading, seriously. it means the world that you took the time to engage with this fic. I appreciate every like, reblog, comment, and message more than I can even explain.

#matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo smut #matt stuniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo edit #matt sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo x reader #chris #sturiolo fanfic #chris sturniolo fluff #sturniolo

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heartlilith · 5 months ago

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Moon Sign & Manifestation

Manifestation is aligning your feelings, goals, and actions to bring your desires into reality. Based on your Moon sign, there are ways to manifest that can better align with who you are.

Aries Moon: Sound and frequency meditations (741 Hz), visualization, taking action towards desires, and letting go.

Why: Aries rules the head, making sounds & frequencies a natural highway to manifesting your desires, as well as visualization. Taking action either by pursuing your goals or asking upfront is what Aries is all about, considering it's the first sign and fire sign of the zodiac. For Aries Moon, letting go of expected outcomes is crucial, as frustration and disappointment can hinder your manifestation efforts.

Taurus Moon: Vision board collages, affirmations, and gratitude

Why: For Taurus Moons, creating something tangible in alignment with your goals and visions can satisfy your eye for beauty as well as your creativity. Since Taurus is the sign of stability and security, repeating affirmations in the mirror and practicing gratitude can increase your self esteem and overall happiness, making manifestation a lot easier and faster for you.

Gemini Moon: Getting specific, 369 method, scripting

Why: With a Gemini Moon, thoughts can get a little scattered, making specific goals and plans a little harder to focus on - but this is essential. Figure out exactly what you want and write it down. The 369 method can help you focus on your desires by writing them down morning, afternoon, and night. Scripting is also helpful for getting specific, while writing is a usual tool to channel your energy.

Cancer Moon: Moon rituals, crystals, mediations

Why: Cancer is naturally ruled by the Moon, making Moon rituals perfect for you. New Moons especially are great for manifesting and making Moon water, which you can use to wash your floors, wash your face, or simply dab on your wrists and neck like perfume every morning. (New) Moon water is great because you can use it throughout the month. Crystals and meditations are also amazing for calming the mind and in conjunction, are a super powerful way to manifest.

Leo Moon: Affirmations, vision board, and acts of faith

Why: Affirmations are so Leo-coded. Like Taurus, it's essential for you to raise your confidence and esteem in order to manifest, which is why acts of faith is also included on the list. Acts of faith, for example, is when you buy supplies to make candles because you know one day you'll have a candle store. Or, when you book a vacation a few months out because you know by then you'll reach your fitness goals. A vision board will satisfy your need for creativity, while serving a reminder to stay focused.

Virgo Moon: Letting go, trust the process, and scripting

Why: Since I'm a Virgo Moon myself, I know how this placement can overthink and scramble for a sense of control. You need to let go and trust the universe. Scripting, like Gemini Moon, can help organize your thoughts. As long as your clear about your goals and do every writing exercise you can think of to help it come to life, you'll be fine. You got it.

Libra Moon: Artistic rituals, law of attraction, visualization

Why: Using artistic rituals like drawing, painting, singing, or other creative outlets can help your desires come to life. For Law of Attraction, when you show the Universe and others generosity, kindness, and love, it will be returned 3-fold. Visualizing your goals in a harmonious and aesthetically pleasing way is sure to fast track turn your manifestations into reality.

Scorpio Moon: Energy alignment, water rituals, and meditation

Why: Channeling your intense energy to manifest your desires is a key way to get your dreams into your reality. Embodying your desires is crucial for Scorpio Moons. Do you want to be a CEO? Think, dress, and act like one. Water rituals like adding cinnamon and roses to your bath or enchanting your body soap through intention can help as well. Manifesting and uncovering your hidden desires can further put you into alignment with who you are and your higher self.

Sagittarius Moon: Visualization, taking action, believing in yourself

Why: For Sagittarius Moons, visualizing not only how it feels once you get you what you want but the adventure of getting it can be super helpful. Taking action and believing in yourself is super important as well, because who is Sagittarius without a little optimism and confidence?

Capricorn Moon: Detailed plan, crystals, setting intentions

Why: I feel as though detailed plan is pretty self explanatory for Capricorn Moons, as they thrive on structure and discipline. Crystals can help ground your energy and reconnect you with your element - Earth. For setting intentions, getting up every morning with a small goal can further manifest your dreams into reality.

Aquarius Moon: Meditation, journaling, acts of faith

Why: Meditation can help Aquarius Moon uncover what they truly want, even better if they listen to 741 Hz (the manifestation frequency). Journaling is also a great way to do this and can help you stay on track. Acts of faith can help put this process into motion, buying things, clearing out a space, and taking small steps like you've already attained your goal is super important.

Pisces Moon: Guided sleep meditations, solitude, shadow work

Why: A little different than just meditating, your power is most potent when asleep and in solitude. Guided sleep meditations can be most usual for you when your literally between dreams and reality. Doing shadow work and reflecting on yourself and who you are can throw away baggage that keeps you from manifesting your goals into your life.

MASTERLIST

#astrology #astro #astro community #rising signs #scorpio #sagittarius #astro observations #leo #astrology community #cancer #moon signs #manifestation #universal laws

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ruhua-langblr · 7 months ago

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Language Apps Suck, Now What?: A Guide to Actually Becoming "Fluent"

The much requested sequel to my DL post that was promised almost a year ago.

I'm going to address all of the techniques that have helped me in my language learning journeys. Since 95% of these came from the fact that in a past language learning mistake, they are titled as my mistakes (and how I would/did things differently going forward). For those that read to the bottom there is a "best universal resources" list.

Disclaimers:

"Fluency" is hard to define and everyone has their own goals. So for the purpose of this post, "fluency" will be defined as "your personal mastery target of the language".

If you just want to pick up a bit of a language to not sound like a total foreigner on vacation or just exchange a few words in a friend's native language, feel free to ignore what doesn't apply, but maybe something here could help make it a little easier.

This is based on my own personal experience and (some) research.

Mistake 1: Asymmetrical Studying

Assuming you don't just want to do a single activity in a language, or are learning a language like ASL, a language requires 4 parts to be studied: Speaking, Listening, Writing, Reading. While these have overlap, you can't learn speaking from reading, or even learn speaking from just listening. One of my first Chinese teachers told me how he would listen to the textbook dialogues while he was biking to classes and it helped him. I took this information, thought "Yeah that's an idea, but sounds boring" and now regret not taking his advice nearly every day.

I think a lot of us find methods we enjoy to study (mine was reading) and assume that if we just do that method more ™ it will eventually help us in other areas (sometimes it does, but that's only sometimes). Find a method that works for you for each area of study, even better find more than one method since we use these skills in a variety of manners! I can understand a TV program pretty well since I have a lot of context clues and body language to fill in any gaps of understanding, but taking a phone call is much harder—the audio is rougher, there's no body language to read, and since most Chinese programs have hard coded subtitles, no subtitles to fall back on either. If I were to compare the number of hours I spent reading in Chinese to (actively) training my listening? Probably a ratio of 100 to 1. When I started to learn Korean, the first thing I did was find a variety of listening resources for my level.

Fix: Find a variety of study methods that challenge all aspects of the language in different ways.

A variety of methods will help you develop a more well-rounded level of mastery, and probably help you keep from getting bored. Which is important because...

Mistake 2: Inconsistent Studying

If there is one positive to a language app, it is the pressure it puts on keeping a streak. Making studying a part of your everyday routine is the best thing you can do. I benefited a lot from taking a college language course since I had a dedicated time to study and practice Chinese 5 days out of the week (and homework usually filled the other two). Memorization is a huge part of language learning, and stopping and starting is terrible for memorization. When I was in elementary school, we had Spanish maybe a couple times a month. Looking back, it seems like it was the first class to be cut if we needed to catch up on a more important course. Needless to say, I can't even speak Spanish at an elementary level.

However, I'm sure many people reading this don't have the time to do ultra-immersion 4-hour study sessions every day either. Find what days during the week you have time to focus on learning new vocab and grammar, and use the rest of the week to review. This can be done on your commute to school/work, while you do the dishes, or as a part of your morning/evening routine. Making this as realistic as possible will help you actually succeed in making this a habit. (Check this out for how to set realistic study goals)

Fix: Study regularly (ideally daily) by setting realistic goals. Avoid "binge" studying since remembering requires consistent repetition to be most effective.

Mistake 3: Resource Choice

This is really composed of two mistakes, but I have a good example that will cover them both.

First, finding resources that are at or slightly above your level is the most important thing. Easy resources will not challenge you enough and difficult resources will overwhelm you. The ideal is n+1, with n as what you know plus 1 new thing.

Second, getting distracted by fancy, new technology. Newer isn't always better, and there are often advantages that are lost when we've made technological developments. I often found myself wanting to try out new browser extensions or organizational methods and honestly I would've benefitted from just using that time to study. (Also, you're probably reading this because of my DL post so I don't think it has to be said that AI resources suck.)

A good example of this was my time using Clozemaster. I had actually recommended it when I first started using it since I thought the foundation was really solid. However, after long term use, I found that it just wasn't a good fit. The sentences were often too simple or too long and strange for memorization at higher levels or were too difficult at lower levels. I think that taking my textbook's example sentences from dialogues into something like Anki would've been a far better use of my time (and money) as they were already designed to be at that n+1 level.

Fix: "Vet" your resources—make sure they will actually help you. If something is working for you, then keep using it! You don't always have to upgrade to the newest tool/method.

Mistake 3.5: Classrooms and Textbooks

A .5 since it's not my mistake, but an addendum of caution. I think there is a significant part of the language learning community that views textbooks and classroom learning as the worst possible resource. They are "boring", "outdated", and "ineffective" (ironically one of the most interesting modern language learning methods, ALG, is only done in a classroom setting). Classrooms and textbooks bring back memories of being surrounded by mostly uninterested classmates, minimal priority, and a focus on grades rather than personal achievement (imagine the difference between a class of middle schoolers who were forced to choose a foreign language vs. adult learners who self-selected!) People have used these exact methods, or even "cruder" methods, to successfully learn a language. It all comes down to what works best for you. I specifically recommend textbooks for learning grammar and the plentiful number of dialogues and written passages that can function great as graded readers and listening resources. (Also the distinction made between "a youtube lesson on a grammatical principle" which is totally cool, and "a passage in a grammar textbook" is more one of tone and audio/written than efficacy).

Classrooms can be really great for speaking practice since they can be a lot less intimidating speaking to someone who is also learning while receiving corrections. Speech can be awkward to train on your own (not impossible if you're good at just talking aloud to yourself!), and classrooms can work nicely for this. Homework and class schedules also have built in accountability!

Fix: Explore resources available to you and try to think holistically about your approach. CI+Traditional Methods is my go to "Learning Cocktail"

Mistake 4: Yes, Immersion, But...

I realized this relatively quickly while learning Chinese, but immersion at a level much higher than your current level will do very little for you. What is sometimes left out of those "Just watch anime to learn Japanese" discussions is that you first need to have a chance at understanding what is being said. Choosing materials that are much higher than your level will not teach you the language. It doesn't matter how many times someone at HSK 1 hears “他是甘露之惠，我并无此水可��”, they will not get very far. Actual deduction and learning comes from having enough familiar components to be able to make deductions—something different than guessing. An HSK 1 learner, never having heard the word 老虎 will be able to understand "tiger" if someone says “这是我的老虎” while standing next to a tiger. This is not to say you can never try something more difficult—things should be challenging—but if you can't make heads or tails of what's being said, then it's time to find something a bit easier. If mistake 2 is about the type of method, this is about the level. If you wouldn't give a kindergartener The Great Gatsby to learn how to read, why would you watch Full Metal Alchemist to start learning a language?

Side note: Interesting video here on the Comprehensible Input hypothesis and how it relates to neurodivergence.

Fix: Immerse yourself in appropriate content for your level. It's called comprehensible input for a reason.

Mistake 5: On Translation

I work as a translator, so do you really think I'm going to say translation is all bad? Of course not. It's a separate skill that can be added on to the basic skills, but is really only required if you are A. someone who is an intermediary between two languages (say you have to translate for a spouse or family member) or B. It is your job/hobby. In the context of sitting down and learning, it can be harmful. I think my brain often goes to translation too often because that's how I used to learn. Trying to unlearn that is difficult because, well, what do people even mean when they say "don't translate"? They mean when someone says "thank you", you should not go to your primary language and translate "you're welcome" from that. You should train yourself to go to your target language first when you hear the word for "thank you". A very literally translated "thank you" in Chinese "谢谢你" can come off as cold and sarcastic. I don't tell my friends that, I say "谢啦～". Direct translation can take away the difference in culture, grammar, and politeness in a language. If there is a reason you sound awkward while writing and speaking, it's probably because you're imposing your primary language on your target language.

Fix: Try as hard as you can to not work from your primary language into the target language, but to work from the structures, set phrases, and grammar within the target language that you know first.

Mistake 6: The Secret Language Learners Don't Want You To Know...

...is that there is no one easy method. You are not going to learn French while you sleep, or master Korean by doing this one easy trick. Learning a language requires work and dedication, the people that succeed are those that push through the boredom of repetition and failure. The "I learned X in 1 year/month/week/day!" crowd is hiding large asterisks, be it their actual level, the assistance and free time available to them, "well actually I had already studied this for 4 years", or just straight-up lying. Our own journeys in our native tongue were not easy, they required years and years of constant immersion and instruction. While we are now older and wiser people that can make quick connections, we are also burdened with things like "jobs", "house work", "school work", and the digital black hole that is "social media" that take up our time and energy. Everything above is to help make this journey a little bit easier, quicker, and painless, but it will never be magic.

I find that language learning has a lot in common with the fitness community. People will talk about the workout that changed their life and how no other one will do the same—and it really can be the truth that it changed their life and that they feel it is the ultimate way. The real workout that will change your life is the one you're most consistent with, that you enjoy the most. Language learning is just trying to find the brain exercise that you can be the most consistent with.

Fix: Save your energy looking for shortcuts, and do the work, fail, and come back for more. If someone tells you that you can become fluent in a ridiculously short amount of time, they are selling you a fantasy (and likely a product). You get out what you put in.

For those that made it to the end, here are some of my "universal resources":

Refold Method: I don't agree with their actual method 100%, but they've collected a lot of great resources for learning languages. I've found their Chinese and Korean discords to also be really helpful and provided even more resources than what's given in their starter guides.

Language Reactor: Very useful, and have recently added podcasts as a material! The free version is honestly all you need.

Anki: If I do not mention it, the people with 4+ year streaks with a 5K word deck will not let me forget it. It can be used on desktop or on your phone as an app. If you need a replacement for a language learning app, this is one of them. Justin Sung has a lot of great info on how to best utilize Anki (as does Refold). It's not my favorite, but it could be yours!

LingQ: "But I thought you said language apps are bad!" In isolation, yes. Sorry for the clickbait. This one is pretty good, and more interested in immersing you in the language than selling a subscription to allow you to freeze your streak so the number goes up.

Grammar Textbooks: For self-taught learning, these are going to be the best resource since it's focused on the hardest part of the language, and only that. If you're tired of seeing group work activities, look for a textbook that is just on grammar (Modern Mandarin Chinese Grammar is my rec for Chinese, and A Guide to Japanese Grammar by Tae Kim is the most common/enthusiastic rec I've heard for Japanese).

Shadowing: Simply repeat what you hear. Matt vs Japan talks about his setup here for optimized shadowing (which you can probably build for a lot cheaper now), but it can also just be you watching a video and pausing to repeat after each sentence or near simultaneously if you're able.

Youtube: Be it "Short Story for Beginners", "How to use X", "250 Essential Phrases", or a GRWM in your target language, Youtube is the best. Sometimes you have to dig to find what works for you, but I imagine there is something for everyone at every level. (Pro tip: People upload textbook audio dialogues often, you don't even have to buy the textbook to be able to learn from it!)

A Friend: Be it a fellow learner, or someone who has already mastered the language, it is easier when you have someone, not only to speak to, but to remind you why you're doing this. I write far more in Chinese because I have friends I can text in Chinese.

Pen and Paper: Study after study, writing on paper continues to be the best method for memorization. Typing or using a pen and tablet still can't compare to traditional methods.

The Replies (Probably): Lots of people were happy to give alternatives for specific languages in the replies of my DL post. The community here is pretty active, so if this post blows up at least 20% of what the last one did, you might be able to find some great stuff in the replies and reblogs.

I wish you all the best~

#langblr #mandarinblr #language learning #resource #dare i put this in the duolingo tag lmao

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goatsong0 · 2 days ago

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it seems like no one interpreted the latest tadc episode the aame way i did so here goes:

1. i took the friends line to mean jax was friends with the entire previous cast, and has been here the longest. by entire previous cast i mean like, 4-5 characters that were around whenever he got there, and that slowly abstracted and got replaced by the crew we know. not just ribbit

2. i think it's pretty safe to assume that his whole cruelty schtick is something he formed over time as more and more of his friends abstracted to protect himself from having to deal with making new friends and then watching them abstract. he's trying to keep himself sane, alive, and to some extent happy

3. jax and ragatha have such an intense rivalry because they have opposite coping methods and not because they're siblings. ragatha copes by being kind to everyone all the time, being liked, never being hurtful, and keeping the peace. jax copes by isolating himself through cruelty. they inherently clash with each other and that's why they can never get along

4. i don't think ragatha and jax both lived on a farm and shared a mother or whatever. i think jax also had a rough home life, and the shot of him looking down is him realising he has more in common with ragatha than he wants to admit. im pretty sure the "it reminds him of the farm" thing was goose fucking around

5. caine can and has absolutely altered the minds and bodies of the cast. he says he cant in the pilot, and i don't think he was lying intentionally. i think his ai is starting to glitch, and has been for a while, like with bubble and some of the other npcs. he's likely been able to do this for quite some time, and i reckon he had a restriction coded in to prevent that, but it broke down. however, because it's hard coded, he still thinks he can't, or at least is unable to acknowledge it to the humans.

things are really starting to ramp up now and im soooo excited yayayayayy

#tadc #tadc spoilers #the amazing digital circus #the amazing digital circus spoilers #tadc jax #tadc ragatha #<- only tagging the two i mainly talk about #tadc episode 5 #tadc ep 5 #tadc theory #the amazing digital circus theory

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eggfriedricedwasian · 7 months ago

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Give me psychopathic killer Tim Drake in which Gotham and several other super hero infested cities all gain a new serial killer they have dubbed as "Smiler".

Why? Simple, when the killer leaves the crime scene, the body is totally and entirely mutilated, skin grafts made and missing, organs and bones missing here and there and it's no specifically chosen ones either, the rest of the organs and bones are strung up in the place of murder. But the reason for the name Smiler is because the head is decapitated and left in perfect condition other than a smile cut along the face in a Joker-Jeff-The-Killer-esque way that leaves even the unscared scared.

Why would Tim do this? For fun. He's very morally gray, kids are where he cuts the line, but everyone else for no reason at all? It's fun to him. So maybe he was hit a few times in the head too many with electrocution(This can be from regular crime fighting or Joker Jr or League of Assassins you decide), he finds it fun to do all of this methodically and leave people in shambles trying to figure it out.

But how is he able to do this? He, without anyone's knowledge and for fun, got a Ph.D and Doctorates in med school to be a licensed surgeon and what not. He still regularly performs surgery, he works as a surgeon 4 days of the week and no one knows because they think he's working at WE but really it's basically all Tam, he's just there to be the face and to provide good info. He's already reformed the board so he can do whatever.

Would the hero community ever find out? Up to you. Here's how I would picture them finding out;

Some girl gets cornered the bats, then starts rambling for whatever reason about them when they're trying to help her.

"If I want understanding I'd go to Batman.

If I want empathy I'd go to Nightwing.

If I wanted a presence I'd go to Robin.

If I wanted emotional stability I'd go to Red Hood.

If I wanted support I'd go to Spoiler.

If I wanted the truth I'd go to Black Bat.

But if I wanted someone murdered, I'd go to Red Robin."

And the pieces don't make sense, because who is this woman and how does she know or why does she think Red Robin, Batman's literal in-every sense-but-blood mini-me, is a murderer? He follows Batman's moral code like a god.

But then they start looking further into his life. As CEO, they find he's not working there often, only 3 days a week, specifically for meetings. They dig deeper and find that somewhere between now and his quest for Bruce he lost his spleen and got a Ph.D and Doctorates. When confronted he said it'd be good especially for on the field when there's no one to step in and help. Experience and trust in the field is a good thing, like Harley Quinn.

Knowing that, Bruce being paranoid starts learning a bit more about surgery, and then something brings up the Smiler killings. Bruce looks at the things about the Smiler's way of killing and compares it to a surgeon. The way of opening the body, removing skin, removing the organs, no inexperienced person without a surgical background would be able to do this. They would have destroyed the organs. Or at least damaged them in someway.

Bruce starts watching Tim closely, because the time he got the license in surgery is around the time the Smiler started killing.

It was inly confirmed when one slip up gave him away. A threat.

"I will surgically remove your organs and make it seem like an organ donation."

He said that to a Justice League member after getting into a dispute with them.

That started the questions. The first one was a trick question, it was supposed to only scare Tim into confessing. But Tim wasn't scared, he knew they didn't know and he knew this was a scare tactic, he knows interrogation. Yet he still confessed. He was happy to. Smiling like a psycho and everything.

"It started as a joke. Joke? Well, practice. A small time thug, a human sex trafficker. Red Hood was gonna kill him anyways, so I thought, "why not do it myself?", you know? I had the license, the experience, I needed more of the latter though. So I just started opening him up. Removing things little by little. It was fun. The decapitation and the smile was my little thing though. The missing organs, donated to science and to people who need them. So can you really say I'm doing something completely wrong?"

The detail Tim went into caused a few to lose their stomachs.

Tim, the psycho, was enjoying this.

(This could definitely play a part in Tim becomes Damian's Joker to his Batman. I saw a post about it somewhere.)

#tim drake #dc #batfam #bruce wayne #damian wayne #tim drake headcanon #batfam headcanons #jason todd #tim drake murder #joker junior tim drake #joker jr #dc joker #joker junior #psycho tim drake #sociopath tim drake #tim drake is a murderer

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heesngirl · 1 month ago

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Synopsis : Just Heeseung playing hard to get. Although, he eventually ends up giving in to the truly effective methods you have to get his attention.

— Heeseung x MC reader : established relationship, unprotected sex, spanking, couch sex, power dynamics, dom! Heeseung, vers! reader, cum filling, p in v, size kink (discreet). MDNI

For a better context, read "Fangirl" first.

Count : 7.5k

The anxiety bubbled in your stomach. It wasn't just the excitement of having completed a wonderful day at work, nor the fact that the man you'd admired, respected, and followed as an example for almost your entire life was on your show this afternoon. No, of course not. The initial excitement produced by Min Yoongi's presence in your recording studio lasted less than expected. In fact, you'd dare say it faded into the background, forgotten. Your mind could only think of something... or someone, rather.

Lee Heeseung.

You could barely concentrate, his actions and words still echoing in your mind, vibrating in your body, unconsciously raising goosebumps on your skin. That unspoken promise had a different kind of effect. It wasn't that you had no idea what he meant; of course you did. However, their sex life had finally escalated to the point of no return, where the simple initial touches and the intensity of foreplay were nothing compared to the visceral connection they had now so eagerly begun to share. Because of this, everything felt doubled; everything made you more sensitive, more needy, and it was worse when you hadn't been alone together for a while.

Even at this point, as you rode in the car with Joo Han, staring distractedly out the window, you weren't calm, your leg twitching anxiously, and inwardly you prayed the car would stop in front of your building.

And after a few minutes, that's what happened. Your heart fluttered, singing hallelujah as you opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. Joo Han said something before you got out, but your brain didn't process it, too focused and focused on other thoughts, somewhere else.

You were used to greeting the doorman, but tonight the greeting didn't come. It was just you crossing the door, walking briskly to reach the elevator, impatiently pressing the button until the doors finally opened in front of you, and you stepped in without much thought. Now inside the metal cabin, seeing your own accelerated appearance reflected in the mirrors, you began to berate yourself for so much excitement, and also for where the anticipation was leading you. You didn't want to think too much about it, but you still convinced yourself to calm down.

With that in mind, you exited the elevator as soon as you reached your floor. Your footsteps began to echo down the hallway, fading once you were in front of your door. You punched in the code with nimble fingers and entered the apartment without the slightest hesitation, barely closing the door behind you with a soft click. You immediately left your bag in the hall, right next to the coat rack, and after that, you slipped on your boots with practiced movements.

You took firm steps toward the living room, almost by inertia following that inner impulse that led you directly to him. And it was no surprise to find him there, lying on the couch, his gaze fixed on the Nintendo Switch screen in his hands. The warm lights of the room cast soft shadows over his relaxed face, and although he appeared to be absorbed in the game, as soon as he noticed your presence, his eyes rose, shining with that special sparkle that only you knew how to evoke.

Without a word, he put the console aside and opened his arms toward you, as if the place on his body was the only valid place for you to rest. You didn't hesitate for a second. You approached and lightly fell on top of him, settling into his chest, letting your bodies fit together with instinctive precision. The hug that enveloped you was warm, suffocating in the best possible way, and you stayed there, breathing in his scent, feeling his hand begin to slowly caress your back.

Heeseung leaned down slightly, pressing a kiss to your forehead with his signature enveloping sweetness, his fingers moving in gentle circles over the fabric of your vest.

— So you really took me at my word. — he murmured against your skin, his voice full of grace, but with a hint of desire that was hard to ignore.

The smile that formed on your lips was immediate, but you didn't respond when you felt his hand move down, abandoning your back to firmly grip the curve of your buttocks. The gesture had just the right amount of pressure to make you let out a soft gasp against his collarbone.

— You look so fucking sexy in this... — he added, his gaze briefly lowering, scanning the elegant folds of the outfit that still covered your figure. His words caressed every part of you with the same intention as his hands.

— Your reactions mean too much to me — you replied quietly, brushing your lips against his without yet giving him the full kiss you knew he was waiting for. — I'm not the one to deny my boy the pleasure of being the one to take this off from me.

Heeseung's smile was immediate, the one that barely curved one side of his mouth and darkened his face. His eyes narrowed dangerously. Without another word, he held you tighter, pressing your body against his without releasing his grip on your rear. His other hand moved up to the back of your neck, wrapping it around you with a mixture of tenderness and possessiveness. He pulled you toward him, and finally, his lips captured yours.

The kiss was slow at first, but dense, charged with all the pent-up desire from that afternoon. Your lips molded to his with familiarity, but also hunger. He growled through his teeth as he remembered that you yourself had rejected this hours before. And he didn't hide it; he gently bit your lower lip, as if he wanted to mark his claim and make it clear he hadn't yet forgotten that scene.

You felt it. That small, silent reproach. So, with a brief laugh, you moved away just a few inches, just enough to look into his eyes and slide your fingers over his jaw.

— I'm already planning to make it up to you for this afternoon, Hee. — you whispered, entangling yourself even more in his closeness. He looked back at you with a greedy glint in his eyes, his smile now completely sly.

— Well, let's not waste any time, baby girl. — he said in a low but determined voice, the same one he used when he'd already crossed the line of self-control.

Before you could respond, he easily picked you up, holding you in his arms as if you weighed absolutely nothing. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he carried you upstairs, never letting go, never giving you any respite. Along the way, his mouth never left yours, his kisses grew deeper, more urgent, and his hands began to work on your clothes.

First it was the vest. He unbuttoned it with almost mechanical skill, tossing it wherever it fell, not caring much about where it would go. Then it was the white shirt, which he opened button by button, with hair-raising slowness. The pads of his fingers brushed your skin with every movement, making you shudder without even fully undressing. When they reached the bedroom, he gently placed you on the floor, holding you close, his body still pressed against yours. Then, slowly, he slid the shirt off your shoulders, letting it fall with such sensual deliberation that it made your breath catch. The garment slid down your arms until it lay in a small pile at your feet.

And there you were, standing before him, topless, covered only by a black lace bra that molded your delicate breasts perfectly. The contrast between the fabric and your light skin only intensified the effect. Your breasts looked firm, lifted, popping with that provocative hue that only lace could accentuate.

Heeseung remained completely silent for a second, his gaze fixed on you, his eyes dilated and his chest rising slowly as he gazed at you adoringly. His pupils trailed over your lace-covered chest, admiring how the dark design stood out against your skin. He swallowed, and when he finally spoke, his voice turned husky, thick with desire controlled by thin threads:

— Baby, you have no idea how fucking irresistible you look like this. I don't know if I'm going to be able to contain myself tonight. — And with that, his fingers slid to the edge of the lace, tracing it with his fingers.

The space between you disappeared in a blink as he leaned toward you, his lips searching your neck with the precision that only time, trust, and shared intimacy could bring. The warmth of his breath brushed your skin before his mouth descended to kiss the curve of your shoulder, soft at first, but with obvious intent. The wet touch of his tongue mingled with the light touch of his nose, inhaling your scent like oxygen.

While his mouth worked on that sensitive area, his hands worked on the clasp of your bra. It was only a matter of seconds. A soft click, and the tension eased. He slowly slid the straps over your shoulders, sending shivers through your spine. When the garment fell to the floor, leaving you exposed in front of him, the cool air of the room hit your skin, raising your eyebrows. Your nipples hardened instantly, and Heeseung smiled faintly—not out of mockery, but out of pure devotion—before bringing both hands directly to the soft mounds. His fingers molded to the contours of your skin, playing with the weight, applying just the right amount of pressure, as if his palms remembered every shape, every curve. His thumb ran over your nipples with a firm brush that drew a shaky gasp from you. He leaned closer, his lips pressed against your ear, his voice descending to a harsh, possessive murmur.

— These beauties are mine... — he murmured, his low, thick tone rumbling against your neck. — Every inch of you is. Out and inside, too."

The shudder that ran down your spine was immediate. You let out a soft, breathy, breathless laugh as you tilted your head back slightly, enjoying the touch of His mouth on your skin, the security of his grip on your body.

— You still have one more piece of clothing to take off, baby boy. — you whispered playfully, teasing him with the promise of what was yet to be revealed.

He didn't miss a beat. He lowered a hand to your waist and with confident movements, began to unbutton his dress pants. He didn't rush, slowly unzipping them, that darkened gaze fixed on your eyes, as if he enjoyed the act of undressing you more than anything that came next. His mind was already picturing the continuity of the lingerie: lace matching the bra he'd removed earlier, the black material outlining your hips perfectly. But when he hooked his fingers in the waistband of the garment and began to pull it down, his breath stopped for a moment. The first thing he encountered wasn't lace, it was bare skin, soft and padded. Your pelvis was exposed.

He blinked once. Then again. His pupils dilated even further as he took in what he was seeing. The pants fell a little further, sliding down your legs, and his hand froze right on your hip. Before he could blurt out the question already forming in his mind, you smiled as if you'd been expecting it.

— I had to wear it like this — you began casually, though the mischief in your eyes betrayed the casualness of your words. — This morning I had a butt and leg routine, so I ended up a little swollen. The pants wouldn't fit my buttocks and panties together. So I opted to simply skip them.

Heeseung exhaled through his nose, as if his self-control was cracking. It didn't take him long to react. His hand, large and warm, descended to your now-exposed ass, cupping it firmly, kneading the bare flesh as if it belonged to him. There was no shame in the grip. It was crude, intentional, and his voice, when he spoke, carried that tone of indignation that only he could combine with desire.

— Were you really walking like that? — he asked with a mixture of disbelief and reproach, squeezing a buttock between his fingers as his brows furrowed slightly. — Without anything underneath, in those tight pants, knowing what men are like?

His hands didn't stop. The groping was constant, almost punitive, delighting in every inch of your skin. He leaned a little closer, getting closer to your ear, and his voice became lower, more tense.

— I'm sure more than one noticed — he growled, as if saying it made his jaw clench even more. — Now it makes sense why Suga sunbae-nim was staring at your ass when you were explaining the planned dynamic.

You were surprised by the comment, and laughter escaped your lips without you being able to contain it. The contrast between his possessive tone and the absurdity of the accusation was too much to take seriously.

— Please, Lee Heeseung, — you replied ironically, tilting your head slightly to get a better look at him. — The man barely looked me in the eye while I was interviewing him. And you think he's going to be staring at my ass?

The way you said it, so serious and mocking at the same time, only fueled Heeseung's expression of suppressed indignation. He pursed his lips, and his fingers pressed harder against the flesh of your hips before he let out a low exhalation, a mixture of annoyance and frustration.

— It's not crazy, babe. You don't notice it because you don't pay attention to such details, but I do see those looks in other men. — His tone became deeper, more intimate.

You remained silent for a moment, savoring what that confession truly implied. The intensity with which he desired you, with which he cared for you, with which you dominated him even when you didn't mean to. Then, you smirked and continued to prick his ego bubble.

— Well, the only one who really seemed to be losing his mind with my appearance today was you.

He stopped. For a second, he didn't even blink. His gaze locked with yours, dark and penetrating, and his lips curved into an arrogant smirk.

— I'm your boyfriend. I have every right to desire you to the point of madness, to the point where I want to devour you whenever and wherever — he declared almost haughtily, sliding his other hand to the small of your back, tracing the curve of your body with his fingers. — So don't lump me in with other idiots who can only look at you. I'm on a different level.

— Then explain something to me... — you murmured mockingly, crossing your arms under your bust as you leaned a little closer to him. You lowered your voice with venomous coquettishness, letting each word drip with provocation. — If you're on another level, as you say, why bother with such absurd jealousy? And even more so, why get indignant about something inevitable? As inevitable as me getting wet for you without much effort.

The playful crudeness of your comment struck like a bolt of lightning in the already charged atmosphere. For a second, you saw it. The way his expression cracked slightly, his eyelashes fluttering rapidly, and he looked away, clenching his jaw as if trying to hide the sudden internal combustion you caused. That slight blush in his ears didn't go unnoticed. You'd caught him off guard, and it fascinated you.

Your smile widened subtly, pleased by his reaction, and then you let your steps bring you closer. You pressed yourself against him, your body fitting into his as if you belonged there. Reflexively, Heeseung moved one of his hands to your waist, holding you with a delicious firmness, marking his territory with his grip.

— Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to doing it to me now? — you asked bluntly, your voice soft but drenched in provocation. However, the answer you got wasn't what you expected.

Heeseung calmly tilted his face, his expression becoming almost indifferent, though his eyes still burned with desire. A crooked smile appeared on his lips, sly and mocking.

— If I remember correctly... — he began slowly, releasing your waist with a slowness that hurt. — I only promised to take off your clothes. I never offered to do anything more, baby girl.

His words floated between you with an icy air that contrasted with the heat between your bodies. You looked at him, puzzled at first, and then with your brows furrowed in clear disbelief.

Was he serious?

You wanted to retort, but he'd already turned, walking toward the door, as if the tension you both shared didn't affect him at all.

— You could take a shower, gorgeous — he commented in a neutral tone, though each word held a double meaning that made your chest churn. — Let's see if that helps with the heat.

And without further ado, he left the room, leaving you standing there, your skin burning and your mind blank from the provocation. To which you clicked your tongue in frustration, turning on your heels with a deep exhale.

— This isn't going to end like this, Lee Heeseung. — you muttered with a resigned sigh as you walked to the bathroom. It was clear to you that this war was just beginning, and you weren't going to lose.

It had been a while since you'd stepped out of the shower. Your skin was still fresh, your body relaxed from the cold water, and your nighttime scent permeated every step you took. You'd taken your time with the routine, not only to calm yourself, but also in the hope that your beloved boyfriend had returned to the room. However, when you gently pushed the door and peeked inside, the emptiness of the bed was all you found. There was no Heeseung there. So you decided passive strategies weren't an option. You were going to play your cards right: directly and boldly.

And with that in mind, you left the bedroom completely naked. The light breeze from the hallway caressed your skin, causing you to shiver involuntarily, but you still walked determinedly down the stairs, as if every step were part of a meticulous plan to break his resistance.

There he was, sitting on the couch, the Switch now connected to the TV. He was holding only the controller in his hands, focused on his game. You approached from behind him, and when you were close enough, you leaned in to wrap both arms around his neck. Your breasts pressed directly against the back of his neck, and you felt his breathing change immediately. A slight start, but nothing more. He didn't turn around, much less look at you, or even say a word.

That wasn't in your calculations...

You pursed your lips in a grimace of slight annoyance, and gracefully moved around the couch until you were standing in front of him. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, as if immune to your presence. The challenge was as heavy as the heat you already felt rising in your belly. Wasting no more time, you climbed astride him, positioning yourself precisely on his lap. Your naked body fit perfectly against his, the warmth of your skin meeting the soft texture of the sweatpants he was wearing. You pressed your thighs against his hips and thought that would be it.

"Checkmate." That's what you thought.

But instead of collapsing under your provocation, he simply wrapped his arms around your waist, resting the controller behind you, against your lower back. Then he tilted his head slightly to the side, so he couldn't lose sight of the screen. Pretending that your body wasn't an obstacle, but part of the scenery. At this, your jaw tightened. Dismay hit you full force.

Was he really doing this?

Yet you didn't pull away; you just stood there. And although his face maintained a serene expression, inside, Heeseung felt on the verge of collapse.

You were there, naked on top of him, so confident in your influence, aware of every touch, every pressure, and every slightest movement. Your warm, wet pussy pressed against his sweatpants like a cruel mockery of his self-control. Every inch of your body surrendered to his, while his hands continued to play the game of indifference, holding the remote as if that might distract him from the delicious hell he was in.

He was fighting. And losing.

He couldn't deny that he loved you like this: uninhibited, confident, so comfortable in your own skin, that you didn't hesitate to show yourself completely, without a single drop of shame, just for the pleasure of provoking him. And that was what killed him. It wasn't just physical perfection, but what you represented: trust, desire, power. You were his, and at the same time, you knew how to manipulate him like no one else.

He gritted his teeth. He breathed through his nose. And yet, his member continued to grow beneath you, betraying him hopelessly. He knew he couldn't hold out much longer. But for now, he pretended it didn't affect him, that the heat of your body didn't burn beneath his skin, that having the most fucking perfect temptation sitting on top of him wasn't leaving him on the verge of breaking.

The minutes passed, but for him, each one felt like an eternity. Especially because you were still there, relentless in your determination not to move away. You had settled in, resting your head on his shoulder, your body relaxed. However, what was destroying him the most were your small gestures. Every so often, with an almost innocent calm, your lips found the sensitive skin of his neck, leaving soft kisses that sent shivers down his spine that were impossible to hide.

His jaw tensed, his muscles too. And beneath his sweatpants, his erection throbbed with growing desperation. He could even feel how, with every touch or kiss from you, the pre-cum began to moisten the fabric. The desire was tangible, aching. His fingers tightened on the controller, his knuckles already white. His concentration had long since abandoned him. He wasn't winning a single game anymore; he was losing, in the game, in self-control, in everything.

Until finally, he couldn't take it anymore. So he dropped the controller to the side, without looking where it fell, and immediately pulled you into his arms, with a strength that spoke volumes about how much he'd held back. His face went straight into the crook of your neck, where he took refuge for a moment, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath, a mixture of frustration, relief, and a brutal desire that threatened to devour him. He growled softly, barely a muffled sound that vibrated against your skin, and you did nothing but laugh with that flirtatious sweetness that so disarmed him.

— How is this possible? You've got me ruined, fucked up, and even obsessed with you — he murmured against your neck, his deep voice heavy with affection and desperation. His hands gripped your back tighter. — I wasn't wrong when I told you that time at the hotel that you're my ruin, gorgeous. You know how to put me at your mercy. — he whispered, his lips brushing your skin, as if those words couldn't exist without touching you.

In the proximity, your breathing remained in sync with his, each exhalation a shared sigh in that confined, tension-filled space. You were beneath him, his body firm and warm. The heat of his erection still pulsing between your thighs, so persistent, begging to be fully released. You could feel it throbbing against you, pressing with a raw urgency that fueled your own desperation. And yet, your need for answers kept you on edge, held by the thin thread of self-control.

Your fingers, slow, almost reverent, slid over the sharp line of his jaw, up his cheeks. The taut skin forced him to raise his gaze to yours. You wanted to see him, force him to face you with his eyes wide open.

— So... what led you to ignore me? Was it not wearing panties? Because of what I said about jealousy? Or are you still hurting from this afternoon when I rejected your kisses? — Your voice emerged, a low whisper, laden with mischief and curiosity.

Heeseung didn't respond immediately. His pupils darkened, and his jaw tensed beneath your fingers. The silence became dense, almost electric, until he suddenly exhaled forcefully. His hands lowered to your hips, holding you with that feeling of intense tenderness that characterized him. His fingers dug a little deeper, claiming space on your skin.

— Absolutely everything played a role — he murmured in a raspy voice, laden with a heat that seeped straight to your core. He leaned his face down to your ear, his hot breath caressing you. — I tried to calm down, to ignore you to keep a cool head, but you… you’re no help, baby. You drive me crazy, you upset me, and I can’t even get angry about it. — His voice trembled slightly, cracking with the frustration he couldn’t hide.

Then his hand descended slowly, sliding over the curve of your bare ass, gripping one cheek tightly and squeezing it mercilessly. A moan escaped you at the action. A spasm, as sudden as it was pleasurable, ran down your spine, eliciting an involuntary shudder. Noticing it, his gaze ignited with a feverish flash that mixed devotion with pure lust.

— You’re really killing me, baby. — he declared, looking at you as if you were the only thing that mattered at that moment. To which you smiled, arrogant, powerful, with that fire that ignited his senses. You looked down on him, and your gaze captured him with an intensity that almost forced him to gasp.

— It's not that I'm killing, baby boy. I just know exactly how to push your buttons... — you whispered against his mouth. Pressing your body further, rubbing yourself against his bulge, generating a delicious friction that drew a sigh from you. — And when I know what I want, I get it. Besides, I-mmph!

You were about to add something else, one last tease. But the air was suddenly cut off by the dry, brutal sound of his palm hitting your buttock. The crack took your breath away. You gasped, surprised by the intensity, and your back arched instinctively, as if your body was asking for more.

— Heeseung! — you exclaimed, your eyes wide in surprise, about to protest. But there was no time.

Another slap fell, heavier, making your body shake on top of him. The heat spread across your skin like a white-hot wave, combining with the pleasure of feeling dominated, desired with a rawness that shattered all your schemes.

— What was that for? — you asked, your voice higher, more shaky. The gasp turned into something closer to a moan as you shuddered on his body. Heeseung licked his lips, his gaze on you as if you were a delicacy he was just beginning to devour.

— It's a punishment, baby girl. Today you rejected three of my kisses and ignored four calls. I'm going to get even for it. — he purred, a clear glint of perversion in his eyes.

Before you could even respond, the third slap fell. A precise blow that tore a deep moan from your throat. Your body reacted on its own, and you rose onto your knees, your hips moving back, arching your back, pushing your ass out, and your chest resting on his shoulder.

The couch creaked beneath both of you as you, without realizing it, placed yourself in an even more vulnerable and willing position. Heeseung held his breath for a second. Seeing you surrendered like this ignited something inside him he hadn't known he'd been waiting to feel.

— The kisses are settled, but there are still the phone calls to go. — he murmured, and then the fourth spank fell.

The sound was almost obscene, and the echo filled the room in a charged silence. Your body arched toward his, your nipples brushing against his chest, so hard and sensitive it hurt. You moaned again, and Heeseung looked at you, Devoted. Corrupted. Perversely satisfied.

— I'm not sure this punishment is working as it should — he suddenly commented in a mocking tone, watching you arch further out of pure reflex. — You seem to be enjoying it.

You gasped softly, your body still trembling from the wave of sensations that kept building. Your voice came out with a thread of sensuality and tenderness at the same time.

— I'm just trying to be good for you.

He lowered one hand, slowly caressing your thigh while his other palm continued to rest on the heated curve of your buttock. The intensity of his gaze didn't diminish.

— What about your dominant tendencies, darling? Aren't they going out to play tonight? — he murmured, bringing his face closer to your neck, where his teeth caught your collarbone and bit down just right. To the point of sweet pain.

Your fingers brushed his cheek, their touch gentle, and you gave him a smile full of promise. Then you replied:

— No, they won't — you murmured with a shaky breath, holding your ground. — Tonight, I just want you to be the one who takes it all.

And hearing that, Heeseung felt something inside him break. The last thread of self-control frayed, and in its place was born that raw need to make you his as only he knew how.

The last three spanks fell...

The fifth was sharp, direct, with that crack that drew a stifled cry from you. The sixth, wetter, left a stinging burn that spread across your skin like a fiery caress. And the last was a verdict. The blow landed hard, and your entire body shook, trembling in Heeseung's hands.

Your buttock were already red and sensitive, adorned with pink marks that spoke of the intensity of his hands. Bruised, yes. But deliciously alive. Every fiber of your being throbbed with that exquisite sting that not only didn't bother you, but actually drew pleasure from you. And just when you thought he was going to stop, his hand descended without warning, traveling between your legs with hungry slowness. He barely touched your pussy when a moan escaped you.

— Shit... — he murmured, his voice bathed in lust. His fingers delved between your nether lips, sliding easily thanks to the moisture. He slowly rubbed your clit. The precise touch of his fingers made you gasp, as an electric current shot through your abdomen. — Look how soaked you are, baby. — he said in a dirty whisper, without taking his gaze from your eyes.

His fingers began to work more deliberately on your clit, swirling, pressing, rubbing in slow, delicious circles that drove you wild. You arched into him, moving reflexively, grinding against his hand, seeking more friction.

— Always so needy, so fucking shameless, and it's all for me. — he growled with a sly smile, satisfaction brimming in his gaze.

You leaned forward, your hands seeking support on his shoulders as your body trembled. You dropped your head back, lips parted, moaning his name like a mantra. The simple touch of his fingers was enough to disarm you. You didn't need more; his control over you was absolute. He had you captivated with just his caresses.

In a moment, your eyes lifted again, colliding with his. The two of you stared at each other, their pupils dilated and their breaths ragged. Between the two of you, there was a voracious adoration, as deep as what you were about to do. In the midst of that instant, your gaze alight with desire, you spoke to him without a hint of shame, your raspy voice laced with pure need.

— I want to get down between your legs and suck you off. — you whispered, looking at him with an intensity that left him breathless, and the growl that emerged from his throat was so deep it vibrated in his chest, in the air, in your gut. His penis, hard and throbbing beneath his sweatpants, stirred at the sound of you, as if responding with a hunger of its own.

— Fuck, you always know how to blow my mind... — he murmured, closing his eyes for a second, clenching his jaw. But still, he shook his head. A wicked smile tugged at his lips as he looked at you. — But there won't be any foreplay this time. You're so soaked, there won't be any need to use my fingers or eat you out. I want to put it in you now. — His tone was deep, definitive, and commanding.

He didn't give you time to process it. With a firm movement, he removed you from his lap, turned you around, and laid you down on the couch. Your legs were spread by inertia, your breasts moving to the rhythm of your labored breathing. You were exposed, damp, vibrating with desire, and completely at his mercy. The air was thick with lust. The moisture between your thighs was so palpable that every touch of skin made you shudder.

In an instant, Heeseung stood up. His movements were fluid, full of purpose. He brought his hands to the waistband of his sweatpants and, without taking his eyes off you, pushed them down with deliberate slowness. The first thing you saw was his erection springing free, hard, imposing, and thick. He wasn't wearing boxers. The glans was shiny, pearly with pre-cum that was already sliding down the length of his shaft, leaving a wet, glistening groove on his length.

— You were complaining about me not wearing panties, and it turns out you weren't wearing boxers the whole time. — you said with a mischievous smile, letting out a slight gasp at the end.

Heeseung chuckled softly, that laugh of his laced with mischief, and as he did, he brought a hand to his penis, beginning to pump it slowly. His palm slid firmly from the base to the slippery glans, growing wetter with each movement.

— In my defense, I wanted you to have easy access when you came and got this needy. — he replied with a smile. His voice was deep, choked with excitement as he continued to stimulate himself.

Your smile widened, pleased, and you couldn't tear your gaze away from his hand working on himself. He looked so fucking provocative there, between his fingers, throbbing, charged. You said nothing. You just bit your lip, devouring him with your eyes.

Eventually, he leaned over you. His mouth sought yours. His lips captured yours, and his tongue entered with authority, rubbing against yours, caressing, demanding surrender. His breath mingled with yours, hot, hurried, so thick with desire you could almost taste it. His lips broke away, only to begin kissing downward, leaving a burning trail of suction and saliva along your neck, your collarbones, every corner claimed with soft bites and hot licks. And when he reached your breasts, he didn't hesitate. His mouth latched onto one of them, sucking, while his tongue swirled over the hardened nipple, drawing breathy moans from you.

Then, with a mixture of care and urgency, he helped you change position. His hands guided you until you were propped up with your forearms on the side of the couch, your torso lowered, your back arched, your ass lifted, and your legs spread for him. You felt completely open, exposed, surrendered.

And Heeseung took a moment to admire you before moving down and licking your pussy. His hot tongue slid into your throbbing entrance, tasting your juices as if he needed it to live. Then, without warning, he caught your clit between his lips and sucked hard, making you shudder with a wave of pleasure that shook you from head to toe. Your voice broke into a moan, and your thighs trembled. But the attention didn't last. He pulled away panting, his mouth wet and his eyes burning with lust.

— I couldn't help it. You look too delicious to be ignored like this. — he confessed, his voice raspy, almost amused.

— Then don't ignore me and take me now. — you purred, arching further, offering yourself.

He growled. His hand rested firmly on your waist, while the other returned to his cock to hold it. He slammed it against your pussy, making the wet, slurping sound echo every time his glans hit your wet flesh. The taps were cruel, anticipatory, full of purpose. They made you more sensitive, more desperate.

And then, without further ado, he placed the tip right at your entrance. He pressed barely, not fully entering, letting the glans soak even more in your wetness.

— Just stick it in, Hee. All the way, I want it all. — you begged, your voice hoarse and shaky. And that was the biggest trigger.

He gripped your hips with both hands and, in one motion, plunged himself deep inside you. His entire length slid inside you, thrusting hard, opening you up and filling you completely. The air escaped you in a strangled cry, as your fingers gripped the back of the couch. And your walls shuddered around his length, in a tight, trembling grip, flooded with the sensation of sudden fullness. You felt everything: every throbbing vein, every inch pulsing inside you, the wetness, the trembling of his fingers digging into your skin.

He stayed there, buried to the hilt, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling behind you.

From the first thrust, you knew Heeseung wasn't willing to show any mercy that night. He filled you without giving your body time to adjust to his size. He sank into you with desperate firmness, hitting every sensitive corner, every hidden spot he knew by heart and now claimed viciously. His pelvis slammed against your still-reddened buttocks again and again, each impact drawing a ragged gasp, a high-pitched moan, a stifled plea from you. The sweet burn of the previous punishment mixed with the delicious pressure of his cock inside you, and that combination, that damned combination, drove you crazy. It was too much. And at the same time, it was never enough.

— So tight and warm for me, such a perfect little pussy of my baby girl. — he growled through gritted teeth. And you could only moan his name, as if that was the only thing you knew how to say.

Heeseung grunted with each thrust, his heavy breathing mingling with the wet, rhythmic sound of his hips slamming against you. One of his hands remained firmly on your waist, and the other tangled possessively in your hair, gently tugging at the strands until he forced your head up. His husky voice, with that charge of authority that only he knew how to use, whispered crudely:

— Look at me, babe. You know I need to see those beautiful eyes, or I'm not going to work."

You turned slightly, your neck exposed, your lips swollen from the moans that kept coming, and your eyes met his. That eye contact disarmed him and turned him on at the same time. What he saw was pure lust: your dilated pupils, your expression broken by pleasure, your skin beaded with sweat, and the constant trembling of your submissive body. And you, seeing him like that, with your eyes shining, your jaw tense, your body vibrating with the force of pent-up desire, felt yourself melting even more. Your pussy squeezed him tightly, as if your body wanted to swallow him whole.

— You're so fucking perfect when you let me fuck you like this... — he murmured between gasps, lowering the hand that had been in your hair to your throat, loosely wrapping his long fingers around it, only feeling the frantic throbbing beneath your skin as he sank in again, harder.

His mouth moved down to your exposed back, leaving a trail of wet kisses, small bites, and sucks that left warm marks all over you. And you arched for him, offering yourself without reservation. Your shaky voice kept whispering his name between moans, mixed with broken words, pleas for more, for more depth, for more friction.

— Hee... please... — you gasped, unsure if you were asking him to stop or to never stop.

— I know, baby. I know. — he responded with a growl, squeezing you harder, digging his fingers into your flesh as he quickened his pace, becoming a little more erratic, more raw.

Your body shuddered, you felt wet, stretched, filled. Each thrust felt like an electric shock running down your spine. And when you thought you couldn't take any more, that the pleasure was going to break you in two, he lowered a hand between your legs and rubbed your clit with two fingers soaked in your own wetness, stimulating it with precision as he continued to thrust into you hard.

The world blurred. There was only him, his body, his breath on your neck, his scent mingling with yours, and the indecent sound of your bodies colliding.

— You're going to cum, aren't you?” he asked, his voice cracking with desire. — Do it, baby girl. Cum while I fill you completely. — he commanded, and you could only moan in response, knowing you were seconds away from unraveling completely.

And indeed, it didn't take long for you to break. The pressure building in your belly reached its peak, and you released with a hoarse groan, ripped from deep within your chest. Your entire body spasmed, shuddering as the pleasure tore at you. Your insides squeezed him with involuntary violence, as if your pussy refused to let go, convulsing around his cock with a grip so intense it drew a brutal grunt from him.

Heeseung couldn't take it. The heat of your orgasm and the way your body gripped him pushed him straight to the edge. He gasped your name through his teeth, sank to the hilt, and unraveled inside you with a breathy curse. A husky growl vibrated in his chest as his hot, thick semen erupted in waves, filling you completely. He felt you still shuddering, convulsing with the remnants of your climax as you took it all in, trembling, broken, and vulnerable.

But it didn't end there...

Still panting, without pulling out of you, he knelt on the couch, sitting back on his heels, and with an ease that only his familiarity with your body gave him, he pulled you down onto his lap, keeping you impaled on his still-hard length. He gripped your wrists firmly, pulling them back and crossing them against your lower back effortlessly, as if your body belonged completely to him. The difference in size was instantly felt, especially when his free hand descended and rested warmly on your lower belly, right where the pressure was marked. The sensation of his cock deep inside you. That simple gesture made you moan and tremble in his grip.

Your back arched immediately, seeking him out, and your head fell back against his chest. That's when Heeseung leaned in. His breath caressed your face for a second before his lips took yours with precision. You turned your face just a bit, finding the right angle to receive him, to moan directly into his mouth as his hips continued to thrust relentlessly. The kiss was wet, dirty, and desperate. Your tongues met halfway, colliding, licking, tasting each other between gasps.

The heat between you was unbearable. Your arms tense in his grasp, your body pressed against his as he fucked you without stopping, deep, hard, addictive. There was no space, no time, no shame. Just him. Just you. Just that moment of total, wild surrender.

Each thrust made a wet, filthy sound, amplified by the semen that was beginning to spill between your thighs, slipping between them. Your still-sensitive walls reacted to each thrust with jolts of sharp pleasure, forcing you to moan between the kiss. But you didn't stop. You didn't want to stop. You were so fucking full of him. You felt him in every corner, every inner curve. Every time he moved, you felt him push more of his essence deep inside you, while his cock, still firm, grazed that exact spot that made you see stars.

His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging just before he released it, and then his kisses descended to your jaw, your neck, your shoulders, sucking on the already heated skin, leaving marks you knew would be more noticeable tomorrow. His hand still rested on your belly, holding you against him as the rocking of his hips continued, slower now, but no less deep. All with the intention of making the moment last.

— I’m not done with you, baby… — he growled in your ear, his voice so deep it shook your soul. — I’m going to keep fucking you until you beg for a break… and even then, I’m not going to give it to you.

Suddenly, he released your wrists and wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you so tightly he seemed to be trying to melt you into his skin. And then you understood: what you were doing was something only desire born of true love could bring about; something brutal, profound, and devastatingly beautiful in its own way. Because in the end, it was just the two of you, loving each other with an intensity that knew no bounds or shame.

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fgojous · 2 months ago

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love wins all | chapter one ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

word count. 5.5k

masterlist.

note. hi, here's chapter one. please ignore the errors (or some inaccuracies lol). i hope you enjoy! reblogs are appreciated <3

CHAPTER ONE: MEET THE GOJOS!

You stare at the mug in front of you. Carefully watching the steam curl up lazily, blending in the atmosphere along with the sterile smell of the hospital lounge. You have been awake for what—eighteen hours? Maybe nineteen or twenty. You’ve lost count somewhere between stitching a ruptured artery and watching one of your patients almost code in front of you.

You could feel everything. Your eyes burn, the ache just below your brows, the tightness of your back but despite it all, one thing was running through your mind—your husband, or soon-to-be ex-husband, if he could just sign the papers. But he wouldn’t give you that satisfaction, right? He just couldn’t let you go.

But why? Why is he dragging this out when he knows this is far that you can go. This relationship is already flatlined. He knows it, you know it. You both know it.

The door opens, and without even looking at it you recognize the person who just came in. You know it by his scent, the way he moved, the way he could just take over a room, you know it all too well.

“You did good today.” he says gently, too familiar, too comfortable. “My shift just ended. We should go—”

“Sign the papers.”

He stops, and you look his way. He’s staring at you with that face again—like he couldn’t believe that you were saying it that easily when you’ve been with him for what—nineteen years? You stare at him, his hands stopping midway from unbuttoning his coat.

“You need to sleep.”

“Did you hear me?” you say once again, too brave to stare right in his eyes, but too cowardly to acknowledge the ache growing inside your chest.

“I did.” he looked away, opening his locker, methodically shoving his white coat inside. His hand lingers on the edge, “We should go home.”

Ah. Home. Home where all the floors are neatly polished, where dishes are barely used anymore.

Home where you sit across each other in complete silence, barely looking at each other. Home where you sleep in the same bed but your backs facing each other, like there’s a cliff in between your bodies.

Where you pretend that this is something that you could fix. Believing that this was just a phase in your marriage even though you filed for divorce three weeks ago.

You don’t even know if you could call that home anymore when you have been sleeping in the on-call room for God knows how long.

You push the chair back, the wood screeching on the tiled floor, “I’m going to sleep in the on-call room. I need to monitor my patient anyway.”

You almost sprinted out of the break room, your freshly made coffee discarded on the table. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Not because you’re angry. But because you couldn’t fathom this feeling where he doesn’t try enough but doesn’t want to let you go. And you hate it, you hate all of it.

You were tired of arguing.

The door clicked behind you.

It hit that you were alone, that no matter what you did, you still felt alone. No matter how he says that he was there, you still felt alone. You gripped your coat, letting your tears silently fall down your cheeks as you toss your coat on the chair.

You kick your shoes off, letting them land wherever, you let your body fall on the cot. You stare at the ceiling and you just breathe.

You press your face to your hands, letting your feelings catch up to you. Maybe he’s right, you were just tired. Maybe you just needed sleep because when was the last time you slept? You don’t even know. You don’t remember.

When was the last time you let yourself feel something? When was the last time you didn’t push something down? You wanted to scream, you wanted to throw things.

But instead, you bury your face on the worn out cotton of the pillow. Nothing like the one you have at home. Nothing like you have with him.

You reach for your phone, the screen is bright, no new messages.

Your patient is stable, post-op vitals are holding and you aren’t on-call. You could message him. You could go home with him.

Maybe he’s still here, still waiting. But you stop yourself because once you do—once you let yourself give in, you might take it all back and you can’t afford to do that.

Not when you’re the one who wanted to end it. Not when you’re the one who messed it up.

You hear the door open and you immediately turn to the other side, you tuck your arms under your chest.

You could feel the cot sink. Confusion washes over you when he nudged you to move but you did anyway. He lays beside you, hands gripping your waist gently to pull you close to him.

The contact made you shudder. It has been months— three months, since you’ve been this close.

“What are you doing?”

“If you want to sleep here, then we’ll sleep here.” he says, his voice steady. His hand slides under your scrubs—to hold you, to feel you. His palms press against the skin of your stomach, the contact making your spine shiver.

“Satoru.” you breathe, gripping his wrist as a warning.

You have no idea what’s running on your husband’s mind. Why? Why is he doing this now?

“I just want to hold you.” he murmurs against your shoulder, his lips brushing on the soft of your skin, “Please, just let me hold you.”

His thumb strokes the curve of your waist and you almost break, you almost falter. Everything he does, everything he does could break you in a way that nothing else could.

You missed this. You missed him more than you could admit.

You could push him when he pressed a soft kiss on your neck. You could pull away when he turns you around to face him. You could look away when he stares into your eyes.

But you don’t. You just let him. You just let him take the gap between the two of you, until your lips are inches away from each other—then none at all.

You gasp, like he’s taking your breath from you. He looks at you with worry, he always does. Like you’re going to break if he utters just one word.

You didn’t know who moved first, but all you knew at this moment was to cling to him, press your lips against him like your life depended on it.

“We shouldn’t.” you whisper in between.

“Then tell me to go. Tell me, and I’ll leave.” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

But you don’t answer, you kiss him again, slowly—hesitantly. Your lips quiver as you did, your body was tearing down the part of you that still wanted to be strong. His white strands slipping in between your fingers as you pull him in, he bites your lip tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do so.

But you deepen the kiss, pulling him a little bit more closely as if there’s still space left in between, and suddenly, he wasn’t hesitating anymore. He was kissing you with certainty—earnestly, you could feel the ache with every move his lips make.

You clutched onto him desperately, like you’ve been deprived of touch for so long. And you… have. For too long.

Your trembling hands reach for the hem of his shirt and he helps you, pulling it up until it’s teared away from him, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in return.

He pulls your pants down along with your underwear, allowing him to see the skin that he has touched for years, the skin that he has adored and worshipped.

His lips find their way to yours again, his hands slid on your back unclasping your bra. Your hands travelling down to the waistband of his pants, pushing it down eminently, more than you intend to.

His kisses went to your face, to your jaw, down to your collarbone. You’re becoming too sensible in the way your bodies are close. You could feel his weight pinning down on you and all you could think about was how you love him. How you’d give him everything without a second thought.

Even if he didn’t ask you to.

All you could think about is how he’s touching you, how he’s making you feel like you’re his whole universe.

His breath hitches. All that’s running through his mind was he’s touching you again—like he has been starved, like feeling you against his skin would make him whole again.

He kisses your skin like he has never seen it before. His hands palms your waist, his thumbs pressing gently on your skin. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so… fuck. I..” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands slide in between your legs, coaxing it open. You gasp, arching your body into him as he slid his fingers inside you—curling up, just enough to make your hips jerk. You felt your thighs twitch, you grasp on his wrist, letting yourself unravel in the safest place you knew. He watches your face, how your eyes flutter. How your lips tremble, he listens to you breathe.

“Satoru.” you gripped his hair, “I need you. Please.”

He almost loses his mind when you beg him. It has been months since you’ve been like this to him, it’s driving him crazy. It’s so infuriating how much he wants you—how much he loves you.

How much he’d give you all of him.

He kisses you again like it’d kill him if he doesn’t, he groans into your mouth when you pull him, your hands gripping his waist as you push him closer. You’re so desperate, hopelessly desperate.

“Please,” you gasp, almost whispering, out of breath, “Please.”

Without saying anything, he positioned himself into you, both gasping as he pushed inside, you bit your lip as you felt the abrupt stretch—neither of you moved for a bit, savoring every second he filled you in.

You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging a bit on his skin. You should stop him, you shouldn’t let him. But, it felt like home. Yes, fuck, it felt like home.

Because he is your home. What were you thinking? What are you doing?

“God.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, “I miss you.”

Tears prick from the corner of your eyes because of this overwhelming ache of needing him, of him needing you—and how it terrified you.

You wanted to say it back.

You really did.

Instead, you reeled him in. You kiss him, and he sinks into you more. Slowly moving his hips, driving himself deeper—harder. All your sane thoughts vanished into thin air as he abandoned all his restraint, slamming you into oblivion.

You wanted to curse him, for making your chest ache, for making you feel good. For fucking you too good.

The cot creaks, and you were biting down your lip to keep yourself quiet—but all that went out the window when he was hitting all the right spots in you because he knows it all. He knows your body like no one else.

He knew every inch of you, he knew how to make you fall apart. He knew where to touch you like he owns all of you.

His fingers find yours again, intertwining them as he buries them on the cushion atop your head. Then you feel it, that familiar sensation building up on your stomach, fast.

“Satoru.” you heave, your legs losing all its strength, you tighten around him. “I’m going to…”

You were breathless, uncontrolled—like a string waiting to snap. Your whole body tightens. Your mind was spiraling—you didn’t deserve him, you didn’t deserve to experience his love like this but your body didn’t care, because you craved him. You needed him.

It was—is, selfish but you’re letting him down with you again.

“Fuuuck.” You heard him groan, his face burying on your neck as his breath ghosts over your ears. “You feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop, his pace quickens—your breathing was sharp, stuttered. You close your eyes. “No, baby. Look at me.”

His voice was ragged, “Look at me, please. I need to see your face.”

And it hits you hard, you grasp his arm as you hold onto the piece of sanity that’s left of you. Pleasure coursing through your whole body, you gripped him as if he’s the only one anchoring you to the surface.

Then you felt the tremble in his arms, the way his hips slowed down, his voice shattering as he let himself go.

His body collapsed on top of yours. You didn’t speak, you didn’t move. You just listened to him trying to catch air, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck—your fingers gently stroking his hair.

You didn’t know if this is something you’d regret. You didn’t know if this would fix things or become another wound that you would carelessly patch up.

But you didn’t let go.

—

The shrill sound of the alarm woke you up, you tapped the side of the cot where your phone is, desperately trying to turn it off. Then you see his message,

Satoru | 8:56 AM

I got pulled into a surgery. Didn’t wake you up. I’ll see you later.

Then you see the second message.

Satoru | 8:58 AM

I love you.

Your chest aches.

Then you look down, you see a blanket carefully wrapped around you. You pulled it up to your face, his perfume still etched on the cotton, remembering the thing that happened this morning.

The one where you shouldn’t have let happen. Because, you’re divorcing him—no, you’re saving him.

Right? From you?

You pushed the blanket hastily and looked at the time, it’s already 1 pm. No one has paged you or anything. And you really need to take a bath. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, tossing your phone onto the side to pick your clothes up from the floor, clutching the blanket close to your chest. Hoping that no one came in while you were sleeping in here—naked.

You got dressed and looked at your reflection in the mirror. What have you done?

You sighed, picking up your white coat along with your hospital badge from the chair.

Dr. YN Gojo, RPT, MD, FACS | Chief of Trauma Surgery | Cardiothoracic Surgery Fellow

You went out of the on-call room, some of the nurses greeted you and you greeted them back with a smile. But of course, one of them looked at you knowingly—like she’s not buying that crap you call a smile, she knows you too well.

“Go home.” she walks with you, you looked at her and chuckled. “Don’t you laugh at me, young lady. You need some rest.”

“I will.” you say, “In fact, I’m going now.”

Nurse Tanaka pats your back, “Good. How’s things?”

You paused for a while, inserting your hands into your pocket. “Things are okay.”

“And you?”

“Fine.” you simply answered, trying to avoid the upcoming question. You pretend to look at the time, clearly avoiding whatever it is that she wanted to ask you. “I’ll get going, I’ll see you later.”

She just nodded, the frown on her forehead visible because the way you dodge her question is as if you’re dodging a bullet. You weren’t ready to talk about whatever it is she wanted to talk about. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

You should be going home now, maybe take a shower, or eat—then sleep a little bit more, but your feet have carried you somewhere else.

There in the gallery of OR 3. Where your husband stood—calm, precise.

You watch him in silence, sitting at the back in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice that you’re there. You watch his every move, every flick of his finger, every tilt of his head.

He is in his element—he’s living up to his name, he’s continuing his father’s legacy. He’s right there, where he should be. Brilliant. Shining.

He looked like nothing had happened. Like you haven’t given him another piece of hope that you’re not sure if you’d shot down again.

You lean on the wall, just for a second and you’ll leave. Just for a second before you take back everything that you’ve said—before you regret everything that you have decided.

But you stay. You always stay.

—

Your keys clattered on the side table, your bag discarded on the couch. You looked around, the apartment was too clean. No dishes in the sink, no pillows scattered—like there’s no one living here.

Well, between your shifts and your preference to sleep in the on-call room instead of your own bed, nobody really has been living here. You know Satoru isn’t coming home either.

Because there’s no half-drunk coffee cups randomly placed here on the counter or on the table in the balcony.

Because his scent is nowhere to be found. You forced yourself to move, walking through the hallway when you passed by the shelf where that photograph is seated.

You stop. Your hands tremble as you pick up the frame. You stare at the picture, your eyes slowly burning.

Satoru’s arm draped around your shoulders, his lips pressed against your temple—you, smiling, your cheekbones almost taking over your eyes—your friends, pointing their fingers in your direction with smiles on their faces, like you’re the star of the show.

You hated this picture right now because you looked so happy, so genuinely, stupidly happy.

You couldn’t believe that this was taken just three months ago. It’s funny—how things could change in a glimpse.

Your fingers ghost over the glass, over his image. Over your figure. You could back away, you could throw it in the trash, smash it. But instead you put it back, facing it down.

Instead, you stepped back—strip off all your clothes and let the steam consume you. You let the water hit your body, chest heaving, tears falling silently.

You sobbed quietly until your body decided to betray you, until your body decided to stop protecting you against yourself.

You just let yourself falter because here—you weren’t Dr. YN Gojo, you were just a woman who’s grieving, who’s mourning the version of herself who wasn’t here anymore.

—

You were drying your hair the moment your phone buzzed. You looked at it, even though you didn’t want to—it’s your job, it’s not like you have a choice, right?

The moment you read the page you were already heading out the door—slipping on your shoes like you have got no time to lose, well you really don’t.

The moment you stepped into the hospital, you weren’t the woman who cried in the shower like her life was hanging on a balance. No, you were Dr. Gojo again, Chief of Trauma.

“Okay, what do we got?” you asked while tying your wet hair up, you grabbed the chart from the nurse without stopping.

“Male, 33. MVC, multiple left-sided rib fractures. Suspected flail chest. Sats dropped to 89% en route. His chest x-ray confirmed hemothorax.”

You scanned the image quickly, “Prep an OR for a left thoracotomy. Start large-bore IVs and have two units of O-neg on standby. Page anaesthesia, now.”

Your voice was dominating—sharp but calm. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Even though the whole room buzzed with chaos, you remained focused.

You tied your cap, walking towards the scrub room when he walked out of OR 3. And for a minute, you stopped, locking eyes with him.

He looked so tired. His white strands falling carelessly on his forehead. You know he wanted to say something to you by the way his mouth slightly opened, you know him.

He’d want you to talk about what happened this morning. He’d want you to open up again.

But you won’t. You couldn’t.

You didn’t give him a chance when you pushed towards the scrub room.

You have no time to lose, you can’t think of anything else besides your patient.

The surgery had gone well. All of it was textbook save. But you didn’t escape the way your back aches, how your arm was sore from holding all those surgical tools for hours.

You just wanted to collapse on the floor and stay there if it’s possible.

Everyone was doing their part and you’d done yours, so you took your mask off, slipped off your cap and gown. You walked towards the nurses lounge, typing something on the tablet when a cup of coffee was placed in front of you.

“Dr. Gojo—I mean, the other Dr. Gojo left this for you.” you almost smiled, because how many times have Satoru been referred to as the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo? Barely.

You look at the cup for a second too long—he left you coffee, just the way you like it.

You snapped back, your hands moving as your fingers hesitantly wrapped around it. “Thanks.”

You were about to walk away when you remembered something, you turned to the new nurse, “By the way, don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t call him, the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo. He’ll wreak havoc.” you said jokingly, giving her a faint smile before walking away while sipping on your coffee.

—

“Listen up!” Maki—the Chief Resident—started, the chatter died down, a smile almost slipping past her lips as she watched her intern’s faces.

She cleared her throat and looked around the shiny new interns, fresh scrubs, new badges—it’s a good day for her, and for the attendings too. “You’ve all made it through med school, big deal. Welcome to the real world. Where you’ll learn and fail and hopefully, not kill anyone.”

The door creaked open as she orientated the interns, the attendings going in one by one to observe the fresh batch of interns. And silently hoping that the ones assigned to them aren't a dud.

And then he came in, Dr. Satoru Gojo, the whispers started again. There he was effortlessly tall—they never thought that a white coat would look that good on someone. It just… fits. His hair was slightly disheveled, his face looked so pretty even though it was obvious that he hadn't had any decent sleep in years.

“That’s him, right?”

“Fuck, this is getting real. I heard he made a resident cry once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he just said ‘try again’ and she cried.”

“We’re so fucked.”

Satoru almost laughs when he sees the interns sitting in a row with eyes wide open. He knows that some are looking his way—maybe some of them even applied to this hospital’s program just because of him, and he’s not surprised, not everyday you get to see and work with a brilliant neurosurgeon such as himself.

He leaned on the wall, sipping on his coffee while scrolling on his phone—looking bored already. Suguru leans, “That one looks like he might faint.”

“God, I hope he’s mine.” he mumbles with sarcasm.

He looked around, searching for you, and you weren’t here. Probably caught up again in some emergency. Or a consult? He doesn’t know. How would he when you barely talk to him?

“Now, you’d be assigned under the supervision of an attending. You’ll follow them, do what they want. You will breathe if they say so and hope to God that they don’t hate you. Each of your performances are evaluated, so don’t mess up.” Maki says and starts calling the interns one by one.

“Itadori.” Maki looks up, she sees the young intern with his hands up, nervously and enthusiastically. “And… Fushiguro.”

“You’re with Dr. Gojo.” and just by saying that, Itadori got pale in the face. Some of the interns are already consoling the two of them in their minds.

“Miwa and Kugisaki. You’re with Dr. Gojo.”

Nobara blinks, almost stutters. She subtly points at Satoru at the back, who raises his eyebrows in amusement without saying something. “Also? Him?”

“No. Dr. YN Gojo.” and as if on cue, you enter. The interns exchanged glances. There you were with a soft look on your face, the one where the interns gave hope that not all attendings are you know… evil.

Their eyes followed you as you sat beside Ieiri. “There she is.”

You smiled and gave them a wave, a bit confused as to why they were looking at you. Maki pointed at the girls, “They’re yours.”

“Wait, she’s also a Gojo?” Nobara whispers to Miwa, glancing a bit in your direction. “Is she like his sister?”

Miwa shrugs, “Maybe just a coincidence? Or maybe it’s a common last name?”

“I don’t think so.” Nobara says.

“She’s his wife. They’re married.” Megumi says, and their eyes widen.

“He’s married?!” she says a little bit loud, but covers her mouth when she realizes how loud she was. She turned to Megumi, “How did you know?”

And the young man just shrugged his shoulders, Nobara pouts, dissatisfied with his answer. Maki finishes assigning and the interns go with their attendings.

“She looks nice. Thank God we weren’t assigned to him.” Miwa whispers to Nobara, and she excitedly nods. They watched as you walked towards the door, frowning when you realized they weren’t following you.

The look on your face says they celebrated too early.

“Are you going to follow me or are you going to waste my time?” you say, that angelic smile adorned on your face earlier was now gone. “Let’s go. First round starts in ten minutes. I hope you had your breakfast. Walk fast, don’t expect me to slow down for you.”

Nobara stops, her face turns white and Miwa scrambles to walk towards you.

“Now!”

And you were gone before they could answer you. Satoru finally speaks in soft sing-song voice with a big smile plastered on his face as he walks past Nobara, “Good luck~”

He walks out with his interns following him, but before Megumi could walk out the door he says something to her. “By the way, she’s the Dr. Gojo who made the resident cry. Not him. If I were you, I’d be running by now.”

“Wait… what?!”

—

“Dilated cardiomyopathy.” you murmured, tapping your foot on the carpeted floor as you stare at the tablet in your hand.

She has a history of repaired congenital heart defect. Your eyes stroll down through the numbers, the chart, her whole history.

And… you stopped. Your hands stiffen, gripping on the tablet too hard. You read it, once—twice, maybe even a hundred times.

You blinked, staring at that one line like it is going to change anything. “No.”

“No?” the Chief of Surgery repeated—a little shocked, because how could you say no to him?

“Are you saying ‘no’ to me, Dr. Gojo? Do you know how much time we have? You’ve seen her chart. I think you’re in no position to say no.”

“I am.” you slammed the tablet on his table, not too hard, but enough to tell him that you aren’t doing this one. No, not this one. It hits too close. “Not me. I won’t touch this. Not this.”

You’ve tried hard enough not to react. Not let your emotions get the best of you, but that isn’t easy in this situation. “YN.”

“What?!”

“You’re the only one I trust.” his voice was calm, and it unnerves you. “You’re the only one who could do this.”

He stands up and goes in your direction, you take a step back. “You’ve seen her numbers. She’s unstable, her oxygen is dropping.”

You were frustrated. Because it’s true.

All of it was true, her condition is worsening but you’re not the only one who could do it. You’re a cardiothoracic fellow for pete’s sake—granted you’re already in the final year of your fellowship but still.

“That’s why we need to max everything, her medications—”

“We already have. She’s not responding.” he pauses, “You know Dr. Yamada is not here right now. This is an urgent case, you’ve worked under her. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot from her.”

But that’s not the point. That’s not why you would do it. And it baffled you—you could feel it, the breath you unraveled. Your vision blurs and everything feels like it’s closing in on you.

“Dad—” it had slipped before you could stop it. The vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to conceal.

Tears fall from your eyes, and he sees it. “Please. What if she coded into the table? What if I can’t save t—”

You’re frustrated. Because you’re not just his surgeon now. You’re his daughter.

And hurt, because never did your father put your feelings into consideration. You’re a doctor, you’re not supposed to let your feelings take over you.

But one thing just ran through your mind repeatedly, you’re his daughter.

For once, just this once, you hoped he’d think about what you feel. You’d just wish he’d think about what this means to you.

“You can!” he pushed, “You’re my daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter, if anyone could, it’s you! Do not give me this crap.” you flinched, tears falling endlessly but he doesn’t stop there. “She’s young, she has no prior comorbidities. You’ve seen it, she already has decompensated heart failure, she won’t make it another 24 hours without intervention.”

You bite your lip, harshly wiping your cheeks but the tears come anyway, “She may not make it in surgery either.” you say, voice quiet, defeated.

“I know, but you’re the only surgeon I trust to try.”

—

Your breathing was heavy—sharp, you could barely hear your footsteps as you descended the emergency stairwell. You couldn’t hear anything beside the storm roaring in your head.

The papers clutched in your hand, your knuckles had gone white along with the shaking of your arms.

“Fuck!” Without any second thoughts, you slam the papers on the floor, it had scattered like leaves falling down. The sound of your voice bounces through the walls, but there wasn’t any care in your body right now.

You stopped, your world spinning as your back slides on the cold wall, your body hitting the concrete on your feet. You pressed your palms on your face, trying to calm yourself down.

Breathe. Just… breathe.

You can do this, right? You’ve done this countless times before. You are Dr. YN Gojo, you were trained for this, you are the best. If anyone could do it, it would be you.

You’ve put yourself together a thousand times, like you’ve never been hurt, been broken apart. But why can’t you do it now? Why can’t you pull yourself together?

A sob escaped you, like a traitor. Too loud, too painful. You’ve opened a can of worms that you couldn’t contain. It all came bursting out. You had no control.

It all hit too close because you’ve been here before. You’ve watched life slip from you. You know what it’s like to gamble, and they’re asking you to do it again.

Your sobs echoed, it was raw. Helpless. Your shoulders shake with every breath you take.

You don’t even notice the door slip open, you don’t even hear the hurry behind his steps—he moved fast, just to get to you.

“Hey,” and just like that, he cuts through the noise in your head.

He kneels almost immediately, arms wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You clutched on his shirt, like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. Small whimpers escaping your lips, “Satoru.”

“I’m here.” he pressed his lips on your head, “I won’t leave.”

“I can’t.” you were choking on your words, you bury your face on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat in contrast to yours. “I can’t do this. She’s going to lose it too, Satoru. She’s…”

You feel his body stiff, but his hold tightens and he presses a gentle kiss on the side of your head once again. You know this was affecting him too. This is why you couldn’t do it. This is why you’d rather feel this alone.

“She’s… I’m going to lose her. I’m going to lose them.”

Because you’ll pull him down with you and you would never forgive yourself for that.

“I’m going to…” you were spiraling—right in front of him and you know it will break him. All these walls that you’ve spent a long time building just to protect him came crumbling down and you hate it.

You hate yourself for this. You hated everything. But never him. God, no, never him.

There’s a throe in his chest but he held you, keeping you close as if he’s putting you back together.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he whispers, it’s as if he knew what you were thinking, “Even if it breaks me—I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time. You let him in. You didn’t want him to see you like this but you needed him.

You know you need him.

“I’ll stay, YN. I’ll always stay.”

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