#content warning: truth

[eveningrainstorm]

take responsibility.

[the-most-humble-blog]

I didn’t write this for clout. I wrote it because I got tired of watching adults melt when the mirror didn’t flatter them.

If this image bothers you? You’re exactly the reason I made it.

Go create something. Or accept that your name will never echo.

[rileys-battlecats]

the crane wives are once again inspiring me. higher ground is SO mudpawcoded

[psychic-waffles]

I watched 真相半白/Half Truth so you don't have to!

I meant to make this post a couple of weeks ago but better late than never.

To the 3 other Ji Chen weirdos on here, I recently watched his new show 真相半白/Half Truth based on the 死亡通知单/Death Notice books. The show follows Luo Fei and his apprentice Mu Jianyun as they solve a case in which the victims severed fingers are sent to his wife.

It's also basically just an account of Ji Chen's character having the absolute worst time of it at literally any given moment (🎉).

I personally really love crime thrillers so this was entirely up my street (exculding one thing that gave me a really bad time, which we'll get to), so if you're a fan of that sort of thing I'd give it a go, but VERY MUCH MIND THE WARNINGS FIRST (see below), I would absolutely not recommend going into this entirely blind like I did.

I honestly didn't really care about the police characters but the mystery REALLY got me, and both Li Junsong (Ji Chen) and ESPECIALLY his wife Meng Shengnan (Cao Xiwen) are really compelling characters.

Cao Xiwen MADE this show and she deserves all the flowers for it.

All of that being said general warnings are as follows so if you don't vibe with any of these I probably wouldn't recommend the show:

Offscreen animal death with visceral follow up (one off, really fucked me up, but skippable)

Medical setting/surgery/medical malpractice/organ trafficking/medical gore/terminal illness (throughout)

Violent murder/dismemberment/gore (frequent)

Graphic medical experimentation and surgery on animals (frequent)

Child abuse/violence and threat towards children (throughout),

Threat of rape and off screen (presumed) rape with on screen build up (frequent, mostly just one incident but with repeated flashbacks to it)

Suicide and attempted suicide (frequent)

Detailed timestamps for specific incidences of all of these except the violence and medical stuff because they're a core part of the show so it's impossible to warn for them and leave you with anything to watch.

For reference I watched this on iQiyi so if you watch it elsewhere there's possibilities of these being off by a few seconds.

Ep 3. 11:00-14:00 - offscreen cat death with visceral follow up (li junsong is force fed hotpot and then raw meet that is implied to be from a cat. The cat's skin is also seen hanging outside the house). Also referenced non-explicitly in ep 4

Ep 4. 17:30-18:40 - offscreen presumed rape (at the very least assault) by unknown male character (not li junsong). it is implied meng shengnan hides in the closet throughout

Ep 5. 1:30-2:50 - appearance of a minor being stalked (it's actually her dad, helicopter parenting her)

Ep 6. 17:10-17:40 - child injury/gore (graphic image on a powerpoint slide of a child's hand with a mangled thumb)

Ep 6. 18:15-end and Ep 7. start-3:00 - animal experimentation and injury (graphic image on powerpoint slide of lab rats having limbs amputated)

Ep 7. 9:10-12:30 - abusive parenting (falshback to meng shengnan's father hitting her as a young adult, and another flashback to her childhood where her mother drags her into the kitchen to watch her father hacking apart a fish because she is terrified of blood and they want to desensitise her so she can become a doctor)

Ep 10. 8:00-12:00 - allusions to threat of rape of a minor (including pinning her to a table and cutting her jacket up)

Ep 14. 15:00-15:30 - flashback to previous offscreen presumed rape (at the very least assault)

Ep 18. 18:00-19:10 attempted suicide (li junsong walks into a river intending to drown himself but backs out)

Ep 19. 5:50-07:45 - threat of violence towards children (thugs are beating up a guy in his house and grab/heavily threaten his children)

Ep 19. 7:45-8:25 - suicide (the father lets himself fall backwards off a balcony while his children watch, you see this from the pov inside the apartment)

Ep 19. 11:30-11:45 - repeat of prev threat of violence to children and suicide

Ep 20. start-10:30 - child kidnapping (luo fei's daughter is kidnapped and subsequently found safe and sound)

Ep 21. 2:55-3:10 video of beginning of presumed rape from ep 4

Ep 22. 17:20-17:30 animal experimentation and injury (graphic image on powerpoint slide of lab rats having limbs amputated)

Ep 24. 15:05-16:15 animal experimentation and injury (surgery is performed on a rat to graft a human finger to it)

Huge apologies if I've missed anything, if you've watched it and you think there's anything obvious I've missed please let me know and I'll add to this!

[404daydreams]

"I don't care or even acknowledge what's happening around while I'm working on music. People will act according to their standards. I think that sums all of it up. I am not gonna teach basic human decency now, when their parents couldn't, who am I? These people are not on my level, so I ignore them. All the time. Lol, did you guys receive your Rs.500/- for the efforts you made but got ignored anyways. My writing is not a validation to you people, its me reflecting on things and coming to terms with it because I also am a hot headed asshole - I can ruin your life, break your bones or even kill you, so just for my own sanity, I write. Writing gives me a perspective so you don't get hurt. Remember that. You know this anyway because when the daddy confronts you, you guys are already pissing in your pants."

-Me.

[ur-stepdad]

i really appreciate that the character Augbert recognizes an aspect of planeswalkers that i feel is often neglected and that is the fact that one of the worlds he has lived in for a long time is this world. yes he is very out of touch and is usually talking about things that we are unfamiliar with but he does also know things about this modern realm. he can articulate physics concepts using contemporary scientific terms. he understands that vic is not legally allowed to fire employees without proper cause

like with this specific character it is pretty likely that most, if not all, of what he's saying is not objective reality (whether he's lying or the things he believe did not really happen). but the fact that he's a physicist is not evidence of what he's saying not being true

[blametheeditor]

Mike is the best giant to have guarding you, even if he would totally forget about you if he put you in a pant pocket! 10/10 would let hold me

mcfries123, I couldn't agree more.

There needs to be more Mike appreciation in this household! Because he is by far the best of giants. Especially when he forgets about you in a pocket.

In Your Corner

Content Warnings: Cursing. Mentions of accidental death and injury. Mentions of experimenting on others. Addressing someone 'it'. Mentions of food poisoning.

Exhibit A

___________________________

“Hypothetically...” 

Scott jolts at the sound of Vincent’s voice, turning to see the purple man materializing out of the shadows, looking uncharacteristically somber as their eyes meet. 

This can’t be good. “What the hell is he up to?”

Vincent’s eyebrows raise at the want to get straight to the point. And even though Scott wants to do nothing more than berate the purple man for continuously trying to give him a heart attack, hypotheticals are rarely used between them. Because there’s no such thing as a ‘hypothetical’ in their lives, simply warnings of what’s to come. 

“Hypothetically,” Vincent repeats as he slowly walks closer. Sends the hair on the back of Scott’s neck standing straight. Not because it feels like he’s being hunted down despite being completely alone in a dark hallway at Fazbear’s Pizzeria with an admittedly dangerous man. No, it’s the slumped posture with hands in pockets and amber eyes watching him like he might disappear at any second that terrifies him. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” 

There is no stopping Scott sending a scathing glare at the taller. It falters when there’s not even a hint of a smirk, but there better be a damn good reason for asking such a ridiculous question like their lives depend on it. “Seriously, Vince?” 

“Seriously,” the purple man murmurs gravely. Steps so close he’s almost staring directly down at Scott, making him feel much smaller than he really is despite only being two inches shorter. 

Why is he surprised? Being told about his horrific death to come in the most convoluted way possible is just a normal Tuesday to him. “I wouldn’t step on you, but I can’t promise I wouldn’t make sure no one else did.” 

Vincent hums. “I’m a little hurt, Scotty.” 

“Like you wouldn’t immediately turn me into fish bait,” Scott scowls. 

The smallest of smiles lifts the corner of Vincent’s mouth, disappearing so quickly it’s almost like it never happened. “Clearly our friendship means nothing to you. But, hypothetically, what if you turned into a worm.” 

...no, that’s impossible. He can't just turn people into a worm. “Is this purely hypothetical?” 

“The worm part, yes. The size part, though...” 

He’s given a significant look that sends a chill down his spine. “I'm sorry, he’s just going to shrink me?” 

“Randomly,” Vincent confirms without any trace of mirth in his voice. “And not just you. Wouldn’t want to perform his first field test on someone much more useful when they’re taller than five feet only to realize it can’t be reversed.” 

Scott searches Vincent’s face for any sign that this is just to scare him, a test to make him reveal just how attached he has become to certain night guards, to see if he’ll go against the company just to save himself. There’s nothing except for a single sliver of fear in Vincent’s normally vacant eyes. Meaning this is real. As if the countless other experiments and the laundry list of responsibilities weren���t enough. 

“Are you on the list?” 

“Not at the moment.” The purple man raises an eyebrow. “Would you be willing to at least put me on a table if I promise not to use you as bait.” 

And suddenly, Scott’s faced with the realization there is a very real threat of his best friend being able to accidentally crush him under his shoe without even realizing. For Scott to kill Vincent if he were to never notice his minuscule form on the floor, or mistaken him for an irate gnat. For someone to mistake him as an annoying insect because they wouldn’t know something like someone shrinking could be possible. 

“What do you mean by random?” Scott breathes. 

“As in,” Vincent begins solemnly. “Who would you trust even if they had absolutely no clue you were smaller than three inches tall.” 

Mike watches something peer out from underneath a game cabinet. 

He originally thought it was a bug when he first saw it. The skittish movements when it first thought about running away from the table didn’t help its case, especially as it kept ducking back under the tablecloth before he could get a good look at it. 

But once it finally darted out into the open, he could see it wasn’t a bug. He’s dealt with too many different types to assume he just hadn’t managed to run into something that walks on two legs until now. And right before it disappeared from sight again, it had gotten close enough for him to make out hair and two arms moving in time with the desperate sprint. 

Definitely not a bug. This was his first time encountering an action figure that can move on its own, though. 

He was a bit curious. Not enough to leave his post by the restaurant doors, because the moment he does is the moment David cuts his shift covering for yet another absent day guard short and send him home after banning him from Fazbear Entertainment Center for a week. So instead he watched the shadows under the game cabinet every so often after checking to make sure no one who shouldn’t be in the building slipped by him. 

Was rewarded with the tiny figure carefully leaning out of the shadows as it attempts to wave him down. 

Mike is more than happy to give it attention considering all the hard work it put in to grab it. Even more so when he recognizes the flame of red hair, smirking with pride at how well Fritz managed to avoid having a parent scream or accidentally entice a hell spawn to grab him off the ground. Who knew the kid had it in him. 

Oh shit, wait a minute. Irish Jigs aren’t supposed to be living action figures. 

At the realization one of the assholes he’s in charge of either fucked with shit they weren’t supposed to, or something was fucking shit up with them, the need to help overrides making David happy. Besides, the animatronics at this restaurant can actually grab anyone causing a fuss. They’ll survive if he takes a small break. 

With a glance around the room filled with screaming children, Mike makes his way over to the game cabinet being used for cover. Keeps a close eye on the miniscule form, a reassurance he sees the kid and is on the way to help. He also watches to see if the kid gets spooked and races off either further into the shadows or toward him. 

Fritz doesn’t move a muscle. And when the guard is so close he needs to look almost directly down, there’s the telltale sign of blinding terror. But that’s what Mike’s for, to get the frozen figure somewhere safe until he can kick whoever’s ass needs to be kicked. 

Any other circumstance, being so scared your limbs refuse to move would be a bad thing, because there’s nothing worse than being unable to anything, even if running away seems cowardly. Today, they luck out on this being the one time it won’t get them into more trouble than fleeing, because a frozen Fritz is easier to grab than any other one. Doesn’t move a single inch as he kneels down on the floor, not even as he reaches a hand up to get the kid off the ground. 

The moment his fingers curl around the kid to scoop him up is the one instincts finally kick in and tiny limbs attempt to punch and kick their way to freedom. It’s too late to do any good though. He doesn’t know how it feels being small enough to loose a fight to a single finger, but he does know what it’s like to be the person with a substantial upper hand. And that is that Fritz is fragile. 

Mike is careful, he went for a full grab instead of pinching the kid between his fingers for a reason, but there’s no missing the painful look no matter how small it is. 

His eyes narrow as he pins Fritz before lifting his hand up. Raises an eyebrow when the desperate fighting decreases at the same time the miniscule heartbeat increases. Stares for a moment before deciding now will be a bad time to check for injuries. Not when a random kid or asshole of an animatronic can interrupt him. 

Fuck, the animatronics. If they see him with a tiny Irish Jig, they’ll demand a turn claiming they’d be better at caring for one. 

Like hell they would. And Mike was the one asked for help, not them. But how to hide it to avoid an argument. 

He glances down at his uniform, smirking when he spots the chest pocket big enough to fit a card inside, meaning it’s perfect to hide a Fritz not even as tall as his finger. And to test it, he holds it open with his free hand as his occupied one gently rolls the kid until he’s lying in his curled fingers. From there it’s a careful drop into the pocket. 

He hears a soft shriek, but as he looks down to check on his cargo, there’s no sign of pain, only a bit of terror. That’s a win in his book. 

Offering a smirk, Mike gently pats his pocket to say the kid just needs to wait a little longer. To put words into action, he pushes himself off the floor before turning toward the hallway that leads to David’s office, keeping to the walls so a running hell spawn doesn’t barrel into him and give Fritz a jumpscare. 

He makes it to an all too familiar door without incident, giving a knock as he opens it to reveal a suited man hunched over his desk. 

“Hey, Douche Bag.” 

That earns him a glare over the shoulder. “This is why I regret taking your offer on covering shifts as a day guard. Why are you bothering me?” 

And that’s why Mike isn’t going to let David have his very own Pocket Fritz. It’s a privilege, not a right, and clearly their resident douche bag doesn’t deserve the honor. 

“Irish Jig feels like shit,” he begins. “I’m taking his ass home.” 

The business man hesitates before turning his chair to properly scold the dumbass trying to leave him two employees less than he was an hour ago. That’s Mike, he’s the dumbass. “What the hell did he do?” 

Mike shrugs. “Don’t know, some hell spawn might’ve had something. Or someone fucked up the pizza and poisoned his ass.” 

“Food poison. Say it properly so I don’t get another wonderful visit from a concerned parent’s lawyer,” David growls. “And I’m not dismissing either of you. As idiotic as it was for Scott to hire a doctor, he might as well be useful for once.” 

Mike hums in thought at letting James help care for the tiny Fritz. The guard agrees on the doctor not being a necessity, but his help is appreciated every time it’s offered. 

He glances down at his pocket for input. Meets wide green eyes before the miniscule head shakes vigorously. The kid has spoken, and that’s all he needs to shake his own head at David. “There’s no stitches for Snitches to sew. I’ll take him home so the poor bastard can die in goddamn peace.” 

The business man goes silent for a moment, most likely deciding whether or not the fight would be worth it. Finally sighs long and hard as he waves a hand. “Why Scott hasn’t fired you I will never know. But fine, go. You just earned yourself a ban from my restaurant until further notice, and Fritz coming into work two hours early tomorrow unpaid.” 

Mike gives a lazy sault to say he heard loud and clear. He then closes David’s door and makes his way to the front doors, glad to get off work a few hours earlier than expected. He doesn’t mind doing favors for the others, but damn do those day shifts love cutting into his sleeping hours, especially after particularly long nights. Thank fuck it’s Friday. After tonight’s shift he’ll have a full 24 hours to do shit all but sleep. 

As tired as he is, though, he won’t be crashing until he and Fritz come up with a plan to make sure David doesn’t call James on them if the kid doesn’t show up for his shift tomorrow. 

At the reminder of why he risked getting banned, he gently pokes the shivering ball huddled in his pocket. “You okay, asshole?” 

The kid looks so damn adorable as tiny limbs flail in the attempt to stand up. It only gets better when Fritz finally manages to, only to stand too short to see over the lip. “I’m-m okay. Thanks Mike.” 

“Anytime,” he smirks. “So did you fuck with shit, or did someone fuck with you?” 

“I think the second one?” Fritz murmurs, almost too soft for him to hear. “I don’t really no what happened. I-I was going to the kitchen to run an order out, and then the ground exploded and I fell under a table tiny.” 

Someone’s definitely fucking shit up with them. If he wanted to make a bet, he’d say it’s most likely William. Who else would shrink the poor kid without giving them a heads up. The son of a bitch is lucky Mike was able to find their Irish Jig before anyone else got their hands on him or else there would be hell to pay. 

“I don’t know about you, but I’m tired as hell. We’ll head to my place, see if this shit has a timer, and if not I’ll teach you how to be a badass night guard. Sound good?” 

Fritz nods his head. “Sounds good.” 

Mike has a feeling the kid’s just glad to have someone around to protect him. That’s why the guard’s here, to keep him safe while he does whatever the hell he wants to. After getting checked over for injuries. 

The rest of the walk is quiet. He checks on Fritz from time to time as the tiny figure learns the way of the pocket. He didn’t except it to be too much of a hassle, but apparently it’s a bit of a bitch to conquer. The minuscule flame of hair does finally appear after struggling for a good while to climb up to see the rest of the world. Then Mike ruins all the hard work by giving a poke to send the kid falling back into the pocket with a shriek. 

By the time Fritz makes it to the top again, Mike’s unlocking the door to his apartment. Perfect timing to let him scoop the kid up to lift up to his face as he walks to the couch to sit down. Gives a smirk at the startled expression he can now properly see. 

Without anymore distractions and no possibility of some asshole snatching Fritz away, he can finally make sure no bruises or broken bones made special appearances on this adventure. As long as the person he’s trying to check over lets him do his job, and Fritz curling into a ball as he shies away is a perfect example of that very problem. 

“I-I’m okay, Mike!” 

He raises an eyebrow. “When did that shit ever work for Jerber.” 

Fritz winces. “Never...but I’m okay, really! Promise!” 

“Don’t throw around that shit unless you mean it,” Mike warns as he nudges the kid’s side. Sees the brief look of pain before hands are attempting to bat him away. Despite how adorable it is, it’s not enough to distract him. “I know I’m a pain in the ass, but you’re hurt, and I need to make sure you’re not fucked up.” 

Nervousness suddenly turns into fear as Fritz stares up at him. “But, but you’re...” 

The quiet voice disappears as shivers start up. It takes a moment but he manages to figure out the terror’s being directed toward him. Mike leans back a bit to give the kid some space, watching the miniscule chest take a stuttering breath as the tense shoulders slump. 

“Think I’ll fuck you up more?” he guesses. 

“You’re so big,” Fritz admits, and then he’s being hit with puppy eyes as tiny arms gesture. “Your fingers are bigger than me! An-n-nd taller!” 

Honestly, he didn’t think it’d be too much of an issue. Fritz is tiny enough to fit in his pocket, but that doesn’t change the fact Mike’s responsible for him. Will haul his ass out of the fire any day and then check to make sure he’s okay even if what his own fault for getting hurt. 

Mike hums. “So you think I’d fuck you up more?” 

Fritz hesitates. Thinks it over before slowly shaking his head. “N-No.” 

Nothing else is said. Then the kid holds out his arm before turning his head away. The guard happily takes the permission to check the limb and delicately pinches it between his thumb and first finger. Feels the miniscule muscles tense as he carefully checks for any injuries. 

With a hum declaring it’s clean as he frees it, the opposite arm is immediately given. Then the legs at which Fritz stopped shaking and watched Mike work with fascination. 

Until he gets to the chest, the kid growing nervous again when he asks for the shirt to be lifted up. “I, um-m...I think it’s bruised.” 

“Let me see.” 

The puppy eyes don’t get Fritz anywhere. Finally the shirt’s lifted to reveal a dark bruise covering the kid’s chest. Mike looks it over before slowly placing his thumb over the ribcage, careful not to put any pressure. 

“Hurt like hell?” he asks when there’s no flinch. 

“Not anymore.” 

“How about your back?” 

Fritz’s brow crinkles in thought. “I don’t think so, it’s just sore.” 

That’s enough for Mike to gingerly pinch Fritz’s entire torso between two fingers. Watch for any grimaces or winces as he checks for broken bones. He finds nothing. Thank fuck. 

“Alright asshole, you’re good,” the guard proclaims as he pulls his hand away. “Was I a shit or mediocre Stiches?” 

“A good one,” Fritz grins. A grin that Mike takes as confirmation he’s finally allowed to get some sleep. 

Yawning as his hand forms a fist around the kid, he ignores the yelps in order to turn and lie completely on the couch. Once he’s settled Fritz is then set down on his chest beside the pocket he hid in earlier, just in case it’s wanted again. 

“M-Mike?” 

The worried call earns a hair ruffle Mike had been wanting to give ever since finding the shrunken bastard. Smirks unashamedly down at the tiny pout. “I’m going to take a nap. Do whatever the hell you want. Just yell if you need me.” 

“Oh! Um, okay.” 

With one arm tucked behind his head to act as a pillow, the other puts his security ballcap over his eyes to block out the sunlight before settling on his stomach. Just like that, he’s out like a light. 

Fritz doesn’t wake him up once with a yell for help. A few times unintentionally at the feeling of tiny footsteps walking across him, the most prominent one when Fritz decides to join his napping by crawling under his hand to curl up underneath his fingers. The only time he woke up completely to check on the kid was when the barely noticeable figure suddenly became too big to use his hand as shelter to keep out the afternoon light. 

As Mike lifts his hat to check on the kid still sleeping the day away despite having grown a full five feet two inches within seconds, he admittedly fells a little disappointed a pocket Fritz wouldn’t be joining him for work. A normal sized one might enjoy night guard training a little more, though. Be able to actually switch the cameras and punch the door button instead of just have to watch. 

At least David will be happy Fritz won’t be late to work. But Scott won’t be when Mike tells him about their eventful morning. 

That’s for later, though. He’ll tell his mentor tomorrow. 

Except he forgets to. Forgets about Fritz shrinking in the middle of his shift completely. Only remembers when he spots something trying to escape from the quicksand that is pop-up poppers behind the glass of the prize counter. A certain mechanic who isn’t supposed to only be worth ten tickets. 

Well shit.

[deceit-and-knowledge]

The squirming and teasing chuckle did it. Whatever last effort was holding back Shadow Milk snapped. He hissed something between a curse and a whimper himself and tried to drown his voice out in a firm and demanding kiss with Sage.

The eyes were full on hearts now. Tendrils free to wander, caress and coil around Sage's face and neck- yet somehow Shadow Milk still kept it as silent as possible.

A satisfied sigh sounded above them. "Alright, back to work. Can't be too lazy, or I won't make it home to dinner." The Janitor grunted and finally left the room...

But Shadow Milk didn't stop kissing Sage. Either not aware they were free to go or didn't care. - Umbrella Anon

( Welcome to I've probably never written anything so spicy before... >_>;; )

ooc: welcome to I have. 😓 (I'm not good at it. Lmao-)

sage jolts at the kiss, squirms and fidgets at the tendrils wrapping around him.

He can't make a sound, his hot face flushed with blue blush. His whole body feels warm. Very...warm. he clenches his fist, but not from fear. Oh no, far from it.

Indulging himself in a sinful form of self love, pleasure taking ahold of his brain he returns the kiss. Closing his eyes, not caring where it takes him.

his mind, clouded by a surprising fog of love vs lust can't care for reason anymore.

maybe it's just the dream? Maybe this is how sage truly feels. Surely another him would know himself better than he knows himself, mind, body and heart.

He feels breathless but it feels good. His own hair eyes sporting their own hearts, eyeing the kissing cookies.

[not-souleaterpost]

...

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

writing a version of mary's pilot death right now like. holy shit this is horrible and i can't make it stop?

[the-down-upside-finch]

The Time I Broke My Foot By Jumping Into a Swimming Pool

{"Eleven Truths and a Lie" Series}

For the context behind these stories: [X]

I was ten years old, or maybe twelve. My mom says I was probably eleven. Maybe it's a good thing I don't really remember when it happened—that the memory itself is vague and distant. Having a low pain tolerance usually makes these sorts of things more vivid in my brain, but not this time. (I wonder why that is.) The local rec center had two swim teams. I was a devil ray, having earned my spot after showing that I was faster than the dolphins that I had initially been grouped with. I had strong lungs, so I didn't have to breathe as often. I was made for the water—or so they said.

Sometimes the meets were every weekend, sometimes they weren't. I always had to go because I'd made a commitment, and they wanted me doing breaststroke for the IM race. We weren't allowed to have cell phones with us anywhere near "the deck" (as my coach called it), since it would be a risk to have electronics anywhere near the water. And so I handed my phone to my parents and left to go warm up. The team had been to this pool before—and we all knew the water was much colder than we were used to. It was lucky that they had a separate pool for the swimmers to warm up in. This particular place also had bleachers up on a balcony, making it feel more official than having the spectators crowded around the outer perimeter of the pool. I guess that's why they always held the local "championship" meets at this particular pool—because there was enough room for the thirty-and-something teams that attended. Eventually, it was time for my first event of the day. Had it been anything other than backstroke, I might have been all right. But it was backstroke, and you don't start on the diving block for a backstroke race. You start in the water.

At the ref's signal, I jumped in the water along with the nine other swimmers that had made it to the finals. I had forgotten that we weren't in the deep end. Instead of plunging into the nine-foot-deep water that I had been expecting to be beneath me, my legs buckled as I hit the bottom of the three-foot-deep shallow end. An entire foot of my height was still above the water. It hurt, but that was expected. I didn't have time to think about anything other than grabbing the handles on the diving block and pressing my toes against the side of the pool so I could launch myself backwards with as much power as I possibly could.

The garbled voice of the ref blared through his megaphone. "Set." We all pulled ourselves into position. The signal—which was kind of like a mix between the honk of a clown car, an angry goose, and an airhorn, all being played through an old intercom speaker—was given, and we all dove back into the water, dolphin-kicking with our whole bodies until we surfaced. I was always underwater the longest. The coach said that's what makes you faster. The longer you can stay underwater, the farther ahead you'll be when you get to the surface. When you see the flags, you start counting. I was short in height, but my arms were long—and I reached the wall in four strokes. It was a short race, so I didn't have to worry about flipping over and turning around. I just had to touch the wall. As everyone does if they care about times or scores, the first thing I looked at was the board with my name listed on it.

Third place. I didn't have much time to celebrate. The meet was running behind schedule, so they made us get out of the pool as soon as we slapped the wall. I grabbed the edge of the diving block and hoisted myself out of the water, exactly the way I had done a thousand times before. The pain that shot through my entire body when I tried to put weight on my foot was enough to take me to the ground. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even stand. Managing to half-hobble, half-drag myself to the corner where my team had set up camp, I collapsed on the slick stone floor and clutched my duffle bag, trying not to cry. I still had three more races that day—but my foot had been fine in the water, so it would all be okay. Right?

My parents were in the bleachers up on the balcony, completely unaware that their daughter had done something so bad to her foot that she couldn't even put weight on it. I wondered if my dad had gotten my collapse on video, since he recorded all of my races. My phone was safely away from the water, tucked in my mom's purse—completely useless. I was ten—or maybe eleven or twelve—and I had come face-to-face with a decision that I didn't have the mental capacity for: either tough it out for the team, or see to the needs of my own well-being. I was sobbing as I started trying to flag down my parents. I was so far away from the balcony, on the complete other side of the massive pool, unable to get any closer. I couldn't yell for help—couldn't make a scene bigger than the one I was already making. I had never felt so helpless.

Eventually, someone noticed. In a blur, I was suddenly in my dad's arms, being carried as fast as he could safely run to the car in the parking lot while my mom carried my bag. They put a towel on the seat, set me on top of it, buckled me in, and then we were off. I cried the whole way to InstaCare. "Does it hurt when I do this?" asked the doctor (or whoever was seeing to me), lightly turning my foot to rotate my ankle. She asked that same question several more times, doing something different to my foot each time she asked. I answered yes more than I answered no. Broken, was the verdict—more of a fracture, really, but still broken. I just didn't need a cast. We already had a pair of crutches at home for some reason, so that saved us an investment. There was no need to decorate my foot in brightly-colored bandage wrap—which we also already had a ton of, leftover from that time I ran over my own toe with a heavy metal door at school.

On the bright side, I got to wear a super cool boot to school—meaning I was the one kid that was allowed to wear something that wasn't a closed-toe shoe. And now I can tell people that yes, I once broke my foot by jumping into a swimming pool. I just thought it was going to be deeper than it was.

Taglist (please let me know if you want to be added or taken off): @my-cursed-prince, @athenswrites

[soratayuya]

Movies and TV shows are rated for their intended audiences: G, PG, PG-13, R, etc. Video games have similar ratings via the EA system. Fanfic and fanart has a much improved, detailed warning system that these other systems could benefit from. Not the reverse.

Tbh I think fandom generally needs to get better at sitting with the uncomfortable fact that a story/fanwork/meme/whatever can hurt one person and help another

[dreamersneverlose]

!!vent post!!

Cw: mention of sa, blacking out

Its a weird feeling when you open up to your therapist and closest friends about a night that happened years ago that you couldn't even think about without cringing and feeling so full of shame &like youre recounting your greatest sin and then they say something that shatters your whole perception of the situation and its just a sudden realization of like.

Oh! 

Right!

Me being blacked out drunk means I literally could not consent to whatever the fuck happened that night. &us having a prior experience before that night wasn't some kind of rolling or pre-consent. I was very vocal about how bad I felt after that first experience bc my partner at the time was equal parts upset i didnt text him right beforehand even tho we'd been discussing it for months and he was upset that because of the stress my miscommunication caused, I was no longer interested in pursuing that person and therefore no longer okay with my partner telling me about his fantasies with the 3 of us/his 3 way fantasies in general.

I blamed myself for years bc my shoulder was sore the next morning, and i was so confused bc I had had no intentions or intimate thoughts about this person between the two incidents and in my mind if I was the one doing the "work" I mustve been at fault. But I had an entire oversized bottle of wine to myself that night(not a smart move, much regret, I was 21 and stupid), and they told me id passed out on the floor and they "woke" me up to go to bed. I dont remember anything. I stopped hanging out with that person as much afterwards bc I felt like I couldn't trust myself to not have something happen again, since I didn't understand how it had happened at all. I will never truly know what happened that night, but it's such a jarring mental shift to go from feeling ashamed and feeling like I did something horrible to someone to being told that people who are blackout drunk cannot consent, period. There were two sober people in that room with me. I wish so deeply that they would've just left me passed out on the floor.

[mephisto-reporting]

Jealousy, Jealousy with Sylus

Plot: Reader becomes jealous of Sylus and MC's closeness, distancing herself and seeking comfort in another LI. Sylus notices her growing distance and takes action. Based on this request. Pairing: Sylus x Non MC reader Content Warning: Insecurities, injuries, mention of blood, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort Note: Reader is not the MC of the game. I think I got quite carried away writing this because I am a sucker for angst. [ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

The faint hum of the air condition echoed through the Onychinus base, its opulent, luxurious atmosphere doing little to distract from the knot twisting in your stomach. You stood across from Luke and Kieran, their crow masks tilted slightly as if to gauge your reaction.

"Boss isn't here today," Luke said casually, his hands tucked into his pockets. "He’s in Linkon, Boss man’s got other things to handle."

Kieran, his mask tilted slightly to the side, gave a confused grunt. "But I thought he was meeting with her...?"

Luke raised a brow, correcting him. "No, no, he was meeting with Miss Hunter."

Miss Hunter.

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, even though they shouldn’t have. You were a hunter too, an informant who had been feeding Sylus critical intel on the association’s movements for two years now. But she was different. Special.

Captain Jenna’s star pupil, with her rare Anhaunsen-class Resonance Evol, was someone Sylus had spent weeks trying to connect with, both literally and emotionally. You weren’t blind to the necessity of it; resonating with her was crucial for his goals, ones he hadn’t entirely shared with you but that you trusted him to pursue.

Trusted him. Loved him.

You forced a tight smile. "Thanks for the update. I'll let you two get back to it."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance, but you were already walking away, the echo of your boots swallowed by the hum of the base.

The ride back to Linkon was supposed to clear your mind. It didn’t.

The cool wind whipped against your face, but all it did was sting the tears pooling in your eyes. The road stretched endlessly ahead, yet the pressure in your chest only grew. Sylus hadn’t seen you in two months. Two months of unanswered calls and messages reduced to half-hearted responses when they came at all.

You understood why he was focused on her. She was crucial to his plans. She was everything you weren’t: poised, pretty, powerful, and, most importantly, someone he needed.

But understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

The world blurred around you as your thoughts spiraled. You had always known your place in Sylus’ life. You were the informant, the quiet insider who helped him stay two steps ahead of the hunters. Somewhere along the way, though, you had fallen for him. For the man who wasn’t as cold and calculated as others believed. It had been two long years since you started working with Sylus. Two years filled with secrecy, lies, and hidden truths. But over those years, you'd found yourself tangled in emotions for him that you couldn’t shake. Sylus, with his cold authority, his dangerous smile, his complex nature… He was all you could think about. He wasn’t as dismissive as people thought. He had a way of looking at you when no one was watching—a fleeting softness that you cherished, even if you couldn’t be certain if it was real.

And now, it felt like you were losing him.

Your bike screeched to a halt near Meow’s Café. You hadn’t planned to stop, but the sight of the familiar storefront tugged at you. Perhaps a coffee and a moment to breathe would help.

The glass windows glinted under the midday sun, and your breath hitched as you looked inside.

Sylus was there. With her.

They sat at a small table, a deck of Kitty cards spread between them. He was leaning back, his smirk in full display as she laughed at something he said. It was the kind of laugh that reached her eyes, the kind of moment you had only ever dreamed of sharing with him.

You froze, your hands tightening on your helmet.

For a fleeting second, you wanted to march inside and demand answers. To ask him why he had time to play cards but couldn’t return your calls. To tell him how his absence had hollowed you out.

But you didn’t.

He looks so happy... you thought bitterly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The truth gnawed at you. Every interaction, every ignored message, every unread notification on your phone—it was because of her. Because Sylus had more important things to do. She was the one who mattered now. She was the one who he had to resonate with, had to bond with, had to make fall for him.

And you? You were just a pawn, a tool—forgotten. And there you were. Alone. Watching through a window, the warmth of the cafe contrasting the cold, empty feeling in your stomach. He hadn’t even bothered to let you know he was back. He was with her. You couldn’t bear to watch any longer, but you couldn’t look away either. It felt like the world was spinning faster than you could catch up, and you were left stranded, dizzy, and abandoned.

Instead, you turned away, your chest tight and vision blurred. The world felt suffocating, the weight of your unspoken feelings dragging you down as you climbed back onto your bike.

It was for the best, right?

You couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t keep waiting for him, couldn’t keep fooling yourself that there was something real between you two. He was busy. He had her. And you.. well, you didn’t even know why you bothered anymore.

The ride back to your apartment was a blur of taillights and muffled engine noise. The city’s glow that usually brought you some sense of comfort felt glaring and alien tonight. By the time you made it inside, the suffocating silence of your small space was overwhelming.

For someone who prided herself on being strong and independent, you barely made it to your couch before the sobs overtook you. Hot, angry tears streamed down your face as you clutched a pillow to your chest, trying in vain to keep your cries muffled. It felt as though something within you had been ripped apart, leaving an aching, hollow void that throbbed with every thought of him.

You replayed the image of him at the café in your mind, over and over, as if some part of you wanted to punish yourself further. His smirk. Her laughter. The ease of their interaction. It contrasted so sharply with the heaviness that now weighed on your heart.

Every chime of your phone made you flinch, hope briefly sparking to life, only to be cruelly snuffed out when the screen lit up with messages from others—work updates, pointless notifications, or friends checking in. Nothing from him. Of course, there wouldn’t be.

You wiped at your face, your chest tightening as you scrolled through the last few conversations you’d had with Sylus. They were short, clipped responses. A "thanks" here, an "I’m busy" there. You’d convinced yourself for weeks that he wasn’t brushing you off, that his focus was just elsewhere. But deep down, you knew. You’d always known.

You weren’t as important to him as he was to you.

That realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and final. And yet, you tried to convince yourself it was okay. He doesn’t owe me anything, you told yourself, though the thought only twisted the knife deeper. He’s free to choose who he spends his time with.

But it didn’t stop the tears.

The days that followed were a haze of exhaustion and numbness. You threw yourself into your work, spending long hours tracking and confronting wanderers. The physical exhaustion helped, even if just a little. At least when you were in the middle of a fight, the pain in your chest was drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Still, the nights were the worst. Alone in your apartment, the quiet crept in like a suffocating fog. You tried to distract yourself—reading, cleaning, even organizing old mission reports. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to him. But it was impossible.

Each time you saw his name in your contacts, you hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the call button more times than you cared to admit, but the fear of hearing his indifferent voice stopped you every time. What would you even say? That you missed him? That you wanted to see him? That you’d fallen for him, even though you knew it would never be mutual?

No. You couldn’t do that to yourself.

You worked harder, pushed yourself further. Every wanderer you fought became a stand-in for your frustrations, your insecurities. You told yourself that if you could just stay busy enough, the ache would go away. But no matter how many missions you completed or how many late nights you spent staring at your phone, the weight in your chest never fully lifted.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted—physically and emotionally. But you were surviving. Barely. The bell above the door jingled softly as you pushed into the chocolatier’s shop, the rich scent of cocoa and vanilla wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The day had been grueling—hours of chasing leads, a narrow escape from a particularly aggressive wanderer, and not a single bite of food since morning. Your stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder that you’d been running on fumes for too long.

Rows of meticulously crafted chocolates gleamed beneath the glass counter, their perfect swirls and shimmering finishes almost too beautiful to eat. Almost. You leaned forward slightly, scanning the display, your reflection ghosting over the pristine surface.

Dark chocolate truffles. Raspberry ganache. Caramel hazelnut clusters. The options were overwhelming, and your indecision felt heavier than it should’ve. Your chest still ached from the lingering emotions you’d been suppressing all week. The quiet joy of the shop felt alien, like stepping into a world you no longer belonged to.

Just pick something and go, you thought, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. But the choices seemed endless, each one whispering promises of sweetness you weren’t sure you deserved.

"If you’re struggling," a soft, measured voice spoke behind you, "the pistachio crème chocolate is an excellent choice."

Startled, you turned, your gaze falling on a man standing a few steps away. Tall and lean, he exuded an understated confidence that was both intimidating and captivating. Dark hair fell in against his forehead, and sharp hazel-green eyes, softened by gold flecks peered at you from behind thin-framed glasses. His white doctor’s coat was open, revealing a simple black shirt beneath, and he held a small paper bag in one hand.

You blinked, caught off guard by both his suggestion and his presence. "Oh, uh… thank you," you stammered, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt. "I’ll… I’ll try that."

The shopkeeper nodded and carefully packed your selection as you stole another glance at the stranger. There was an air of calm authority about him, a quiet assurance that made you feel oddly exposed, like he could see straight through you.

He waited patiently as the shopkeeper handed you your bag, but just as you were about to leave, his voice cut through the quiet again—this time, more direct. "Chocolates shouldn’t be your first meal of the day."

The statement was delivered without malice, his tone stoic and matter-of-fact, yet it hit like a stone to the chest. Your lips parted in shock, the question forming before you could stop it: How does he know? But before you could say anything, he was already moving toward the door. The bells jingled softly as it closed behind him, leaving you standing frozen in place. The stranger’s words lingered, intertwining with the rest of your messy emotions. Your fingers clenched the small bag of chocolates as you tried to process the brief encounter.

A soft gleam on the floor caught your attention, breaking your spiraling thoughts. A wallet, its sleek leather worn but well-kept, lay just inches from where the man had stood. You knelt and picked it up, your heart thudding as you opened it to check for identification.

The name embossed on his hospital ID was like a jolt: Dr. Zayne. Your eyes widened. Doctor Zayne? The name was familiar—a renowned surgeon whose skills and precision were legendary, often described as a miracle worker. You’d imagined someone older, more weathered, not… this.

For a moment, you stared at the ID, piecing together the puzzle of the composed, enigmatic man who had called you out so effortlessly. You tried the number listed on a card tucked into his wallet, but it rang unanswered, the sterile monotone only adding to your frustration.

"Of course, he wouldn’t answer," you muttered under your breath, chewing your lip as you debated your next move. The idea of keeping his wallet overnight felt wrong, and leaving it here in the shop seemed equally careless.

That left one option.

The hospital loomed ahead as you approached, its towering structure illuminated against the evening sky. Anxiety gnawed at your insides, twisting with every step you took through the sterile white halls. You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge—maybe it was the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that had been haunting you lately, or maybe it was the lingering impression of Zayne’s knowing gaze.

At the reception desk, you hesitated, gripping the wallet tightly as you cleared your throat. "Hi, um, I’m here to return something for Dr. Zayne. He… accidentally dropped this."

The receptionist barely looked up, taking the wallet with a polite but indifferent smile. "Dr. Zayne isn’t in right now. I’ll make sure he gets this when he’s back."

"Oh," You nodded, murmuring a quick thanks before retreating back toward the exit. You thought nothing of this interaction as you left. You did what you thought was right and left the hospital back towards your apartment.

The days blurred together in a haze of work and routine. You buried yourself in assignments from the Hunter’s Association, throwing yourself into dangerous missions with a single-minded intensity. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Sylus messaged you once during that time, his tone professional as he asked for updates regarding a lead he was tracking. You’d responded quickly, sticking strictly to business. No pleasantries, no banter—just the information he needed. He didn’t press, didn’t call you out for your uncharacteristic coldness. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to say anything.

That night, you jogged through the dimly lit streets, your breath fogging in the cool air as you tried to exorcise the restless energy gnawing at you. The rhythmic slap of your sneakers against the pavement was grounding, steady. Jogging had always been your go-to, a way to clear your head and silence the endless stream of "what-ifs" and "if-onlys" that plagued your mind.

But no amount of movement could completely shake Sylus from your thoughts.

His voice, his presence—it clung to you, even now.

Why didn’t he ask how I’ve been? Why didn’t I?

You shook your head, annoyed at yourself. There was no point in dwelling. Sylus wasn’t the kind of person to give you what you wanted, and even if he did, could you trust it? Could you trust him?

The sound of skidding tires yanked you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Look out!”

Before you could process the warning, a cyclist veered wildly toward you, their momentum too strong to stop. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself. The impact hit like a freight train, and suddenly, you were on the ground, tangled with the bike and its rider. Pain blossomed sharp and hot in your knees as the asphalt scraped them raw.

For a moment, you just lay there, stunned. The world tilted unsteadily, the city lights smearing together like a watercolor painting.

“Hey, you okay?” The cyclist’s voice snapped you back. They were scrambling off you, helmet slightly askew but otherwise unscathed. You shook your head to clear it, wincing as you sat up. You pushed yourself up, shaking the dizziness from your head, and checked on the cyclist who had crashed into you. They were already scrambling to their feet, looking slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed, their helmet and guards having done their job.

“I’m fine,” you managed, even as your knees throbbed in protest. “Are you?”

“Yeah, thanks to the gear,” they said, pulling off their helmet to inspect a small crack along its surface. “Guess it did its job.”

Relief washed over you. “Good. Let me just—”

“Wait.” A different voice cut in, firm but calm. You stood there, still trying to regain your bearings when a figure appeared beside you, moving with a grace that immediately caught your attention. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw who it was. Dr. Zayne. The same man who had crossed your path in the chocolatier's shop just days ago. His sharp eyes locked onto yours, and for a split second, everything else seemed to vanish. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something more concerned as he took in your state.

Without saying a word, he immediately began assessing you, his gaze narrowing at the blood now staining your knees. You winced, feeling the sting of the cuts that had begun to bloom with a fiery intensity, but you were determined not to show it. You were used to pain—used to the sharp discomfort that came with being a hunter. You didn’t need help. You could handle this on your own. You’d always been able to.

But Dr. Zayne wasn’t having any of it.

His voice, low and steady, broke through the haze of your thoughts. "You’re bleeding. Those need first aid," he said firmly, his frown deepening as he glanced at your scraped knees. "Sit. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute."

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him you were fine, but the words caught in your throat. He wasn’t asking. His tone, though gentle, was authoritative—demanding in its own quiet way. There was something about the way he carried himself, that calm, unflinching presence, that made it impossible to argue.

"I’m fine, I am a hunter." you managed to say, your voice rougher than you intended. "I can handle it at home. Really." You tried to force a reassuring smile

“Is this a hunter thing?” he interrupted, one brow arching skeptically. “Are all of you this stubborn about basic care, or is it just you?”

The words should have been biting, but his tone was almost... patient. Like he was accustomed to dealing with difficult people.

You flushed, suddenly hyper-aware of the sting in your knees and the heat of his gaze. “I’m not being stubborn,” you muttered. “I just don’t want to bother anyone over something so small.”

“Small injuries have a way of turning into bigger problems,” he said, folding his arms. “And I’m not bothered. As a doctor, I’m asking you to wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Without waiting for your protest, he turned and strode off, leaving you no room to argue.

You sat stiffly on the bench, gripping the edge as the minutes dragged on. The ache in your knees was nothing compared to the gnawing discomfort blooming in your chest. Anxiety clawed at you, whispering insidious doubts.

He’s wasting his time on you.He probably thinks you’re pathetic and weak.Why couldn’t you have just gotten up and left?

Your fingers curled into fists, the tension radiating through your body.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your spiraling thoughts, and Dr. Zayne was back, carrying a small first aid kit. He knelt in front of you without a word, his hands steady as he cleaned the cuts on your knees. The gentle pressure of his fingers as he worked felt almost surreal. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was just… calm. You found yourself drawn to it, to the quiet that seemed to settle around him.

"You’re lucky," he said, glancing up at you as he bandaged your knees. "That could’ve been a lot worse."

You nodded, the words caught in your throat. There were so many things you wanted to say, things you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know where to start. So you remained silent, watching as he finished his work, his hands moving with the practiced precision of someone who had seen too many injuries to count.

When he was done, he straightened up and met your gaze. "You should be more careful," he said softly, his voice a little lighter than before, though there was still a note of concern underlying his words. "Next time, don’t run so late at night. You never know what could happen."

You forced a tight smile, the words feeling like they were coming from someone else. "I’ll keep that in mind," you said, your voice quieter now.

Dr. Zayne took a step back after finishing the bandages, his sharp gaze softening ever so slightly as he packed the first aid kit. You glanced at him, your mouth opening to thank him, but before you could get the words out, he said, almost in unison, “Thank you.”

Both of you froze, the simultaneous expressions of gratitude hanging awkwardly in the air. A surprised laugh slipped out of you, breaking the tension.

“You first,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I was just going to say thank you for… you know, helping with this.” You gestured vaguely toward your knees, the bandages clinging to your skin. “You didn’t have to.”

The moment stretched between you, awkward yet somehow comforting. Zayne gave a small, almost amused smile at the simultaneous gratitude, but his gaze softened when it landed on you, his concern still present.

"Thank you for returning my wallet," he said, his tone steady but with a hint of appreciation.

His words caught you off guard. “Oh, right! That. It wasn’t a big deal, really.” You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, avoiding his gaze. “I found it at the chocolatier shop. I figured it was better to bring it to the hospital than leave it lying around.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I appreciate it. Not many people would go out of their way like that.”

You tried not to let his kindness throw you off, but it wasn’t easy. There was something about Zayne that made you feel... small in a way you didn’t like to feel. He was kind, yes, but that kindness made you wonder if you were deserving of it. Why should you be the one he cared about?

But before you could dwell on that any further, his voice cut through your swirling thoughts.

"Have you eaten today?" His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity beneath it, one that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. It reminded you of that conversation in the shop, of how he had so effortlessly read through your tiredness.

The sheepish look that crossed your face must’ve been obvious, because Zayne sighed, the sound so deep that it almost felt like a reprimand. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture that was both familiar and surprisingly endearing.

“You’ve got to take care of yourself,” he said, his voice almost too gentle for the weight of his words. “It’s not healthy to go without food, especially if you’re going to keep running around like you hunters do.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him it wasn’t a big deal, but Zayne didn’t give you the chance.

"There’s a diner close by. It’s the least I can do to thank you for returning my wallet."

You shook your head instinctively, trying to backpedal. "It’s really not necessary," you said, but Zayne wasn’t having any of it. His eyes were firm, and there was an undeniable warmth behind them that almost made you feel guilty for refusing.

"Yes, it is," he replied, his tone steady but with a hint of finality. "Now, come on.”

You hesitated for a moment, the unease building in your chest like a brick wall, but the thought of Zayne’s calm, commanding presence made it impossible to say no. So, with a quiet sigh, you relented.

"I’ll pay," you muttered as he led the way, the words almost reflexive. You always felt like you had to pay your way—like it was your responsibility to do so, especially with someone who had helped you, even in the smallest of ways. You were used to standing on your own two feet.

Zayne only gave you a side glance, his lips quirking up in the barest of smiles. "No, you won’t. It’s my thank you, remember?"

The diner wasn’t far from where you had been, a cozy, low-lit place with a soft hum of quiet conversations and the clink of silverware against plates. The familiar scent of warm food—steak, mashed potatoes, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread—immediately filled the air as you stepped inside. You followed Zayne to a small booth in the back, the vinyl seats creaking under your weight as you slid in.

You wanted to say something—thank you, maybe—but the words felt stuck, trapped somewhere in the pit of your stomach, along with everything else that had been piling up for weeks. Zayne didn’t seem to notice, his focus already turning to the menu as he gestured for you to pick something.

You wanted to ask him more, to understand him in the same way you understood the empty streets you ran through, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just end up looking foolish. So, instead, you stared at the menu in front of you, unable to focus on the choices, as your mind churned with questions that had no answers.

Zayne ordered for both of you, his voice low as he made his choices, and when he looked at you, you caught a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity, or was it concern? It was hard to tell.

"You should eat more regularly," he said again, as though the words were a reminder he had to repeat for his own peace of mind. You nodded, letting the silence fill the space between you for a moment.

The food arrived, warm and satisfying, and you took a bite, surprised at how hungry you were despite the earlier denials. Zayne watched you for a moment, his gaze softening as you ate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it. His concern, his care—it felt too much. You weren’t used to people worrying about you.

But as the meal went on, you found yourself starting to relax, the initial tension loosening from your shoulders. Zayne was easy to talk to, his calm, steady presence settling you in a way you hadn’t expected. By the end of the meal, you felt... lighter.

"Call me Zayne," he said when the check came, his voice quiet but sincere.

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the request. "Zayne?" you echoed, testing the name on your tongue.

"Yes," he replied with a small, patient smile. "It’s easier than 'Dr. Zayne,' don’t you think?"

You blinked, taken aback. “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve earned the title—”

“And I’ll still have it in the hospital,” he interrupted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But here, it’s just Zayne.”

You nodded slowly, testing the name in your mind. It felt strange, almost too personal. But there was something grounding about it, too.

By the time dessert arrived, the knot of anxiety in your chest had loosened considerably. The warmth of the diner, the steady cadence of his voice, and the shared laughter over a poorly made joke had a way of pulling you out of your own head. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you weren’t obsessing over your failures or doubts.

As you finished your meal, Zayne pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. “Here,” he said simply. “Add your number. In case you ever need anything.”

You hesitated, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it probably was. But his expression was patient, expectant, and you found yourself entering your contact information before you could overthink it. When you handed the phone back, his lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Thanks again for returning my wallet,” he said, his tone lighter now. “And for the company.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but this time, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It’s not a problem,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

As you stepped out of the diner and into the cool night air, a strange sense of calm settled over you. Zayne walked you to the corner where your paths would diverge, his presence steady and reassuring.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The diner’s warmth lingered even as you stepped into the cool night air. For the first time in what felt like weeks, your chest didn’t feel as tight, the oppressive weight that had been bearing down on you now lifting slightly. You still felt the ache of Sylus’ absence—a hollow, gnawing sensation that seemed to creep in whenever you let your guard down, but it wasn’t as suffocating as it had been. Instead, a new sensation fluttered in its place, tentative and fragile: excitement. It was strange to feel this way, to look forward to the possibility of a friendship formed under such unlikely circumstances. Zayne’s calm demeanor, his steady presence, had surprised you.

As you walked, the sound of fluttering wings caught your attention. Instinctively, your heart skipped, your mind jumping to Mephisto. You tilted your head to the dark sky, half-expecting to see the telltale silhouette of his familiar. But it was just a cluster of pigeons, their wings catching the faint glow of the streetlights as they soared away.

Right. Of course. It was unlikely that Sylus was watching you tonight.

You exhaled, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and forced your thoughts away from him. Zayne had offered you a rare moment of normalcy, and you weren’t about to let your memories of Sylus overshadow that.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The following weeks were a blur of activity, and before long, you found yourself stationed at an outpost on the outskirts of Linkon. A metaflux surge had disrupted the area, and the temporary makeshift hospital was bustling with injured workers, hunters, and even a few civilians caught in the chaos. The air was thick with tension, the metallic tang of metaflux faint but persistent, a reminder of the unseen dangers that lurked just beyond the safety of the encampment.

Zayne was assigned as the doctor for the outpost, and you often found yourself crossing paths with him. At first, your interactions were brief—a nod here, a shared glance there—but over time, you began to talk. It started with simple pleasantries, discussions about the metaflux readings or the influx of patients, but it wasn’t long before the conversations deepened.

You learned that Zayne had a dry sense of humor, his sharp wit often catching you off guard. He’d tease you about your stubbornness, and you’d retort with a quip about his overly serious nature. Despite his professionalism, there was a warmth to him, a quiet compassion that made him easy to trust. And though you’d never admit it, you found yourself looking forward to those moments of shared laughter, those fleeting glimpses of something lighter amidst the chaos.

But even as your friendship with Zayne grew, Sylus lingered at the edges of your thoughts, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. The conversations you had with him were sparse and strictly work-related—updates from the Association, bits of intel you passed along to him. It felt transactional, a far cry from the intimacy you once shared. Yet, every time his name appeared on your screen, your heart still raced, betraying the fragile boundaries you’d tried to set.

One evening, a message from Sylus broke the monotony of your routine.

‘Come over tomorrow night, Darling. I have an exquisite wine I’d like you to try—procured it during a recent deal.’

The invitation was simple, almost casual. For a moment, you imagined it—the rich scent of wine filling the air, his sharp yet alluring gaze fixed on you as he poured you a glass. But reality quickly crept in, dragging you back to the present. You couldn’t go. You couldn’t risk it. Not when your heart was still so fragile, still aching in ways you didn’t want to admit.

You stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as your mind raced. The truth was, you wanted to see him. But you knew better. You had to keep your distance—for your own sake, if nothing else.

‘I’m tired..'

You typed, the words feeling hollow as they formed.

'Busy day tomorrow. Maybe another time.’

You hesitated before hitting send, the weight of the message pressing down on you. When his reply came, it was as simple as his invitation.

‘Okay.’

The finality of it hit you like a brick, and for a moment, you felt like your breath had been stolen away. He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. That empty “okay” hung in the air, leaving you with the quiet realization that, once again, you had lost yourself in the haze of someone else’s world.

You tried not to read too much into it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already moved on. That he didn’t care enough to fight for your attention. Instead, it felt like you were just a passing thought, like an aftertaste that wasn’t worth savoring.

Miss Hunter. The words echoed in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay behind your eyelids, but they pressed hard, a sting that never seemed to fully fade. You rubbed your forehead, trying to push away the thoughts. But even as you did, you couldn’t escape the suffocating feeling in your chest—the one that always came when you were reminded of how little you meant to him. You felt foolish, but you couldn’t help it. It was like you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to come back, to pull you back into his orbit with that practiced charm, that voice that made you feel wanted, if only for a little while.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dinner with Zayne had been a welcome reprieve. It had been two weeks since you last saw him, the demands of work pulling both of you in different directions. But tonight, seated across from him in a small, cozy bistro, you found solace in the familiar rhythm of your conversations. The mellow lights softened the sharp angles of his face as he recounted a mishap earlier in the week involving a particularly irritable patient.

His dry humor, paired with the subtle lift of his brow, drew a laugh from you—a genuine, light sound that felt foreign after the weight of recent days. For a while, the world outside blurred away. You weren’t Miss Hunter; you weren’t anything other than a person sharing a meal with a friend.

As the meal wound down, Zayne looked at you over the rim of his glass, his expression calm. “You’re doing better than when we first met.” he remarked softly.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Am I?”

He nodded. His calm demeanor always had a way of grounding you, and tonight was no exception.

The meal wrapped up with the two of you trading small updates and light banter. You paid for your half of the meal, Zayne insisting it wasn’t necessary, but you’d insisted back. There was a sense of normalcy here, something you weren’t willing to let go of easily. When you parted ways outside the diner, the night air was cool and quiet. Zayne’s warm farewell echoed softly in your ears as you waved goodbye and headed back toward your apartment.

As you walked, you felt lighter somehow. The stress of the past few weeks hadn’t vanished, but Zayne’s steady presence had reminded you of something important—moments of peace still existed, even in the chaos.

The faint scent of lavender greeted you as you unlocked your apartment door, a hint of the candle you’d left burning earlier. The lights were off, and the air felt too still—unnaturally so. Your heart skipped, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. A lump formed in your throat, panic curling its fingers around your chest.

You flicked the light switch, and the sudden brightness flooded the room, revealing the figure sitting on your couch. Sylus.

You froze. Your body stiffened, caught between fight or flight.

Your yelp of surprise filled the space, your pulse racing as you clutched the doorframe for support. “What—Sylus? What are you doing here?”

He was sitting on your couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest, his other hand resting on his knee. The dim light of the room softened the sharp edges of his face, but his expression was anything but gentle. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, tracked your every movement as if he were dissecting you with just a glance.

“How—what are you doing here?” you stammered, your voice shaky as your pulse raced.

Sylus didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze dragging over you slowly, deliberately. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken, and it made your skin prickle.

“Darling,” he finally murmured, his voice low and smooth, laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You look… exhausted.”

You blinked, still standing frozen by the door. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it was the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers tapped against his knee, that betrayed his underlying tension.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, your voice wavering as you took a cautious step forward. “It’s been a long day. What are you doing here?”

Sylus leaned back, the leather of the couch creaking faintly under his weight. “A long day,” he echoed, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yet you had time for dinner.”

“I…” you faltered, scrambling for a response. “It was just…”

“Just dinner,” he interrupted smoothly, his tone unreadable. “With… someone else.”

The air felt thick, charged with a tension that made your skin prickle. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still calm but his body language telling a different story. The way his fingers drummed against his knee, the slight clench of his jaw, the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

Your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. Why was he here? What did he want? And why did his presence—his very existence in your space—make your chest ache in that familiar, suffocating way?

“I didn’t think…” You stopped yourself, your voice trembling. “You didn’t say you’d be coming by. You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft as he rose from the couch, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Show up to see what’s wrong?”

Your breath hitched as he closed the distance between you, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming. “Nothing’s wrong…”you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that so?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his eyes boring into yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’ve been avoiding me, Darling.”

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.

“I’ve been busy…” you said weakly, your voice lacking conviction.

“Busy,” he repeated, his gaze flicking over you again, this time with something close to disdain. “Too busy for me, but not too busy for… him.”

Your hands fidgeted at your sides, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You wanted to move, to put distance between you, but your legs felt rooted to the spot. “I didn’t think dinner with a friend would..”

“Friend?” he interrupted, the single word slicing through your sentence. His lips curved into something that might have been a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, the anxiety swirling in your chest mixing with something else—something raw and painful that you didn’t want to name. The memories of your last exchange with Sylus came flooding back—the curt messages, the unspoken finality of his “okay.” You had tried to convince yourself that it didn’t matter, that you didn’t need his validation. But standing here now, under the weight of his gaze, you felt every crack in the fragile walls you had built to keep him out.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” you said finally, the words trembling as they left your lips.

His eyes softened slightly, but the tension in his posture didn’t ease. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, something important, but the moment passed as quickly as it came. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture so gentle it felt almost foreign.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that made your chest ache.

Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you. The words echoed in your mind, repeating, twisting, until all you could hear was the raw edge of betrayal laced in his tone.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, a little too loud in the quiet of your apartment. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you felt the space around you grow smaller. You couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think. All you could feel was the heat of anger building inside of you, raw and unrefined.

“That’s rich,” you scoffed, finally managing to find your voice. “That’s really rich, coming from you of all people.”

Sylus blinked, a subtle flash of surprise crossing his face, but it quickly masked over. His lips tightened, his brow furrowed ever so slightly, but it wasn’t enough. You had to push, you couldn’t hold back now. The words were tumbling out before you could even stop them. Your breath hitched, a strangled sob lodged somewhere in the back of your throat, but you refused to let it spill. You wouldn’t let him see you break—not like this, not in front of him. You knew the truth. He knew the truth. It hurt, yes, but you weren’t the one to blame.

“You've been treating me like a stranger for months,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger you hadn't fully realized was there. “Barely responding to my messages, not answering my calls, and when I do see you, it’s like you can’t be bothered. You don’t even see me.” You felt the weight of every unreturned message, every unanswered call, every promise left in limbo. “I’ve had to hear from Luke and Kieran that you’re in Linkon. But you couldn’t even make time to see me.”

You felt the ache deep in your chest, that familiar, suffocating knot forming. He didn’t deserve your pain. Not anymore. You wouldn’t let him have that. Not this time.

You took a shaky breath, suddenly feeling raw, exposed. “You don’t have to feel obligated to check on me, Sylus,” you said, your words clipped and cutting through the thick silence between you. “You don’t have to feel pity for me. I know where I stand. I know my place in your life.”

His expression, that unreadable mask, cracked for the briefest of moments. His lips parted, his gaze flicking to your face, then back down to the floor. His jaw clenched. But his eyes… They weren’t the same as they’d been earlier. The hardness was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous, something even more intimate. The storm was gathering, but it wasn’t just in the air—no, it was inside him too.

“You know where you stand?” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness you hadn’t noticed before. He took a step forward, his body closing the space between you, like a wave of raw energy crashing toward you. His proximity only made your pulse race faster, but you couldn’t back down. Not now.

“I’m just an informant, right?” you bit out, every word feeling like it sliced through the night air, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You don’t have to pretend you care, Sylus. So don’t stand there with that look on your face like I’m some important thing you need to check on.”

The air between you grew heavy, thick with unsaid words and stifled tension. Every inch of your body was telling you to get away, to shut down, to stop this before it tore you apart. But your feet felt heavy, stuck in place. Sylus’s presence was like gravity, pulling you toward him.

"You think that's all you are?" he murmured, his voice dangerously low, like the calm before the thunder. The way he said it made your heart stutter in your chest. It was both a question and an accusation or a challenge.

But there was something else in his voice. Something you couldn’t quite place. His eyes were intense, too intense, and they searched yours like he was looking for the answer. The truth.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he continued, his words clipped, as though they were difficult for him to say. “But I couldn’t....couldn’t make sense of it. Of you.”

It was the first time that he seemed genuinely vulnerable, and it left you breathless and confused. You had always wondered if there was more beneath his cold exterior. You had always told yourself that he cared. But you had never dared to confront him.

His hand was close enough now to reach out, his fingers barely brushing the edge of your wrist. The air between you was still thick with everything unsaid, everything unhealed. And yet, despite the words that had been thrown between you, there was something undeniably magnetic in the tension. The ache in your chest, the rawness, the feelings of betrayal—they didn’t wash away just because you said them out loud.

God, you hated him for this.

But part of you yearned for him. That part that still felt tethered to him, despite the distance.

Sylus’s fingers hovered over your wrist, his touch like fire against your skin. For a moment, the storm between you calmed, leaving only the faintest echo of it behind. The weight of his gaze, the force of his presence—it seemed to drown out the rest of the world.

He said nothing for a moment, his lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. His eyes darkened further, not with anger now, but with something you couldn’t quite define.

You took a breath, your body suddenly feeling too small beneath his gaze. The storm was still inside. You had to move away. Your heart pounded as if it were trying to escape your chest, desperate to flee from whatever was stirring inside you. You couldn't—no, you wouldn’t—let yourself get caught up in whatever this feeling was. You were not some fool, ready to throw everything away for the temporary pull of his presence. You knew better than that. You had to.

Every instinct screamed at you to retreat, to put some distance between you and the mess of emotions bubbling under your skin. His sharp gaze was enough to make your knees tremble, and it took everything in you not to look back, not to let him see the quiet devastation that flickered inside you.

“You need to leave… Sylus.” You whispered. You staggered back a few steps, your breathing shallow, desperate. Your feet felt like lead, yet you forced yourself to walk away. You turned your back to him, willing your legs to move, hoping to escape before you got sucked into whatever dark vortex of feelings he was drawing you into.

He didn’t move. Instead, you heard the familiar click of his boots against the floor as he took a single, deliberate step forward. “Why?” His voice, low and curious, sent a shiver down your spine. It was almost too intimate, as if he were searching for a piece of you, trying to understand what you couldn’t explain.

You didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the quiet confusion on his face—the faint flicker of disappointment that stung like salt in an open wound. You couldn’t let him see your weakness, couldn’t let him know how badly it hurt to be around him, how badly it hurt not to be around him.

“Is it so you can run back to your precious ‘friend’?” The words dripped with something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist.

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when his voice—that voice, the one that threaded through the air like silk—was digging into your mind like this. The word echoed in your ears, almost mocking you, and you felt something fragile snap inside you. The weight of the years you’d spent keeping distance, of guarding your heart against him, against whatever he made you feel, started to unravel. But you couldn’t let it.

You took another step away from him. One more step, you told yourself. Just one more. You didn’t need this.

Dark tendrils wrapped around you as you move, pulling you back. He was using his evol to pull you back. You didn’t need him pulling you in again. But then it came. That touch. He pulled you to him, forceful yet intimate, and your breath caught in your throat. You were too close. Too close to the edge of losing yourself, of falling into his presence.

His hands...no, his fingers—snaked around your waist before you even knew what was happening. You gasped, body going stiff in surprise, but his grip tightened, pulling you back into him. You tried to keep moving, tried to pull away, but it was useless. His hold was ironclad, his presence consuming. His grip tightened slightly, but there was an almost comforting pressure there, a subtle reminder that despite the dispute between you, there was something undeniable between the two of you.

“Why are you running?” His voice was a whisper against your ear, the words smooth like silk, but there was something jagged beneath them—something urgent, raw.

You struggled to hold yourself together, but the more you fought it, the more it pulled—this unbearable need to lean into him, to give in to the chaos that his proximity stirred in you. You knew you shouldn’t, but everything in you wanted to. You felt the ache of wanting something you couldn't have, the sting of the distance you had put between you and the thing that was somehow both poison and relief.

His hands tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your ribs in a movement that sent a jolt through your entire system. The words you wanted to say, the reasons you needed to get away from him, all felt so small and pointless now. How could you possibly explain this? This tension, this pull? How could you say that being near him felt like the most excruciating thing in the world, but also the only thing that made you feel alive?

“You’re not just an informant to me,” he breathed, his words slipping under your skin, curling into the tight spaces of your chest. “I didn’t realize I was hurting you this much. That you’d want to distance yourself from me...” His tone softened at the end, but it only made everything worse. The tenderness in his voice—his tenderness—was like a dagger in your side, making the blood in your veins freeze. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could hear was the deafening rush of your own heartbeat. You tried to stay composed, but the words were caught in your throat, and your body was still pressed so tightly against his, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding painfully against your ribs.

Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t you just say it—say that you couldn’t let him get close again? That you couldn’t survive another wound, another aching, empty feeling in your chest because of him? But the way his hands tightened, the warmth of his body against yours, made everything you were feeling a little too real.

You could feel his heartbeat against your back, the rhythm in sync with your own, and the pull of him was growing stronger. You could feel your anxiety bubbling up, the gnawing fear at the pit of your stomach. Was this just him toying with you? Was he trying to pull you into his world of darkness and manipulation? Or did he really care?

Your head was spinning. The emotions warred within you—anger, confusion, guilt, and something else. Something that made your heart race faster and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

“Let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm that raged around you.

But you didn’t pull away. You didn’t push him off.

Sylus' grip on you tightened, his arm like a steel band around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His chest rises and falls against your back as his breath brushes against your ear, warm and heavy. It’s as if he’s afraid, like if he lets go for even a second, he’ll lose you forever. You can feel the tension radiating from him, but also something softer, something desperate.

“No, Darling,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with emotion, his tone possessive, as though the very idea of you slipping away shatters him. “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.”

"You’re going to stay," He pulls you even closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks again, quieter this time, but laced with something raw and vulnerable. "...and you’re going to listen to me. I won’t let you walk away from this."

You can hear the flicker of something beneath his words—regret. And then, his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, lingering just a little longer than necessary. He slowly spins you around, to face him. His voice softens, almost apologetic. “I know I was a dick. I know I didn’t respond to you, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know how to handle it… handle us. It confused me, and instead of facing it, I pushed you away.” His breath catches slightly, and you feel his chest tighten against your back.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face slightly toward him, his thumb brushing over your skin as though it’s a promise, an apology. The weight of his gaze is intense, but there’s also something tender there, something that wants to pull you back in, closer. “I know you’re still hurting, darling. I see it. And I... I’ll spend a lifetime making up for it, because that’s what I want. A lifetime. With you. Not as some informant or some... thing, but as my beloved. You. By my side. Always.”

He pauses, letting his words hang in the air between you. His voice drops, the quiet sorrow of his confession sending a twinge of guilt through you. "I don’t have the right to ask this of you, I know," Sylus continues, his voice thick with emotion. "But seeing you push me away… It’s harder than I ever thought it would be. Harder than I want to admit." He presses his forehead lightly against your temple, his breath shaky. "I’ve never needed someone the way I need you, and I didn’t know how to tell you that. But I do. I need you."

You can feel him tense slightly, the shift in his demeanor telling you that his thoughts have turned darker. His voice lowers, the jealousy evident in the way he speaks, though it’s wrapped in a softness that almost makes it harder to bear.

"And Dr. Zayne... I can’t stand the thought of him being so close to you," Sylus adds, his voice low and thick with a possessiveness that unsettles you in its intensity. "It kills me, you know? Watching him with you, hearing you laugh like that with him, as if I don’t even exist." His arm tightens again, almost painfully, as if he needs to remind you, remind both of you, where you truly belong. "I know I have no claim on you... but... I can't help but feel like there’s a part of you that wants him in a way that... I can't compete with." His voice hardens, jealousy dripping from every word. "It eats at me, knowing he has a part of you that I’m fighting for."

"Sylus..." Your voice cracked slightly as you repeated his name, your breath hitching, caught in the tension between you. His name felt heavy on your tongue, like it was both a question and an answer. You had never said it so quietly, so vulnerably. The memories of earlier came rushing back—him with her, that delicate smile he gave her, the way she leaned into him just a little too comfortably. It had burned in your chest, the jealousy creeping in with a venomous ache.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, too fast to gather, too painful to hide. "I felt the same... when I saw you with her," you confessed, swallowing thickly. "I felt so... so useless, Sylus. When I saw you with her, it felt like... like she was everything you needed. Better than me. And that... it broke me, Sylus. I felt like I wasn’t enough, like I wasn’t... worth it.”

The words stung, bitter and unrelenting, but the weight of them was finally lifted as you let them spill out. You felt exposed, naked in your insecurity, but somehow, it was all you could do to stand there and wait for him to respond. You could feel the weight of it, of how small you’d felt in that moment, how unworthy you had become in your own eyes. The self-doubt gnawed at your insides, each thought of her with him twisting like a knife in your gut.

Sylus’s expression softened, his features melting into a tender sadness, as though he were seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you. His hand reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid to shatter the fragile space between you. His touch was a gentle comfort, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his voice a low whisper, "Darling, you're none of that... none of it, I swear."

You shook your head, feeling the tears threatening, but you couldn’t let them fall, not yet. His words were kind, but the ache in your chest was still there, an unhealed wound.

He continued, his voice steady but thick with something deeper. "I didn’t know you felt that way... about her, in the same way I feel about Zayne." His gaze met yours, and for the first time tonight, it wasn’t uncertain. It was so gentle, so soft, tender. "But you need to know, you're it for me, Darling…" he murmured, his fingers curling around yours, grounding you in the quiet storm of your emotions. "Yes, I want help from her, but..." He paused, as if weighing his words carefully, "...I need you more." His words were a balm to the wounds that had festered within you, but the tenderness in his eyes was what finally reached you. His hand slid down to your shoulder, his thumb grazing the skin there. His warmth surrounded you, and you let yourself sink into the comfort of his words. The jealousy, the insecurity that had burned so fiercely in you when you saw him with her, melted in the face of the tenderness he was offering now.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself as your heart raced, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming. “Zayne… Zayne’s just a friend,” you said, your voice fragile but firm, “someone who helped me... helped me see past the stuff in my head. After everything, I just... needed someone to remind me that I’m not broken.”

Sylus's eyes softened even more, the depth of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. He nodded slowly, his expression filled with understanding. The tension between you didn’t disappear entirely, but it was now laced with something more tender. More real.

“You’re not broken, Darling.” he repeated, and there was a quiet strength in his voice, something that made you believe him more than you ever had before. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed... and more.”

"I... I’m sorry," you whispered, a lump in your throat as you looked up at him. "I never wanted to make you feel like I didn’t care. I just... I was afraid you’d choose her over me."

Sylus’s fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours. "You never have to apologize for that, Darling." he murmured, his voice warm, his breath mingling with yours. “It was my fault and I accept that.”

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of your breathing, as Sylus stood before you, his face drawn with intensity. The flickering light from the lamp cast soft shadows across his features, but his gaze... his gaze was sharp, focused entirely on you.

"I love you, Darling" he said, his words lingering in the air as though they were the first time he had allowed himself to say them out loud. "I’m in love with you," he confessed, his voice steady despite the raw emotion that tinged it. "I’ve been in love with you for a while now, and I’ve tried to deny it. Tried to hide it from you and myself, but I can’t anymore. I won’t. I love you, and I need you to know that."

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught in your throat. Everything in you froze, then splintered. The confession, so pure, so vulnerable, hit you with a force you hadn’t been prepared for. You stood there, unable to move, a mix of surprise and relief flooding your chest.

He loves you. Sylus. The one you had longed for, yearned, and hoped for in silence. Your heart stuttered in your chest, the world around you growing impossibly still.

"I…" you whispered, voice trembling, and you had to stop, had to steady yourself before the words could spill from your lips. "I’ve love you too," you said, your voice barely more than a breath, but it carried all the weight of everything you had kept inside. "I’ve loved you, and I never told you because I was afraid. Afraid that I was asking too much. Afraid of the rejection. Afraid that I wasn’t enough."

Sylus’s expression softened, his lips curling into a frown as he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands reached for you, but not in the way you had feared or expected. They were gentle, his touch a plea for understanding. "Oh, darling," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you ever felt like you needed to hide it from me."

He reached up, brushing his thumb along your cheek, and you flinched slightly, your emotions suddenly overwhelming you, raw and untamed. "We’re both idiots," he continued, his voice almost tender with the weight of the admission. "We’ve been skirting around each other, afraid of saying the one thing we both needed to say."

Your laugh came out soft, almost fragile, the tension in your chest breaking for the first time since Sylus had walked into your home. It was a quiet sound, but it was the first time you’d laughed all night, the first time you’d allowed yourself to feel something other than fear or uncertainty in the past few weeks with him involved. But that laugh didn’t last long. As soon as it came, the tears followed, the ones you had been holding back for so long, finally slipping free. The dam you had built up crumbled, and before you could stop them, hot tears streamed down your face. before you could even reach up to brush them away, his hand was there, steady and warm against your cheek.

"Don’t," you whispered, your voice thick with the ache you could no longer hide. "Please, don’t look at me like this. I’m—"

"Stop," Sylus interrupted softly, his hand holding yours gently, his gaze unwavering. "Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you… everything you’ve been hiding. I know you think I don’t see it, but I do." His eyes locked onto yours with such intensity that you couldn’t look away. "I see it when you think I’m not watching. I see the way you pull back, the way you hide the parts of you that you think I can’t handle. But I am looking. I’ve always been looking. And I don’t want you to hide anymore. Not from me. And I’m here and I want all of you."

His words were a medicine to the parts of you that had been bruised, the parts that had feared being exposed, vulnerable. But in his eyes, there was only love. No judgment. No pity. Just... love. And it was enough. It was more than enough.

The tears that had slipped down your face slowed, but they didn’t stop. You didn’t try to wipe them away this time, allowing yourself to be seen for the first time in ages. The sobs that followed were soft but trembled with relief, with something finally breaking open inside of you.

Sylus’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close, holding you in the kind of embrace that made you feel as though you could finally breathe, as though the weight of everything you had been carrying could finally be set down.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, almost broken. "I’ve been so scared, Sylus. Scared of this, of being cast away... of losing you."

"You’ll never lose me, Darling." he murmured, his voice firm and unwavering as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

You tilted your head back slightly, your face still damp with the remnants of the tears that had fallen, and through your wet lashes, you searched his face. Sylus held you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that made you feel safe, even as the doubts lingered in your heart. You wanted to believe him, but the fear, the uncertainty, was still there, buried deep beneath the surface.

He must have seen it in your eyes, the way you still hesitated, the uncertainty you couldn't quite shake. Sylus made a half-frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his hands tightening around you for a split second, before they slid up to cradle your face. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, a tender, pleading touch, before he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a sudden, urgent kiss.

The kiss was unlike any other. It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t soft. It was intense, filled with desperation, as though he needed you to understand just how deeply he felt for you, just how much you meant to him. His hands cupped your face, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered in that moment, as if the world had stopped turning just for you. His lips pressed against yours with a kind of fire, but it wasn’t angry, no. It was passionate, desperate in its own way, like he wanted you to feel how important you were to him, how much you had been wanted, loved.

Your hands trembled as they reached up, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to bridge the distance between you, as though the kiss itself could erase every lingering doubt in your heart. Your breath hitched when you felt his pulse quicken under your touch, his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of your own. Each breath you took seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, mingling with the heat of his kiss, our lips moving together with a quiet urgency, the world beyond the two of you fading into a distant blur. You felt everything—every brush of his fingers, every subtle shift of his body against yours, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palms, how his breath felt against your lips as if he couldn’t get close enough to you.

Your chests rose and fell together, the world spinning around you. You could feel the heat of him, the urgency that still lingered in his touch, the way he kept you close, almost as if he were afraid to let go.

Breathing became an afterthought, both of you gasping for air when the kiss broke, but neither of you pulled far enough away to lose the connection. Sylus’s forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he whispered, voice still heavy with emotion. “Every day, from henceforth, I will work to make sure you never feel the need to doubt yourself. Not in my life. Not with me." His words, slow and deliberate, sank deep into your heart like a promise he would keep.

The intensity of the moment hung between you both, the room still, save for the soft sound of your breathing as you both slowly came back to reality. But in his eyes, you saw nothing but certainty—certainty that you were enough. That you always had been.

His hand found yours again, fingers weaving with yours, and he gave it a gentle squeeze, as if the simple touch was a quiet reassurance.

"You are everything to me," he murmured, his voice steady now, grounding you as much as his embrace. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, absorbing his words, his warmth, his certainty. In his arms, you could feel the truth of his promise, somewhere deep inside, the doubts began to fade.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him. And when he kissed you again, this time softer, it was like the beginning of something new.

[ A disclaimer note - Please be respectful of the request ]

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

If you like my work, you can buy me a Ko-fi. (Tips are not expected, so don't feel pressured to do so.)

[artficlly]

show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

you were born a mutant, gifted with the power to manipulate bodily sensations. until now, you've only ever used it to cause pain. but now, stuck in a remote safehouse with bucky for the next few months, tension crackles between you. when you finally confess that your ability can also bring pleasure, he looks at you differently, more than a little curious to experience it first-hand. 

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, magical smut??, fingering, edging!!, praise kink, so much sexual tension, vague enemies to lovers, forced proximity, lowkey brat reader at times??, soft dom! bucky (at times), kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), protective!bucky, grumpy!bucky, bodyguard!bucky, mention of torture, wound description, injuries, mention of human trafficking, hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, reader has survivors guilt, reader is horny lol, use of the pet name sweetheart, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

A/N: hi this is a fucking monster of a fic. i've been working on this for weeks now. if it flops i might cry and go die in a hole. pls like/reblog/comment etc <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

In the short time you had been acquainted with Bucky Barnes, you had quickly learnt three things. 

One, he didn’t talk much, if at all. Most of your conversations consisted of little more than grunts, terse glances, or unimpressed scowls. He didn’t ask questions, nor did he answer them. At one point, you suspected he might have had his tongue cut out. That changed when you began to hear him muttering under his breath as he stomped past, his heavy boots reverberating through the safehouse. ‘Securing the perimeter’. Always the same phrase, always delivered in the same grim tone.

Two, he was paranoid. He never turned his back on you. Always kept you in his line of sight. There was always a weapon within arm’s reach. He checked every door and window twice. His movements were systematic, almost compulsive. He prowled the safehouse like an animal on the hunt, slipping into view when you least expected him. More than once, he’d startled you so badly you’d dropped something. A shattered coffee mug still lay in the trash as proof. And each time you flinched, his eyes would narrow slightly, suspicious, as if trying to decide what exactly you were hiding, why someone like you could be so easily spooked. You didn’t know what his employers had told him, but obviously it was not the whole story.

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

You bit your tongue more often than not, swallowing every snide remark that burned its way up your throat. Surprise, I don’t want to be here either, assshole. But you knew better than to lash out at the only person you'd be stuck with for the next few months. The only person standing between you and whatever might come crawling out of the woods. Protection wasn’t something you could afford to alienate.

The officials who dumped you here had been full of promises. They said you’d be safe, hidden, far from the reach of the Menagerie. They told you to wait. This storm would pass, and when it did, you could return to your everyday life.

But after two years under the Menagerie’s thumb, normal didn’t exist anymore.

What even was normal?

This safehouse felt like the eye of a hurricane, but you could sense the storm circling just beyond, the pressure building in the air, the wind pressing at the windows. It was only a matter of time before it rolled over and consumed you whole. And maybe that was the truth of it, that you were already in the belly of the beast, already chewed up and digested. There was no normality to return to.

There never would be again.

The safehouse sat on a stretch of farmland, tucked far enough from the world that it felt like the end of it. No internet, no cell service, not even a TV. Just enough power to keep the lights on and the water running. It was midsummer, and the air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the scent of clover and sun-warmed hay. At night, the frogs and cicadas sang in overlapping rhythms, insects tapping softly against the mesh of the window screens. Rolling meadows stretched in nearly every direction, grass tall and wispy, swaying lazily in the breeze, cattle grazing along the fence line. Beyond the weather-worn red barn, the woods waited. You could sometimes hear deer calling in the dusk, birds chattering high in the canopy.

You’d tiptoed downstairs about a week after your arrival, barefoot on the old wood planks, a floral sundress brushing your shins as you crept through the lounge. The sky outside was streaked with soft orange and watercolour pink, the quiet hush of dawn holding everything still. Bucky was asleep on the couch again, arms folded across his chest, his boots still on. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was always here, not in the bedroom just across the landing from yours.

You hadn’t asked why.

Maybe he was afraid he wouldn’t hear someone break in. Maybe he didn’t trust doors. You were half convinced he’d sleep on the porch if you hadn’t caught him doing it once and given him a look harsh enough to make him reconsider. Not that it mattered, he seemed to wake at the slightest shift in the air. Twice already, you'd startled him by just breathing too loudly on your way to make morning tea, trying to be as quiet as possible as you filled the kettle and set it to boil. 

This time, he didn’t stir. Or maybe pretended not to, just so that he could avoid your regular awkward morning exchange. You slipped past him, easing open the front door, wincing as the screen squeaked. The sun hit you square in the face, gold and blinding, warm even this early. You stepped out into the grass with a long breath and crouched, brushing your fingers through the delicate strands as the world slowly began to stir.

The farmhouse had a few animals, just enough to feel lived-in. A small coop of chickens, a handful of cattle, and a scraggly white barn cat who seemed to claim the place as her own. You called her Alpine, after the word etched into one of the barn beams above the old hayloft she slept in. Whoever carved it there had long since disappeared, but the name remained, half-claimed and half-given.

“It’s not safe out here alone.” The gruff voice shattered your moment of peace, and you jumped, heart lurching in your chest.

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders bracketed by the frame, thick arms folded across a chest that strained the seams of his faded henley. He was massive in a way that made rooms feel smaller, as though the very architecture had to shift to accommodate him. 

Even when still, he gave the impression of movement barely restrained, like some great machine idling under the surface. His frame was built like something forged rather than born, towering over you with muscle carved deep into every inch of him, from his sculpted chest to the veined forearms visible beneath pushed-up sleeves. 

His stance was always solid, unmoving, as if the earth itself would sooner shift than he would. The glint of his vibranium arm caught in the low morning light, brushed in gold from the rising sun, each plate moving in smooth precision as he adjusted his stance.

His face sported an unimpressed scowl, his jaw shadowed by stubble, brows drawn low over stormy blue eyes that swept the fields behind you with disinterest. And though he said nothing, you could sense his irritation as clearly as the heat rising off the sun-touched grass. 

He had a particular hatred for you being outside alone. Most days, he’d trail after you reluctantly, watching with narrowed eyes as you wandered the fields for an hour or two. When his patience wore thin, he’d herd you back inside like a sheepdog. He preferred enclosed spaces. Contained. Controlled.

Places where he could see you—track you—where your every movement could be accounted for.

You were beginning to feel like you escaped one prison just to enter the next. 

“You gonna roll around in it next, sweetheart?” he called, voice stern with impatience.

Sweetheart. That damn condescending nickname. It wouldn’t have got under your skin so much if it didn’t make your stomach twist and flutter every time it rolled off his tongue.

You didn’t answer, but you could feel his gaze like a weight between your shoulder blades. Any second now, you wouldn’t put it past him to stomp into the grass and haul you inside himself, fingers fisted in the back of your dress like he was pulling a wayward stray by the scruff of its neck.

“Come on. Inside,” he barked again. “I haven’t checked the perimeter yet.”

Ah. Of course. The perimeter. God forbid a tree shifted in the wind without his knowing.

Suppressing an eye roll, you finally pushed to your feet, brushing bits of grass from your palms. The porch creaked under your steps as you ascended, pausing as he stepped aside with his usual stern silence.

You gave him a sugar-sweet smile as you gripped the handle of the screen door.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” you said, voice light but laced with venom. “Go check your precious perimeter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer, but the scowl that crept across his face said enough. He caught the bite in your tone, felt the edge beneath your pleasantry.

You didn’t wait for a response. The door snapped shut behind you, a little harder than necessary, rattling the frame.

—

The next time you saw Bucky was early afternoon. You’d been irritated enough to barricade yourself in your tiny room, thumbing through the stacks of old paperbacks until you finally landed on something vaguely interesting. It was some tacky romance novel that was amusing enough not to let your mind wander, but not quite good enough to engulf you completely. 

Though, eventually, it was hunger that won your imagined standoff, your stomach growling so loudly you were half-convinced it had gained sentience and was protesting its conditions.

Bucky was still on the couch, right where you’d left him hours ago. You couldn’t make out what he was doing from the doorway, his broad shoulders alone blocked most of your view, but he appeared to be fiddling with something in his hands. You didn’t ask. You weren’t in the mood for another grunt in place of conversation. Instead, you turned sharply into the kitchen without a word.

The safehouse was well-stocked, rows of canned goods crammed into the cupboards, their faded, illegible labels boasting things like beef stew, baked beans, and mystery meat in gloopy gravy. There were jars of peanut butter with oil slicking the top, stale crackers sealed in military-grade packaging, and boxes of instant mashed potatoes that looked more like powdered chalk than food. 

On better days, you had the garden out back, knobbly carrots, bitter greens, the occasional undergrown zucchini, and the chickens, who begrudgingly gifted you eggs when they felt generous. You found yourself wishing for a dairy cow, not that you had any idea how to milk one, just to be free of the powdered imposter you stirred into your coffee every morning. Whatever it was, it tasted like plaster. 

You could feel Bucky’s gaze flick toward you through the doorway. You didn’t look up, instead pretending to study the cans as if they held the answers to life’s greater mysteries, silently tossing up between which mystery soup you would try today. 

Before the Menagerie, you’d loved to cook, baking especially. Anything stuffed with chocolate chips or drowned in frosting had your full attention. But you dabbled in savoury dishes too, the kind your mother used to call ‘real people food’. The two of you would stand shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, elbows knocking as you bickered over seasoning or whether the onions were truly caramelised. Your father and brother would crowd around the TV, shouting and drinking cold beers while watching the big game.

You swallowed hard at the thought of it. You wondered where their headstones lay, if they had even been buried at all. Who would’ve organised their funeral? That thought soured quickly, festering as your eyes dropped to the stove. The idea of putting time and care into a meal now felt wrong. Hollow. Maybe two years ago, you would’ve tried, scavenged herbs from the garden, scrubbed the vegetables clean, dared to open one of the suspiciously labelled cans of meat. But today, it felt like a step too far.

Bucky didn’t cook for you. It was clear from the start that you were on your own in that regard. A true fend-for-yourself arrangement. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen him eat a single bite since your arrival. You weren’t even sure the man had taste buds.

Mystery soup it was. 

Your curiosity got the better of you. You stole a glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. He was still planted on the couch, and for the briefest second, his gaze met yours before flicking away again. He turned toward the empty fireplace, posture drawn tight like he was trying to fold himself out of sight, which, of course, failed rather comically since he was a beast of a man.

You sighed and pulled two cans from the shelf, the metal clinking dully as you set them on the counter. You’d heat the soup for both of you, maybe as a peace offering, maybe just an effort at civility. Either way, it felt a little ridiculous. But at least you could say you tried.

—

You dropped one of the bowls onto the coffee table with a soft clack, Bucky blinked, slightly startled, his eyes flicking from the bowl to you as you sank down cross-legged on the floor across from him, the wood grain sticky against your thighs.

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

He didn’t answer at first, still hunched over the thing in his hands, something metal and half-disassembled, probably a weapon. His shoulders shifted, just barely. Like the faintest show of surprise, or maybe gratitude he didn’t know how to express. 

“Bit hot for soup,” he muttered, glancing toward the window. He wasn’t wrong. The sun had been relentless all day, and the old farmhouse was holding the heat like a kiln. The single desk fan that you’d claimed did little more than hum uselessly upstairs. You were sure it was a fire hazard from the sheer amount of dust it had collected on its plastic blades.

You shot him a look.

“Fine. Suit yourself. Make your own damn food—” You’d barely started uncrossing your legs when his hand lifted, palm open in a wordless command.

“Sit down.”

You did, settling back into place with a muted huff. He set the metal part aside, definitely part of a gun, now that you were looking. He picked up the spoon beside the bowl, eyeing it like it might bite him, and you watched as he took a mouthful, wincing slightly at the heat.

“Bland.” He commented.

You rolled your eyes. So, he did have taste buds after all.

“It’s from a can, god knows we’ve got enough of those to last the next ten years, let alone a few months.” You replied dryly, and you could’ve sworn the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

You both ate in silence for a while. The soup was as terrible as you had anticipated, watery broth, sad carrot chunks, and what might have once been chicken. It was bland, just as Bucky had stated, but you wouldn’t give him the pleasure of admitting it. 

It was only as you were halfway through your bowl, the sound of spoons scraping against the ceramic, the occasional creak of the old farmhouse settling while the cicadas droned outside, that you finally found the words to speak up. 

“Your employers,” you began, eyes still on your soup, “did they tell you much?”

Through your lashes, you saw Bucky’s head lift slightly.

“No.” He stated. Simple. Gruff. Then he hesitated, leaning back on the couch, eyeing you in that analytical, quiet way of his. You could practically hear the thoughts ticking behind his silence. You, small—in comparison to him, at least—unassuming, wrapped in a floral sundress, hardly looking like a threat. How dangerous could you be? How much danger could you truly be in to warrant exile in the middle of nowhere, locked away like a state secret? “Just said you were mixed up in that mess with the Menagerie raid. That someone might be looking to hurt you.” 

“Right…” You stuffed another spoonful of soup into your mouth to keep from saying something foolish, letting the heat sting your tongue.

Silence stretched. He’d already emptied his bowl, positively licked it clean—so much for being too hot and bland. Meanwhile, while you pushed a discoloured chunk of carrot in slow, grinding circles, the handle of your spoon tracing the rim of your bowl. His eyes hadn’t left you.

You inhaled deeply, then blurted it out before you could stop yourself. “Do you know how long I have to stay here?”

He hesitated, just long enough to tell you he didn’t know either. “As long as it takes to eliminate the threat.” 

You finally looked up, catching the shift in his gaze. Less neutral now, more calculated… Suspicious. You recognised that look, it said I’m piecing something together. Like the soup had been some sort of tactic. A quiet kindness with strings attached. That you were slowly manipulating him with every gentle smile and soft word. 

Like he was finally seeing you clearly, and not liking the picture.

“If you’re being this well hidden,” he said slowly, “you must’ve been real deep in it. What were you, a mole? Scared they’re gonna hunt you down for revenge, sweetheart? You don’t look like the usual type they send out for infiltration.”

You froze, soup curdling in your stomach, your appetite gone before he even got the last syllable out. You placed your half-eaten bowl on the coffee table before you, refusing to meet his eye.

“I wasn’t a mole.” You clarified, though your tone did not sound anywhere near convincing. 

It was like he could smell the guilt and shame you reeked of. His mouth curled slightly. Not a smile. Not quite.  

“An informant, then?” He pressed. There it was, the snide bite you were waiting for. He thought this was some glorified babysitting gig for a rat. “Too scared to put you in prison in case you are killed before a court date?”

“No, I—” The words jammed in your throat like splinters, and all you could do was stare down at the coffee table. Coffee rings. Cigarette burns. Ghosts of the past.

Bucky leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, voice lower now.

“So what was it that made you finally turn on the Menagerie, huh? A guilty conscience, fear?” He asked, a disgusted sneer joining his words. “Or did your morals only click after they started trafficking mutants, caging them and tagging them like inventory?”

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

“Or was it just about self-preservation?” He continued.

You hadn’t said it aloud. Not properly. Not in a way that made it real. The interviews after the raid had scraped the words out of you, hour after hour, voice raw, eyes dry. Endless questions. Demands. ‘Be specific’, ‘Start from the beginning’, ‘What did they do next?’. They made you relive it again and again until your memories felt like ash in your mouth, so many retellings that they stopped sounding like your own.

Some mornings, you still woke to the phantom scent of damp stone and bleach. Still braced for cold concrete beneath your palms, for the echo of distant footsteps clattering through narrow halls. You could see it all too clearly in the dark, that stone labyrinth, windowless and humming with distant electricity

You’d think of the auctions. The buyers. Their laughter. The way the air thickened with rot and perfume. The casual smiles of men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped. The shouting. 

The cages.

The screaming—

Still, sometimes, you thought you could hear it, just beneath silence. Not memory, not quite. Like something still screamed through you.

“You don’t know shit about what I went through.” You spat out finally.

“No,” he admitted, coldly. “I don’t. But from where I’m sitting, you’re not exactly making yourself look innocent, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

Part of you wanted to cling to that flicker of delusion, that at least he cared. That the horrors of the Menagerie upset him, that he hadn’t brushed it off the way so many others might. There was something almost noble in his anger, in how deeply the injustice of it all seemed to affect him. 

But the moment cracked and fury surged up like bile, but it caught in your throat before it could be spoken. You opened your mouth, then closed it again, useless. The words wouldn’t come. They never did. Not the right ones.

Because how could you explain it? How could you possibly untangle the last two years into something coherent, something clean, when nothing about it was? You wanted to scream that it hadn’t been your fault. That they’d taken everything from you. That you’d been a victim.

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

You’d done what you had to do. Survived the only way you could. But survival had never come without cost. Not in that place. And even if you knew that you hadn’t chosen any of it… there were still stains on your hands. Still moments when you looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone worth saving. 

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

Because maybe, just maybe, you didn’t deserve to defend yourself.

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

You shot to your feet so fast your knee clipped the coffee table, rattling your half-eaten bowl. The room tilted slightly, breath caught between rage and something dangerously close to grief. Your legs carried you before you could think, before you could cry. You crossed the room in quick strides, soup abandoned, the sting of unshed tears heating your face.

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

You moved around each other like ghosts, haunting the same space but never touching, orbiting in sullen, silent patterns. You ate meals in silence on opposite ends of the house. Dishes piled beside your bed. Books stacked on the floor. You let yourself be swallowed by the mattress, the weight of silence slowly pulling you under.

When you did venture downstairs, it was only for chores. The division of labour had happened wordlessly. He’d take the barn, the treeline, his perimeter. You’d feed the chickens and cattle and refill the water troughs. Alpine was the only creature who seemed to move freely between you, accepting a can of tuna from Bucky one day, curling up against your legs the next when she wasn’t out prowling for field mice. 

You’d stopped asking him anything. Stopped trying to close the gap with awkward, tense conversation. And he seemed relieved, like silence was some kind of reward. At least now he didn’t have to pretend to care. His silent judgment was not something you were blind to. It followed him like a cloud of smoke, obscuring his vision as he regarded you as something malicious rather than wounded. So you started wearing your own bitterness like armour. Met every cold glance with a glare of your own. 

If he wanted to hate you, you could make it easy.

You already hated yourself enough.

The heat had been unbearable all afternoon, the worst it had been since you arrived. It was the type of heat that made the air feel thick and heavy, clinging to your skin no matter what you did to cool down. You opened every window in the house, splashed cool water on your face, tied back your hair, and even stood with the fridge door wide open, ignoring the quiet huff of disapproval from behind you. Still, it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that you were boiling alive in your own body with every passing hour. 

Bucky, of course, was perfectly composed. During your second attempt to fold yourself into the fridge, he sat at the kitchen table like a statue, sharpening a knife with slow, meditative strokes. Not a bead of sweat on his brow. Like the fact that you were both slowly roasting to death didn’t bother him at all.

You wanted to scream.

It wasn’t just the heat. It was him. His silence. His stillness. His looming, suffocating presence, like he was pressing the full weight of himself onto your chest without ever touching you.

You needed air. Space. Anything that didn’t feel like breathing your own recycled breath. You were going to lose your mind in this goddamn house. And if it came down to who’d walk out of here alive, it wasn’t going to be you. Not at this rate.

You had laced up your boots and stormed down the stairs before the thought had even fully formed, impulse overriding reason. Bucky didn’t look up at first. From his silence, you could guess he thought you were just being dramatic again, stomping around like a sulking child.

It wasn’t until your fingers curled around the doorknob that you heard the scrape of his chair against the kitchen tiles. “Where are you going?”

You didn’t look at him. You shoved the screen door open and muttered flatly, “The woods.”

He paused. You could feel it, the change in pressure, like the atmosphere thickened just from him standing up. The summer heat already clung to your skin like syrup, yet somehow it had become one step closer to suffocating.

“No.”

You turned, one foot already on the porch. Bucky was rounding the corner from the kitchen fast, eyes sharp, shoulders tense, like he was bracing to grab you by the arm if you took another step.

“I need air,” you snapped, backing away slightly. “It’s like five thousand degrees in here. It’ll be cooler under the trees.”

He didn’t flinch, just stared at you with that wolfish intensity, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. You could see the twitch of frustration behind them. Not anger exactly, but something more primal. Protective, maybe. Possessive. Something you didn’t have a name for.

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes. 

“It’s not safe,” he said, stepping closer like a warning. A hunt was unfolding between the two of you. You took a step back. He mirrored it forward.

Your eyes flicked down. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

Interesting.

You glanced at the couch, his boots tossed haphazardly at the base, probably kicked off after his last perimeter sweep. A grin tugged at your lips, sharp and cunning. You released the screen door with deliberate calm.

“Don’t you dare—” he growled, voice already rising, warning.

The door slammed shut behind you as you took off, boots hammering down the steps, sundress flying around your legs as you sprinted into the field.

You could already hear him swearing behind you, scrambling for his boots, but you didn’t look back. The grass was tall and wild, slapping against your calves as you tore through it, laughing breathlessly as you darted toward the barn like a madwoman. The sun beat down mercilessly, warming your skin, but you didn’t stop. Not when you heard your name shouted, not even when the chickens exploded into squawking chaos as you shot past the coop.

The fence loomed just ahead, waist-height, made of metal wire and wood posts. You’d never gotten close enough to inspect it properly before now. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, coiled like a snake. Of course it was.

“Shit,” you hissed, skidding to a halt and eyeing the fence with frantic calculation.

Behind you, Bucky’s footsteps thundered across the clearing. You glanced back once, just once. Your breath caught.

He was a storm.

Boots only half on, shirt clinging to his chest with sweat, barreling toward you with terrifying speed. Determined. His eyes on you like a target.

This was your only shot.

“Fuck it,” you spat, grabbing the fence and hoisting yourself up. The metal rattled under your weight, one foot jammed between as you swung a leg over. You hissed as your dress caught, barbs slicing the fabric and catching the tender skin of your thigh. Pain spiked up your leg, but you didn’t stop. 

You heard him yell your name just as you dropped down the other side, hitting the dirt hard, knees skidding through dry grass. You shoved yourself upright, wiping your hands on your dress as Bucky skidded to a halt on the other side of the fence, face wild with disbelief.

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

The woods swallowed you whole. The world shifted the moment you passed beneath the canopy, sunlight shattered across the leaves, scattering gold and green over your skin as branches closed above you like cathedral arches. You ran until the burn in your thighs twisted into fire, until the pounding of your heart drowned out everything else. Behind you, his voice grew distant, swallowed by underbrush, bark and birdsong.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you needed to be gone before he caught up.

And for a fleeting moment, you thought you’d done it, lost him in the thick underbrush, outpaced him through the tangles of low-hanging branches and bramble. The heat had begun to slip from the air, replaced by the cool breath of the woods and the low, rhythmic drone of cicadas. A sea of green unfurled before you, layered in moss and leaf-shadow, still and quiet now that your footsteps had slowed—

The world tilted.

You hit the ground hard, air knocked from your lungs, before your mind even registered that he had caught up to you. A blur of limbs and gritted teeth, the two of you rolled through the dirt and fallen leaves, snapping twigs and kicking up soil as you struggled against each other in a mess of instinct and fury.

You twisted, tried to scramble away, but his body was too heavy. His arm caught your leg as you kicked, his weight pressing you down, pinning you like prey.

When the momentum stopped, he was already on top of you, straddling your hips, shoving you deep into the damp forest floor. His hands pinned your wrists above your head with effortless control. His face loomed close, his eyes dark and glittering, and his breath harsh from the chase.

“Are you done?” he growled, voice low and raw, every syllable biting.

You glared up at him, chest heaving. “Get off me—”

Your voice caught as he laughed, a low, humourless sound, breathless but amused. There was dirt smeared across his cheek, a leaf tangled in his hair, and his shirt clung to him with sweat and blood. He looked wild. Feral. Alive in a way that made your stomach twist.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he muttered.

And then he was moving, the sudden loss of his weight a brief mercy, but it didn’t last. Before you could twist away and draw in a proper breath, his arm was around your waist, and you were tugged up, slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Your stomach hit the edge of his metal shoulder blade with a thud that knocked the wind from you again.

“Hey, put me down, you asshole—!” you protested, breathless, your voice muffled slightly by the sway of his shirt against your cheek.

But he was already moving, circling back toward the house with slow, deliberate strides like he hadn’t just chased you through half a mile of forest. His arm was iron around your thighs, locking you in place against the solid plane of his shoulder. You bounced with every step, your ribs pressing painfully against the hard ridge of his collarbone and the metal edge of his arm.

“No,” he barked, tone clipped. “You’ll just bolt again.”

Your stomach was twisted sideways over his shoulder, blood rushing to your head until your vision pulsed at the edges. It was dizzying, the world tipping and tilting with his gait, trees, sky and earth passing upside down in a blur. His shirt clung damply to his back beneath your arms, soaked through with sweat and forest humidity. Every inhale brought the scent of dirt, pine, and something distinctly him into your lungs.

“I won’t! I swear, just—” you tried, squirming, but he adjusted his grip and hoisted you higher with a grunt, one hand sliding firmly up the back of your thigh to keep you from slipping.

“You lost any of my trust when you decided to hop that fence, sweetheart,” he said coldly.

His hand stayed there, splayed wide and strong, fingers flexing against the curve of your leg in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. You writhed, trying to ignore the way your skin heated under his palm, how aware you suddenly were of every place his body touched yours, his forearm hooked tightly around your knees, his breath steady and close.

“Put me the fuck down!”

“Shut the fuck up, or I’ll find something to gag you with.” His voice turned harsh, and the end of his patience showed. “I’m sick of your whining. This is your own fault.”

“My fault?” you choked out, exasperated, pushing at the small of his back, which did absolutely nothing. “You’re the one keeping me locked up!”

“It’s for your safety, or did that little detail slip your mind?” he bit back, unbothered by your wriggling.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere!” you snapped. “Who the hell is going to find me out here if I go for a goddamn walk to cool down?”

“I’m not worried about people.” His grip on your thighs tightened again, just enough to send another shock of awareness through your core. “I’m worried about animals. Do you know how many bears, cougars, and other shit that can rip you in half live out here?”

You froze, the fire in your chest faltering. “…There are bears out here?!”

“Yes,” he snapped, voice rough. “Now would you shut the hell up? Every living creature within a hundred miles already knows where we are thanks to your squealing.”

You clamped your mouth shut, heat prickling at your ears, though whether it was from embarrassment, exertion, or the lingering burn of his hand against your thigh, you weren’t sure. Upside-down, half-breathless, and bruised with indignity, you told yourself it was just the blood rushing to your head that made your heart beat like that.

He reached the fence a few seconds later, barely slowing his pace before tossing you over it with an unceremonious grunt. You yelped as you hit the ground with a solid thump, your knees scraping against the packed dirt and scattered stones. Pain bloomed across your palms as you caught yourself, your breath stuttering.

You looked up at him just in time to see him plant his boot on the middle rung and vault the fence with practised ease. He landed beside you, his chest rising and falling with the exertion, his expression furious.

Your eyes caught on his shirt, the fabric torn open across the side of his ribs. Blood welled from a sharp gash beneath it, slow and dark, soaking into the material. He must’ve hit the barbed wire trying to chase you down.

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

You shifted uncomfortably, your own thigh still stinging, a warm line of blood trickling down your leg. The barbs had bitten deep. It felt like the forest had left its mark on both of you.

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

“Now…” he said slowly, “do I need to carry you all the way to the house, or are you going to be a good girl and walk by yourself?”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering, pulse still roaring in your ears and gulped. “I’ll walk.”

—

Bucky didn’t seem to care that he was smeared in a mixture of dried blood and dirt as he slumped heavily onto the couch with a grunt, his broad shoulders sinking into the cushions. He kicked off his boots with a purposeful carelessness, one of the pair nearly smacking you in the shin as you shied out of its path. 

He’d practically herded you back into the house, his gaze never leaving you as you limped your way up the porch steps. His scowl never wavered, only deepened with irritation as he finally realised the state you were in, hair tangled and sticking to your damp forehead, your dress torn and stained with streaks of mud and blood.

You stopped in front of the empty fireplace across from him, arms crossing tightly over your chest, jaw clenched. You leaned slightly on your right leg, the pain flaring hot in your thigh. The cut burned like it had been licked by flame, no doubt packed with dirt and whatever else you'd rolled through during your messy scuffle. But your eyes drifted from your leg, caught instead by the quiet rustle of fabric. Bucky peeled off his shredded shirt with little fanfare, exposing the sheer, ridiculous expanse of muscle beneath. His torso looked sculpted from stone, every line and shadow painfully defined. And yet, infuriatingly, even in all his dishevelment, he looked good. Unfairly so. It was almost nauseating how perfect he looked. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and tapped your fingers against your arm, gaze snagged for a beat too long as he examined the fresh gash slashed across his abdomen. He winced slightly, dragging a finger through the blood and grime that caked the wound. It was a deep cut, raw and filthy, and the dirt clinging to it made you pause. You knew that kind of wound, the kind that festered fast if left unchecked.

“Where’s the first aid kit?” you asked, stepping forward despite yourself. “I’ll get it for you—”

“No.” His voice cut through the air, low as a growl, stopping you cold. “You’ve done enough. I’ll get it.”

You blinked, the words catching in your throat. “Hold on—”

But then he looked at you. Really looked at you. And whatever flicker of protest had been building inside you died right there.

“Sit. Down.”

You sank onto the couch without another word, the tension knotting in your shoulders as he disappeared up the stairs. You ran a hand through your tangled hair, wincing as your fingers snagged on leaves and twigs embedded in the strands. Somewhere above, you could hear him rummaging through the bathroom cabinet, drawers slamming and clattering as he searched.

Your attention dropped to your leg. You hesitated, then slowly hiked up your skirt, trying not to wince as you exposed the wound. The barbed wire had torn a lash up your inner thigh, the skin swollen and angry. Blood had dried in thick, flaking streaks down your leg. You hissed as you prodded the edges, trying to gauge the depth through the grit and grime. It stung like hell, sharp, hot, and pulsing, and the thought of cleaning it out made your stomach churn.

Bucky thundered down the stairs behind you, dumping the first aid kit on the coffee table. A few medical supplies spilt out from the jolt. He barely looked at you before muttering, “Stop fussing. You’ll make it worse.”

Your hands stilled instantly, retreating to your lap. You didn’t dare test his patience again, not when he was like this, all bruises and blood and stormclouds behind the eyes.

He sank to his knees in front of the couch, wedged between your legs and the coffee table, and reached for you without hesitation. His grip was firm as he caught your leg, fingers wrapping around your calf and sliding upward, tilting your thigh to get a better look at the damage.

Your breath hitched, chest tightening. The cut stung, but it wasn’t the pain that made you tense, it was him. The heat of his skin against yours, the way his rough palms guided your leg, thumb grazing perilously close to the seam of your underwear. Your dress had ridden high, bunched around your hips, leaving you far too exposed. And his face, god, it was right there, inches away from the softest, most private part of you—

You let out a small yelp, the sharp sting of antiseptic dragging you back to reality as he pressed a wipe over the wound with no warning, scrubbing away dried blood and filth like it was nothing. You squirmed on instinct, gasping.

He tutted with annoyance, locking your leg in place with his forearm like you were nothing more than a twitchy animal.

“Stop squirming.”

“It’s kind of hard when you’re manhandling me—”

“I’m not in the mood for babying you, sweetheart,” he shot back, glaring up at you briefly, his voice low and cool.

That shut you up.

You swallowed hard and stared past him, fixing your gaze on the constellation of scars across his chest and shoulders. Old wounds. Some shallow, others deep. Your heart thudded against your ribs, the silence between you prickling with static.

He dipped his fingers into a small tin of ointment and began slowly and deliberately, working it into the wound. His touch was firm, steady, maddening, his hand creeping higher with each pass, inching up your inner thigh until his knuckles grazed dangerously close to the pulsing heat between your legs. Your entire body shuddered lightly, a tingling up your spine, and for one wild moment, you were sure he was savouring this. You could feel his every breath against your thigh, every callused inch of his palm.

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

“There you go,” he murmured, almost to himself, patting your knee. “Good girl.”

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Then, he was gone. Peeling off some large sticky bandages and slapping them on hard enough to make you jolt in surprise. 

You jerked your leg back, retreating into yourself. Your fingertips hovered at the edge of the bandages, trailing the sticky outline. He didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he did and didn’t care—as he climbed up off the floor and took a seat beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight.

You sat there with your mouth slightly agape, still recovering, still too aware of how much of you had just been laid bare.

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

“I said,” he gestured toward the gash slicing across his torso, “I need you to help me clean this cut, repeat the steps I just did for your leg.”

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second. 

“Did you hit your head?” he asked, voice laced with irritation. “Do I need to check you for a concussion—?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “No. I’m fine. I can do it.”

Without waiting for permission, you slid to the floor, knees brushing against his shins as you settled between his legs. Your fingers fumbled through the mess of gauze, scissors, and ointments strewn across the coffee table, deliberately avoiding his gaze. When you found the antiseptic wipes, you cleared your throat, peeled one open, and hesitantly pressed it to the wound carved deep into his side.

The muscles under your hand were corded tight, heat and tension rising from him like steam. You dabbed lightly at first, uncertain.

“You’re gonna need to press harder than that, sweetheart,” Bucky muttered, voice rough. “You’re not picking up all the—”

You shot him a look flared with annoyance and dug the wipe in harder than necessary.

He hissed, breath catching between gritted teeth, and his abdomen flinched beneath your hand. The skin twitched as you worked, dragging out a stubborn patch of grit and dried blood. You grimaced, wiping again, watching the red bloom spread.

The gash was far worse than yours. Red, angry, and deep. The kind of wound that would’ve sent someone else into shock. When you pulled the wipe back, it was streaked with fresh blood, revealing a glimpse of raw muscle beneath.

“This is going to need stitches, it’s too deep—”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head, his breath uneven as you reached for a fresh wipe. “It’ll heal faster than a normal person.”

You paused, cloth hovering just above the end of the slash curving around his ribs. “You’re a mutant?”

That stopped him cold.

His body stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it. His jaw ticked, and the muscle beneath your touch turned to granite.

“No, uh—” He began, and the words faltered. For the first time since you’d met him, his voice wavered. This voice was uncertain. Defensive. It didn’t match the sharp-edged man who barked orders and silenced you with just a glower. You looked up in time to catch the flicker of frustration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed, not in pain, but regret. Like he’d just given away something he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Super soldier,” he muttered finally, quieter like the words tasted bitter.  

You frowned, forcing yourself to keep your fingers moving as you continued to clean the lash. 

“Super solider… like serums?” You dared to mumble in question.

“...Yeah.”

You nodded. You were familiar with the rise of serums and super soldiers, they had been a hot commodity, just as coveted as mutants. Weapons given flesh. The perfect stock for the Menagerie to peddle. Easier to control, more predictable than the mutants among their inventory.

“There were a few of those at the Menage—” The words slipped out before you could catch them. As soon as they crossed your lips, your stomach dropped. “I—Nevermind.”

You didn’t need to look up to feel it, the shift in his posture, the way his presence recoiled. Not from pain. From you.

He was flinching from you.

Shame roared up your throat like bile. You didn’t have to ask what he was thinking. You could feel it. The disgust. The assumptions. You could almost hear his thoughts shaping you into a creature of cruelty. A collaborator. A willing participant.

Did he think revealing this information would illicit a perverse curiosity within you? That you’d start viewing him in the same way the Menagerie had viewed you?

And for once, there was a sadness that lingered. A sadness that you couldn’t tell him, couldn’t explain. You let him believe you were complicit, that you were broken in a way that was your own fault. Would it have been better to tell him? To offer up the whole, rotting truth and see what he did with it? Not one clouded by the lies and falseities you used to punish yourself?

When you had stumbled free of that place, you had sworn never to use your powers again. Never be a weapon again. Never let anyone twist your gift into something cruel and unrecognisable.

What if this was different?

What if you could use it for good this time? Not to tear someone apart from the inside out, not to entertain monsters, but to soothe. To help.

Would that balance the scales, even a little? Would that scrub the blood from your conscience, the memory from your skin? Would it make you more than what they turned you into?

Would it make you… better?

Your hands had stilled. The wound was only half-cleaned, blood still trickling sluggishly along his side. You looked up.

His expression was unreadable, like a wall had been placed between you.

Your voice came quiet and uncertain. “Can I… can I show you something?” you asked. “I think it’ll help.”

He tensed. His jaw was tight, the suspicion in his gaze sharp and waiting, as if he expected you to pull a knife, like your soft-spoken words were nothing but bait in a trap he hadn’t seen yet. But you didn’t wait for a reply. For once, you wait for a command. You balled up the bloodied wipe in your fist and tossed it aside, the fabric landing with a wet slap on the cluttered table behind you. Then, without ceremony, you raised your hand above the wound stretching across his ribs.

His mouth parted, breath catching, ready to protest, but you were already committed, brows drawn in concentration as your palm began to glow. The light bloomed, like dawn bleeding through morning mist. A ball of pale, gold light that cast long beams between your fingers, casting his skin in a haze.

You didn’t dare look up at him. 

Instead, you pressed your focus into the magic pooling in your hand, letting it spill like silk across the jagged tear in his flesh. As you touched your fingers to him, you hovered a moment longer than necessary, and a soft, invisible pulse of heat radiated from your palm to his abdomen. 

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

The knot in his abdomen uncoiled. His muscles slackened, his body loosening inch by cautious inch beneath your touch. Your fingertips hovered over the torn skin, skimming the edges. When you finally dared to glance up, his face had slackened in sudden, jarring relief. 

He stared at you like you weren’t real. Disgust turned to horror and then to shock.

You didn’t stop. Your palm pressed lightly to the curve of his ribs, the glow now flickering as your focus thinned and the pain siphoned away. The magic never hurt, not directly, but it drained you all the same. You could feel it in the weight of your limbs, in the tremble behind your knees. Your breath had turned shallow. Sweat prickled along your hairline.

“You’re a—”

“A mutant,” you interrupted quietly, light fading as you squeezed your hand into a fist. “I know.”

The silence was thick as you reached behind you, grabbing a clean antiseptic wipe from the dwindling supplies. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink as you swept it gently through the remaining dirt and grit, revealing clean, ragged flesh beneath. Crimson welled at the edges like dew.

“I took the pain away,” you clarified as you blindly searched the table for the small tin he’d used earlier. You couldn’t meet his eye, couldn’t deal with any guilt he was likely feeling. “My powers… I can change how the body perceives sensations. I can nullify nerves or amplify them. Make you feel things that aren’t there, or take away feeling entirely.”

You found the tin at last, fingers fumbling slightly as you pried it open with a soft metallic click. A faint herbal scent rose as you scooped a generous, pearlescent smear of ointment onto your fingertip. It clung thickly, catching the light like a melted pearl.

“You were a victim,” Bucky said, voice breathless and stunned, like he’d received a punch right to the gut. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me you were a victim?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pressed your fingers to his skin, spreading the salve along the length of the wound in slow, deliberate strokes. The half-translucent mixture turned pink as it blended with the fresh blood that beaded the surface.

“It’s complicated,” you muttered, eyes fixed on your hands instead of his. 

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

Bucky Barnes, ever the soldier, ever the protector of the broken and bruised. That part of him, the part that saw pain and didn’t look away, that part that burned with justice, that was maybe the only thing you’d truly admired from the start.

Not the cold commands, not the steel-blue stares, not the way he could make your breath hitch with just a word.

It was that he cared.

Beneath the hard edges and combat scars, he gave a damn. About the ones who couldn’t fight for themselves yet. About the ones others would write off. When he looked at something shattered, his instinct wasn’t to discard it—it was to fix it.

“You’re a victim. When they pulled you out of there, why didn’t they send you back home? Back to your family?”

You swallowed hard. “Like I said... It’s complicated.”

When you dared to look up, he was looking down at you like he was expecting an answer. You sighed.

“My powers, it’s a gift and a curse. They can be used for good, like this.” You nodded toward his side, where the blood had begun to clot under the thin sheen of ointment. Withdrawing your hands from him, you tucked them into your lap, fingers curled inwards, guilt weighing heavily in your chest. “Or it can be used… used to create pain.”

His brow creased. “Pain?”

“You think the Menagerie were above torture?” you asked, sharper than you meant to. Then your face twisted apologetically, and you looked away quickly. “Sorry. I just—” 

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself. 

“When they captured enemies, or anyone who defied them, they interrogated them. Asked their questions. And if they didn’t get what they wanted…” You paused, voice tight. “They brought me in.”

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

“They made me hurt people,” you explained. “Amplify their pain, make them feel things that weren’t even real. The body doesn’t know the difference. It responds anyway.” 

You rubbed your wrist with your other hand, as if scrubbing the memory away. “Sometimes… sometimes they made me do it for fun. For their entertainment. Just because they knew how much it broke me—” Your voice broke on the last word, the sound caught between a sob and a gasp.

Turning away, you reached for the coffee table with trembling hands, shoving through the disordered supplies until you found the large, sticky bandages. Only as you felt confident that your voice wouldn’t tremble, you spoke up again.

“I was their prisoner, their weapon for two years. Decided I was to be kept, too valuable to be sold like the rest of the product,” You mumbled, the plastic crinkling as you tore one free, fingers fumbling with the edges.

“That’s why you’re here,” Bucky said at last.

His voice was quiet, like he was speaking more to himself than to you. You watched the gears turn behind his eyes, watched the truth slot into place piece by piece. 

“You know too much,” he murmured, breath catching in his throat. “The Menagerie... they’re not hunting you because you ran.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“They want you dead because you know. You know too much.”

His gaze snapped up to meet yours, the initial shock gone. Something had shifted. The realisation landed like a crack of thunder as anger reared its head, hot and bitter.

“And the officials…” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They don’t care what it costs you. They just want you on that stand. They want a witness.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, a tremor running through his arm. 

“God,” he muttered. “They used you. All of them. They’re still using you. They’re all just passing you around like you're fucking evidence.”

You nodded, blinking hard as you peeled back the adhesive strip. “Not a rat, you see?” you said with a brittle sort of humour, trying to cover the tremor in your voice.

He looked down at you sharply, eyes dark, nostrils flared, coiled tightly enough you were half-convinced he was going to march out there and tear them apart himself. “I’m sorry.”

That startled you more than it should have. 

“Shit, sweetheart. I was wrong about you, very wrong,” he added. “From the start. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “I should’ve… I should’ve just told you. I just—”

Your fingers splayed out as you smoothed the bandage carefully across his ribs, palms gentle as you coaxed it into place. “It’s hard. To defend my actions. To relive it over and over again, to think of what I could have done differently, what I could’ve done to stop it. And I’m sick of people telling me it wasn’t my fault, sick of the nightmares and the memories I—”

The warmth of his skin still lingered under your touch. You were about to pull away when he caught your wrist. You jolted, breath stuttering. His grip wasn’t tight, just enough to hold you there. His thumb circled slowly over the inside of your wrist, right over the soft thrum of your pulse.

“No, I… I get it.” 

Your lungs stalled, breath coming out in a sharp wheeze as you looked up at him, wide-eyed.

“It’s hard sometimes,” he said, gaze haunted, “to justify defending yourself when you feel like a monster. Even when you weren’t the one who chose the violence.”

He glanced away, then back, not with judgment, but understanding. Maybe even shame.

“But you’re not that,” he affirmed. “You never really were.”

You got the sense he wasn’t just saying it for your sake. Not entirely. That maybe he was saying it for himself, too.

—

Bucky had been truthful. Within a few short days, his wound had knit itself into a pink, raised scar, the kind that would fade in time.

Yours, however, wasn’t healing nearly as well.

It wasn’t an infection, you knew that much. Bucky’s borderline militant efforts to clean and dress your wound had paid off. No, the problem was its intimate placement. Too high on your inner thigh, too close to where the skin was soft and constantly moving. Every step rubbed it raw. Every shift of your legs, every twitch or stretch, irritated it further. The adhesive bandages clung stubbornly, chafing the tender flesh surrounding.

And the weather wasn’t helping.

The dry heat had broken sometime during the night, replaced by a soupy humidity that clung to everything. It made your clothes stick to your back, your sheets damp, your skin slick with a sheen of sweat you couldn’t seem to shake. That morning, as you fed the cows, Bucky had tilted his face to the sky, eyes narrowed.

“Storm’s coming,” he muttered, gaze fixed on the horizon where dark clouds had begun to crawl over the hills like an advancing army.

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

It was the third day since your reckless dash through the woods, and you could feel every inch of it. Your body ached with dull protest, knees bruised, but it was the wound that made you grit your teeth every time you moved. Bucky had noticed, of course, he noticed everything. He’d watched you hobble halfway down the stairs that morning, frowning in that deeply displeased way of his, jaw set like he was at war with the world.

Ever since your reluctant confession, something in him had shifted. The hostility had bled out of him, replaced by an overwhelming guilt. You felt sorry for your dejected bodyguard. You both knew it wasn’t his fault, that he had acted true to his nature with the information given, yet he still reeked of regret. 

His protectiveness had turned soft at the edges. Where once he’d shadowed you out of suspicion, now he hovered like a sheepdog with a wounded charge, not willing to leave your side for a moment.

He gave up his place on the couch without a word, fetched things before you asked, and adjusted pillows behind your back with silent focus. When you’d had enough of being babied and escaped upstairs to your room, he’d only watched you go with those impossibly blue eyes, gaze desperate and stricken.

But today… Today, he took it further, determined to take his coddling the extra mile. 

You only made it to the corner of the stairs before you saw him coming up with purpose written in every line of his body.

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

Your protest was cut short by a startled gasp as he swept you effortlessly into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing at all.

Your breath caught, not just from the motion, but from the sudden, intimate closeness. His body radiated heat, even through his shirt. You could feel the curve of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“I can walk myself down the stairs,” you tried again, more weakly.

“You keep aggravating it,” he said simply, descending with slow, sure steps. 

With uncharacteristic gentleness, he placed you down on the couch. He crouched in front of you, one knee pressed into the floor, his eyes scanning your face with quiet intensity before dropping to your thighs.

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

“Hey—!” You flinched, hands moving to cover yourself, but he was faster. His fingers curled gently around your knee, not forceful, but firm enough to stop you from snapping your legs shut.

“It’s irritated. Look.” His voice was low, focused, the pad of his thumb brushing dangerously close to tender skin as he inspected the wound.

You inhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat that jolted through you at the contact, the way your body betrayed you with the pulse that bloomed low in your belly. His breath ghosted across your inner thigh as he leaned closer, and it was all you could do to hold still.

He pointed, fingertips skimming just above the angry, raw skin. “See that? It's from friction. The humidity is not helping. The bandage is rubbing it raw.”

You tried to speak, but he was already speaking over you.

“I’ll change it over,” he said, already rising to grab the supplies. “Stay here.”

“It’s fine, really—” you began, trying to wave off the concern in your voice, but Bucky hit you with a look so sharp it cut your words clean in half.

His brow dipped, jaw tight. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?” you shot back with a whine, already shifting upright from where you’d been slumped between the couch cushions. The movement made your thigh throb.

Before you could get far, his hand shot out—broad, calloused, and unbothered—pressing gently but firmly against your middle. The ease with which he pinned you back made you blink.

“I said stay,” he said, with exasperated authority. “What is it with you and always making things difficult?”

Your mouth hung open in disbelief. “I don’t want to be babied.”

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

His brows shot up, incredulous. “If I were to describe you as anything, it would not be dead weight, sweetheart.”

“Oh?” you challenged, folding your arms, eyes narrowing. “Then what would you describe me as?”

That made him pause.

His hand fell away slowly, drifting up to rub along his jaw. He turned his gaze downward and away, suddenly studying the floorboards like they held some grand revelation. You could see the calculation flickering behind his eyes, like he was deciding if his true answer was worth whatever calamity he was anticipating or not. 

Your heart kicked in your chest.

You held your breath, shamefully hopeful. Like some stupid, soft part of you, some battered, longing part, was enamoured with him. Even when he’d been cruel, cold, dismissive... you'd wanted him to see you. Wanted him to like you. And now, beneath all the banter, you were hanging on the edge of a confession you weren’t even sure you wanted to hear.

He finally looked up. His eyes, storm-dark and unreadable, met yours.

“If this is some ploy to distract me,” he said, voice rough, “it’s not working.”

You deflated, oddly disappointed and sank back into the cushions with a huff. “Fine. I’ll play along. Just get one of the books from my room, would you? If I’m stuck on this damn couch, I’d rather not die of boredom.”

His expression broke into a crooked, lazy grin. “Sure thing.”

And before you could blink, he was halfway up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

You let out a breath through your nose, dragging a hand down your face. The house was suffocating you. The stillness, the isolation, the tension that bloomed every time he entered the room. Maybe it was the ridiculous number of romance novels you’d burned through. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was just him—Bucky, with his quiet protectiveness, so noble with his brooding silences, and the way his hands had felt against your bare skin in the forest.

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

His rough palms. The way his body had pinned you down, heavy and solid, the way his breath had ghosted across your cheek, your thigh. It was a memory you couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard you tried.

And now, you were wondering… wondering how it would feel if he pinned you to this couch—

You jolted upright as Bucky returned, slapping the first aid kit and one of your smuttiest romance novels onto the coffee table like a dealer laying down a hand of cards.

He didn’t say a word, but his lips twitched at the corners. His poker face was cracking.

Your face burned.

You reached for the book, praying he wouldn’t comment on the shirtless man with windswept hair on the cover, but of course, he didn’t have to. That stupid, knowing smirk was already doing the talking.

So much for subtle.

You swallowed thickly as he settled between your legs again, his weight pressing into the couch, his broad shoulders framed by the curve of your thighs. There was something maddeningly composed about him, like none of this fazed him in the slightest. If anything, he almost seemed amused by your discomfort, eyes flicking upward just enough to catch the squirm in your hips, the shallow hitch in your breath. 

He looked far too comfortable for someone in such a compromising position, like he knew the effect he had on you, and maybe even enjoyed drawing it out.

He gave your knee a light pat, a silent signal to open up. You obeyed hesitantly, and he brushed back the hem of your skirt. Your underwear, thin and barely holding modesty, was now fully on display. You bit down a wince as he took hold of a loose corner of the bandage. He tugged gently, slowly peeling the adhesive away from the inflamed skin. Pain flared sharp and immediate, white-hot beneath the stretch of gauze.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your throat before you could muffle it. Your hand shot out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you gripped his shoulder for stability, or maybe just to anchor yourself against the sudden wave of discomfort.

Still, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up. His voice came low and steady, a rumbling murmur as his free hand drew calming circles into the uninjured thigh. “Nearly there, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Your nails dug into him as your head lolled back, breath ragged. Every muscle was taut, braced against the conflicting signals. Pain prickled your nerves, comfort stirring from his voice and touch. You weren’t sure whether to pull away or lean in.

“You’re doing so well,” he continued. “Just hang in there for me, won’t you?”

The bandage continued its slow ascent, dragging higher and higher up your thigh, until his knuckles were brushing the very edge of your underwear. The skin there was more sensitive, flushed, overheated, and the gentle pull of the adhesive felt too much, too raw, too close. You hissed through your teeth, muttering a broken string of half-coherent words.

“Shit—ah—”

A particularly harsh sting made your hips buck. Your legs tried to snap closed on instinct, but Bucky was faster. He caught your knee with his forearm and pressed it down, holding you open, firm and immovable.

“Easy,” he murmured, steady as a rock. “Don’t tense up. You’ll just make it worse.”

You squirmed beneath his touch, back arching slightly, breath caught between agony and embarrassment. Finally, he peeled the last sticky corner away, and your skin gave a soft snap as it sprang free from the bandage’s grip. The rush of fresh air was immediate, and with it came a strange kind of relief, tinged with something dangerously close to arousal.

“See?” His voice dipped into something almost indulgent. “Good girl. It’s all done now.”

You nearly passed out on the spot. Your head swam, vision dancing at the edges. A ragged exhale wheezed out of you. “God... Sorry. You probably think I’m being dramatic—”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, smoothing a hand briefly down your thigh. “That’s a nasty spot. Fence got you good.”

You finally dared to look down at him, cheeks flushed, heart a mess in your chest. You were almost certain there was a wet patch on your underwear now. You prayed to whatever higher being was listening that he hadn’t noticed, but when you chanced a look at him, down between your legs, a wave of heat coursed through you. You could see it now. The slight flare in his nostrils. The way his jaw tightened. He knew. And he wasn’t saying a damn thing.

His attention drifted only briefly from your wound as he balled up the used bandage and tossed it somewhere behind him with little care.

“Why don’t you ever use your powers?” he asked, casually. “To stop your own pain?”

You exhaled, long and slow. 

“Doesn’t work that way,” you muttered. “I can use it on others, sure. But not myself. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a mental block or something... I just... can’t read my own body the same way I can read others. Or maybe the universe just hates me.”

He didn’t reply immediately, just nodded slightly in understanding as he cleaned the area with another antiseptic wipe. You winced, hissing through clenched teeth as the sting bit into your already flayed nerves.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “One more second.”

You braced yourself again as he smoothed a fresh bandage over the wound. You could feel the ghost of his fingers lingering there, just for a moment longer than necessary, just enough to make you question it.

—

Outside, the sky had deepened from moody grey to near-black, the clouds rolling like smoke across the heavens. The wind picked up, rattling the windows. Somewhere far off, the first crack of thunder rumbled.

You had expected Bucky to drift off somewhere once he had finished tending your wound, the kitchen maybe, or the porch to watch the storm roll in, or even just to sit on the floor nearby. Anywhere that wasn’t with you. You’d stretched yourself out across the length of the couch, limbs heavy and warm, your upper body propped up by a mess of pillows and the armrest as you lost yourself in the pages of your book. It was a position meant for solitude.

So when Bucky returned from putting the first aid kit away, he didn’t hesitate. With casual ease, he lifted your outstretched legs and sat down, settling your feet squarely in his lap, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the moment his hands touched you, your entire system short-circuited.

He did it so easily, like it was a habit. Like it was his right.

Your breath caught mid-page.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t speak. Your fingers hovered over the paper, your eyes glazed across the lines, but your brain refused to register a single word. Your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to break free. It took twenty agonising minutes, maybe more, before you could even pretend to read again.

And what didn’t help, what made the entire ordeal a million times worse, was that your book had finally reached the scene, the one everyone waited for. The part where the tension cracked wide open, and the protagonist was getting thoroughly ravished against a wall in some expensive villa by the kind of dark, brooding man that only existed in fiction... or maybe sat next to you.

You swallowed dryly, heart lurching again as the male lead slid his hand up the heroine’s thigh, just like Bucky’s had earlier when he’d peeled off your bandage. Only… you’d imagined it going further. Higher. 

Maybe you were delusional, but every time he’d touched you, even under the guise of first aid, you’d felt it—the maddening restraint.

You bit your tongue hard, forcing yourself not to let your thoughts spiral, even as arousal simmered low in your belly and pooled with heat between your thighs. You were already flushed and aching and halfway to combusting, and now he had the audacity to sit there, thigh under yours, body close enough to feel his warmth, like he wasn’t slowly unravelling you.

You were seconds away from imploding, from throwing your shitty romance novel across the room and throwing yourself at the goddamn furniture—

“Did you know,” Bucky drawled suddenly, voice low and casual and way too close, “that super soldiers have enhanced senses?”

You practically jumped out of your skin. “What?”

“I can hear your heartbeat,” he continued, that smug glint in his voice unmistakable. “It’s pretty fast. Erratic.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Your cheeks went up in flames.

He added, far too pleased with himself, “That’s actually how I found you in the forest. I followed your footsteps and your pulse.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you hissed, snapping your book shut with a hard thwack, trying—and failing—to sit up with any grace.

Outside, rain hit the house in a violent curtain, a sudden hisssssh as the skies split open and water poured down in thick, slanted sheets. It rattled on the roof like pebbles hurled from the sky. Wind clawed at the windows, moaning through the seams.

He chuckled, one hand sliding over your shin, fingers curling around your ankle as he held you in place. “Couch rest,” he reminded you, voice dipped in that annoyingly firm tone.

You struggled half-heartedly, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged gently until you sank back into the cushions, his hand still wrapped securely around your leg.

“No,” he scolded, like he was denying more than just your movement.

Your blush deepened, spreading to your chest. You let out a breath, half-frustrated, half-flustered, and melted into the cushions like you wished they’d just absorb you whole.

His thumb brushed a soft, slow arc along your calf—

Then, with a sharp pop, the power snapped off.

The lamps blinked out. The steady hum of the fridge died mid-breath. Silence swallowed the room for a single heartbeat before a thunderclap shattered it, a crackling whip of lightning illuminating the windows in a brief, unnatural white.

You jolted in fright. 

Bucky didn’t move right away. He remained seated, your legs still draped across his lap. You squinted into the darkness, instincts already urging you to move, to rush and shut the open windows before the rain crept in.

Bucky’s grip on your shin tightened, silently reminding you to stay put. 

“I’ll get them,” he said quietly, voice calm as thunder rumbled loudly overhead once more. “The windows. And some candles.”

You nodded, throat dry, unsure if he could even see the gesture. He moved slowly, easing your legs off his lap and lowering them onto a pillow with tenderness. Then he vanished into the gloom.

You tracked him by sound, the soft thud of his feet on the floorboards, the swift click of windows shutting, one after the other. Each flash of lightning lit the farmhouse like a shuttered camera flash, brief glimpses of movement, shadow, and form. You caught sight of him once, silhouetted in the doorway, jaw set.

When he returned, he carried a bundle of stubby candles and a matchbox. He set them on the table in front of you, crouching low as he arranged them.

He struck a match, the flare hissing into life, and held it up to one of the candles.

You watched, horrified, as he held it aloft for too long. Far too long. The flame crept toward his fingers, the wood blackening, curling with heat. It licked the vibranium tips, skimming the grooves like the metal had been soaked in fuel.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, lurching forward. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He blinked up at you, brow furrowed in quiet confusion.

“The vibranium?” he asked, glancing at his hand like it was some borrowed object. “It doesn’t feel pain. The tech…there are no nerves.”

You stared at the charred ends of the matchsticks and the still-glowing candlelight flickering against his dark silhouette. The flames cast golden halos along his jaw, his cheekbone, glinting off the grooves of his metal fingers.

“You looked terrified, sweetheart,” he murmured, amusement warming the edge of his voice. “You okay?”

“I just—you let it burn you.”

He smiled, slow and crooked. “It’s not me. It’s metal.”

But you didn’t agree. Not really. Because it was him. That arm, the weight of it, the precision and restraint in it. It was as much a part of him as the careful way he spoke, or the way he touched your leg like it might bruise.

You swallowed again, watching as he struck the final match. It flared to life with a dry rasp, briefly lighting his face in warm gold before he tipped it to the last candle. The wick caught with a soft sputter, the flame settling into a steady flicker. He sat back on his heels, eyes lifting to meet yours. Smoke curled faintly in the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of melting wax.

Your voice was small. “It is you. All of it.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you, something in his gaze softened. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out again, resting one calloused palm on your shin. His thumb moved in an easy rhythm

“Explain it to me,” you breathed. “How it works.”

Bucky seemed to turn that over in his mind. A low rumble of thunder murmured outside as he eased himself up, returning to the couch beside you. His hand lingered on your leg, tracing up the curve of your shin in thought, pausing lightly over your knee.

“The technology…it simulates nerves, mimics what touch feels like,” he said quietly. “I can touch an object and understand I’m holding it. Feel its weight. Its texture. But I can’t feel temperature… not heat, not cold. I can’t feel pain. I could sink my hand into a fire or take a bullet straight through the palm and feel nothing.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you reached out, your touch featherlight as your fingertips skimmed the metal of his wrist. There was precision in the construction, elegant, engineered, but it was still him. You traced along the inside of his forearm, up to the sharp line of his palm, feeling the grooves, the seams, the impossibly subtle notches between each plate. Then you curled your fingers gently around his, lifting his hand.

You turned it upward. Candlelight caught along the joints of his fingers, gleaming in liquid amber.

And then, deliberately, intimately, you ran your hand down the back of his vibranium hand. Knuckles to wrist.

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

He inhaled quietly, eyes locked on yours. “Yes.”

You traced your thumb across a seam in his palm, a soft circular motion like brushing the edge of a scar. “Not temperature. But touch?”

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rougher now. “I can feel the pressure. The motion. Just not... the heat of your skin.”

You didn’t speak. Just guided his hand upward, toward your face, your breath catching as the cool pads of his vibranium fingers grazed your cheekbone and rested there. You could’ve sworn he shuddered. A thrill passed through you at the sensation, not for you, but for him, a quiet hope that maybe this gesture still meant something, even if he couldn’t feel the warmth.

“And now?” you asked, voice barely audible over the rain.

His gaze dipped to your lips, then back up. The flickering darkness had devoured the familiar stormy blue of his eyes, leaving only a hungry void in its place.

“I feel your skin,” he said, low. “It’s soft. Smooth.” 

His fingers flexed gently, tracing the line of your jaw in a slow descent. “But I can’t feel the warmth. Just… the shape.”

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, bittersweet. A silent war was waged behind his expression, trapped between desire and duty. Between what he wanted and what he was allowed to reach for.

“I used to have another arm,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, like the admission cost him something. “A silver one. I couldn’t feel anything with it. Not even this.”

Your brows furrowed.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” he murmured. “Feeling everything… or feeling nothing at all.”

You leaned into his touch, your cheek pressing fully against the metal. Even if it didn’t give him warmth, maybe it gave him presence.

“I think,” you mumbled, “that feeling is the most natural thing of all. It’s the experience of living. Of life.”

His hand stilled against your face.

“People who try to push aside feeling,” you said, softer now, “to cut it off and pretend it doesn’t exist… they’re the ones who are suffering the most. Not the ones who feel everything.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale. A subtle release, like he hadn’t even realised he was holding onto something tight in his chest until now. The candlelight caught the faintest tremble in his throat as he swallowed, as though your words had struck a nerve.

“I feel everything now,” he said at last, voice barely above a breath, like a truth he hadn’t meant to say aloud, like it had just dawned on him. His fingers twitched, then slowly withdrew, curling into a loose fist in his lap.

Silence settled between you, and you watched as the plates in his metal arm shifted with a subtle hiss, the faint whir of unseen mechanics clicking into place as he flexed his fist open, then closed again. The movement was restless, almost unconscious, like his body was speaking the turmoil he wouldn’t voice. You could feel the heat where his hand had just been, the ghost of his touch clinging to your skin.

For a second, you worried he was retreating inward again, lost to whatever troubles consumed him, but then his voice, low and quiet, cut through the static. 

“Come here.” 

You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “What?”

“Just... closer.”

You moved without thinking. Slowly, cautiously, you slid forward on the couch, knees grazing his, breath shallow in your throat. The space between you disappeared. You could feel his warmth, his stillness, the quiet restraint in the way he held himself.

When he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you didn’t flinch. His fingers lingered against your cheek, almost like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible beneath the rain. “You’re killin’ me here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice rough and honest. “I notice everything about you.”

Your breath caught, lips parting on instinct, but no sound came.

God, was this really happening? You could feel it, his gaze, the pull of something simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark. But was this wise? You were holed up here, alone together for who knew how long. If you were wrong and misread this current thread between you, it would ruin everything. There’d be no slipping away, no easy out, just long days and longer nights of awkward silence and sidestepped glances.

You didn’t know if you were ready to be seen like that. To be touched like that. To fall headfirst into something that might not let you come back the same. You swallowed hard, unsure if you wanted to lean in or away. 

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

His breath hitched almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?”

You focused, just a small pulse of energy through your fingertips, a delicate twist of sensation sent skimming through his nerves like a shiver. It bloomed slowly at first, a gentle, spiralling warmth that coiled from where you touched and then unfolded, spreading like ripples in water.

He inhaled sharply. Eyes fluttering closed. A tremor ran through him, his spine arching ever so slightly as the feeling expanded, not sharp or overwhelming, but deep. A full-body shudder, unforced and unguarded.

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. 

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more. 

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering. 

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks. 

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

hi, if you made it to the end, holy shit congrats. if you enjoyed please let me know! drop a comment below, reblog or send me something through my inbox! thank you for reading my work :) if you want to stay up to date with any series updates or new one-shots being posted, follow my sideblog @artficlly-updates and turn on notifications.

[kbwrites]

Heated Waters

synopsis: being married is hard, being married without seeing each other is even harder.

⚝ content: Hiromi Higuruma x F! Reader, nsfw, bathtub sex, fingering, Hiromi neglects his wife, but boy does he make up for it

⚝ wc: 1.9k

“Yeah we do it pretty much every day.”

Satoru said, taking a leisurely sip of his water. His pale face alight with mischief, a shit-eating grin across his lips. His three coworkers stared at him in (jealousy) disbelief.

Suguru was the first to break the silence, wanting to save face “Everyday is a bit much, isn’t it, Satoru?”

Satoru chuckled, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he watched his friend squirm. "What about you guys? How often do our married friends get it in?" His gaze flickered to Nanami, who cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from his coffee cup.

“Twice a week, I suppose…”

Satoru's smile widened, clearly entertained by the responses he was drawing out. He then turned his attention to the oldest among them, Hiromi Higuruma, who was carefully straightening his tie, a subtle attempt to avoid eye contact.

“What about you, Higuruma?”

“Your wife, (Y/N) is a little younger than you, right? C’mon Higuruma-San…She a total freak?” Satoru teased.

Hiromi's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as his grip on his coffee cup tightened. He took a slow, measured breath, his voice strained but controlled when he finally spoke.

“Please don’t talk about my wife like that.”

But Satoru, ever the instigator, didn’t back down. “It’s just us guys riiggght? And I can’t lie Higuruma, you’re one lucky guy. (Y/N) is a catch.”

Nanami nodded in agreement, as did Suguru, though both seemed to sense the discomfort growing in Hiromi. The older man could only sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the conversation.

It was true—you were everything he could have ever wanted in a partner. Beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted—his perfect match. If heaven existed, Hiromi was certain you’d be the only one worthy of it.

But long nights in the office, and early mornings preparing for court would take a toll on any relationship. The truth was… Hiromi hadn’t touched you in over a month. By the time he came home—you were fast asleep, and weekends were spent running the mountain of errands you couldn’t get to during the week. You loved each other of course, but it was hard. A month without feeling the warmth of your husband's hands all over your skin was starting to weigh heavily on both of you.

“You don’t have to answer Higuruma-san..” Nanami chimed in, sensing his elder colleague’s discomfort.

“Over a month.” Hiromi exhaled, the truth slipping out before he could stop it.

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

“WHAT?” Gojo audibly gasps. “Your wife looks like THAT and you haven’t f—”

Suguru swiftly cut him off with a well-placed elbow to the chest. “Satoru… leave Higuruma alone.” The long-haired male warns. “Still, that is surprising.”

“I know I know..” Higuruma pinches his bridge. He wanted nothing more than to have his wife under him… on top of him. But the endless stream of work kept him trapped in a cycle of exhaustion. “I’ve been so busy I can’t even remember the last time I actually spoke to her properly.”

Suguru offered an apologetic smile. “Sounds like you need a break.”

“Sounds like you need some puss—” Nanami quickly elbowed Satoru in the chest before he could finish his sentence.

Hiromi shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle as he ran a hand through his dark locks, clearly frustrated with himself. “I appreciate your concern, guys, but I don’t see how I can take a break right now. I have so much work to do, and I’m the only one who knows how to handle all of it.”

“Higuruma-San. Satoru will take care of the paperwork for you.” Nanami suggested with a deadpan expression.

“HUH?” Satoru blurted out, clearly caught off guard by the sudden assignment.

“Yeah,” Nanami continued, ignoring Satoru’s protest. “It’s not like he actually does any work around here anyway.”

Suguru smirked, nodding in agreement. “That’s true. You might as well make yourself useful, Satoru.”

Before Hiromi could protest, the trio moved in unison—Suguru grabbing Hiromi’s briefcase, Nanami steering him toward the door, and Satoru sighing dramatically as he resigned himself to the task.

“Are… are you boys sure about this? I don’t want to burden you–”

“Nonsense! Go home and take care of your wife!”

Hiromi placed his briefcase by the door, his tie feeling suddenly too tight around his neck. He loosened it with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he glanced around. The familiar scent of home greeted him. It was comforting yet bittersweet, a reminder of all the moments he had missed. The living room was tidy, the soft hum of the dishwasher running in the kitchen. You had clearly been busy, taking care of the house as you always did, even when he wasn’t around.

“Honey?” Hiromi calls out to you, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.

Frowning, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before making his way down the hall. As he approached the bathroom, he noticed a faint light seeping out from under the door, accompanied by the sound of water gently lapping against the tub.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly opened the door.

The sight that greeted him made his breath catch in his throat. There you were, reclining in the bathtub, your eyes closed, head resting on the edge as steam rose around you. The soft glow of candles illuminated the room, casting a warm, serene light over your features.

You looked so peaceful, so beautiful—that it almost hurt to look at you. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he took in the sight, but the guilt and longing only deepened. How long had it been since he’d taken the time to appreciate you like this? Since he’d been able to just… be with you?

You opened your eyes, gaze meeting your husband as he leaned against the door frame.

“Hiromi?” you murmured, your voice soft, almost questioning, as if unsure whether he was really there or just a figment of your imagination.

“Hey Honey…” his voice equally soft, as he took a tentative step closer. The warmth of the room seemed to wrap around him, melting away some of the day’s stress.

“You’re home early.” You muse, looking at him as you rested your arms on the tub. He doesn’t respond, just walks towards you with purposeful steps.

Hiromi stares down at you with half-lidded eyes.“The guys decided I need a break.” He paused, his breath hitching slightly as he continued, “Can I join you?” A playful smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Only if you take off your clothes this time.”

A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he unbuttons his dress shirt, letting each article of clothing fall to the tile floor. As he finally sheds his boxers before settling behind you. You exhaled softly, the tension you’d been holding onto for weeks dissipating as you sank into your husband’s embrace.

Hiromi didn’t waste a moment, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, placing lazy, lingering kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His breath was warm against your skin, his kisses slow and unhurried, as if savoring every second, every inch of you.

His hands weren’t idle either, tracing gentle patterns along your stomach, moving upwards to cup your breasts with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He nipped lightly at your earlobe, his voice a husky murmur, “I’ve missed you… more than you know.”

“Missed you too ‘Romi..” Your voice trembling as the almost foreign heat began to pool in your core.

Deft fingers teased your nipples, rolling and pinching—eliciting a soft moan from your lips as your body arched into his touch. Your hand reached back, tangling in his dark locks, pulling him closer as his lips traveled down to your shoulder, his other hand snaking under the water to your aching cunt.

“ahhhh… s-shitt..” You cry out as Hiromi’s fingers slowly circle your swollen bud. His touch light, teasing.

“Thirty-two days… I’m so sorry m’love.” He mumbles into your shoulder as he slips a slender digit into your entrance. Your walls flutter immediately around the intrusion, as he gently pumped into you.

He adds another finger, curling up to the spot he had neglected all those weeks. He extended his thumb to rub your clit. You arch your back against him, feeling his cock twitch against your ass.

“Hiro…” you moan, reaching behind for him, but he bites down lightly on your shoulder.

“Not yet, pretty girl, want you t’cum first okay?”

He whispers as he feels your gummy walls clench around him.

He speeds up his ministrations, digits stuffing your cunt as your pussy throbs and squelches. Your whimpers echo around the tiled walls, water lapping around your bodies.

You feel the pressure building as each thrust of his long fingers brush against your g-spot.

“g-gonna cum!”

“Cum f’me sweetheart please—god… need it so bad.” Hiromi mumbles as he pumps even faster.

“a-ahh!” you cry as you reach your high, walls clenching as you cum on your husband’s hand. He removes his fingers from you, moving to gently circle your clit as you come down from your orgasm.

You both stay there for a moment, your heavy breathing the only sound occupying the space, mingling with the gentle slosh of water against the porcelain tub. Hiromi’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer.

Slowly, he lifted you, the warm water swirling around you both as he maneuvered you to face him, settling you on his lap. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your knees pressing against the cool sides of the tub.

You straddled Hiromi, your bodies now fully aligned, chest to chest. Your husband's dark, half-lidded eyes bore into yours, his expression a mixture of raw need and unspoken tenderness. He let his hands rest on your waist for a moment, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your damp skin as he took in the sight of you.

“I don’t know how I’ve stayed away from you for so long…” his voice breaking slightly as if the admission pained him.

Your breath hitched as you shifted slightly in his lap, feeling the tension between you intensify. Hiromi’s hands slid up your sides, his touch deliberate and slow, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as his lips finally found yours. The kiss was deep, full of hunger that had been simmering between you both for far too long.

His grip on your waist tightened as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that left you dizzy with need.

Breaking the kiss, Hiromi leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

Without a word, he rose from the tub, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Water cascaded down your bodies, pooling at your feet as he carried you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing wet kisses down the side of your neck.

He laid you gently onto the bed, your back sinking into the soft silken sheets, but Hiromi didn’t waste any time. His gaze darkening as he climbed over you, his body hovering just above yours, his eyes drinking you in like a man starved.

“I’m going to make up for every second I’ve missed.”