#final page: thread end | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heeluvv · 4 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ 06. viewer submission challenge ˎˊ˗

pairingᝰ.ᐟ kim sunoo x reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ public sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 6/9 completed!

you sat cross-legged on the concrete bench just outside the campus café, the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees overhead, bleeding gold through the shifting leaves. patches of light danced across your notebook, catching in the curve of your wrist and the edge of your page, though you hadn’t written anything in over twenty minutes. the coffee beside you had long gone cold, its once-steaming surface now flat and untouched, condensation pooling against the base of the cup. you didn’t have the appetite for it anymore—your stomach was too twisted, your chest too full. your thoughts tangled around themselves like a spool of thread pulled too tight, looping again and again with no end in sight. beside you, nari tapped her phone rhythmically against her knee, her thumb dragging absently across the edge as she glanced from your face to the passing students with increasing concern. her brow furrowed softly, and after another moment of silence, she gently nudged her knee against yours. “you’ve been quiet,” she murmured, tone cautious. “like… more than usual. talk to me.”

you inhaled, slowly, the kind of breath that sits thick in your lungs for a second too long before it sinks. your gaze dropped to your lap, fingers twitching as they rested against the spine of your closed notebook, and for a second you almost didn’t say anything. but it spilled out anyway. “i think i’m gonna quit soon,” you said, your voice quiet—barely above a whisper. you didn’t look up, but you could feel nari shift beside you, her spine going a little straighter, her lips parting like she wanted to interrupt. but you kept talking. “after three more collabs… that’s it. i think i’m done.” the words tasted bitter, not because they were a lie—but because they were starting to feel like the truth. “it’s just getting to be too much. i thought i could keep everything separate, that i could keep it casual. but it’s not. the way they treat me—heeseung, jay, jake… and now sunghoon—none of it feels casual. they’re so sweet with me. gentle. thoughtful. i can’t stop thinking about them, and it’s not just about the videos anymore.”

your throat felt tight, your heart thudding a little faster as you finally looked up, catching the concerned crease between nari’s brows. she didn’t say anything right away, but her silence was thick—understanding, but heavy. your stomach twisted again. “i didn’t mean for it to get like this,” you whispered. “and now i don’t know how to untangle myself.” your voice cracked on that last word, and you felt your face heat, fingers twitching on your lap. nari didn’t say anything for a long moment, just let the silence sit, let it hold the weight you couldn’t.

finally, nari sighed and shifted closer, her warmth pressing into your side as she rested her head gently on your shoulder. it wasn’t her usual playful nudge or teasing lean—it was soft, weighted, quiet in a way that made your chest ache even more. “you don’t have to beat yourself up over this,” she said, her voice steadier than your own thoughts, wrapping around you like something safe. “you’re allowed to feel things. even if you didn’t plan to.” her fingers slipped around your wrist, holding it with just enough pressure to pull you back to the moment, anchoring you to something other than the storm in your own chest. “it doesn’t make you weak. it doesn’t mean you failed at staying detached. it just means you’re human.” the sincerity in her voice cracked something open in your ribs, a sting of guilt slipping through your spine, because part of you hated how much it helped to hear it out loud. “but if you’re really serious about ending it soon,” she continued, “maybe you should do it in a way that’s yours. not theirs.” you blinked at her, lips parting, and she turned to meet your eyes with a soft smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “i’m just saying… maybe go out with a bang.”

you let out a dry, broken chuckle, one that barely made it past your lips before it caught in your throat. “what do you mean?” your voice cracked a little, low and hesitant, like you were already bracing for her answer. nari’s eyes lit up with something quieter than mischief, something closer to knowing, and she tilted her head with the kind of look that said she’d been holding this in for a while. “you ever heard of @watchmesunoo?” the name came out casually, but the sound of it sparked something faint behind your ribs, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place. your brows furrowed as the syllables echoed again, this time deeper, pulling a ghost of a memory forward from the first week you created your account. “wait…” you said slowly, squinting into the space between thoughts. “i think i saw one of his previews when i first signed up… but i don’t think i ever followed him.”

you bit the inside of your cheek, remembering it now—how you’d been scrolling late one night, breath held in your throat as you stumbled across a low-resolution preview with dim lighting and soft groans muffled under ambient music. a shot of his mouth. a blurry pull of fingers against skin. it was simple, intimate, unpolished—something that felt almost too real. “it was just one video,” you added, more to yourself than to her, your voice quieter now. “i forgot about him.” nari nodded, a little too quickly. “yeah. that’s him. barely posts. ignores most collab requests. my friend’s obsessed with him—she’s been trying to work with him for months, but he’s a ghost.” she paused, watching the way your brows pulled together, your expression caught between confusion and intrigue. “but i think you should try.”

she didn’t smile this time—didn’t tease, didn’t nudge. she just looked at you, honest and still, like she already knew what your answer would be before you even thought to say it. “maybe that’s the kind of thing you need right now. someone who doesn’t already have a version of you in their head. someone who hasn’t touched you yet.” her words sank deep into your chest, unsettling something you hadn’t realized you’d been trying to bury. you didn’t say anything for a long moment—just stared down at the screen in your lap, the name @watchmesunoo repeating itself like a soft echo. and slowly, almost reluctantly, you felt the weight of it settle behind your ribs. not fear. not excitement. something quieter.

you swallowed down the last of your hesitation, the corners of your lips twitching with something uncertain as you thumbed at the edge of your phone screen. “i’ll look into it,” you said finally, barely above a whisper, like saying it too loud might make it feel too real. nari’s eyes brightened just a little—not with excitement, but with a quiet kind of pride, like she knew what it meant for you to even consider it. you didn’t say anything else, just offered her a soft, tired smile as you started tucking your notebook back into your bag. your limbs felt heavier than before, thoughts clouded in a swirl of names, usernames, videos, and that echo of a preview you hadn’t realized had stayed with you all this time. “i think i’m gonna head home,” you murmured, slinging the strap over your shoulder and standing slowly, your back arching in a small stretch as the concrete bench faded behind you.

nari stood up too, brushing off her jeans, but before she could gather her things, her phone buzzed and she let out a short groan. “ugh—wait, never mind. i forgot i have to meet with my psych professor,” she said, glancing at the screen with a scrunched nose. “office hour thing. she wants to go over our project proposals.” you turned to her with a sympathetic smile, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “good luck,” you teased lightly, nudging her hip with yours. “you’re gonna need it if she’s in her ‘let’s dig into your childhood trauma’ mood.” nari snorted, shaking her head. “don’t remind me.”

you lingered for a second longer, the sun starting to slip behind the buildings in the distance, casting long shadows over the quad. something about the way it all felt—soft, slow, suspended in that hour between day and dusk—made your chest ache again. but you turned anyway, waved her off with a quiet “text me later,” and started the slow walk back to your apartment. and even as you walked, even as your bag thudded softly against your hip and your shoes echoed across the pavement, your mind was already pulling back to that name.

—

your apartment feels colder than usual when you step inside, even though the air’s not on. there’s a stillness in the air that feels too aware of you, like the silence has been waiting to settle over your shoulders the second you’re alone again. you toe off your shoes without thinking, barely aware of the way they hit the floor and skid unevenly to the side, and drift toward your desk like you’re on autopilot. your laptop screen glows faintly in the dimness of your room, casting soft blue across the surface of your desk and reflecting in the half-full cup of tea you’d forgotten to drink this morning. the tab for your assignment is still open — blinking cursor, blank page, waiting for your focus — but you can’t force yourself to look at it for longer than a few seconds. your fingers hover over the keys like muscle memory might kick in and guide you through it, but your brain doesn’t follow. instead, your thoughts splinter in the same direction they’ve been spiraling all day, circling back to that conversation on the bench like it left something in your chest buzzing. something about the name — sunoo — stuck to your skin like static, and the more you try to forget it, the louder it seems to echo.

you can’t explain it, not really. it isn’t the way nari said it or even the weight behind her words — it’s something older, something that scratches faintly at the back of your mind like a memory you hadn’t realized was there. your brows furrow as you lean back in your chair, the room dim around you, your eyes falling unfocused to the wall beyond your desk. and then it hits you — a flash, a flicker, the blurry recollection of scrolling through creator previews when you first joined, when the app still felt like a game you weren’t sure you’d keep playing. you hadn’t even clicked it. you just remembered pausing, breath catching for a second too long, before telling yourself to move on. but now it feels different. now his name feels like a thread you’re meant to tug.

you get up before you can talk yourself out of it. your blanket is soft beneath your legs as you sink into the edge of your bed, pulling your laptop close and setting it in your lap with hesitant fingers. the room is quiet except for the low hum of traffic outside your window, the streetlights casting faint amber streaks across your walls, and still, it feels like you’re not alone. you type the handle slowly, breathing shallow as the letters take shape across your screen. @watchmesunoo — plain and simple. your stomach tightens as you click.

the video you clicked on doesn’t start immediately — it fades in, slow and deliberate, like it’s giving you time to adjust before letting you see all of him. he’s lounging in a dimly lit room, the shadows from warm-toned bulbs playing along the open line of his shirt as he drags his fingers lazily over the inside of his thigh. his eyes are low, unreadable but sharp, and the second he smiles — just the corner of his mouth tugging up — something clenches tight in your chest. “you came looking for me, huh?” he says, voice silky smooth and unbothered, like he was expecting you. “good. i was starting to think i’d have to come find you instead.” your breath stutters. there’s no rush to the way he speaks, no performance, no over-the-top energy. it’s quiet. intimate. like he’s talking just to you — and maybe that’s the point.

your thighs shift without thinking, the video washing over you like a slow wave of heat as his hands move down, drawing soft circles over the fabric between his legs. his voice stays steady, low and measured, as he whispers something about patience — about reward — about how good it feels when someone finally gives in and looks at him properly. he doesn’t touch himself. not yet. he just stares, right into the camera, like he’s watching you squirm on the other side of the screen. and when the video cuts to black, there’s no outro, no goodbye. just silence. and your own ragged breathing as you reach slowly for the message button without really deciding to.

@babydollx0: hey… not sure if you’ll see this. but your content was… really something.

you don’t even have time to look away before the dot appears. he’s typing. and then—

@watchmesunoo: took you long enough

your lips part slightly, surprise hitching in your chest.

@babydollx0: wait… you're actually replying?

the response is almost immediate.

@watchmesunoo: of course. you’re kind of hard to miss, babydoll

your pulse jumps. you reread the message once. then again. your fingers hover over your screen, unsure how to respond to the casual, low-glow confidence laced into every word.

@babydollx0: wasn’t expecting that… guess your reputation’s bigger than mine, huh?

his dot flickers.

@watchmesunoo: maybe. but you’ve got a very dedicated fanbase.

your brows knit. your stomach tightens.

@babydollx0: wait what does that mean—

@watchmesunoo: mall on 11th. 8pm. bring something easy to take off.

you blink. the bubble’s gone. no flirty emoji. no “see you then.” just a time, a place, and the subtle kind of suggestion that leaves your skin warm and your mind racing. you stare at your screen, the cursor blinking back at you like it’s waiting for your next move.

your closet groans softly when you tug it open, the familiar weight of fabric brushing against your fingers like it’s offering you comfort — or distraction. the light above you flickers faintly as you scan the hangers, not really sure what you’re even looking for at first, your thoughts still spinning too fast around his last message. something easy to take off. the words circle your mind like smoke, curling into your chest and warming your skin from the inside out, and you feel your throat go dry as you thumb through the hangers. you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard — but you do. you want him to look at you the way he looked into that camera. you want to know what it feels like to unravel under his hands, to see if he’s really as smooth and in control as he seems. and somewhere between all those thoughts, your hand stills.

the dress you settle on is one you’d almost forgotten about — soft, slinky, just long enough to be decent and just short enough to feel like a dare. the fabric is pale and silky, a muted ivory that glows a little under the light, and it clings to your frame in a way that feels like a whisper instead of a scream. it dips gently along your collarbones, straps thin enough to feel like they might slip off if someone so much as breathed too close, and the hem flutters just above mid-thigh, catching the breeze from your open window. you hold it up in front of you for a second, tilting your head, imagining the way sunoo’s eyes might track the shape of your waist or the curve of your legs when he sees you. your pulse kicks. the thought makes you shift in place, suddenly aware of your bare skin and how easily he’ll be able to get to it. you dress slowly, letting the fabric slide up over your hips and settle into place, smoothing it down with shaky hands.

your fingers linger at the base of your throat as you glance in the mirror, adjusting your straps, brushing your hair back over your shoulders. there’s something about the way you look tonight — flushed, expectant, a little nervous — that doesn’t feel like the version of you who started all this. but it’s still you. it’s you with want blooming behind your ribs, with something hungry curling low in your belly, with your lips already parted like they’re waiting for him. you swipe on a bit of gloss, mascara, something soft on your cheeks, but nothing too bold — you want him to see you, not a mask. your perfume comes last, spritzed low across your neck, a familiar scent that feels like a secret when it mixes with your skin. your shoes stay flat, easy to walk in — easy to step out of. and when you finally grab your phone, your keys, your tiny bag, your heart flutters as the time reads back at you.

7:44 pm. just enough time to meet him.

just enough time to lose yourself in someone new.

—

the mall was busy, but not loud. the late afternoon foot traffic had thinned into a more leisurely pace, the kind of rhythm that didn’t rush—just drifted, like everything was suspended in this slow, golden lull. soft chatter drifted between the storefronts, punctuated by the low hum of elevator music and the distant whir of a blender from the smoothie kiosk downstairs. perfume hung thick in the air, clinging sweet and floral to your skin as you stepped inside, your heels clicking faintly against the tile. the hem of your dress fluttered around your thighs, brushing soft against your skin with every step you took. you felt… exposed. not because of the dress—it wasn’t too tight, not too short—but because of what today meant. because of who you were here to meet. because of how your body had already begun to anticipate something that hadn’t even happened yet.

sunoo hadn’t told you much. just a time. a place. no expectations, no explanation. and yet your stomach had been tight since you left your apartment, your chest heavier with every passing minute, your head full of him in a way you didn’t have time to prepare for.

you scanned the upper floor slowly, eyes flicking across passing shoppers, half-distracted by the way your pulse thrummed against your collarbone. and then—without warning—a voice broke through the din.

“wow…”

you turned instinctively, heart lurching, and there he was.

sunoo stood several feet away near a decorative planter tucked beside the escalator, partially hidden by the long vines of a seasonal display, but his eyes were locked onto you like he hadn’t even considered looking at anyone else. like the mall disappeared the second you stepped inside. he looked exactly like his preview—his hair a soft blonde, his frame lean, hoodie pulled halfway up his arms—but nothing had prepared you for how he’d make you feel when he looked at you like that. like he was stunned. like your body, your face, your very presence had knocked the breath out of his lungs.

he didn’t say anything for a second. just stared.

and then, finally—“you’re…” his voice trailed off, his jaw flexing, like he was trying to restart the sentence but couldn’t get it out. “you’re so beautiful.”

you felt heat bloom in your cheeks instantly, breath catching in your throat as he stepped forward. his fingers grazed your elbow, light and careful, and his eyes traced the line of your jaw before settling back on your lips.

“you didn’t have to show up lookin’ like that, now i feel underdressed.” you laugh, and he grins wider, the tension between you thinning just a bit. then, with a small wave of his hand, he gestures for you to follow. “c’mon, i wanna talk to you somewhere quieter.”

you trail behind him as he leads you to a tucked-away lounge on the second floor—a cozy seating area framed by tall indoor plants and dim lighting from overhead skylights. it’s quiet, barely anyone passing through, and sunoo slides into one of the plush seats before patting the cushion beside him. once you’re settled, he turns slightly, legs crossed and arm resting casually along the back of the bench behind you. “so,” he starts, voice soft again, but this time with a hint of sincerity. “i’ve seen you before, you know. something about you... stuck with me.”

you tilt your head, surprised, but he just smiles, eyes flicking down to your lips for a second too long before returning to your gaze. “you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, the compliment falling from his lips like a quiet secret. “and not just in that way. you’ve got something about you... makes it hard to look away.” your heart skips, your fingers toying with the hem of your dress as the weight of his words settles in your chest. and then, leaning in just a little closer, he whispers, “let’s make something worth remembering tonight.”

you trail behind him as he pushes open the glass door of the boutique, the soft chime above signaling your entrance, and something tight curls in your stomach at the idea of what’s coming. the place is quiet—minimal music, soft lighting, not too many people—and sunoo doesn’t say much at first, just offers you a sly glance over his shoulder as he leads you down one of the back aisles. “okay,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear, “so… this one’s for a challenge my viewers sent in. it’s kind of a favorite.” you blink at him, your heart already starting to pound, but he only leans closer, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks. “we’re going to do a few things inside the dressing room. i’ll pick the clothes, you try them on, and then—” his voice drops lower, breathier, “we see how far we can go without getting caught.” your eyes widen slightly, the adrenaline kicking in fast, but you can’t help the heat rising in your chest as he takes your hand and leads you toward the fitting area, his grip warm, steady, and just a little too excited.

he doesn’t give you time to ask questions—only hands you a couple of hangers with a cheeky little tilt of his head, his eyes scanning your expression like he’s enjoying how nervous you suddenly look. “relax,” he murmurs, lips barely parting as he takes a step closer, “you’re in good hands.” the words shouldn’t sound as comforting as they do, but something about the way he says it—light, teasing, and sure—makes you feel strangely safe despite your nerves. the soft click of your heels on the hardwood follows you both as you make your way toward the fitting rooms in the back, the hallway narrow and lined with curtained booths, none of which seem occupied. sunoo pauses at the end of the row and peeks through the curtain before gently tugging it open, motioning for you to go in first with a simple wave of his hand. the room is small—three mirrored walls, a little bench, and a hook for your things—but it’s clean, neat, and quiet. you step inside slowly, nerves buzzing in your chest, but when you turn back to face him, he’s already pulling the curtain closed behind him, one brow arched. “you trust me?” he asks softly. and even though your stomach twists, you nod.

the curtain sways gently behind him before it falls still, sealing the both of you in a small, quiet world muffled by the distant hum of the store beyond—hangers clinking, footsteps fading, the occasional voice dulled by fabric and walls. the dressing room is tight, just enough space to move, to breathe, to feel everything more acutely, and it’s only made smaller by the weight of sunoo’s gaze. he pulls his phone from his pocket without a word at first, the screen lighting his face in a soft glow before he sets it on the small bench beside him, angling it slightly. “no bulky cameras,” he murmurs, his voice light, almost playful, but the look in his eyes is anything but. “figured you’d like that,” he adds, and the way he says it—confident, casual, like he already knows you—makes your cheeks grow warm, a quiet blush spreading up to your ears as you instinctively turn away, facing the mirror to ground yourself. your reflection stares back, wide-eyed and flushed, the soft fabric of your dress fluttering slightly from the chill in the air or maybe the nerves tightening in your chest. you don’t see him move until he’s already behind you, his presence a slow, delicious pressure, his hands settling low on your waist, thumbs grazing your sides like he’s marking the moment. his fingers move with purpose, slipping down to the hem of your dress and lingering there as he leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “you look so beautiful, my god…” he breathes, the awe in his voice sending a tremble down your spine.

his eyes meet yours in the mirror, heavy and hungry, and you can barely hold the intensity of it—how he looks at you like he’s seeing something sacred. the hem of your dress lifts inch by inch beneath his touch, soft fabric peeling away from your thighs, slow enough to make your breath catch. he hums low in his throat, a sound thick with approval when the delicate lace of your panties comes into view, and he leans in even closer, the tip of his nose skimming your shoulder as he exhales against your skin. “fuck…” he mutters under his breath, so quiet it’s almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it, but the heat behind the word sears into you anyway. he continues to slide the dress upward, over your hips, across your stomach, careful not to rush, not to miss a second of it, like unveiling you is some kind of ritual. the moment stretches, drawn out by his hands and the thrum in your chest and the way your reflection trembles slightly in the mirror. when the dress finally slips past your arms and off completely, his hands glide down your sides again, slow and reverent, as if he’s memorizing every curve now exposed to him. “you’re perfect,” he says simply, like it’s just a fact, and in the quiet closeness of that dressing room, with the heat of his body pressing behind you and your eyes locked in the mirror, you almost believe him.

his hands never leave your skin as the dress falls to the floor, pooling silently at your feet like a forgotten secret. the mirror fogs faintly from the closeness, from the heat building steadily between you, and sunoo’s gaze lingers in the reflection, eyes locked on the curves now bare before him. “they asked for a challenge,” he whispers against your neck, voice warm and teasing, “so i told them i’d deliver.” you shiver as his fingers trail along your hips, gliding forward until his palms rest low on your stomach, holding you there with gentle control, like he doesn’t want you to move unless he says so. “no sounds. no slips. no getting caught,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear with each word, sending a rush of goosebumps across your skin. his thumbs stroke slow, measured circles into your lower belly as he watches you melt under his touch, the mirror catching every twitch, every flicker of need that crosses your face. “you can do that, right?” he asks, voice soft but edged with something heavier—something that makes your thighs press together in anticipation. you nod, barely, and he chuckles once, quiet and pleased, before pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his hands sliding down between your legs with deliberate care.

his fingers skim the front of your panties, featherlight, just enough pressure to make your breath catch, and he watches the way your lips part in the mirror, the way your legs shift instinctively for more. “so sensitive already,” he murmurs, dragging the lace aside slowly, exposing the slick heat between your thighs as he drags two fingers along your folds, collecting the arousal there like he’s savoring it. the air feels heavier now, the muted sounds outside the dressing room fading beneath the pounding of your heart and the wet sound of his fingers teasing your entrance. “stay quiet,” he warns gently, and you nod again, one hand reaching out to steady yourself on the wall while the other clutches at your own thigh, your knees weakening with every stroke. he sinks one finger in, slow and careful, curling it just right as your body arches back into him, your mouth opening on a silent gasp that never quite escapes. the rhythm he builds is steady, teasing—just enough to have you trembling, not enough to let you fall apart—and his breath is warm on your neck as he watches you, utterly transfixed. “fuck, you’re so good like this,” he whispers, lips brushing the edge of your jaw, “like you were made for this.”

his second finger pushes in without warning, stretching you wider, deeper, and your breath stutters as you fight the moan building in your chest, your thighs shaking with restraint. the wet sounds fill the small space, echoing just enough to make it feel dangerous, filthy, like someone might hear if they walked too close to the door. sunoo’s free hand wraps gently around your throat—not tight, just there, grounding you, tilting your head slightly so you can’t look anywhere but the mirror, at the way you’re unraveling in his hands. “eyes on yourself,” he murmurs, voice low and sharp, and you obey, barely holding back a whimper as he fucks you slowly with his fingers, the drag of each curl brushing against that spot that makes your toes curl. his thumb presses to your clit now, circling in slow, wet strokes, and your body jerks in his hold, your hand flying to your mouth to smother the cry that threatens to spill. “shhh, baby, don’t ruin it,” he coos, kissing the back of your shoulder, “not yet.” your eyes blur in the mirror as the first wave builds inside you, hot and heavy, and all you can do is grip his wrist tighter, silently begging him not to stop.

your breath is shallow, lips parting against your palm as you try—fail—to suppress the tremble of your thighs, the full-body shudder that rolls through you each time his fingers thrust a little deeper. you feel soaked, ruined, slick dripping down your thighs in thin trails, and sunoo’s fingers are relentless—patient, but unyielding. he keeps the pressure steady, dragging his fingertips along that spot inside you again and again until your knees nearly buckle, until your toes curl hard enough to ache. the soft, obscene sounds of your cunt being worked fill the cramped dressing room like static, blending with the sharp, wet flicks of his thumb against your clit. he doesn’t speak now, doesn’t have to—not when his mouth is open against your shoulder, his warm breath fanning over your skin with each exhale like he’s barely holding back from devouring you entirely. your free hand scrabbles for purchase, landing uselessly on the mirror as your body jerks again, your chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate bursts.

you can feel it—feel your orgasm winding tight, coiling low in your stomach like a fuse that’s about to blow. and maybe he can feel it too, because his pace slows just slightly, not to tease, but to keep you right on that edge. to draw it out. his hand around your throat squeezes just a little—not choking, but firm enough to anchor you, to remind you who’s guiding your body to this breaking point. “not yet,” he murmurs again, softer this time, like a warning stitched with affection. “you’ll wait until i say.” your nails dig into his wrist, eyes glassy in the mirror, lips trembling as you nod, even though your whole body is screaming to let go. his thumb rolls tighter circles now, fingers curling up perfectly with each pump, and your legs tremble harder beneath you. every movement, every sound, every breath feels amplified in the silence—your arousal making the room feel smaller, hotter, like the walls might cave in if you moan just once too loud.

you whimper again, barely audible, and he hums behind you, his nose brushing against your neck as he slows his fingers just enough to keep you tethered to the moment, your release still just out of reach. “you’re being so good for me,” he whispers, voice honeyed with praise, “i know it hurts to hold it in, baby. but you can do it, can’t you?” you nod again, shakily, blinking fast to stay focused on your reflection—on the way your body trembles under his touch, on how wrecked you look already without even being allowed to finish. sunoo’s smile turns indulgent, one kiss pressed to the corner of your jaw as he resumes his pace, slower now, deeper, like he’s rewarding your obedience with pleasure that teeters just this side of torture. your hips roll down against his hand instinctively, chasing it, chasing friction, chasing the permission you’re still waiting to hear. your clit pulses against the pad of his thumb, swollen and throbbing, and you know you can’t last much longer. but you wait. because he told you to.

and because it’s him—you want to be good for him more than anything else.

you don’t realize you’ve started shaking until his hand steadies you, firm on your waist, the warmth of his palm grounding you even as your body threatens to give out. your forehead presses to the mirror now, damp with sweat, your breath fogging up the glass in uneven bursts. your thighs ache from holding yourself upright, and your clit pulses with every twitch of your hips, your body practically begging for release. he’s still behind you, pressed close, his mouth at your ear and his fingers so deep you swear he’s memorizing every inch of you from the inside out. “just a little longer,” he whispers, voice thick with restraint, but you can hear it—how wrecked he sounds too. how hard he is behind you, cock pressed hot against your ass through his boxers, twitching every time you clench around his fingers. it makes you wetter, needier, your moans hiccuping into little broken gasps that you can’t even muffle anymore. it’s too much. you’re too full. too close.

his thumb rolls over your clit again, tighter this time, firmer, and your whole body jolts, your hand slamming into the mirror for balance. “fuck—sunoo—” his name slips out like a sob, high and breathless, and that’s when he finally gives it to you. “you can let go now,” he says, a low murmur laced with something wicked and warm. “come for me, pretty thing.” and the second the words hit, your body seizes with it—your orgasm crashing over you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs. your thighs squeeze together instinctively, your back arching, your mouth open in a moan that barely makes it past your tongue as everything inside you contracts at once. you clamp down around his fingers, pulsing and spasming as he fucks you through it, his hand unrelenting, milking every last bit of pleasure until your legs completely give. he holds you up, both hands now wrapped around your waist as you slump against the mirror, whimpering into your arm while your body continues to twitch from the aftershocks.

your reflection is a mess—cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised, eyes glassy and unfocused as you pant against the fogged-up glass. your panties hang low around one thigh, the hem of your dress wrinkled up around your ribs, and your skin is covered in sweat and the faint tremble of being completely undone. behind you, sunoo presses one more kiss to your shoulder, then your neck, then just behind your ear. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, and there’s nothing teasing in his voice anymore—just awe, soft and sincere, like he still can’t believe what he’s seeing. “you did so good, baby. so fucking good for me.” your knees nearly buckle again when he says it like that—when the praise comes without hesitation, when it feels like he means every word with his whole chest.

his hands slide down, one of them reaching between your legs again—not to start anything, but just to feel, to swipe gently through the mess between your thighs like he’s admiring what he caused. “messy girl,” he mutters, smirking now, a kiss dropped to your temple. “hope you didn’t think we were done.” and then he’s lifting you, gently but firmly, turning you in his arms so your back presses to the mirror and your chest rises against his. the phone is still recording in the corner, forgotten but running, capturing every angle, every gasp.

you kiss him before he can say anything else, hard and sudden, like the craving in your chest has finally boiled over and you just can’t hold it in anymore. your lips crash into his with a force that nearly knocks the air from both your lungs, and for a second, he doesn’t move—just stands there in surprise, mouth parted beneath yours—before he groans low in his throat and grabs at your waist like he’s been waiting for it all along. his body meets yours in full again, no space left between you, his chest rising with a shudder as he kisses you back deep and slow and messy. you can taste the leftover sweetness of your own release on his tongue, can feel the urgency building again in the way his hands slide down the curve of your ass, gripping tight, kneading like he’s trying to ground himself in you. your fingers weave into his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp into your mouth, and you swallow the sound with a whimper of your own as your thighs press together, aching for more.

you barely feel your back hit the mirror—just the cold of it ghosting down your spine as sunoo shifts your bodies again, angling you toward the corner where the bench meets the wall. “you’re not tired?” he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief and hunger, his forehead pressing to yours as he pants. you shake your head, your breath hitching as his fingers skim up your thigh again, finding the damp lace that’s still clinging to you. “not even close,” you whisper, and that’s all he needs to hear.

his mouth drags down your neck, kissing and nipping gently, the pace slower now, more intentional, like he wants to savor the way your body reacts to him. his hands roam again, over your ribs, your hips, the swell of your thighs as you shiver beneath his touch, letting out a soft gasp when his fingers slide past your panties once more. “still so wet for me,” he hums, a smile curling against your skin as he sinks down to his knees between your legs like it’s where he belongs. he kisses along the inside of your thighs, tongue flicking teasingly close before pulling away just enough to make you whine, your fingers curling in his hair.

“stay still for me, baby,” he whispers, and before you can even think to respond, he’s pulling your panties to the side and licking a long, slow stripe up your center.

your knees nearly give out.

his tongue is hot, slick, devastating in its precision as he laps at your clit with soft, rhythmic flicks, then dips lower to fuck into you with long strokes that make your hips jerk forward. you feel it build again so fast—too fast—and you brace yourself on the mirror behind you, one hand still tangled in his hair as he moans against your cunt like he’s starved. “fuck—sunoo,” you breathe out, your voice cracking as your head tips back, the heat in your stomach coiling tighter with every flick of his tongue.

he doesn’t stop. doesn’t let up. he keeps going until your legs are shaking, until you’re gasping and twitching under his mouth, until the words slip out in a messy, broken whisper: “gonna come—fuck, i’m gonna—”

but then he pulls away.

you sob, your body lurching forward at the sudden emptiness, but he’s already standing, already pulling you into another kiss, messy and wet and still tasting like you. “not yet,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand reaching for his phone to quickly angle it slightly, making sure you’re both still in frame. “you said you weren’t tired, remember?” he grins, voice low and playful now, and you nod desperately, your hands sliding down his chest until they reach his cock, hard and flushed and already leaking against his thigh.

he groans as you touch him, your hand wrapping around his length and stroking him slowly, teasingly. “then fuck me already,” you whisper, voice shaking, and his eyes darken completely.

“turn around,” he tells you, breathless, and you do, pressing your hands against the mirror as you arch your back, offering yourself to him.

he slides in with one deep thrust, both of you gasping at the stretch, the sudden fullness.

“round two,” he pants, thrusting again, slower now. “let’s give them a show.”

his hands find your hips first, steadying you as he sinks in inch by inch, the stretch making you whimper as your palms flatten against the mirror for balance. he hisses behind you, hips stuttering once before he sets a pace, slow and purposeful, every thrust deep and dragging like he’s determined to feel every inch of you again. your reflection catches your eye for a second—cheeks flushed, mouth parted, eyes already glazed—and the sight makes something flutter low in your belly. behind you, sunoo lets out a shaky breath and slides his hand up your spine, flattening it between your shoulder blades until your back arches more for him, the angle sending heat flashing through your core. “fuck, you’re unreal,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rasp that vibrates down your spine as his hips snap forward harder, the sound of your skin meeting echoing faintly in the tiny room. your thighs tremble as he picks up the pace, his other hand moving to your clit again, circling in tight, controlled motions that have your knees buckling. he groans when he feels your body clench around him, a deep sound that shoots straight through you, and your nails scrape softly down the glass as your moans grow louder. “they’re gonna lose their minds watching this,” he breathes out, lips ghosting against your neck, “but they’ll never feel you like this.”

his words hit something deep, and your body trembles beneath him, overwhelmed by the feeling of being so full, so close, so wrecked already—and the way he keeps watching you, eyes flickering between your reflection and the spot where you’re joined. you try to hold on a little longer, but his fingers on your clit work relentlessly, syncing with every hard thrust of his cock until it feels impossible not to break. you whimper his name, breath catching in your throat, and he tilts his hips just right, driving into that spot inside you that makes your whole body jolt forward with a strangled moan. “that’s it,” he whispers, “come on, baby, i feel you—come for me again.” your legs tremble violently as your orgasm crashes over you, your head tipping back with a cry, heat exploding in your belly as you clamp down around him, body pulsing and twitching. sunoo gasps, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he groans and buries himself deep, hips jerking as he spills inside you, warm and thick and drawn-out. his hands grip your hips so tight you know it’ll bruise, his breath ragged against your neck as he rides it out, murmuring soft curses between gasps. you both stay like that for a moment, bodies pressed together, hearts racing, the air thick with the scent of sweat and sex and something that feels too good to name.

you blink slowly at the mirror, seeing the flush on your chest, the red bite blooming at your shoulder where he’d kissed too hard, and the way his cum begins to trickle slowly down your thighs.

his breath is still shaky when he finally pulls out, cock twitching as he watches the mess they’ve made of each other glisten between your legs. he reaches past you slowly, arm brushing your waist, and taps his phone screen twice to end the recording, the screen dimming to black with a soft click. silence blooms between you both for a second—thick, heavy, and intimate—until he exhales and gently cups your hips, turning you around with soft hands. “you okay?” he whispers, his voice warm, his touch even warmer as he brings one hand up to smooth back your hair, thumb brushing over your cheek. you nod, still catching your breath, and he leans in to kiss your forehead so tenderly it makes your chest ache. he crouches to the floor without a word, grabbing a tissue from his pocket and using it to carefully clean you up, his eyes flicking up every few seconds to make sure you’re not flinching. you feel the gentleness in every stroke, the reverence in every glance, like even now he’s still trying to memorize how soft you are. once he’s done, he helps you slip your panties back on, then pulls the hem of your dress back down, fixing the sleeves on your shoulders with a careful tug.

“you were perfect,” he murmurs, standing again, his hands sliding up to cradle your face as he presses a lingering kiss to your lips—less heated now, more thankful, more full of something you don’t dare name just yet. he doesn’t rush you, just keeps holding your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks like he needs to ground you again. your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer, and he smiles into the kiss before whispering, “you wanna get out of here?” the way he says it makes your stomach flutter—not dirty, not demanding, just soft, full of care, like he wants to wrap you up in warmth and carry you out of this room. you nod again, and he takes your hand, guiding you slowly out from behind the curtain with a final glance over his shoulder to make sure the coast is clear. the mall noise trickles back in as you step into the hallway, but it all feels muffled—like the world’s gotten quieter just for the two of you. he leans close again as you walk, lips brushing your ear with a tiny smile as he whispers, “you really are dangerous, you know that?”

he turns to you slowly, his gaze flickering across your face like he’s memorizing it again, and then he leans in—his lips brushing yours so tenderly it makes your chest stutter. “i’m fucked,” he whispers, barely louder than the wind, his voice low and quiet and almost like he hates admitting it. “but there’s no way i’m backing down… not when it’s you.”

you don’t answer. you just stare, lips parted, heart slamming too loud in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up—but your body moves before you can think. you tilt forward, pressing your mouth to his with a softness that surprises even you, your hands rising to curl against his chest as he kisses you back like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. the kiss doesn’t burn—it lingers, aching and slow and full of everything neither of you are ready to say out loud, your breath mingling in the cool night air. and when you pull back, his eyes are still closed, his hands still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. you blink up at him, throat tight, but before anything else can be said—before he can speak or you can think—a sharp buzz cuts through the air from your phone in your purse, jarring and urgent. you both go still. the moment teeters at the edge of something bigger. and then your phone buzzes again.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ omggg sunoo my heart >.< honestly didn't proofread this either but i wanted to update this quick for you all, hoped you all enjoyed!

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro @nshmrarki @delulumel @brooklyninawhitemustang @baedreamverse @stvrrylove @killedbycharlize @sehyojae @mylettterstoyou @metanoianlove @shaysimpss @kiokantalope @sanriwoozzz @mniwna @l1nn13 @gongyoorit @miszes @ineedheewoninmylife @seonhwastaar @ivyleyun @ari3ll4 @ssanhwatto @negin7 @koizekomi @enhaz1 @kittympirty @slayhaechan @semi-wife @tobiosbbyghorl @hoonsdrnkdzd @shy9-29 @heeenha6484 @heeseungsbm @kristynaaah @smlbch @kirinaa08 @millis-diary @kawaiichu32 @wonislife17 @minniesverse @k1ttyjwon @luvksnn @wondash @wooalt @sweetsoobie @nyxiebabyyy @jakezzgirlz @b1tem4rks @hoonneyyzz @mimimovv @hanjiversee @ch4c0nnenh4 @sarashusbandissunghoonfyime @tnafzi @bbypink @en-hoon02 @skzenhalove @azzy02 @sanchaah @planetmarlowe @miniw0nz @daisy-doo1 @femaholicc @cherryangel-coke @hooniesfvngs @kimsvtaes @mniwna @i-am-not-dal @star-hoon @wafflelyweddedmallow @certifiedjaeyunist @devouredyou @neogotmysam @nuki-riki @heesang07 @littlofang @simj4k3 @makgeolli-jw @ksnooppy @luvksnn @starryemiko @isagistar @nickiminajleftasscheek @jeonkaijoon @doveblackboat @haestuffs @srhnyx @azzy02 @bubblemoonclouds @diana021811 @wonuziex @blubb0 @choicila @nyfwyeonjun @neo-weareone @jooniesbears-blog @byshens @arourababy @dolliewon

#enhypen #enha #heeluvv #enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #kim sunoo #sunoo smut #sunoo x reader #sunoo #premium content

644 notes · View notes

dakusan · 6 days ago

Text

MAYBE, BABY

Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader | Clean lines. Dirty talk. No strings. Lies.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. What started as a no-strings-attached hookup with your tattoo artist turns into something much messier—and much more intoxicating. You only wanted a rib tattoo. He only wanted a night. But from the moment Jeongin drags his fingers across your skin like he’s signing his name, the lines start to blur. And you let him. Again and again. Until something shifts. What was supposed to be a fuck-only situationship turns into something terrifyingly close to love.

💌a/n: I have no fucking idea how long this thing is. I blacked out while I was writing and organising the Ask Dump. I present to you a full-course meal with a side of feelings and a kiss on the forehead?? If you made it to the end, congratulations. You now have an Innie-sized corruption kink and a severe attachment issue. You’re welcome. Enjoy??? IDK??? I’m too far gone to process anything except the words “say my name again.” p.s. reblog if this fic ruined you. I wanna know who survived and who ascended. p.p.s. added my Spotify + Apple Music links on my pinned, just saying 😗 p.p.p.s. no strings, my ass. You’re mine now.

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Ice your thighs.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Stay Tonight — CHUNG HA « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jeongin was the youngest artist at NO SAINT INK.

When Chan opened the studio—an industrial-meets-artsy little corner spot on the edge of Itaewon—Jeongin was still a baby, barely legal, and fresh out of a back-alley apprenticeship that nearly made him quit the industry altogether. His lines were good back then. His hands were steady. But it wasn’t until Chan saw the sketchbook he kept buried in the bottom of his bag—spine cracked, filled with anatomy studies, linework so fine it looked like thread—that he offered him a space.

Not a job. A future.

“You’ve got hands like a ghost and an eye like a scalpel,” Chan had said, flipping through the pages with the kind of quiet approval Jeongin would chase for years after. “Let’s make you sharp.”

So he stayed.

Became Chan’s apprentice first—studied under him like a monk, learned symmetry, balance, the rules before he broke them. But Chan was a generalist, and Jeongin was greedy. He wanted more than just solid lines. So he floated—between Felix, who taught him piercings and dotwork with the same flirty chaos he used to charm every client in a five-block radius; Seungmin, who drilled design philosophy and made him redo stencils six times until the curves were perfect; Minho who didn’t teach. Not in words at least. Minho was instinct. He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Jeongin watched him once sketch a full spine piece upside down without lifting the pencil. And Minho didn’t explain it—just nodded toward the chair and said, “Try it.” ; Hyunjin, who was chaos of a different breed. Rarity. Flash. Pure art. He lit up the room. He painted with colour, emotion, movement. He made skin weep and bloom. So Jeongin learned to feel. Not with his mouth. Not with his words. But through ink. Through hands; And finally—Jisung. The wildcard. He made Jeongin rewrite every script piece by hand—no fonts, no tracing, no stabilizers. Taught him how to letter like a poet on a deadline. Drilled gradient theory into his skull until he could shade a full moon from memory. He also got him drunk exactly once.

But, Jeongin absorbed all of that information. He rarely spoke unless it mattered. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. Just worked. Clean ink, smooth lines, deceptively delicate work that always left clients breathless by the time he wiped them down.

And that made him dangerous.

Clients came in expecting the sweet-faced boy in black gloves to be safe. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. But he saw. He looked through you with those fox-sharp eyes and touched you like he already knew what would make you shiver.

He wasn’t even your artist.

But you asked for him anyway. Over and over again.

And honestly? You didn’t expect to find anyone like Jeongin in a place like NO SAINT INK. You were a digital artist—head designer at a massive marketing firm in Seoul, the kind of job that paid well but chewed through your soul one brand guide at a time. Long hours. Clean lines. Corporate clients who wanted “authentic grunge” and then asked you to make it “less aggressive.”

You came to the shop for the first time six months ago. It was raining. You still remember the way the neon buzzed through the window, warped by the fog. You’d booked the session weeks ago, and if you bailed now, you’d never go through with it.

The piece was for your sister.

Delicate—inked across the side of your ribs. A fine line moth with wings shaped like her initials, its body drawn from her favorite pressed flower. You designed it yourself. Could’ve gone to anyone to ink it. But Felix—who you’d met at a gallery party once—told you to book with the youngest.

“Jeongin’s got the hands for it,” he said. “Real gentle. Real quiet. Real clean.”

And he was.

He barely said five words the whole session. Just pressed the stencil into place, gloved up, and looked at you once—soft and serious—before asking, “Can I touch here?”

That was all.

But when the needle buzzed to life and his hand steadied on your ribs, something cracked open in your chest.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t flirt. But his touch was so steady. So precise. You tipped your head back. Exhaled. And something in you settled. You didn’t think of him again until a month later—when your hand brushed the moth in the mirror, and you remembered how warm his palm had been against your skin. You booked again. And again.

You weren’t looking for anyone. Least of all him. But something… clicked.

Maybe it was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Or the way his gloves lingered a little too long during placement. Or the fact that he remembered your preferred ink tone without asking.

You didn’t flirt. Not at first. But that changed the night you showed up just before closing—allegedly to “ask about a touch-up,” but really, you were just bored and restless and wanted to see him.

The tension snapped before either of you said much.

He was the last one cleaning up. You were the last one out the door. The shop lights were already half-dimmed when he finally looked at you across the counter and said: “You’ve been staring at my hands all week. Just ask.”

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him.

That was the first time. The second time, he pulled your panties off with his teeth. The third time, you were already naked by the time he locked the door.

Your current dynamic? No rules. No titles.

Just fucked-up timing and bad habits and “this doesn’t mean anything” muttered between gasps. You swore it wasn’t serious. You weren’t stupid. Jeongin was a fuckboy—quiet, calculating, the kind who didn’t do commitment but did make you scream into his sheets like it was your religion.

“Friends with benefits,” you called it once.

He snorted. “We’re not friends.”

That stung a little. But you let it go.

You told him once, arms still trembling from orgasm, voice flat:

“You’re just easy to fuck.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Just wiped his hand on the sheets and replied: “You’re easy to keep fucking.”

Fair enough.

But then he started looking at you differently. Staying longer. Not reaching for his phone. Brushing hair from your eyes like it mattered. And you? You haven’t slept with anyone else in weeks. Not since the last time he kissed your throat after, then said—barely audible—

“You smell like ink.”

Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 2:41 AM.

It started with a text.

Technically, it started with a drunk sketch at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday and a half-eaten tub of mint chocolate ice cream balancing precariously on your thigh. But the text came after—blurry photo, minimal explanation.

[YOU]: [image attached] [YOU]: thinking of putting this behind my ear. or on my hip. thoughts?

You didn’t expect him to reply right away. He never did. Jeongin had a habit of leaving you on read, sometimes for hours, sometimes until you forgot what you’d even sent. He only ever texted back when it mattered.

But this time, he answered in six minutes.

[JEONGIN]: Hip. [JEONGIN]: Bring the original sketch. I’ll clean it up. [JEONGIN]: You free Friday night?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Then typed:

[YOU]: Yeah. I can come.

He didn’t respond after that. Of course he didn’t. Classic Jeongin. Always just enough. Always just under your skin.

The design was something you’d drawn weeks ago without realizing what it was for—a feather, sharp and broken at the tip, its spine twisting into barbed wire that coiled once before vanishing into smoke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t meant to be.

You’d doodled it while zoning out during a strategy meeting about a toothpaste rebrand. But when you looked at it later—really looked—you realized what it was: grief, rebellion, exhaustion. A tattoo for survival. A promise inked in blade and burn.

You hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even your coworkers. Not even your therapist.

But you sent it to Jeongin. Because you knew—knew—he’d get it. Not just the aesthetic. The weight.

You didn’t need him to ask what it meant. You needed him to take one look and say where. You needed him to act like it already belonged on you.

And he did.

Friday, 9:00 PM.

You’re standing outside NO SAINT INK, hood up, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, trying not to fidget. The shop’s sign glows dull red in the rain—flickering slightly like always—and the front is dark, already closed to the public.

But Jeongin’s still inside.

You know, because he buzzed you in five minutes ago with a single-word reply:

[JEONGIN]: Door’s open.

Not hey. Not come in. Just… open.

That’s how he is.

You push through the door. The familiar scent hits you first—clean metal, warm ink, faded cologne. The space is dim, soft playlist humming low through the speakers.

Jeongin’s still working. Alone.

He’s at his corner desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad in front of him, pen tapping silently against his lip. Jaw set. The light above him halos his head like something cinematic—sharp shadows, gleaming ink bottle.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

Doesn’t say anything either.

Just flicks a glance your way as you approach, then turns the sketchbook toward you.

It’s your design. Redrawn. Sharper. Cleaner. But still yours.

He’s added fine line smoke along the base, twisted the barbed wire tighter, bled the feather edge into a fragmented wing. It’s heartbreak. It’s rebellion. It’s right.

“You didn’t say where on your hip,” he murmurs finally. “Show me.”

Just that. No hello. No how’ve you been. Just show me.

With a quiet exhale, you step out of your sneakers, slide your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, and peel them down slow. The denim sticks slightly from the rain, catching at your thighs before finally falling to the floor. You kick them aside. You’re left in a long tee and a pair of black panties, the thin lace riding high on your hipbone.

Jeongin doesn’t comment.

He never does.

But his gaze drops.

Not in a gross way. Not even obviously. Just… that half-second sweep he always does—eyes dipping to skin, breath slowing, jaw flexing once like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of you for later.

You swallow. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Here,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve where your waist narrows into your hip. “I want the feather to sit right above the bone. Barbed wire trailing low.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands, gloves already on, stencil in one hand. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Like you’re just another canvas.

But when he steps into your space and kneels to your level—face suddenly inches from your bare hip—your lungs forget how to work.

“Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is low. Focused. The same tone he uses when he’s mid-linework. When he’s inside you.

You still.

His hands are warm even through the gloves. He smooths the skin once—just once—with a barely-there touch, and then carefully presses the stencil into place. It’s cool against your skin. Wet with transfer gel. His fingers trail after it, holding it down, checking placement.

You feel his breath before you hear it.

He’s close. So fucking close. One exhale and his mouth could be on your thigh.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quiet now, more smoke than sound. “Once it’s on you, it’s permanent.”

You know he’s not talking about the ink.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glance down—and Jeongin is still crouched in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing the edge of your thigh like he’s testing the gravity between you.

He looks up.

You meet his eyes.

And that’s when it snaps.

Because the silence between you has never been empty. It’s always been a loaded gun. And now, standing half-naked in the soft hum of NO SAINT INK, it finally fires.

Jeongin rises without warning—slow, fluid, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he says, voice low and even. “This exact moment.”

You blink. “What moment?”

He tilts his head, steps closer, so close you feel the heat off his chest.

“The one where I press you against this chair and make you forget what you came in for.”

You breathe in. Sharp. Shaky.

He smirks, just barely. “But you came in for the tattoo. Right?”

You nod.

“Then sit.”

He turns—walks back to his tray like you didn’t just melt a little under his stare. Like he didn’t just say that shit and leave your brain scattered like ash.

He pulls the stool over, checks the stencil one last time, preps the needle—buzzing low now, hungry in the quiet.

“Underwear stays,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “But pull the side up for me. High.”

You do as he says.

The chair’s cold. Your thighs are bare. Your panties cut high over your hip now, nearly indecent. But Jeongin doesn’t touch you yet. He just kneels again—level with the stencil—and studies it. His hand smooths along the edge, careful.

Then his voice, soft and dark: “Try not to shake too much.”

And then the needle kisses your skin.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth, hands gripping the chair’s armrests like it might help. It doesn’t.

Jeongin doesn’t look up. “Too much?” he asks mildly, like you’re inconveniencing him by reacting to literal pain.

You glare down at him. “It’s a needle in my hip, Jeongin.”

He hums—an amused little sound low in his throat. “You’ve taken worse.”

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?”

He finally glances up. Eyes dark. Unbothered. That faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“You heard me.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to squirm—even though the sensation is starting to blur now, sharp heat ebbing into something deeper. The rhythm of the machine. The drag of his gloved fingers. The low thrum of tension that has nothing to do with pain.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter.

“Mm. But I make pretty things,” he says, gaze dipping back to your skin. “Stay still. You twitch and I’ll have to fix it.”

You mutter something under your breath.

He glances up again. “What was that?”

“I said—” You inhale through the sting. “You’re lucky your dick game is unreal.”

Jeongin’s laugh is barely audible, just a huff of air through his nose. But the way his hand slows for a beat at your words? You feel that.

“Oh?” he murmurs, adjusting the angle, fingers spreading slightly against your hip to stretch the skin. His touch is professional. Barely. “Is that why you keep coming back?”

You scoff. “Please. I keep coming back for your artistry.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Not because you came all over my tongue in this chair two weeks ago.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

He leans in—just enough to make you feel his breath again, warm across your skin.

“You’re the one who begged.”

“Jeongin—”

“Begged,” he repeats, eyes flicking up, daring you to deny it. “With your thighs around my head.”

You do squirm now, fingers gripping the chair harder, breath shaky.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Thought so.”

Another line starts, slower this time—agonizing in the way it presses in deep, steady, confident. You hate that it’s turning you on. He’s too close. The buzz of the needle is too low. His voice, when he speaks again, curls up your spine like smoke.

“What’s it say about you,” he murmurs, “that you’d let a fuckboy mark you this many times?”

You narrow your eyes, forcing a breath. “What’s it say about you,” you whisper, “that you keep memorizing every place you’ve touched me?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That shift behind the usual quiet. He does remember.

And then he says—calm, quiet, almost cruel: “Stay still, baby.”

And fuck—you do. You have to. Because if you move now, you’ll either ruin the line—

—or climb into his lap.

And you’re not sure which would be worse.

He works in silence after that. Not the kind that feels cold or distant—but sharp. Loaded. The kind that listens. Every brush of his glove against your skin is surgical. Every pause is precise. Every inhale from your side? Noted.

You swear he’s dragging the needle slower on purpose.

“I can feel you smirking,” you mutter.

“Am not.”

“You’re such a dick when you tattoo.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitches—just slightly, just enough to confirm what you already know. He is smirking.

But all he says is, “You’re squirming.”

“Because you’re being annoying.”

“Because you’re wet.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Fuck you—”

He tilts his head innocently, like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone might comment on the weather.

“You get like this every time I ink your hips.”

“That is not—”

“Every time.”

He lifts the needle for a moment, wiping gently—grazing your skin with a motion so tender it makes you shiver.

“Remember that piece on your inner thigh?” he asks, like he’s recalling the weather again. “Took longer than it should’ve because you wouldn’t stop clenching.”

You bite down a moan. “That’s because you breathed on me, Jeongin.”

“And you begged for a break halfway through.”

“I needed water—”

“You needed a dick.”

Your hand flies out and slaps his arm.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs under his breath—wicked, warm, devastating. Still not looking at you. Still focused on the curve he’s finishing.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

He hums. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wipe.

You think the worst is over—until he speaks again.

“Why’d you ask for me this time?” he says suddenly, soft. “Not your usual spot. Not your usual style.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why. Just keeps going—needle buzzing like a wasp in the quiet. But then—because maybe he does want to know, just not directly—he asks, “You never said what this one’s about.”

You hesitate.

He wipes gently. Adjusts his grip.

And this time, when you speak, your voice is quieter. Flat. “Drew it by accident.”

He pauses. Looks up. Not fully. Just enough that you catch the flick of his eyes.

You go on. “During a rebrand pitch. I was half-listening, just doodling. Didn’t even realize what it was until later.”

He stills the machine and wipes

again—more slowly this time. Then leans back just enough to glance at the stencil he’d reworked from your sketch. Your pain. His hands. It looks exactly like what you were afraid to say out loud.

“You added the rest.” you murmur.

He nods.

“It’s better.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “Didn’t want to pretty it up.”

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then he leans in again, steadier this time. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts again and goes silent. But not for long as he then parts his lips to talk again. “What does it mean to you?”

You swallow. Then: “Grief. Rage. The part of me that stayed after everything else gave up.”

He exhales slowly. Not surprised. Just—understanding. “You draw like someone trying to survive,” he murmurs.

You huff a laugh. “You tattoo like someone who already died.”

Jeongin chuckles—just once. Quiet. Dark. “Maybe I did,” he says.

Silence again. But not cold. Just… full. And then—without lifting the machine, still tracing ink into your skin—he adds: “I redrew it three times before it felt right. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

You turn your head. “You never fuck it up.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t answer. But you see the flicker in his expression—something unspoken and sharp and vulnerable. The kind of thing you both ignore because naming it would make it real.

The needle hums again. His other hand steadies you with the barest pressure.

“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

Before you know it, he's done and for a second, there’s only silence. Then the soft rattle of his tray—tools settling, gloves flexing, the gentle hush of something opening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say done or look at that or any of the things other artists might say.

He just sets the machine down with care and shifts back on his stool, gaze flicking over your skin with a craftsman’s intensity.

Then—quieter than before: “Go look.”

You blink. “What?”

“The mirror.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the full-length mirror across the room. “Go see it.”

You hesitate—your thigh prickling with heat, the skin raw and new—but then slowly rise from the chair.

He doesn’t watch you walk. Not exactly. But he feels you go.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing over the tattoo. Your idea. His craft. You stare at it—at you—for longer than you mean to. Behind you, Jeongin moves again. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squirt of antiseptic, the fold of paper towels. Then—

“You like it?”

You nod. Still watching your own reflection.

He walks over slowly, crouches behind you again—this time not kneeling to tattoo, but to clean. The disinfectant is cold. His touch is not. You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Stings a little.”

You exhale. “It’s fine.”

He works quietly—wiping carefully, checking for any sign of irritation, scanning the lines with a gaze that misses nothing. Then he grabs the wrap and tape from the tray and starts dressing the tattoo, pressing the edges down gently.

“You’ll need to keep it clean,” he says. “No tight pants. No soaking. I’ll send you the aftercare again.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “You think I’ve forgotten?”

He lifts a brow. “You think I trust you?”

You smirk. “Fair.”

The tape seals into place with a soft press. His palm lingers on your thigh a beat too long.

Then—

“There,” he murmurs.

You look down. The tattoo is covered, secure, safe.

But the tension is not. Neither of you move. His hand is still on your skin. And in the mirror—you catch it: His eyes, locked on you. Not the tattoo. Not the wrap.

You.

That same look he gave you the first time you fucked against the wall of this shop. The look he had when you said you didn’t want anything serious. When he nodded like it didn’t matter—and then kissed you like it did.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if now is the moment—if this is the time he finally stops pretending that you’re just another client, another warm body, another convenient fuck.

Your breath tightens.

And then he speaks low and even: “Say it.”

You swallow. “Say what?”

He tilts his head, fingers flexing just slightly against your skin. “Whatever excuse you’re about to make to leave.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that he feels it—because his hand slides higher. Not inappropriate. Not quite. Just enough to remind you of every time before. His fingers warm against the edge of your hip. Just under the hem of your crooked panties.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. And whisper, “I wasn’t gonna leave.”

A pause.

Then: “Good.”

His hand flattens, slow, spreading possessive heat across your thigh. His voice stays soft—never louder than the buzz of your heart in your ears.

“‘Cause you came here for more than a tattoo.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Because he’s right. And he knows it—because his mouth brushes just behind your knee, a featherlight kiss that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. Then another. Higher.

“You always come back,” he murmurs, lips grazing up the inside of your thigh. “Even when you say you won’t.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Jeongin—”

“I waited,” he says, almost to himself now. “Thought maybe this time you’d ask for someone else. Felix. Seungmin. Minho.”

You shiver. “I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He stands. Rises slowly—like a shadow overtaking light— and moves behind, close enough that his chest is against your back, and his breath fans against your ear. His hand stays where it is, gripping the meat of your thigh. But his other hand—oh, it trails up. Over your ribs. Your waist. Until his thumb drags under your bra strap.

His lips hover at your neck. “And I told myself this was the last time.”

You can’t breathe.

“But you walked in wearing that little smirk,” he says, voice darker now, rougher, “and sat in my chair like you knew I’d ruin you again.”

You glance at his reflection. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tight.

“You think I did this on purpose?” you whisper.

His smile is sharp. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because his mouth is on your neck in the next second—hot, open, biting just enough to make your knees weaken.

“You said no strings,” he mutters against your skin. “But you let me draw on you like I’m signing my name.”

You gasp.

And then—his hand slides up, past your tattoo, past the tape, until his palm cradles your lower belly.

His fingers splay. Possessive. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding you where else he’s touched. Where else he plans to.

“Still no strings, baby?” he whispers. “Even now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your turn around to face him, lips crashing onto his. Hungry. Needy. He groans into your mouth—low and wrecked—like he’s been starving for this, for you. Like he’s been holding himself back since the second you walked in, cocky little smirk and all, asking for him again. Like every time you said “no strings,” it sliced just a little deeper.

His hands are on you instantly—one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as he drags you closer, mouth devouring yours like he’s reclaiming territory he never really lost.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it up, desperate to feel skin. He helps—yanking it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it somewhere behind him. You don’t even get a second to admire the view before he’s on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the counter.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek.

You don’t.

You grab his jaw instead, kiss him harder—tongue, teeth, everything.

And that’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the edge of the sink like you weigh nothing. The mirror rattles behind you, your thighs parting as he steps in close, his fingers already dragging your panties aside.

But he pauses—because of course he does. Jeongin, for all his unhinged quiet-boy energy, never forgets to check. His thumb presses gently against your inner thigh. His mouth brushes yours.

“May I?” he whispers.

You nod—shaking, desperate, soaked.

But he waits.

“Words,” he breathes. “Give me words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, Jeongin—please—”

He growls, low and filthy, and drops to his knees like a man worshipping something he’s already ruined. Because that’s what you are now. Ruined.

Jeongin's hand grips your thigh—tight, possessive—spreading you wider as his mouth descends like a death sentence. The first lick is slow, deliberate, a warning shot. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering every ounce of heat you’ve been soaking in since the stencil hit your skin.

Then—he moans.

Like it tastes as good as he remembered. Like he missed it. Like he fucking needs it.

You choke on a gasp, hips jolting—only to be slammed back down by the firm pressure of his palm.

“Stay still,” he mutters, mouth grazing you as he speaks. “Wanna do this right.”

And then he devours you. Not sweet. Not gentle. Just—Jeongin. Filthy, focused, starved.

His tongue works you open with slow circles, sharp flicks, then a sudden seal of lips around your clit that makes your vision flash white. He’s quiet, but his mouth is chaos—sucking like he’s trying to pull your soul through your cunt, fingers digging into your thighs like he can feel the pulse from the inside.

You tangle your hands in his hair, back arching off the mirror behind you. “Jeongin—fuck—please—”

His grip tightens.

He hums, tongue stroking deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes you.

“You always beg so pretty,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “No strings, right? So let me ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

His pace shifts—knows the pattern that makes you shake, that makes your knees weak and your breath break in your throat. He works you like a song he’s played a thousand times. Like your body was made for his mouth.

And when he slips a finger in—then a second, slow and curling—you nearly sob. His fingers curl again—precise, relentless, stroking right where you need it. His mouth stays locked around your clit, tongue flicking in sync with every pump of his hand. Like he’s in your head. Like he knows exactly when you're about to fall over the edge and drags you back just to watch you tremble.

“Jeongin—” you gasp, voice breaking. Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, muscles drawn so tight you’re shaking. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just long enough to say it—wet and ruined against your skin. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

And you do.

The tension snaps like wire—hot, vicious, absolute. It hits like a wave crashing through your core, stealing the breath from your lungs as you cry out. Your hands clutch at his hair, your back arches against the mirror, and your hips buck once—twice—before he locks you down again, tongue lapping through your orgasm like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your moans taper into a long whimper as he slows, soft licks now, gentle—comforting. His fingers slip free with a final curl that makes your whole body flinch. You sag against the glass behind you, boneless and wrecked, breath catching in your throat.

Jeongin rises slowly.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy, lips swollen.

And smirking.

He cages you in with a hand on either side of the mirror—still fully dressed, still composed, like he didn’t just make you fall apart on a bathroom sink with the kind of head that ruins lives.

“You came so hard you almost forgot your name,” he says softly. “Want me to remind you?”

And you—your hand already at his belt—just grin. Weak. Wrecked. “Only if you use your mouth again.”

His mouth twitches at that—half smirk, half growl—and his hands drop to yours, guiding them as you undo his belt. The metal clinks through the quiet, obscene in how deliberate it sounds. You’re still trembling, your thighs sticky with the aftershock of what he just did—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the fabric. Heat radiating between you. Dangerous.

“You sure?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Because if I fuck you now, it’s not gonna be soft.”

You nod. “I don’t want soft.”

He laughs—dark and low—and kisses you again.

One hand fists in your hair while the other drags your panties down your legs. They drop to your ankle and stay there—forgotten, tangled.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and runs it once through your folds. Slow. Teasing. He watches your face as he does it, watches your eyelids flutter and your lips part.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re still stalling,” you shoot back, voice ragged.

That earns you a sharp snap of his hips—just the tip breaching, making you gasp.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

And that’s all it takes.

Jeongin thrusts in—deep, perfect, filthy. The stretch has you gasping, clawing at his back, your head tipping back against the mirror with a soft thud. He groans low in his throat like he’s the one unraveling—like you are the ruin he can’t stop coming back to.

You’re wet. Still fluttering from the orgasm he gave you. And he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. Just starts moving—deep and rough, hands gripping your hips like they’re his handles. Like he owns this moment.

“Still no strings?” he pants, voice cracking as he fucks into you.

You can’t answer. Only moan.

“Still just a fuckboy?” he grits out, dragging your hips forward, fucking deeper. “Even now?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. You’re close again, already—tension building fast. Too fast. His thrusts get sharper. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. Desperate.

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathes. “I need to hear it. And you will cum. All over my cock.”

His words detonate something inside you.

You clench around him—so tight he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder for a split second before he snaps back up, hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking street hear how good I fuck you.”

And fuck, you do. You're moaning, gasping, whining his name like a prayer dragged through broken glass. Your hips grind to meet each thrust—sharp, fast, brutal—and the mirror shudders behind you, rattling with each slick impact.

He’s everywhere. His mouth is on your neck, biting, dragging bruises like signatures down your skin. He sucks just below your jaw—hard enough to make you whimper—and bites again. Possessive. Proud. Like he wants every inch of you marked.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, breath hot against your pulse. “Every time you fuck someone else, you’re gonna feel this. Right here.”

He drives in, deep, angling his hips until your legs twitch around him.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s how you’ll remember.”

Your mouth opens—maybe to sob, maybe to curse—and he doesn’t give you the chance. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, demanding, and your body obeys before your brain catches up—sucking it in, lips closing around the digit as your eyes flutter shut.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “So pretty like this. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His cock grinds deeper. Filthy. Perfect.

And then his hand moves—thumb slipping free, wet and shining, before he curls it beneath your jaw.

“Open,” he orders, voice hoarse.

You do.

He spits—hot and slow—straight into your mouth, watching with half-lidded eyes as it lands on your tongue.

Then he crashes his mouth into yours. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Tongue fucking, teeth clashing, breath shared like oxygen isn’t real unless it passes between you first.

The thrusts don’t stop. He fucks you through the kiss—fast, messy, ruthless.

You feel it building again. Pressure winding tighter. Ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Cum for me. Say my name.”

And this time, you scream it.

“Jeongin—fuck, Jeongin—”

Your body breaks. Wrung out on his cock, his mouth, his name. Everything shatters. Every nerve lights up. You cum so hard your vision blacks out, breath gone, hands shaking. You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, body limp and twitching from the aftershocks.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop. Truly insatiable.

“Mm-mm,” Jeongin hums, low and cruelly sweet. His pace slows just enough to feel—deep, dragging thrusts that have you sobbing into his skin. “What, you thought that was it?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, still painfully hard.

“You’re shaking,” he coos, like he likes it. Like he’s proud of it. One hand smooths up your spine, mock-gentle, before he fists your hair again and tugs—just enough to tilt your head back.

“Look at me.”

You try. Barely. Your lashes flutter, lips parted and glazed with spit, wrecked in every sense of the word.

He groans—deep and hungry—at the sight.

“Fuck. You are pretty like this.”

Then his grip tightens, and he pulls out slow—just the head still inside—before snapping his hips forward again, hard enough to make your voice catch on a moan.

“I’m close,” he pants. “But you’re not gonna take it here.”

You blink. Confused. Barely able to string two thoughts together.

“Wha—”

He grins, eyes dark.

And then—he pulls out, dragging slick down your thigh as you whimper, empty and raw.

“On your knees,” he orders, already stroking himself, cock flushed and angry in his fist. “Mouth open.”

You slide down, dazed, trembling, ruined—but obedient. And Jeongin watches you drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Eyes locked on yours. Jaw clenched. Chest heaving.

You kneel, wrecked and flushed, thighs still shaking—and he’s towering over you, fist tight around his cock, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Open,” he growls.

You do. Lips parted, tongue out. Wanton. Waiting. “Fuck—” he chokes, stroking faster now, his other hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressed just under your chin to keep you steady. “You look so good like this, baby. All mine."

He laughs, breathless—half-mocking, half-obsessed. And then he spits again. Right into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice wrecked.

You do. Without blinking. Without shame.

He groans, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

And then he breaks.

A guttural sound rips from his chest—he jerks once, twice—then he’s spilling across your tongue, hot and filthy, painting your mouth like a claim he’ll never admit to out loud.

You swallow again. Eyes locked. He’s panting. Still holding your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his, even if he’ll never say it.

And then—after a long beat of silence—

“You’ll come back,” Jeongin murmurs, voice soft and certain, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe,” you whisper, licking your lips.

But you both know the truth. You already did.

The air is now thick with sweat, sex, and something else neither of you dare name. You’re still kneeling, flushed and dazed, your breath coming in short waves as you finally—slowly—rise to your feet.

And Jeongin catches you.

No hesitation. No smart-ass remark. Just catches you—hands steady at your waist like instinct. His grip is gentler now, his gaze darker but softened. He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, and then he tilts your face up.

“You good?” he murmurs.

You nod, but he’s already moving—already kissing your temple like he didn’t just fuck the sanity out of you. Like it’s reflex now. Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

Pulling up his jeans again, Jeongin reaches for a clean towel from the cabinet—one of the soft ones, the kind he used to never bother with when this all started—and runs warm water over it, checking the temperature against his wrist like you’re breakable. Like you matter.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

He kneels again. Not like before. Not like worship.

This time it’s care.

You feel the difference when he wipes between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. Not rushed. Not clinical. He even murmurs a low, “Sorry,” when you twitch at the sensitivity.

“You didn’t used to do this,” you whisper, voice dry with post-orgasm rasp.

His hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“Didn’t used to care if you got home safe, either,” he says, not looking up. “But I do.”

You swallow. Something hot curls low in your chest.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel in the laundry bin and returns to you—pressing a water bottle into your hand, then grabbing your discarded jeans and helping you step into them. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smirk.

He just tugs them gently up your legs, careful not to touch the fresh wrap on your thigh.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt later,” he says. “Text me if anything feels off. I’ll fix it.”

“Jeongin…” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “No strings.”

But still—he presses his forehead to yours. Just for a moment.

Something shifted.

You felt it first the next morning—not in your body (though, yes, your thighs ache and your tattoo’s tender), but in your phone.

[JEONGIN]: how’s my favourite canvas? [JEONGIN]: tattoo feelin okay? [JEONGIN]: or do i need to come kiss it better

You laugh—because of course he’s still a menace—but you also… pause. Because he’s never texted you first. Not like this. Not with check-ins, not with half-flirty, half-soft words that make your stomach twist in a dangerously not-just-horny way.

You reply. You always do. But this time, the thread doesn’t end at “come over.”

Instead, it leads to—

[JEONGIN]: wanna get boba or some shit later [JEONGIN]: bring your sketchbook. i wanna see more of what’s in your head

So you do. And he does.

He makes dumb faces behind his cup lid when the pearls hit your teeth wrong. He teases your handwriting. He compliments your line work in the same breath he makes fun of your playlist. He asks about your job—not just the annoying clients but what you actually like doing. When you mention the burnout creeping in, he hums thoughtfully and says: “You should quit and be my studio wife.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Then I’ll make it one. Full benefits. All the orgasms you can handle.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk. Then coughs. “I mean—not officially. But, you know.”

And then he blushes. Fucking blushes.

In the weeks that follow, the change isn’t loud.

It’s subtle. Warm.

He starts saving you a seat at the shop when you visit. Starts texting you good luck before meetings. Starts calling you after just to hear your voice when you sound tired. Starts drawing more—leaves his sketchbooks open, just in case you feel brave enough to peek.

He still fucks you like a goddamn fever dream, of course. Still ruins you in every corner of the studio when the door’s locked and the music’s loud enough.

But after?

He doesn’t vanish.

He lets you stay. Brushes your hair back while you’re curled up on his chest. Taps your ankle with his foot until you laugh again. Offers you a hoodie, then scowls when you steal it for real.

Sometimes—when he thinks you’re asleep—he traces your tattoo with his finger. Like it anchors him. Like he knows something changed, too.

And sometimes, you open your eyes just enough to see him looking at you like this—like he feels everything you won’t say yet.

No strings? Yeah. You’re both tangled as fuck.

Your sheets are already half-off the bed, twisted beneath your back, damp from sweat and friction and his mouth.

Jeongin has been between your legs for what feels like forever. Not rushing. Not teasing. Just—feasting.

Tongue deep and slow, then fast and flicking. Then back to slow, like he’s savoring something no one else is allowed to taste.

Your thighs keep trembling. One’s thrown over his shoulder; the other keeps spasming, jerking whenever he sucks that one fucking spot. He’s holding you open like you’re an offering, like you owe him this.

“Fuck—Jeongin, please—”

He hums against your clit. The vibration makes your hips stutter, back arching off the sheets.

“Sound pretty when you beg,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Drenched in filth. “Could make you do it all night.”

You whimper—high and helpless—and try to push his head down, needing more. Needing everything.

He laughs, dark and low, then gives you exactly what you want.

Sucks your clit hard, tongue circling, then sliding down to fuck you deeper. His nose nudges the swollen bud just right, and you choke on a sob.

You’re gone.

You can’t hold back. Not with the way he’s devouring you. Not with the way he knows your body better than anyone. You feel it—your climax crashing through like a violent wave, all heat and light and wreckage. You scream his name—loud, broken—hips jerking as your orgasm hits like a car crash.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop.

He growls into your cunt and doubles down. Licks you through it—messy, wet, relentless. His mouth is soaked, chin dripping, and you swear he smiles against you when your thighs start to close in.

Jeongin finally pulls back—face glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged—and climbs up your body like he owns every inch of it.

He crashes into you with a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. No finesse, no restraint—just need. His hands roam everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your face like he can’t touch you fast enough, close enough, deep enough.

“Mine,” he pants between kisses. “Mine—mine—mine—”

You’re still trembling. Still trying to come back to earth. But you manage a breathless laugh against his mouth. “Innie?”

He freezes. Just a little. Eyes flicking up to yours, wide and dark and soft.

“Mmm?” he hums, like he didn’t just break you open and eat your soul.

You smile, wicked and sweet. Drag your nails gently down his back. “Remember when I said no strings attached?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

You lean in, press your lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper: “And you said—maybe, baby.”

He exhales—shaky. Vulnerable.

You pull back, meet his gaze, and smile softer this time. No teasing. Just truth. “Well,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, “I think that maybe was about more than you let on.”

You smile, smaller this time. “Because I want the strings now. All of them.” Your thumb then brushes his cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Jeongin stares at you.

Still. Silent. Like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Then—finally—he exhales. A soft, stunned sound. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, and when they open again, they’re wide and warm and wrecked.

“You’re really gonna say that to me while I’m still hard?” he mutters, voice hoarse, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You giggle. Actually giggle.

And Jeongin melts.

His hands slide down to your hips, squeeze once—possessive, reverent—and then he’s rolling, flipping the two of you in one smooth, easy motion until you’re straddling him, flushed and still catching your breath, hair wild around your face.

He looks up at you like you’re the only thing left that makes sense.

“Let me fuck you properly, baby,” he says, voice low, hungry—but laced with something new now. Something real.

You smile—wide, wicked, his. You lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then shut up and show me, Innie.”

He groans—low and fucked-out—and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Jesus, baby—gonna be the death of me.”

You roll your hips once, just to be a menace. “Thought you said you wanted to fuck me properly.”

His hands fly back to your waist like instinct, like gravity. “I do,” he pants. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna wife you instead.”

You freeze—then burst out laughing. “What?”

He grins up at you, smug and wrecked. “You heard me.”

You blink. Stare down at him. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you’re on my dick,” he shoots back. “So maybe we’re both exactly where we belong.”

You groan, drop your head to his shoulder. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you down, chest to chest and kisses your temple, wraps his arms around you like he’s never letting go. And then—just to make sure you know? He grinds against your already soaked folds.

You gasp. “Fuck—Jeongin—”

He smiles.

“Say my name again. Say I'm yours.”

“You're mine.”

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #jeongin #yang jeongin #jeongin x reader #jeongin smut

667 notes · View notes

ilovejb · 15 days ago

Note

hi I saw your requests were open!! Could you write hurt/comfort for lewis pullman? maybe they met as costars doing top gun maverick and with his recent fame people don’t like her so she comforts her? Thank you!

| A little too much |

Pairings : Lewis Pullman x female!reader

Summary : When the world refuses to see her worth, she learns to hold her head high—with a little help from the one person who always believed in her.

Warnings : Online harassment (mentions of hate comments, cyberbullying) Insecurity/self-worth struggles,hurt/comfort themes. Use of y/n. Fluffy ending though don’t worry !!

Authors note : Writing this was hard because every time I thought of Lewis Pullman I blacked out for 3–5 business days.

You hadn’t expected Top Gun: Maverick to change your life.

You were cast as Lieutenant Emily “Echo” Reynolds—one of the new recruits in the Top Gun program. Small role. One that barely skimmed the surface of the final cut, but enough to land you a seat at the premieres, a few lines of dialogue, and a credit you’d clung to in the years after like it meant more than it did. You’d done your job. Clean, professional. Not memorable, not Oscar-worthy—but you’d shown up, hit your marks, delivered your lines.

And you’d met Lewis.

He was warm. Funny. Kind in the way not many actors were, especially the ones with last names like Pullman and eyes that saw more than they let on. You didn’t expect him to talk to you much. You weren’t Glen or Miles or Monica—you weren’t the inner circle.

But he did. He talked to you. At lunch, on set, at wrap parties. You shared trailers when the sun was too hot and shade was a luxury. He shared chips with you once when you forgot to eat. You didn’t call it fate. You weren’t that romantic.

But two months later, when he called you to ask if you wanted to get dinner when you were both back in L.A.—you started to think maybe something bigger had been at play.

Now, two years later, he was famous. Not “Top Gun” famous. Not “I think I recognize him” famous. But everywhere. Talk shows, GQ spreads, Dior campaigns, dramatic indie films and tentpole blockbusters alike.

And you? You were his girlfriend.

Only… no one seemed to like that.

At first, it was little things. Tweets that said “How did she bag Lewis Pullman??” or “Y/N wasn’t even a main character lol she’s just riding the Top Gun clout.”

Then came the Instagram DMs. Pages with profile pictures of teenage girls or anonymous blank circles.

“You’re literally just a nobody.”

“He could do SO much better.”

“Why would someone as sweet as Lewis date someone as average as you?”

“Hope you know he’s going to cheat eventually. You’re just the practice run.”

“You must be amazing in bed to keep him around. Because it’s definitely not the face.”

You tried not to read them. You turned off comments. You blocked. Reported. Ignored.

But they kept coming.

And one day, one of them found your old audition tape.

They posted it to Twitter. The caption said: “Y’all remember when Lewis Pullman had to act with THIS?”

The video had 72K likes in 6 hours.

You called your agent crying. She told you to stay off socials.

You told Lewis nothing.

Because he had enough to deal with.

Because he was finally getting the recognition he deserved.

Because you didn’t want to be that girlfriend—the one who couldn’t take the heat.

You kept your mouth shut. Even when the hate turned from cruel to cutting.

Even when it bled into Reddit threads and fan forums.

“I bet she’s using him for clout.”

“She’s so mid.”

“He could date an actual actress, not some glorified extra.”

“Y/N? Seriously?”

“God, she’s just not pretty enough for him.”

You looked in the mirror and saw it too.

You weren’t model-thin. Your jawline wasn’t sharp. You had soft cheeks and skin that broke out when you were stressed. Your hair was never the perfect amount of messy and styled. Your outfits were practical, not paparazzi-worthy. You didn’t know how to pose at events. You smiled too wide. You stood with your legs too close together. You said dumb things in interviews and forgot to look into the right camera.

You were a mess.

And now, the whole internet saw it too.

The worst part?

Lewis had no idea.

You were quiet when he came home that night. His keys jingled in the bowl by the door. You were curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over your knees, blue light from your phone casting shadows under your eyes.

He dropped a kiss on your head like he always did and then paused.

“You okay?” he asked gently, brushing your hair behind your ear.

You flinched before you could stop yourself. “Yeah,” you lied, trying to smile. “Just tired.”

Lewis looked at you like he didn’t believe you. “Long day?”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “You could say that.”

He sat beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulder. You stiffened again. You hated it. You hated that his warmth, the thing you used to crave, felt like acid now—like a spotlight. Like everyone could see you didn’t deserve it.

He squeezed your arm. “Babe.”

You blinked too hard, and your phone slipped from your hands. He caught a glimpse of the screen before it fell face-down onto the carpet. You moved fast to grab it.

Too late.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

You didn’t look at him.

He reached down, picked up the phone. You reached for it, but he held it out of reach. “Hey, what’s—” He opened the app. Froze. Read one comment. Then another.

You felt your stomach drop. “Lewis—”

“Is this why you’ve been quiet all week?” His voice was sharp. Not angry. But something close. Something wounded.

You turned away.

He stared at the screen, scrolling through DM after DM. “Jesus.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whispered.

Lewis looked at you like you’d said the most absurd thing in the world. “You didn’t want to bother me? Y/N, people are harassing you.”

“They’re just stupid fans,” you said quickly, eyes stinging. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

You didn’t know how to explain that. That some part of you felt like you deserved it. Like all those people were just saying what everyone else was thinking.

You bit your lip. “I didn’t want to make it about me. Your career is exploding. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

Lewis sat back like the words physically knocked the wind out of him. “You think this isn’t about us?”

You stayed silent.

He threw the phone onto the couch and turned fully to you. His voice was low now. Hurt. “Y/N, you were the best thing to come out of that set for me. You still are. The fact that you’re hurting and I didn’t know? That’s what makes me sick.”

Your eyes brimmed over, the tears hot and fast.

“And I don’t care what anyone on the internet says,” he continued, voice cracking a little. “They don’t know you. They don’t know what it was like to see you in costume, chewing gum between takes and mouthing everyone else’s lines because you were so damn prepared. They don’t know how you pulled me aside after I forgot my cue and whispered the right one like it was a secret. Or how you stood next to me at the wrap party and let me vent about how nervous I was to live up to my dad’s name.”

You blinked hard.

“They don’t know how you came to my mom’s birthday party even though you were terrified of meeting my family, and won over every single person in the room because you’re funny and real and kind.”

“Lewis—”

“They don’t know how you fall asleep with your mouth open and then wake up embarrassed and cover it like it makes you unlovable.” He shook his head, voice soft now. “They don’t know what I know.”

You were crying full now. Hands shaking. Voice cracked. “It just—it got in my head.”

“I know.” He reached for you, arms wrapping tight around your frame. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry I didn’t see it.”

You clung to him like you were drowning. He held you tighter.

And for the first time in weeks, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you could breathe.

You didn’t leave the house for five days.

Not for coffee. Not for groceries. Not for air.

You canceled your lunch with your old Top Gun castmates—the few who still remembered you. You ignored text after text from your friends, all of them asking if you were okay in that soft, guilt-laced way people use when they’ve just realized how long it’s been since they checked in.

You stayed in Lewis’s oversized hoodie, the one with the tiny burn hole on the sleeve from when he tried to make you crème brûlée at 2 a.m. and nearly torched the entire kitchen.

It still smelled like him. Like cinnamon and cedar and that stupid overpriced hair gel he swore he didn’t use.

You hated that it comforted you.

Lewis didn’t push you to leave. Not once.

He cooked breakfast without asking if you wanted it. Left little Post-it notes on your mirror—drink water / you are loved / they’re wrong about you. He took every interview request and promo obligation and moved it. Cleared the week. For you.

And still, you barely spoke.

You couldn’t. Because talking meant thinking, and thinking meant reliving, and reliving meant scrolling.

You knew better. You knew not to check the tags. Not to search your name. Not to read the comments on his latest GQ cover where you were only mentioned in passing but still managed to become a target.

“She’s dragging him down.”

“PR relationship. Has to be.”

“Can someone please explain to me how Lewis Pullman went from rising star to babysitting his insecure little groupie of a girlfriend?”

“Her eyes are dead in every photo. It’s giving boring.”

“She’s so lucky he doesn’t have better taste.”

You wanted to disappear. To melt into the hardwood floor and never be seen again. You wondered if there was a way to shrink yourself small enough to fit into his pocket and never come out.

On day six, you finally said something.

“I think I want to delete everything.”

Lewis was on the couch reading a script. He looked up slowly.

“Everything?”

You nodded. “Instagram. Twitter. My website. My reels. All of it.”

He set the script down. “Babe, are you sure?”

You tried to smile. Failed. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to keep it.”

He didn’t speak for a moment. Then, he reached across the coffee table, his fingers wrapping around yours.

“You are. You’re the strongest person I know.”

He paused. “But if it’s breaking you right now, we’ll take it down.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

You breathed for the first time in days. He squeezed your hand.

You deleted it all.

One by one.

Photos from set. Gone.

Thirst traps that never made you feel sexy. Gone.

The tweet where you made a dumb joke about Tom Cruise being shorter than expected. Gone.

You cried when it was over.

Lewis didn’t say I told you so. He just wrapped you in a blanket and held you so long your leg fell asleep.

And then it got worse.

Paparazzi photos surfaced. Ones from a month ago, outside a gas station, when you’d worn your pajama bottoms in public and hadn’t realized someone was watching. You were with Lewis. He was holding your hand.

The headline read: “New It Boy Lewis Pullman Settling Down with Mediocre Nobody?”

The article wasn’t even subtle.

“She’s forgettable at best, unprofessional at worst.”

“No major roles since Maverick, which frankly wasn’t a major role to begin with.”

“Sources say Lewis’s team isn’t thrilled about the relationship.”

“She’s been described as clingy, emotionally volatile, and embarrassingly jealous.”

Your ears rang. Your chest caved in.

There weren’t any sources. That was the worst part. They just made it up. Invented a version of you the world could hate, and then handed you over to the wolves.

When Lewis found you, you were shaking.

“I’m not clingy,” you said as he walked in.

His face twisted in confusion. “What?”

“I’m not. I give you space. I don’t make everything about me. I let you work. I don’t even go to half the premieres with you because I know people will talk.”

His heart dropped to his knees. “Hey, hey—where is this coming from?”

You turned your phone toward him. Let him see the headline. The photos. The bolded words you couldn’t unread.

He paled. Sat beside you in silence.

You wiped at your eyes. “Do you think they’re right?”

Lewis’s mouth parted. “What—what the hell kind of question is that?”

“Do you regret this?” Your voice cracked. “Being with me?”

Something in him shattered.

He reached for your face, thumbs brushing tears from your cheeks like it would change the world.

“No,” he whispered. “God, no. You are the only thing that keeps me grounded. Do you know what fame feels like most days? It feels like everyone wants a piece of me except the people who actually see me. But you—you see me. You always have.”

You wanted to believe it. You really did.

But the internet was louder. The world was louder.

And you were so, so tired.

“I just don’t want to make your life harder.”

He leaned forward, forehead pressed to yours. “You make my life worth it.”

And for a minute, the noise faded.

The next day, Lewis went live on Instagram. He almost never did that. His fans were used to curated posts and PR campaigns. But this wasn’t that.

It was his living room. No filter. No lighting. Just him.

He looked into the camera, tired and soft and real.

“I’m only gonna say this once,” he began. “Because I don’t want to give hate more airtime than it deserves.”

Your heart stopped.

“If you think it’s okay to attack my girlfriend for existing, for loving me, for not meeting some standard you made up in your head—then you can go ahead and unfollow me right now.”

You froze.

“She’s brilliant. And kind. And stronger than anyone I know. She’s been dealing with so much of your bullshit while still showing up every day, still taking care of me, still making me laugh even when she’s hurting. And if you can’t respect her, then you don’t respect me.”

He paused. Let the silence hang like a gavel.

“I don’t care if I lose followers. I care if I lose her.”

Then he ended the stream.

Your phone blew up. DMs of love. Comments from strangers. Messages from co-stars who hadn’t texted in months. Your name trending—for the right reason, this time.

But none of it mattered.

What mattered was Lewis. Who came into the room ten minutes later, unsure if he’d overstepped, scared he’d made it worse.

And you? You ran into his arms like you hadn’t already collapsed there a thousand times before.

You buried your face in his chest and whispered, “Thank you.”

He kissed your temple. “Always.”

The audition wasn’t even supposed to happen.

Your agent called last minute. Some massive director was looking to cast the lead in a dark psychological drama—“female-led, intense, emotionally layered.” The kind of role people gave awards for.

The kind of role no one thought of you for.

You almost didn’t go.

But Lewis sat you down that morning, cupped your face in his hands, and said, “This is yours. Whether they see it or not, you show them.”

So you went.

No makeup. Just messy hair, a threadbare sweater, and the kind of performance that burned like salt in an open wound.

They didn’t even finish the auditions.

You got a call two hours later.

“You booked it,” your agent said, stunned. “They’re not even seeing anyone else.”

The press rollout was immediate. It was the most buzz you’d had since Top Gun, and even then, you’d barely been a footnote. This was different.

You weren’t Lewis’s girlfriend this time.

You weren’t the girl from the background.

You were the headline.

“Breakout Star Lands Role in Cannes-Contending Thriller”

“Underdog No More: Her Rise Is Our Revenge”

“Internet Favorite to Industry Force—She’s Just Getting Started”

Your name trended. But this time, there was no pit in your stomach. No acid in your throat. The hate still existed, sure—it always would—but it was drowned out by something bigger now.

Respect.

You were finally being seen.

Lewis surprised you with champagne and takeout the night the news dropped. You walked in to find candles, confetti, and a massive “YOU DID IT” banner sloppily taped to the ceiling. It was crooked. The tape peeled on one side. You cried anyway.

He grabbed your face and kissed you so hard your knees went weak.

“You knew this would happen,” you whispered.

He grinned. “No. I hoped. But you made it happen.”

You laughed into his neck, your fingers curling into his hoodie like you were anchoring yourself to the moment. Because for once, you weren’t drowning.

You were floating.

The filming process was brutal—in the best way.

Sixteen-hour days. Crying scenes that left your throat raw. Close-ups where your only job was to break. And you did. Over and over again. In front of cameras. In front of strangers.

You gave everything.

And people noticed.

The director—usually stone-faced and impossible to impress—started calling you “The Hurricane.” Not because you were chaotic, but because you destroyed expectations. Wiped the floor with them.

Critics got early footage and lost their minds.

“Where has she been hiding?”

“A performance that breaks you and rebuilds you in the same breath.”

“She carries the entire film on her back—and doesn’t flinch once.”

Even your old castmates reached out. The ones who’d forgotten your name at wrap parties. The ones who’d watched your rise without clapping. Suddenly, they remembered.

“I always knew you had it in you,” one texted.

You didn’t respond. But you screenshotted it. Just to remember how far you’d come.

Awards buzz came faster than you expected.

There were whispers. Rumors. One anonymous source told Variety, “She’s not just a contender—she’s the frontrunner.”

You got invited to every premiere. Every party. Designers who once ignored your stylist now begged to dress you. And you? You walked the carpets with Lewis on your arm, head high, smiling like a woman who’d been broken, stitched herself back together, and still managed to glow.

He was so proud.

He told you every day. In the quiet. In the chaos. In bed at 3 a.m. when you couldn’t sleep because the world finally liked you and somehow that scared you even more.

“Don’t let them tell you who you are,” he said, tracing circles on your back. “You’ve always been this. Even when they couldn’t see it.”

You turned toward him, eyes full, voice soft. “Thank you for waiting for them to catch up.”

He kissed you like an answer.

Then came the premiere.

Red carpet. Paparazzi. Flashbulbs so bright you could barely see.

You wore custom Chanel. Something sharp and soft all at once. Like you. Lewis stood beside you, dapper and wide-eyed like he’d just met you for the first time and couldn’t believe his luck.

The interviewers swarmed.

“Is it surreal seeing her success after everything she’s been through?” one asked Lewis.

He smiled—proud and unbothered. “She’s always been this good. The rest of you were just slow.”

You laughed. He winked.

Another reporter turned to you.

“What would you say to the people who doubted you?”

You paused. Let the camera linger. Let the world lean in.

“I’d say thank you,” you said. “Because it forced me to believe in myself louder than they disbelieved. And now—”

You looked at Lewis. Then back at the camera. “Now I get to prove them wrong by just existing.”

The internet exploded.

The clip went viral within an hour. Your follower count doubled. Fans made edits of you, side by side with scenes from Top Gun, then your new film, then candids of you and Lewis looking like the literal blueprint for “power couple energy.”

Your DMs flooded.

Not just with praise.

With apologies.

From strangers who’d left hate comments.

From girls who’d once written Twitter threads about how “mid” you were.

From influencers who now called you an “inspiration.”

You didn’t respond to any of them.

Because you didn’t need to.

You had nothing to prove anymore.

That night, back at your place, you kicked off your heels and collapsed into the couch. Lewis brought you a glass of wine and sat beside you like he always had. Not as your fan. Not as your shadow. But as your home.

“You did it,” he whispered.

You looked over at him. Exhausted. Radiant. Changed.

“We did.”

He smiled.

You set the wine down and crawled into his lap, arms around his neck.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“Yeah?”

You leaned your forehead against his. “Thank you for never treating me like I was hard to love.”

He exhaled. Shaky. Like he’d been holding that breath for months.

“You were the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” he said. “Loving you.”

And maybe it wasn’t loud. Maybe it wasn’t cinematic or sparkly or viral.

But in that moment—pressed against him, wrapped in his hoodie, laughter tangled between kisses—it was everything.

You weren’t too much anymore.

You were just enough.

#female!reader #bob reynolds smut #lewis pullman #lewis pullman imagine #lewis pullman smut #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman one shot #bob reynolds one shot #bob reynolds imagines #bob reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob reynolds

603 notes · View notes

piastriprincess · 2 months ago

Text

hypotheticals (in my mind) ⸻ oscar piastri x reader .

featuring: oscar piastri, childhood friends to lovers, tooth rotting fluff word count: 0.8k author's note: okay everyone PLEASE be nice i haven't written fic since my 1d days !! but i was so inspired by osc's win today, op1 INCOMING ... watch this space . if this gets a good response maybe i'll write more or open up my inbox for requests or something ?? idk let me know what you think ! title from hypotheticals by lake street dive .

He was a champion, and you were missing it.

Oscar had invited you, of course, like he did for every race, but with finals looming you couldn’t make the trip to Jeddah. You settled for watching his third win of the season on your tiny laptop screen, his car nothing more than a brilliant papaya streak under the bright lights as proud tears blurred your vision and your heart swelled in your chest with a feeling you wouldn’t dare name.

Looking back you’re not sure, exactly, when your feelings for Oscar went from friends to something more. Maybe it was something recent, the way he’d started making your pulse race and your heart stutter. Maybe (if you’re being honest with yourself) you’ve been gone since the first day you met him at age six, your new neighbor introducing himself with skinned knees and a bunny-teeth smile.

But he’s not the boy next door anymore, he’s Oscar Piastri, international superstar. And you’re a stressed student, watching your best friend achieve his wildest dreams through a screen at an ungodly hour of the night.

You shut your laptop as the podium ceremony ends. You’re sitting at your desk, textbook open, pages upon pages of notes scribbled in navy-blue ink scattered around you. Your mind is racing, so preoccupied with cases and rules and hypotheticals for your criminal law exam next week, that you don’t realize your phone is buzzing until it starts pushing the sheafs of paper off your desk. You let them float to the carpet, digging through the paper to find your phone still ringing, with an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen. Frowning, you push the green button with your thumb, bringing the phone to your ear. “Hello?” you ask cautiously.

“It’s me,” says the voice on the other end of the phone, and your stomach flips. You’d know that voice anywhere, had heard it through playground chants and study sessions and a thousand phone calls from across the ocean.

“Oscar,” you breathe. Sitting up, you run a hand through your hair like you’re trying to make yourself presentable, even though he can’t see you. “Congratulations, superstar. Leading the WDC.” You try to keep your voice casual, but it’s a losing battle.

“Yeah,” he says breathlessly, a little laugh spilling through your phone speakers, shaky and disbelieving. “Sorry, I know it’s late for you, and you’ve got your exam soon, but…” He pauses. Typical of Oscar, choosing his words with such precision, like everything else in his life. You’re about to open your mouth and tease him about it when he speaks again.

“You were the only person I wanted to talk to,” he says finally, and your mouth goes dry.

“Kept thinking about you tonight, actually. On the starting grid. When I caught Max at the first turn. When I knew I was about to win it.” He’s picking up steam now, the words pouring out of him in a way you’ve never heard. Oscar’s all pauses and careful articulation, but this is new, unrestrained. “When I crossed the line, all I wanted to do was hear your voice.”

It’s like the world goes still for a moment, only the hum of your laptop and your heartbeat pounding in your ears reminding you this is real. His words are like sparks underneath your skin, something delicate and electric threading the thousands of miles between the two of you.

You swallow, hard, realizing you’ve been silent for far too long. “Osc…”

“I know you’ve got a lot going on right now,” he interrupts, like he physically can’t hold the words back now that they’ve started spilling out. “And maybe I should’ve waited until I was back home in Melbourne with you, instead of borrowing Mark’s phone and blurting this all out at 3 AM. But I just—” he pauses abruptly, like his breath has caught in his throat. “I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of this means anything without you around.”

Something in your chest unfurls at that, and you close your eyes, pressing the phone to your ear like it will physically bring him closer. You’ve imagined this a thousand times, a thousand different ways, but none of them compare to the real thing. “Osc?” you say finally, voice unsteady.

“Yeah?” he replies, and you can hear the nerves through the phone, the swoop of hope in his voice. Now or never.

“I’m really, really glad you called,” you say.

The sigh that comes from the other end is pure relief. “Right, yeah, me too,” he stutters out, uncharacteristically tongue-tied, but you can hear the smile in his voice. There’s a muffled shout in the background, probably someone calling for him to drag him to the celebrations. “I should go,” he says reluctantly, and you nod before you realize he can’t see you.

“Yeah,” you echo. “Go be famous.”

He laughs, bright and open, and your heart clenches at the sound. “Can I call you later?” He pauses. “I guess tomorrow for you, actually.”

It's like you can't even remember why you were so stressed ten minutes ago. Oscar wants to call you later. You grin. “Always.”

#f1 x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri imagine #f1 imagine #oscar piastri fluff #oscar piastri x you #f1 driver x reader #f1 driver x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #mywork.#ummmm im so scared to post this !#ok here goes <3 #f1

620 notes · View notes

buckysleftbicep · 21 days ago

Text

letters through time (4) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!fem!reader

warnings: angst, some fluff again, finally

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

word count: 1.7k

author's note: yay! chapter 4 is here! i genuinely love this series with all my heart, it probably is my favourite, and now that there's only chapter 5 left, i feel a little sad :") but nevertheless, enjoy my loves!

series masterlist

The box of letters stayed beside your bed, wrapped in linen, sealed with trembling hands like a time capsule you couldn’t bring yourself to bury.

Some nights, you took them out and laid them across your sheets like a makeshift memory, your fingers skimming across ink that still smelled faintly of old paper and cologne. His scent was still there, faint, but still there.

You did not realise just how much you would come to rely on him. His voice, his jokes and his promises. There had been comfort in knowing he was out there, even if he was decades behind. But now, all you had were echoes. History.

It had been months since the last letter.

The days had began to blur together, heavy with his absence. The air in your apartment felt thinner, like the silence had soaked into the walls. You caught yourself pausing mid-task, waiting for something you knew wouldn’t come.

Hope became a reflex, and then it became a wound that wouldn't heal.

You stopped sleeping through the night, your dreams fragmented by memories of ink-stained pages and a smile you had only seen in black and white. The box stayed beside your bed, untouched for days at a time, too painful to open, too sacred to ignore. You hadn’t just lost the letters.

You had lost the feeling that someone, somewhere, still carried your name in their chest.

You didn’t mean to go to the Smithsonian on your day off. Well, not really. You had passed it dozens of times since the letters stopped, always averting your gaze during your shifts, telling yourself you were too busy cataloguing the many files the museum had.

But that morning, your feet carried you there before your thoughts could stop them, as if some part of you had always known you would end up back here.

You stood quietly in the Captain America exhibit, surrounded by polished glass and the hush of solemn silence. Photographs, artefacts, and names etched in brass lined the walls, pieces of a story you once studied, never knowing you’d be woven into its threads.

There was a wall dedicated to Bucky. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

You stared at the photo of him in uniform, so much like the one he once sent you. This copy was preserved in crisp clarity, mounted beneath a plaque detailing his sacrifice, his loyalty, his presumed death. Your throat tightened.

There was a new section now. One that hadn’t been there back when you were a teenager wandering the halls wide-eyed. It stood quietly to the side, behind tempered glass and muted light, a modest acknowledgment of his return and survival, of the things that had been done to him.

It didn’t spell everything out. It didn’t have to. The silence between the lines spoke volumes.

You reached out, fingertips brushing the cool glass. A sad smile tugged at your lips. The photo didn’t smile back, but your eyes welled regardless.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I tried.”

Silence answered. Just the soft hum of the museum.

“I love you, James,” you said, voice trembling. “Please come back to me.”

And maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe it was just your aching heart. But for a breathless moment, you swore his eyes looked a little less distant.

That night, you finally found it in yourself to open the box, and taking out the letters. Not all of them, just a few.

The ones where he called you sweetheart. Where he promised he’d find you. Where he said he loved you like it was the only thing anchoring him in a world at war.

"I like thinking of you with something I held in my hands. Makes this whole crazy thing feel real."

"Sometimes I think I dreamed you up, but then I read your words and I know you're real. God, I hope you're real."

"Please wait for me. I’ll find a way."

You fell asleep with your hand resting on the pages. And for the first time in weeks, you dreamed of him. Not the Winter Soldier. Just Bucky, he was smiling, laughing, holding a daisy in one hand and a letter in the other.

The days passed. You went to work. Answered emails. Ate meals that tasted bland while laughing at jokes you didn’t really hear. It felt like watching your life through a pane of glass, distant and blurred.

The world moved on. Even if your heart hadn’t.

Then came a rainy Tuesday.

You were home. Some movie played quietly on your laptop, forgotten. Rain tapped against the windows in a slow, mournful rhythm. Your thoughts were far away, drifting like mist across the months you had spent waiting for something that never came.

And then, the television screen flickered.

A news bulletin. Bold and sudden:

"Breaking: James Buchanan Barnes Cleared of All Charges—Declared a National Hero."

You froze. The world narrowed to that single line of text.

The broadcast shifted to a press conference. A stern official stood between Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, their faces solemn and resolute. A banner scrolled along the bottom of the screen:

FORMER WINTER SOLDIER CLEARED OF HYDRA TIES. RECOGNISED FOR SERVICE.

Your hand trembled as you reached for the volume.

"…confirmed Mr. Barnes acted under the control of HYDRA, without agency or consent. Effective immediately, James Buchanan Barnes is recognised as a national hero and is no longer under surveillance or threat of prosecution…"

The screen flashed to a still image.

He looked older. His hair longer. A neatly trimmed beard. Dressed in black. But the eyes—

Still him. Still Bucky. Still James, your James.

Your heart surged, and the bloom of hope was so sharp it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. He was alive and he was free, and, maybe, just maybe, he remembered you.

That night, you didn’t sleep. You lay in bed, wide-eyed, staring into the dark as your heart raced inside your chest. You clutched the edge of the blanket like it might anchor you to the present, but your mind had already slipped into the impossible.

What if he remembered? What if he didn’t? What if that image on the screen was the closest you’d ever come to having him again?

You whispered his name into the quiet.

"James."

And for the first time in a long time, you cried, but not out of grief. Not from the dull, suffocating emptiness that had made a home in your chest for so long. These tears were different.

They came quietly, gently, trembling as they slid down your cheeks, not like a flood but like rain after drought, soft, cautious, almost unsure if they were allowed.

They didn’t burn or tighten your throat, they were the kind of tears that came from something stirring deep within you, something fragile and new.

Hope. Not loud or triumphant, but tentative and real, finally given room to bloom in the quiet where pain used to live.

A week later, someone knocked on your door. The sound was gentle, soft, polite, almost hesitant, like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they belonged there.

You didn’t expect anything when you opened it.

But there he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Not a ghost conjured by longing. Not a photograph curled at the edges, tucked into your waller. Not a fading letter tucked into your drawer.

He was real. Breathing. Alive.

His hair was swept back, strands damp from the drizzle that clung to his shoulders. A dark coat framed him, soaked at the edges, heavy with travel and time. He looked older. Tired. The kind of tired that settles into bone. But his eyes—

His eyes were the same.

Cerulean. Clear. Devastatingly familiar.

The kind of eyes you had memorised in ink and silence. The kind that found yours like no time had passed at all.

“(Y/N)?” he said softly.

Your breath hitched, sharp and sudden, as if the air had been knocked clean from your lungs. The world tilted on its axis, everything slowing to a crawl as your heart thundered in your chest.

You couldn’t speak, your lips parted, but no sound came. He took a single step forward, cautious, gentle, almost as if he was afraid to break whatever fragile thread tethered you both to this moment.

His voice, when it came, was low and rough, but certain. “I remember everything.” The words cracked the air open, louder than any scream and heavier than the silence you had went through the past months.

Your hand flew to your mouth as tears spilled over, unrestrained, the kind that carried too much to name. “You—” you choked, barely able to force the word out.

“You remember me?” He didn’t rush. He didn’t falter. Just held your gaze with those same unwavering eyes, steady, soft, and full of the quiet kind of love you’d only ever read in his letters.

His smile was soft, quiet, steady, the kind of smile that said yes, always.

You moved before you could think, crossing the space in a heartbeat. Threw yourself into his arms, and he caught you without hesitation, like he’d been waiting, like this was the only thing that ever made sense.

His hold was steady, real, anchoring you in a moment you thought you’d never have. You pressed your face into his chest, breath hitching as the tears came, not from pain, not from fear, but from a joy so sharp it almost hurt.

He leaned down, cupped your cheek.

You looked up into his eyes, your own swimming.

He leaned down, hand warm as it cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin like he was still making sure you were real.

You looked up, eyes glassy, searching his face, and found nothing but certainty staring back.

Then, finally, he kissed you. Soft at first, tentative, as if he didn’t want to break you. Then deeper, steadier, like every word he had ever written had been leading here. Like every ache, every silence, every impossibly folded letter had been building to this one breathless second.

He kissed you like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. And you kissed him like you’d been waiting since the moment you found his first letter.

Because maybe you had.

a/n: i hope you guys enjoyed it, love you all and stay safe! the final chapter is coming soon! 🫶🏻

taglist: @ndanddnd @darling-eos @alikkatz @creepybake @maryssong23 @mgchaser @hiraethmae @coffeecigsandcommentary @iyskgd @silverdoragon @lori19 @counterstr1ke @cyberxlust @throwmethroughawindow @keira-kaz2y5 @herejustforbuckybarnes @tpwkyarely

456 notes · View notes

lecl1ercswif7ie · 1 month ago

Text

I Care Buck

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ! The New Avengers x Reader

Summary: After your first mission you tell Bucky to blowout his hair with your Dyson - The rest of The Avengers are shocked he doesn't oppose.

Author's Note: This is my first fic, i'm sorry if it's a bit weird, english is not my first languange and i'm kind of nervous of writing here 🙈 Enjoy the fic!!

Mission complete.

If you could call “barely surviving a shootout, a crumbling building, and Walker setting off the wrong grenade” a mission success. Still, somehow, no one was dead. That was a win for the New Avengers.

Back at HQ, the vibe was what you’d expect from a barely-functional team of chaos gremlins.

Ava and John were already at it again, arguing over tactical choices like they hadn’t just spent the last six hours screaming into comms.

“I’m telling you,” John said, arms waving, “you rushed the flank too early!”

Ava raised her eyebrows and bit out, “I rushed the flank because you set off the charge early, you toddler in a bulletproof vest!”

“Idiots,” Yelena muttered, flopping on the worn-out couch and covering her eyes with her arm, “please shut up. Some of us are trying to disassociate in peace.”

Bob sat nearby, legs crossed, calmly reading a thick novel. He was somehow the calmest man in the building — maybe in the world. “Let them bicker,” he murmured, not looking up. “It’s almost rhythmic now. Like jazz.”

You snorted from your corner. Bucky was standing silently nearby, arms crossed, leaning against the far wall like he didn’t want to admit he was tired. His dark hair was tousled, sticking out from where it had been flattened by his mask and ruffled by wind and debris. He looked… adorable.

But he also looked like he’d walked through a wind tunnel.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling and walked over, Dyson Supersonic in hand.

“Okay, soldier,” you said, pointing to the stool near the table. “Sit.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Your hair,” you said. “It looks like a bird tried to nest in it. I’m fixing it.”

“You’re gonna use… that thing?” he said warily, eyeing the Dyson like it might explode.

You grinned. “Relax. You’ve fought alien warlords. You can survive a blow dryer.”

A snort escaped him. And then — miraculously — he sat. You plugged the Dyson in, brushed your fingers through his damp hair, and got to work.

—

About five minutes in, Bob looked up from his book and said, “He’s letting her do his hair. It’s happening.”

Yelena didn’t even open her eyes. “What’s happening?”

“The slow-burn,” Bob replied, turning the page. “They’re finally getting there.”

Alexei popped his head in from the kitchen. “What are we betting? I say they kiss before next mission.”

“No way,” Ava said, arms crossed. “Barnes is emotionally repressed and Y/N’s too polite.”

John laughed. “$10 says it happens by the end of the week.”

“$20,” Bob added, “if they don’t even notice they’re basically dating already.”

You ignored them all. Mostly. Your fingers were threading through Bucky’s hair, drying and smoothing it as you guided the Dyson gently. He looked… relaxed. Kind of. Except when his metal hand kept twitching every time you got a little too close to his ear.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He grunted, “Yeah. Just… not used to people touching me like this.”

“Like how?”

“Like they care.”

You looked at him, your hand still in his hair. “I care, Buck.”

His eyes met yours then — and you swore your heart skipped.

From the couch, Yelena groaned loudly. “Oh my god, would you two just kiss already?!”

You flushed. Bucky cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “I feel like a stray puppy right now.”

“Yeah, well,” you smirked, “you’re a cute one.”

—

Later that night, the HQ was quieter. Ava and John had gone off somewhere to probably yell at each other in private. Yelena was asleep on the couch, Bob was still reading, and Alexei was snoring in the recliner.

You were in the bathroom with Bucky, showing him how to use the Dyson properly. He watched you with that same intense stare he always had — like he was memorizing everything.

“Okay, see the cool shot button?” you explained. “Locks the style in place.”

He pressed it. A little too hard. The blast of cold air surprised him and he jumped slightly.

You giggled. “Scary, huh?”

“Not scared,” he grumbled. “Just… surprised.”

“Mmhm.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Thanks for doing this.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Anytime.”

His hand caught yours as you went to pull away — metal fingers warm from the dryer, his grip gentle but steady.

“You know,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “I don’t let just anyone near my hair.”

Your breath hitched. “Good thing I’m not just anyone, then.”

There was a beat.

You both leaned in slightly—

And from the hallway: “If you’re not kissing, then at least make popcorn!” Alexei yelled. “Some of us are invested in the subplot!”

You and Bucky broke apart, laughing quietly.

“Stray puppy, huh?” you teased.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile on his lips.

“Only if you’re the one taking me home.”

kinda nervous to post this haha, i tried my best okay? but i think i made justice to the whole new team with unstable people trying to live togethere

633 notes · View notes

ggukivrse · 2 months ago

Text

THE ART OF PRETENDING - JJK | 01

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, angst, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.9k

notes: the first chapter is here!!! i ended up cutting this into two parts so everything that’s going to be in chapter two was originally planned to be in this chapter loll. tysm to my bae @page-isa for beta reading and putting up with me :> as always, feedback, likes, comments, reblogs and asks are so so appreciated, like i love yapping on here loll. enjoy reading my angels <3

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

⤷ chapter one — the way things go

and there’s too much on my mind that i don’t even want to try / guess it’s not far from the ordinary, they do say love is blind

The road stretches out ahead, long and quiet, humming under the tires. You lean into the car door, forehead pressed against the glass, fingers mindlessly tugging at the threads on the hem of your shorts.

Summer air seeps through the half-cracked open window, warm and heavy with the scent of trees and sun-baked asphalt.

You should be excited. Everyone else is.

A full week away — just your group, no classes, no work shifts, no group projects hanging over anyone’s head for the first time in four years. A final trip before the “real world” starts to pull everyone in different directions.

But your stomach’s been tight since the moment you packed your bag. And now, with every mile you put between yourself and home, it just gets worse.

“You’re really quiet,” Kiara says, glancing at you from the driver’s seat. She’s got one hand on the wheel, the other flipping the volume knob down on the music. “Like... unusually quiet. Do I need to be concerned?”

You shake your head without looking at her. “Nah. Just tired.”

Kiara makes a sound like she doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t press, and you're grateful for it.

You glance over at her. She’s in an oversized T-shirt, dark brown hair falling in curls past her shoulders, sunglasses balanced on top of her head instead of over her eyes.

“I thought you’d be in full DJ mode by now,” you say, nodding toward her phone. “Where’s the summer playlist?”

She smirks. “I’m easing you into it. Jimin says my music tastes give him whiplash.”

“He has a point.”

She scoffs. “Please. Hoseok says my music’s amazing.”

“He says that about everything you do," you say with a smile.

She shrugs, casual. “He’s not wrong.”

It’s adorable how hopelessly smitten they are. Even after a year together, Hoseok still looks at Kiara like she hung the stars.

You remember when they finally got together, after years of dancing around it. Everyone in the friend group had seen it coming — everyone except them.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Kiara laughs, and you can’t help but join in. For a second, the knot in your chest loosens. Just a little.

"Speaking of Hoseok," you start, glancing over at her. “How come he's not coming with you?”

She sighs. “Shift at work. He tried to switch but his manager’s being a dick. He’ll drive up tomorrow morning.”

You nod. “That sucks.”

She hums in agreement, but you’re already half-lost in your thoughts.

As much as you feel bad for Hoseok, you're quietly grateful Kiara asked you to come with her. The idea of doing this drive alone — just you, a quiet car, and way too much time to sit with everything you haven’t let yourself feel — would’ve made the weight in your chest unbearable.

She hasn’t said much, but she’s always had good timing. Maybe she didn’t even realise how much you needed the company. Or maybe she did.

“Lucky me, I got upgraded,” you say lightly.

She grins. “Damn right you did.”

The playlist switches songs, something soft and nostalgic. You stare out the window again, at the lazy sway of trees and the occasional flicker of a passing car.

“I can’t believe we actually pulled this trip off,” Kiara says, after a beat. “Twelve people committing to anything at the same time? Miracle.”

You nod. “Taehyung’s been talking about it since first year.”

“Yeah, and threatening to disown us if anyone bailed.”

You huff out a small laugh.

Back when this trip was just an idea tossed around during late-night study sessions and half-finished group projects, you'd been genuinely excited — borderline giddy, even. The promise of a full week at a fancy resort with your closest friends had felt like the perfect reward after years of deadlines, breakdowns, and pulling all-nighters on cheap coffee and instant noodles.

It was one of those plans that didn’t feel real at first — the kind of thing you talk about just to survive the semester — but then slowly, it started taking shape. Rooms were booked. Deposits paid. Group chats flooded with outfit ideas and packing lists.

You remember counting down the months, then the weeks. You’d imagined bonfires and inside jokes, sunsets by the water, slow mornings in a warm bed.

Back then, this trip had felt like the light at the end of a very long tunnel. Something to look forward to. Something certain.

Now, you can barely keep the dread from crawling up your throat.

“You sure you’re good?” Kiara asks again, gentler this time.

You blink, pulled back to the present. “Yeah. Just... a lot on my mind.”

Again, she doesn’t push. Just gives you a side glance and says, “Well, don’t overthink it. We’ve got a whole week of sun, overpriced cocktails, and probably at least one group fight. You’ll be fine.”

You offer a small smile. “Yeah, you're right. I’ll be fine.”

But your stomach’s still a mess, and the name you’ve been avoiding thinking about drags itself right back to the front of your mind.

Jungkook.

You haven’t seen him in a month.

Not since it ended.

And in about an hour, you’re going to be standing under the same roof as him — spending an entire week in the same space, breathing the same air, pretending it doesn’t feel like your insides are still bruised from the last time you spoke.

A small, irrational part of you hopes he won’t show. That something will come up. That he’ll decide it’s not worth it.

But you know him. He’ll be there.

Of course he will.

Kiara says something — probably teasing, probably meant to distract you — and you laugh on instinct. Keep the smile on your face, even as dread pools low in your gut.

This was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime.

You glance out the window again, the road narrowing in the distance.

Now, a part of you can't stop looking for the nearest exit.

You and Kiara are the first ones to arrive.

She pulls into the sandy lot just off the coastal road, the tires crunching softly over sunbaked gravel before the car settles into park. The air smells like salt and sunscreen, and the soft hiss of waves reaches you even before you open the door.

You step out slowly, blinking against the late afternoon sun. It’s warm but breezy, the kind of weather that clings just right to your skin.

The place looks exactly like the photos Namjoon sent in the group chat months ago — quiet, tropical, and beautiful.

Curved thatched-roof villas nestle into thick palm trees, wrapped around a smooth wooden deck that opens to a private pool. Soft lights glow under the railings, giving the whole place a warm, cosy feel. White umbrellas shade loungers facing the ocean, just a few steps off the deck and onto clean, untouched sand.

Seokjin had pulled a few strings to make it happen — his aunt owns the place, a family-run beachside resort tucked just far enough from the touristy areas that it still feels private. He managed to get the whole property reserved just for the twelve of you for the week. No strangers. No noise from other guests. Just your group, the ocean, and time that doesn’t need filling.

It's quiet. Calm.

You breathe in, hoping the calm will seep into you too. It doesn’t.

Kiara rounds the back of the car and stretches with a loud groan, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. “This is so cute,” she says, scanning the view. “God, I’m so glad we actually made it.”

You nod, eyes skimming the road. She leans against the car beside you, and for a while, neither of you say much.

The parking lot doesn’t stay quiet for long.

Taehyung and Yasmine roll in first, their white SUV kicking up dust as it slides into the spot next to Kiara’s. The engine barely cuts before Taehyung pushes open the door and steps out.

You’re already walking over but he gets to you first, greeting you with a wide boxy smile and outstretched arms. You let him pull you into a warm hug that's just dramatic enough to be on-brand.

Yasmine climbs out slower, adjusting her sunglasses with one hand while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She beams at you, dimples on display.

"God, I haven't seen you in forever," Taehyung sighs as he steps back. "Thought I'd catch you at Ari's birthday but you weren't there."

"I've just been busy."

It's not quite a lie, but not the complete truth either.

"Quite being such a workaholic, yeah? You have all the time to do that once summer ends

Yasmine laughs softly under her breath. “You cannot be talking right now, babe."

You snort as he playfully rolls his eyes.

Yasmine steps forward and pulls you into a hug of her own — tighter, less showy than Taehyung’s, but no less sincere. “We did miss you though. Go MIA on us again and we will track you down,” she says simply.

“I missed you guys too,” you murmur. The smile on your face has started to hurt your cheeks, but you can't stop grinning. It's been too long since you've genuinely felt so content, and the trip hasn't even properly started yet.

A familiar hatchback glides into the lot just as Yasmine and Taehyung pull Kiara into matching hugs, loud and overlapping. You squint into the sunlight, shielding your eyes until you catch the unmistakable sight of Ari behind the wheel — one arm slung casually over the open window.

The sun glints off the gold hoops in her ears, the fine chain around her neck, the chipped red polish on her fingers tapping the side of the door. She parks smoothly with one hand, and a wide smile curls across her features the moment she spots you.

Namjoon climbs out of the passenger seat with a long, slow stretch, like he’s waking up from a nap.

“Finally,” you call out, grinning, arms already out.

Ari steps out and shuts the door with her hip. “Bro, we passed the same creepy fruit stand three times. I was ready to fight the GPS.”

She strides over, pulls you into a hug that’s tight and real. She smells like grapefruit body spray and road trip exhaustion. “God, you’re alive,” she mutters into your shoulder. “I was convinced you bailed.”

You laugh. “I thought you would. You hate driving longer than thirty minutes.”

“Don’t remind me. Namjoon promised vibes and delivered car sickness.”

“I heard that,” Namjoon says, pulling you into a side hug of his own. He’s warm and solid, and his smile is small but real. “Still made it before sunset. That’s what counts.”

“Barely,” you mutter. “Kiara drove.”

“I heard that,” Kiara calls from behind the SUV, dragging her bag out with one hand and an iced tea in the other. “And we didn’t even get lost.”

You’re about to fire back a reply when the loud, familiar hum of a motorbike engine reaches your ears.

The sound hits like muscle memory — instant recognition, not even a second of doubt.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

And still, your body goes tense. You keep your gaze low, focused on the faded scuff mark near the toe of your shoe, but your ears are tuned in with brutal clarity.

The engine cuts.

Then boots hit dirt.

“Hey,” a voice calls out — easy, warm, annoyingly smooth. “Sorry I’m late.”

You finally look up.

Jungkook pulls off his helmet, a lazy sort of grin spreading across his face as he scans the group. His hair’s slightly flattened from the helmet, but it somehow works — messy, effortless, and still irritatingly pretty. He adjusts his shirt with one hand, and the fabric clings to the lines of his chest like it has a personal vendetta against your peace of mind.

He looks… fine.

Normal.

Like nothing’s weird. Like there’s no history. Like he didn’t once hold your heart like it was breakable and then drop it like he didn’t even notice.

“Look who’s finally here,” Namjoon calls, smiling like Jungkook isn’t at all late. “Took you long enough.”

“My bad,” Jungkook says, laughing a little as he walks toward the group. “GPS had me driving everywhere but the correct place.”

He makes the rounds casually — daps up Taehyung, hugs Yasmine and Ari in turn, nods at Kiara with that friendly chin-tilt he always does. When he reaches Namjoon, they exchange one of those quiet, guy-coded, half-shoulder embraces.

And then his eyes flick to you.

For half a second, his smile doesn’t change. It just softens at the edges — subtle, like a reflex.

Your stomach tightens.

“Hey,” he says.

You manage something that feels like a nod. “Hey.”

That’s all. No hug. No small talk. Not even eye contact that lasts longer than it needs to.

He doesn’t push it.

You try to focus on the group again, on Ari saying something about which rooms have outlets, but the back of your neck is hot. You’re not sure if it’s the sun or him or both.

You think that’s it — that maybe you’ll be able to forget he’s even here for a bit — when suddenly, from just across you, his voice cuts in again.

“Oh— I brought that thing you left at my place, by the way.”

You blink. For a moment, you’re sure he’s talking to someone else — but when you look up, he’s already looking at you.

“What?”

“That thing,” he says again, like it should be obvious. “You left it last weekend. I figured you’d want it back.”

Your brain stutters.

Last weekend?

You haven’t been to his place in weeks. You’ve barely even texted since the breakup. You definitely didn’t leave anything there last weekend because you were nowhere near there.

He says it so casually. So matter-of-fact.

You look at him — really look — and for the first time since he arrived, you see something behind the relaxed exterior. It’s quick. Too fast to name. But it’s not nothing.

“What… what are you talking about?” you ask, quietly.

He just jerks his head toward the bike. “C’mere for a sec. I’ll show you.”

And just like that, he’s already turning, walking back toward the motorbike like this is completely normal.

You don’t move at first. You just stand there, frowning, trying to make sense of what he said.

You didn’t leave anything. You know you didn’t.

So what the hell is he doing?

You glance back at the others — still busy, still loud, still completely out of earshot. No one even seems to notice that Jungkook is beckoning you away like it’s just another part of the day.

You hesitate.

Then, against your better judgment, your feet move anyway.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you follow him, the group's voices turning to background noise — laughter, zippers, the thunk of a cooler hitting the ground. Faint but fading.

He stops near the bike, facing away, like he’s waiting for you to say something first.

You take the bait.

“What the fuck are you on about?” you say, sharp, not bothering to soften it.

He turns then. Slowly. His face is tighter now — still calm, but the easy smile from earlier is long gone. There’s something clipped in the way he exhales.

“You didn’t tell them?”

You blink. “Tell who what?”

“The group,” he says, like it’s obvious. “You didn’t tell them we broke up.”

You stare at him.

A breeze cuts through the clearing, rustling the edge of your shirt. You feel it but don’t move. Your brain is still catching up.

“I thought you told them,” you say finally, frowning.

He huffs a short, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “No. I didn’t. Clearly.”

Your stomach sinks.

You shift your weight, eyes flicking toward the group — still too far to hear, but not far enough to not feel it.

“So,” you say slowly, “you’re telling me… they all still think we’re together?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer immediately. He just gives you a look. A quiet, restrained yes.

You blink again, the weight of that landing hard and uneven in your chest. Your thoughts start tripping over each other.

“That’s fine,” you say quickly, stubborn. “I’ll just tell them. I’ll— we’ll clear it up.”

“No,” he says, almost before the words leave your mouth. His tone is firmer now, more certain.

You narrow your eyes. “Why not?”

He looks at you, and for a second, he seems like he’s debating whether to say anything at all.

Then he sighs and leans back slightly, arms crossed.

“Because I’m like eighty percent sure Seokjin’s planning to propose to Haeun at the end of this trip.”

You blink.

“What?”

“He asked me about ring sizes a month ago. And he’s been weirdly nervous in the group chat. You didn’t notice?”

You hadn’t. Or maybe you had and just didn’t register it. You're mind has been hazy for the past few weeks, and the person to blame is standing opposite you.

Jungkook shakes his head like it’s obvious, then gestures vaguely toward the resort. “He’s gonna do it. Probably by the beach. Probably with fireworks or some corny shit. It’s gonna be a big thing.”

You stare at him, arms crossed now too, trying to piece it all together.

“And if we drop this whole breakup bomb now,” he continues, “that’s all anyone’s gonna talk about. Not the proposal. Not the memories. Just… us. Ending.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because he’s not wrong. You know he’s not wrong.

You can already picture it — the weird silences, the whispered side conversations, the heavy tension whenever someone says “remember when—” and then catches themselves. All of it looping back to you two. To what used to be you two.

And Seokjin — the guy who makes toast like it’s a grand gesture, who once cried at a dog food commercial — he doesn’t deserve that. Not on his big moment.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Fuck.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything.

You look at him again.

And there’s a flicker of something you can’t name on his face. Not smugness, not satisfaction. Just… tired honesty.

Neither of you wanted this.

But here it is.

And now you have to deal with it.

You cross your arms tighter, trying to ground yourself with the weight of them. The sun’s lower now, casting long shadows behind the bike, and you can hear the faint sound of Kiara yelling something, probably about food or wine.

But none of it matters.

Not when your very existence here suddenly feels like a live wire.

You glance at Jungkook again, brows drawn. “Okay… so what are you planning to do?”

He hesitates — just a breath, but you catch it.

Then he gives you a look. One you know too well.

That don’t be mad look.

“...You’re gonna hate me for this,” he says, almost like he’s bracing for impact, “but I think we should just… pretend. For the week.”

Your head jerks back a little, eyebrows raised. “Pretend?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly, like speeding through it might make it sound less insane. “Just for now. Just until the trip’s over.”

You stare at him like he’s grown another head.

“Jungkook.”

“You already said it — you were gonna tell them anyway, right?” he shrugs. “So you’re not lying, technically. You’re just… delaying.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “We broke up one month ago.”

“Yeah. I know. I was there.”

“And now you want us to pretend that we’re still dating.”

“For one week,” he says, holding up a finger like that somehow makes it reasonable. “We dated for four years. What’s one more week gonna do?”

You blink at him.

Hard.

A part of you still doesn't want to believe that you spent four years in a relationship that ended up leading to nothing. All of your college years spent focusing on you and Jungkook, just for everything to just end so abruptly.

“This is not the same as being together for four years.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You’re actually being serious.”

“I am serious,” he says, voice exasperated. “Look, the rooms are already organised. All the couples are paired up. If we tell them now, we'll have to crash someone else’s setup and that'll just ruin the trip more.”

You hate that he’s thought this through.

You hate even more that he’s not totally wrong.

You groan under your breath, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. “God. This is so dumb.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“Yeah, well… you did.”

You drop your hands, exhaling hard. Your eyes meet his again. His face is calm, but there is a flicker of tension behind his eyes. Like he’s holding something in. Like this is costing him, too, but he’s choosing not to show it.

You want to fight it. You should fight it.

But then you think of Seokjin’s dumb soft smile, the way he talks about Haeun like she built the stars, and how excited everyone is to be here together.

You can’t ruin that. You won’t be the reason this trip turns into a bad memory.

So you sigh. Heavily. Like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the ground.

“Fine,” you mutter.

You don’t meet his eyes when you say it. You just brush past the stubborn knot in your chest and take a step forward.

Jungkook shifts his weight, then holds out his hand toward you like it’s nothing. Like this is casual. Normal.

“Okay,” he says, almost too breezy. “Hold my hand.”

You blink. “What?”

“C’mon,” he says, like you’re the one being weird. “We’re walking back. We’re gonna act like a couple, or someone’s gonna know something’s up.”

You stare at him.

Because it’s not that he’s wrong. It’s that he said it so simply. It annoys you how easy this seems to be for him — to just pretend to be in love with you again.

It makes you wonder if he had been putting up an act for the entirety of your relationship.

You open your mouth to argue, but then close it again. You guys were never lowkey when you were together. You didn’t do subtle. If you suddenly walk back ten feet apart and barely acknowledging each other, someone will notice. Probably Ari first. She always knows when something is up.

You exhale, slow and resigned.

“God, we were so annoying with the PDA,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Jungkook snorts. “Yeah. That’s kinda on us.”

You eye his outstretched hand, hesitate for another second. And then — with every ounce of reluctance you can physically manifest — you slide your hand into his, fingers fitting between his like muscle memory.

He curls his fingers around yours automatically, warm and easy.

Too easy.

You stare at your joined hands for a second longer than you mean to.

It’s ridiculous how fast your body remembers this. How natural it feels — the shape of his hand, the calloused pads of his fingers, the way his thumb always rests along the side of yours without even thinking.

You look away quickly.

Your chest does something strange and quiet, and you shut the door on it before it can speak.

It’s not real. Not anymore.

The sound of tires on gravel cuts through your thoughts.

You glance up just as a car eases around the bend, pulling into the last open spot in the lot. It's Seokjin’s car — you recognise it immediately — and the moment it comes to a stop, the passenger doors swing open in near perfect unison.

Jimin hops out first, stretching like he’s just stepped off a ten-hour flight instead of a two-hour drive. He runs a hand through his blonde locks, a smile enveloping is features the moment he spots you all.

He’s dressed like he put thought into looking effortless — loose tee, chain glinting at his collar, a wrist stacked with bracelets that clink faintly when he moves to grab his bag from the seat.

Yoongi follows behind him, slower, more deliberate. He slings a canvas duffel over one shoulder and shuts the car door loudly.

You watch as they start walking toward the group — Jimin already waving, Yoongi just nodding at someone — and then the driver’s door creaks open.

Seokjin steps out with one hand braced on the roof, blinking against the sun. His shirt’s a little wrinkled from the drive, but his hair is neat, like he smoothed it down at the last gas station stop. He circles the car, pulls open the back door, and starts hauling out bags with a quiet sort of efficiency.

Haeun steps out more carefully, eyes scanning the scenery, one hand smoothing the back of her hair. She adjusts her sleeves, then quietly shuts the door behind her. No big entrance — just a soft, polite smile as she approaches the group a few steps behind Seokjin.

"This isn't bad," Yoongi says, giving the area a once-over as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder.

Jimin grins, throwing a look back at him. “You sound almost impressed.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Just expected more bugs.”

“There will be bugs,” Kiara calls from the trunk of her car, holding up a bottle of bug spray like a threat. “But I brought protection.”

“Of course you did,” Jimin laughs.

Jungkook steps in, releasing your hand briefly to clap Jimin on the back before pulling him into a hug. “Good to see you, dude. You took your sweet time getting here,” he says.

Jimin just grins. “Fashionably late.”

Without looking, Jungkook reaches back for your hand and finds it on instinct, fingers sliding back between yours like he never let go in the first place.

Taehyung slings his hands around Yoongi dramatically, even to his standards. Yoongi lets it happen for about three seconds before grumbling, “You’re clinging.”

“You love it,” Taehyung says, squeezing tighter.

“I tolerate it,” Yoongi corrects, deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

Taehyung lets go with a satisfied grin, already reaching for his bag, and Yoongi just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as he adjusts his duffel.

Jimin’s halfway through complimenting Haeun — something about how her top matches the sky, or the sea, or maybe both — and she just smiles, quiet and a little bashful, before mumbling a thank you and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Seokjin glances over at the exchange with a faint smile but doesn’t say anything, just lifts something from the trunk with a grunt.

It’s starting to annoy you how in love all your friends are. It feels like the universe mocking you — like every laugh, every shared glance, every easy touch is some private joke you’ve been left out of.

Yasmine resting her head on Taehyung’s shoulder, Namjoon glancing over at Ari every time he makes a joke just to watch her eyes crinkle into crescent moons, Jimin and Yoongi refusing to admit that they like each other despite the constant glances and smiles that everyone notices.

None of it is loud or showy, but it’s everywhere. Quiet affection humming underneath everything.

And the worst part? No one’s doing anything wrong. They're just happy. Which, somehow, makes it worse.

Namjoon scrolls through something on his phone nearby, then looks up just in time to catch Seokjin trying to drag three bags at once.

“You good?” he calls.

“I’m thriving,” Seokjin says, winded. “But I won’t be carrying anything else for the rest of the trip.”

A few laughs ripple through the group. The sun’s dropped just low enough to cast long, soft shadows across the lot, golden waves illuminating against everyone's skin.

“Alright,” Namjoon says, raising his voice just enough to cut through the chatter. “Let’s grab our stuff and head in. Hyung, you've got the keys, right?”

You all look over at Seokjin, who holds the keys up briefly.

Everyone moves back to their own cars, reaching for bags, slinging backpacks over shoulders, tugging at zippers and slapping closed trunks.

You slip your hand from Jungkook’s and head to Kiara’s trunk, digging out your backpack and slinging it over your shoulder. When you walk back, he subtly extends his hand toward you — a quiet invitation.

You don’t take it. You just keep walking.

You told yourself you'd only do what was necessary — the bare minimum to make it believable. Holding hands in front of others? Sure. Smiling for the occasional photo? Fine.

But extras, like this — when no one’s watching — felt like the kind of thing that could make you slip up without meaning to.

Ari falls in beside you, and without thinking, you hook your arm through hers, quickly falling into an easy conversation.

Behind you, you faintly hear him sigh.

taglist | click here to join: @lovingkoalaface @jjeonjjk7 @pjmname @celeya @labbbaaa @vynmin @deeznutkooks @beattiestreet @ppeachyttae @bangtanily @blueberriesm @songbyeonkim @geniejunn @polnaraffsrack @jk97bam @floralkook @nikkinikj @importantflowersblog @goldenjeonkoo @uarmygguk @tatzzz-25 @thegreatdepressionme @golden-loona @kissyfacekoo @amarawayne

976 notes · View notes

pathologicalreid · 7 months ago

Text

a long way to go | s.r.

in which your family breaks no contact and Spencer reminds you that you're doing the right thing

margovember

kindergarten teacher!reader masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: flangst? (hurt/comfort) content warning: nondescript childhood trauma, kindergarten teacher!reader word count: 1.4k a/n: okay so the request was for angst and it is but the comfort gives fluff. at this point my genres are arbitrary. huge shout out to anyone else who isn't going home for thanksgiving for one reason or another.

Frowning at the email on your computer, you shifted your weight on your rotating chair and leaned your head back into the chair cover that Garcia had crocheted for you.

We’d love for you to join us.

It felt as though someone had tossed a bucket of ice water over your head, years and years of blocking emails and leaving your phone number unlisted had culminated in this moment. It shouldn’t surprise you; you worked at a public school and your email was listed in the faculty directory, but the sight of your father’s name left a sour taste in your mouth.

You were alone in your classroom, the fluorescent lights were turned off, leaving you in the gentle illumination of the string lights that you kept threaded along the walls. Contract hours were over, but you still had papers that needed to be completed. Opening your email after the final bell had thrown a wrench in your plans.

A knock on your door pulled you out of your haze, you looked up to see Spencer standing in the doorway. You checked the time in the corner of your monitor to find that it was nearly six, well into the evening, and you hadn’t even noticed. “Did we have plans?” You asked, alarm rising in your tone, you looked down at your day planner and didn’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t miss something.

“No,” Spencer said immediately, wanting to quell any of your anxieties before they had the chance to develop. “I hadn’t heard from you today, so I might’ve asked Garcia if she had your location on your phone and found that you were at work much later than usual,” he told you, setting his messenger bag on one of your student’s desks before leaning against yours.

You leaned over your desk, setting your chin in your hands and sighing. “You found me,” you mumbled unenthusiastically, eyeing your monitor again.

He’d cut his hair again, in a moment of frustration he’d started snipping, but he ended up calling you for help. It no longer feathered the tops of his eyebrows. “What’s wrong?” Spencer asked, tilting his head to the side and tapping the bobblehead you kept on your desk.

Taking a deep breath, you shook your head, “Nothing, I just have a lot of work to do.” You were designing a holiday coloring page, making the outlines yourself because you didn’t like any of the ones you found on the internet.

“Okay,” Spencer responded, extending his vowels. “Now you’re lying to me,” he said. It wasn’t an accusation; he was merely stating the truth.

It bothered you that he was right, and it bothered you that you lied to him. You shouldn’t feel the need to lie to him because, really, if anyone was going to understand how you felt about the email, it was Spencer. You wedged your hands beneath your thighs, keeping yourself from digging your nails into your palms, “My father sent me an email.”

Dad felt too casual, and his first name felt too detached. He was just your father, someone who had been chosen time and time again over you, and whom you hadn’t spoken to in nearly six years. “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Five years ago,” you answered distantly, remembering how he’d had the nerve to show up at your college graduation even though the rest of your family knew you weren’t in contact with him. Wetting your lips, you looked back at the email on your screen, “He wants me to spend Thanksgiving with him and his family.” People that you shared no connection to—blood or otherwise—and made up the family that had taken your place in his life.

Spencer straightened up a stack of papers on your desk, the shuffling sound so familiar that it put you at ease, “What do you want to do?”

You pinched your eyebrows together, not used to someone asking for your wants, “I want to reply to him, but I know that engaging with him would be equivalent to opening the floodgates.” Releasing a dam of trauma that wasn’t suited for your kindergarten classroom, “I can’t reply to this email.”

Nodding softly, Spencer studied your eyes with a pained look in his eyes, “I know, honey.”

Taking the computer mouse in your trembling hand, you scrolled over the email and blocked the sender before deleting the email and deleting it from the trash for good measure. Hot tears welled in your eyes as you wrapped your arms around yourself, “I hate him.”

You despised him. A man who you shared blood with just so happened to be someone you hated with bone in your body. Bones he had contributed to that you wished you could pull from your body and replace with an untainted set. What was worse was that he had the ability to influence your emotions like this, he could make you angry with nothing more than digital mail.

Anger felt so useless, it was something he used as armor, and you feared that by being angry, you were becoming like him. You were so horrified by the mere idea of your own anger that it made you cry, and you were terrified of your life becoming one big circle.

They say if you grow up with an angry man in your house, then there will always be an angry man in your house. All you needed was to believe in Spencer’s ability to be gentle, but nothing Spencer did would change the fact that you cried as soon as you were pricked with rage.

Spencer crouched in front of you, taking both of your hands in his larger ones and keeping them warm for you. “You don’t owe them anything,” he told you, watching you carefully with his big brown eyes, “It hurts. I know it hurts right now, but you know that you just did the right thing. I’ll remind you of it for as long as it takes for you to believe it.”

The dam broke then, tears fall from your chin to your lap as Spencer gathered you in his arms to the best of his ability, you tried not to flinch away from his embrace. You reminded yourself that he wasn’t there to hurt you, he was there to help you. He ran his palm flat along your spine as you gave in, burying your face in the crook of his neck and basking in the darkness of your own sorrow.

“You did the right thing,” he muttered softly, pulling away and using the pads of his thumbs to wipe away your tears. “You don’t need to apologize to anyone about it,” he said preemptively, knowing you were about to apologize to him for your show of emotion.

You nodded dazedly, leaning your cheek into his palm as he cupped your face with his hands, “I don’t know what I do now.”

Spencer smiled gently at you, “We’re gonna keep moving forward. Are you hungry? Do you want to get dinner?”

Sighing, you shrugged despondently, looking back at your now blank monitor, “I should get some stuff done.” You wiggled the mouse and typed in your password, you stared blankly at your unfinished coloring page, any and all motivation to finish the drawing had vacated as soon as your father made contact.

“What if,” Spencer started, “You come home with me tonight, and tomorrow I’ll come in with you? You can finish up your work and I’ll get to spend some time with you.” Spencer Reid might just be the only person willing to accompany you to work on a Saturday just because you’re having a hard time.

You bowed your head, “You don’t have to do this, Spence.”

He hummed in response, “I want to, and besides—we have plans to make.”

You frowned, your head lifting so you could look him in the face and inquire for more details, “Plans for what?”

“Thanksgiving,” he responded as if it should’ve been obvious, “You’ll get to join BAUsgiving this year, it’s one of Garcia’s favorite holidays.”

Faltering, your eyes widened at his insistence, and you took a deep breath, “I’m not… I don’t want to intrude on your family time.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows incredulously, “Honey, you’re part of that family now. Besides, sometimes I think the team likes you more than me.”

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds angst #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #margovember #kindergarten teacher!reader

1K notes · View notes

twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 5 months ago

Text

I’LL MAKE A HOUSE INSIDE OF YOU, I’LL GO IN THROUGH THE MOUTH ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; what awaits you by the entrance to the woods is not a wolf, but a man. he thinks your grandmother can wait.

word count; 14.7k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader (’girl’ is used only in allusion to the actual fairy tale), fairy tale au, hunter/wolf!suguru x little red riding hood!reader, yan!sugu, captivity, forced caretaking, infantilization, excessive use of ’little one’, hints of stockholm syndrome, slightly suggestive in one part (suguru gets a hard-on, blink and you’ll miss it), noncon kissing but that’s the worst it gets, instances of gore (ie; descriptions of a corpse, horror-inspired imagery), depiction of cannibalism (not involving reader), violent undertones, suguru never physically harms you but it’s mentioned that he could. open ended + almost entirely from reader’s pov. meta narrative.

a/n; happy halloween <3 (i’m late)(it’s 2025) this au has been haunting me since last year so i’m happy to finally have it out …. i don’t dabble in yan!sugu v often but it’s . so so sooo easy to turn him into one just by tweaking him a little bit … if nothing else i hope he ended up awful & hot 🫡 + biggest shoutout in the world to my beloved mickey (@teddybeartoji) for all your help and encouragement w this fic :’< also my belovedest dilly for doing the same and supporting me always … i love u……

[ ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WAS A DEAR LITTLE GIRL … ]

the sun is stuck in vitro.

a glance up at the sky, in tune with your rapid steps. you’re threading through a meadow, red hood over your head, a basket hanging off your arm; wine and apricots and slices of cake, covered by the crocheted blanket your mother made. the sky you see when you tilt your head is painted gray, a bottomless pit, cotton clouds sticking together like the light layer of mist laying its legs across the landscape. dewdrops stick to your bare ankles as you wade through tall grass.

everything smells wet, fresh, the heavy scent of leaves and dirt— the end of autumn. everything bursting and blooming and decaying all at once.

and you’re all alone. threading through the grass and flowers, nearing the edge of the familiar woods, on your way to see your grandmother. it’s a force of habit; from the basket hanging off your arm to the pep in your step, a feeling like that of a page being turned. this story is your home, you live within its walls. you know your lines, you always have. you know how it begins, how it ends, what it feels like to be swallowed whole— you know your steps will lead you right into the belly of the beast.

you know this story.

(you should know this story.)

only this time, it is not a wolf that awaits you by the entrance to the woods. it’s a hunter.

it’s a man, of tall stature, a shotgun slung over his broad shoulder and secured by a thin leather strap. poignant, a threat and a reassurance all at once, barrel pointing at the sky like a maw wanting to open wide. it’s the first thing you notice. his hair is tied up, neat and tidy, charcoal strands tousled by the morning breeze, bangs swaying almost hypnotizingly under the hunter’s hat he’s wearing; your eyes drink him in, from head to toe. a dark-furred vest, engulfed by a coat that does nothing to hide the outline of his meaty biceps. his boots are stained with mud.

it’s nothing new.

(but he isn’t supposed to be here.)

before you can look around, make sure you didn’t take a wrong turn, leave your mother’s cabin on the wrong clock-tick — the hunter turns to look at you. eyes like the bark of a tree, smudged at the corners with flecks of rusted gold, their warmth beckoning you forward. and only then do you spot a splotch of red in his calloused hands, cradled closely.

for a moment, you’re sure it’s blood. upon closer inspection, it’s a young, crimson-flecked poppy.

he’s caressing the petals, and he’s smiling.

like he knew you’d be here.

molten, rainy clouds stick together in the sky, allowing no flicker of sunshine to seep through the gaps. once you step inside the woods, the mist will only thicken. a ceiling made of tree-leaves to obscure the world around you. it’s straight ahead, the main road that leads into their depths — the one you’re meant to follow. from where you’re standing, you can spot bugs on the mossy rocks, shimmering beetles, hear the buzzing of a lonely little bee busying itself with a honeyed tree trunk. shadows upon shadows. you’re right at the edge of the second act, but there is no wolf to be seen. no monster to fall into.

only a man, parting his lips.

”and where are you headed, little one?”

his voice is deep. steady, sturdy, seeps into your spine. but tailored with silk all the same; a pleasantly raspy undertone. he’s speaking softly, and your heartbeat slows down, grows quiet as a mouse.

it’s only him, after all.

(the ever reliable hunter.)

”… to my grandmother,” you answer, hands gripping onto the handle of your basket, a smile gracing your features. still confused, but polite, even sweet. he’s weak to it, you’re well aware. ”she’s sick, you see…”

he nods along, smile never changing shape — hand only briefly reaching down to his waist, slipping the poppy into his pocket. you wonder why he doesn’t just throw it away, but there’s no time to ponder on the smaller things; he speaks before you can try.

”i see,” he hums, a low buzzing in the back of his throat. ”and on such a lovely morning…”

the irony in his tone is evident, ripe like a peach. smiling along, you let out what could almost be considered a chuckle — it’s a little out of breath, your lungs constricting in wake of the mist-ridden air.

”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

that makes him pause, for a moment. ”how kind of you.” it’s praise, sweetened by a roll of his tongue — the hunter tilts his head, honeyed eyes ripe for plucking. ”i’m sure your grandmother will be thrilled.”

”… i hope so,” you hum, blinking through the dew. ”it’s the least i could do, really…”

golden eyes seep through the gaps between his lower lashes, gazing down at you. a piercing stare. you wonder if he can tell you’re lying. a moment passes, and then he’s speaking again, with a click of his tongue— that same pleasing lull to his voice.

”and where does your grandmother live, hm? not too far off, i’d hope…”

”it’s… still a bit to walk,” you chuckle, adjusting your hood, picking at a piece of lint dangling off the fabric. ”her house is just under the three large oak-trees, with the nut-trees below… you surely must know it?”

”… that i do.” for a moment, his smiles laces itself with sticky nostalgia; something warm.

then, suddenly, he’s taking a step forward. boots crunching against the ground, clicking against the gravel underneath his feet. like he’s walking on a frosted lake. aside from the low buzzing of tired bugs, and solemn whooshing of the morning breeze, it’s all you can hear. when he gets close enough for you to see the mole just below his jaw, he’s towering above you — shielding you from the wind, broad shoulders obscuring your view of anything but him. his eyes, his smile, the shotgun over his shoulder.

and he parts his pretty lips.

”would you do me a favour, little dear?”

a tug at your heartstrings. your eyes gaze up at his, wide with curiosity, rising up like bubbling foam in the sea of your iris. a request, something to do; it’s hard for you to ignore its call. always has been.

so you speak before you think.

”sure.”

a pleased hum. ”… i’m on the hunt for wolves, you see.” his eyelids flutter, but you don’t think he misses the way your smile evens out, your grip on the basket growing tighter. ”i know your grandmother needs you… but would you let me treat you to a cup of tea?”

”… tea?”

your baffled inquiry pulls a soft bout of laughter from the depths of his throat.

”tea,” he nods. ”any kind you’d like. i couldn’t sleep at night, knowing i’d left you all alone here with those beasts roaming around… and my home is close by.”

a pause. you inhale the earthy air, taste it on your tongue. a sense of delirious foreboding settles into your veins, a call from deep within your gut.

your mother told you not to let anything distract you.

(… then again, when have you ever been the type to do as you’re told?)

”i don’t know… i’m not really supposed to,” you try to convince yourself, fidgeting with the strings of your cape. you can feel the hunter’s gaze, heavy in a comforting sense; like a mother wolf gazing at her cub, making sure no harm befalls it. intimidating in the sense that you don’t know what he’s thinking.

”… how very well-behaved,” is all he says, adjusting the strap of his shotgun. he sounds like he wants to say something else, but he takes a moment too long to speak. then; ”you seem a little out of breath.”

and you are. your breathing is all out of sorts, your throat shivering under the force of your chilly inhales. it’s cold, and your legs feel sore. the fabric of your cape is too thin to shield you from the chilly autumn breeze, and your bones yearn for some respite.

your mind, however, yearns for something different. something new. a different story, another chapter.

(… you shouldn’t, but…)

”it was awfully reckless of your mother to send you off alone,” he mutters, a low click of his tongue, voice slipping down an octave— something rough gnawing at his vocal chords. ”a little thing like you…”

(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)

”i’d like to rectify that.”

there’s a stability to his words, something self-assured. he personifies a security you’ve never had, an absent smile that warms your numbed-out hands; there’s a warmth to it you couldn’t find in the woods, in the dark and gritty path carved out before you. it makes you think a cup of tea wouldn’t be so bad.

(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)

you stop to think, for a moment.

you could walk into the woods, down the main road, like you supposed to. one step after the other, right until you reach your grandmother — or a hungry wolf. you could wait by the flower meadow, and pick poppies until your hands grow weary, until you have enough to bring home to your mother. alternatively, just until the beast remembers his curtain call.

… or, you could follow the hunter. follow him, like a pliant lamb, until you reach his cabin.

(ultimately, only one of the choices entices you.)

”… alright, then,” your breath turns into white smoke. ”i’d be glad to. sorry for the trouble, though…”

his eyes gleam, suddenly; a honeyed whisper on his tongue. a sense of contentment in the sigh that slips past his lips, the sway of his bangs when he shakes his head. ”believe me — it’s no trouble at all.”

two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you.

a breeze brushes past your cheek. he holds his arm out, ever the gentleman; waiting for your fingers to curl around his bicep, cling to it for stability. and you do, if only just to please him, because you know the hunter needs to be needed in the same way your grandmother needs pie and wine. the same way the wolf needs something soft to sink his teeth into.

his eyes crinkle, like autumn leaves on golden trees. pats your arm, once, then twice, and says;

”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

and you follow his lead.

you know this man. that’s why you aren’t afraid. why you can’t help but match his step, as he guides you away from the road you’re meant to take, slowing down his strides just so you can keep up. the sun is still obscured, a slob of amber in the middle of the sky, engulfed by sticky clouds. the woods sway in a solemn waltz, bugs scatter away like ravens from the moss-ridden rocks, and when you pass the bushes on your far left you swear you catch a whiff of iron.

before you know it, he’s led you away from the woods — across a field of poppies, beyond the bridge of a river, down to a cabin with a freshly-painted fence.

his home is as warm as his smile.

the moment you step over the threshold, a scent of sandalwood invades your lungs — thick like you just fell into a bag of sawdust. it seeps into your nostrils and burrows itself deep inside your chest, curls up and sleeps there. rich, earthy, firewood and basil from the living room and kitchen, liquid comfort in your veins. warmth, peace; even with the butterflies pinned to the walls, gleaming behind glass. a deer mount watches you from across the hall, its antlers curled up proudly, eyes dumb and dead and animal.

all you can think is respite. rubbing your chilly, frostbitten hands together, blowing hot air on the interior of your palms. the hunter leads you inside, hangs his coat and puts away his shotgun, takes off his hat and steps out of his heavy boots — waits for you to do the same. you leave your crimson coat as is. gently, he takes hold of your basket, gives your shoulder a break. it comes to him naturally, this sense of service; a perpetual motion machine.

you think him a dog, finely trained. it puts your heart at ease.

”make yourself at home,” he smiles.

an absent nod. you’re still busy glancing around, following just behind him as he moves towards the living room. it looks cozy. knitted blankets thrown over chairs, books gathering dust on the shelves, a lit candle by the windowsill. there are carnations in vases, all smelling of spring, the same colour as the eager fire crackling by the chimney — sparks of ember against freshly cut wood, fireworks for only you to see. an axe catches their angry flicker of light with its dull edge, where it lays against a pile of logs, leather sheath curled around it; serpentesque.

already, your eyes have strayed too long. he doesn’t seem to mind. when you raise your head he’s looking at you, standing by the threshold to the kitchen and waiting, lips curled into a soft, ikebana-like smile.

a flicker of amusement passes through his low-lidded eyes. and then he’s turning on his heel.

you follow him.

”take a seat,” he hums, dragging out a wooden chair for you to sit on; and you do so without putting up a fuss, absently scanning the walls and shelves, jars of honey and jam and spices, cloves of garlic hanging in a happy row. a kettle rests idly on the stove, white little petals soaking in a bowl of sweetened water right next to it, reminds you of a bleeding bride. the kitchen table is small, just big enough for two. cozy.

”thank you, mister hunter,” you offer him a smile.

”— suguru.” he pushes the chair forward again, makes sure you’re all sorted, and then steps away. ”just suguru is fine. no need to be formal, little red…”

his voice comes out as something like a purr, interwoven with a morning residue of smoke, fatigue. you can hear it, though, the tender hint of happiness beneath it. he faces the stove, lifts his large hands to open the cupboards above him, and you spot a vast assortment of tea bags; dried yellow leaves, petals and stalks, silken bags and paper wrappings, an earthy scent that pervades the air. cuts into it, forces its way through the thin gap. you inhale, deeply, and feel it take root in your kidneys — no exhale makes the feeling go away. chamomile, rooibos, earl gray…

a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.

as he busies himself with boiled water and strainers, you gaze out through the window to your left. all you’re privy to seeing is a field, speckled with ghostly pale flowers — barely visible under the shadow of a sky yet to be broken through. in the distance is your destination, the murky woods, tall pinewood trees and willows and clusters of dried up leaves. you wonder if your grandmother will worry if you linger here for too long, if your mother will be disappointed. if they’ll even notice. the basket of goodies you brought rests on the kitchen counter, unassuming.

”here you are,” suguru hums, setting down a mug for you. pure white ceramic. he slips in a teaspoon’s worth of honey, and fills it up with water from the kettle, piping hot, orange in colour, tiny calendula buds swimming like fish in the sea. ”drink up, little one,” he croons. ”we don’t want you catching a cold.”

when you reach out to touch the rim of the cup, you’re stung by the warmth — it sparks against the tips of your fingers, spreads throughout your veins. gives way to a soft smile. ”thank you, suguru.”

his eyes gleam under the dim lights.

”have a sip,” he encourages. ”tell me how it is.”

and you do. you bring the mug to your lips, feel the warmth of the tea seep through the ceramic, steam rising from it and tickling your skin. when you drink it’s an assault on your senses, like the flowers snuck inside your throat and bloomed along your windpipe. hot enough to burn your tongue, rich and sweet.

a sigh leaves your lips. laced with contentment.

”it’s delicious,” you compliment, still feeling the sting on the tip of your tongue. putting the cup back on the table, just to hear the clink against wood.

a warm smile.

”i’m glad.” seamlessly, casually, he leans forward; curling his fingers around the handle, bringing it to his own lips. you watch, owlishly, as he blows on the tea — quick to slide it back towards you. ”… there.”

he must notice your bewilderment, at his familiarity. but he only exhales a soft breath; grazing the surface of a chuckle. resting his jaw on the heel of his palm.

”… go on. have as much as you’d like.”

he doesn’t pour himself a cup until you’ve finished your first. watching you, from across the table, eyes melted into something fond, glimmering faintly.

enamored.

(in every version of this story, the hunter is in love with you.)

that’s why you aren’t worried. that’s why you can’t help but tune out everything except the faint glow of his kitchen, the budding warmth of his home, the tea he keeps on pouring you, cup after cup. the feeling of something deliriously new. listening to the purr of his voice, allowing time to slip you by — sinking into a state of dizzying comfort, slick with safety.

before you know it, he’s shown you around the house, told you all about the lilac-coloured flowers growing in his backyard, coaxed you into warming yourself by the fireplace — he insists. it’s already well past the time you would have made it back home after your outing. your grandmother’s basket is still resting on the counter, untouched, wine and pie and peeled apricots that have probably begun to grow stale. she won’t tell the difference, but you will.

with decision, you rise from the armchair you’re seated on, closing the book he lent you. feeling the stir of a pep in your step, like the kick of a rabbit.

a shallow breath — duty calls.

(perhaps it’s for the best; you were beginning to bore of the silence, anyhow.)

suguru makes a low noise, in the back of his throat, seated on the armchair to your right. sleeves rolled up; a light patch of dark hair running from his wrist to his elbow, muscles embraced by the flame-slicked shadows of the fireplace. he gazes at you, silently.

”thank you for letting me stay,” you smile, picture perfect, easy and polite; curling your fingers together as if praying. ”but i really should get going, now.”

the wind whooshes, sharpens its claws against the windows behind you. the sky still dark, rain drizzling down, nothing a cluster of trees can’t shelter you from. the hunter stands up, to his full height.

”… i don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

a twitch of his brow. covered up by a smile. for the first time since meeting him this morning — you catch a flicker of distaste dance inside his pupils.

you aren’t sure what to say.

it doesn’t matter, either way. he parts his lips to speak. ”it’s dangerous… and it’s already getting late. surely, your grandmother can wait until tomorrow?”

”i’m… not sure i should,” you try, fingers idly slipping into the pockets of your red coat. mustering a cheery voice. ”besides, i wouldn’t want to trouble you!”

”i insist.”

…

crackle, crackle, wood splintering into ash. the silence is deafening, thick like a slab of butter on bread. it makes a lump form in your throat, hard to swallow, though you aren’t sure why.

”… tomorrow,” he continues. smile a little stale. ”wolves roam around in the evening. it’s not safe.”

something in his tone tells you he’s already made up his mind. something staggeringly aware — like he’s stating a fact, something unquestionable.

it’s not safe out there.

(he’s right, of course, but…

when he opens his mouth, you swear his teeth look just a little sharper than they should.)

a kick to your heart makes you cough up a response, a string of jumbled words. it comes to you almost like an instinct, your voice unsteady. ”if it’s really okay…”

he perks up, at that.

”of course,” he smiles, a little wider. ”of course it is.”

a warm voice, and a warm home, the crackling of a warm fire behind you. it should feel peaceful — yet you can’t help but gaze out the windows, nervously, watching the faraway trees sway. if you squint you could almost make out those golden, piercing eyes, the black fur of a beast in a bush; unease settles in the base of your gut and gnaws at your flesh.

just until tomorrow, you think.

his cabin is a safe zone, of sorts. you’re well aware of that. nothing can get to you, as long as you’re here, with his shotgun close by. suguru is tall, reliable, the only one you can trust — at least he should be. even if he isn’t where he should be at the moment.

it’s in his nature. he looks out for you.

he loves you.

(it’ll be fine.)

”it’s about time for dinner, isn’t it?” he breaks the shaky silence, stretching his arms out, craning his neck with a quiet crack. his gaze is kind, attentive. ”time flies… let me make something for you. what would you like?”

”… anything is fine.”

”anything…” a low chuckle. ”what would you say to some warm stew, then? is that alright?”

it is. after a nod, and a moment’s pause, you sit back down; just to feel the soft fabric sink beneath your weight. suguru hums, pleased, makes his way over to the kitchen. the axe gleams under the glow of the fire, and the deer on the wall watches your every move. the butterflies, too. wings for eyes.

(just for the night, you repeat to yourself.)

a hearty dinner, a warm bed to sleep in, and tea with honey in the morning — it doesn’t sound so bad at all. your mother probably won’t be worried, and your grandmother probably won’t die. no repercussions, the script already broke. staying one more day is fine.

… except he doesn’t let you leave, the morning after.

it starts out small. it always does.

(creeps up on you like a bug in a carcass.)

“it’s too early.”

“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”

a warm smile, a smooth voice, a face with sharp lines and soft skin; tailor-made to put you at ease. suguru is beautiful, familiar, eerie in a sense that only makes you feel at home. he’s always been stubborn, you recall. some part of your body remembers.

but never like this. never, ever like this.

never as suffocating.

“you’re too small to know what’s good for you.”

— that bite. it sneaks up on him, gradually, makes a place between his gums. he pats your head, with a calloused hand, and you relent. still gnawing at your bottom lip, jutted out into a frown you hope won’t rouse his anger. you’re still not sure he can even get angry, but he’s scary enough when he makes these choices for you— makes you think you have control over your own actions, all the while stealing it from underneath your feet.

(soon, he’s outright denying you.)

“i— i really need to leave,” you try, almost pleading, on the third night. your lungs are constricting, from the heavy scent of peppermint in the kitchen air, and he’s watching you like you’re nothing but a child demanding candy before bed. “please.”

a sigh, and a shake of his head.

“you aren’t listening, little one.” he turns around, clinks a teaspoon against the edge of a porcelain cup. “it’s safer here. your grandmother can wait.”

nails paint crescents on your inner palms.

“… she’s waited long enough.”

frustration sneaks into your tone. bubbles up into your words like venomous pores. you think he must notice, because his smile is especially gentle when he turns to face you again, all lips and no teeth, still as composed as ever. he steps forward, curls an arm around your waist; he’s starting to lose all pretense of caring about your personal space, of not appearing too familiar. pulling you close. steady, steady, steady.

so much stronger than you.

even when you stir, he doesn’t budge an inch. only lets out another mellow sigh, that fans against the side of your face. you think it sounds a bit amused.

“she’ll be okay,” is all he says. “she doesn’t need you.”

…

“she needs you to be safe.” he must have noticed the crestfallen look on your face. “as do i. you’re staying here, for the time being — it’s no trouble at all.”

he gives you a smile, to ease your nerves, honey-slicked and sweet; but something rotten settles in your gut. bile bubbling up at the base of your throat. it feels constricting, to be held so close, to be forced to inhale the scent of oakwood and musk on his skin. he’s warm. squeezing you, firmly, and you’re sure it’s meant as a comforting gesture but all you can think is burly arms, solid muscles, the crack of a bone.

all you can think is that you’re well and truly powerless.

”believe me.”

when he lets you go, lets you scamper upstairs, it feels as though you can finally breathe again. leaning against the door to the guest room, gazing out through the window at the end of the hall, finding comfort in the swaying of the jade-dyed curtains.

something is very, very wrong. wrong with the hunter, the story, wrong with the home you’re in.

(you think you’re beginning to realize what.)

the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he hasn’t let you leave his home, despite his initial offer to shelter you for no more than an evening. his voice is deep and smooth, gravelly in the mornings or late at night, like an axe dragged through rugged grounds; or the bark of a tree yet to be cut in half. the pieces dig a grave inside your brain, start to reek of decay.

the hunter is trustworthy.

in the story you call home, this is code of law; a black-and-white truth.

but hunters don’t smell like wolves.

hunters don’t watch your every move, or keep you locked against their chests, or make you sneak out in the middle of the night when everything is silent. hunters don’t will you to run away.

but on the fifth night, that’s exactly what you do.

once you’re almost certain he’s asleep in his own room, just two doors down from across the hall— you crack your eyes open and slip out from underneath the covers. shivering, shielded only by the flimsy nightgown suguru lent you to sleep in, sheltering you from the cold seeping in through the windowpane. it’s big on you. every step you take is slow and calculated, soft enough not to make any noise; you hold your breath as you crouch down to pick up your coat, lying in a pile on the floor, stretching your arms out through the gaps and pulling it over your head. then you walk to the door, the window behind you leaking in the faintest strings of moonlight.

the sky is dark, the room you’re in cocooned by its shadow. you can barely even see your own hands when you reach for the doorknob and twist.

no noise. no creak.

a soft sigh slips from your lips, just under your breath. your fingers pull it open, and you step out into the hall— not bothering to close the door behind you. paintings line the walls on the second floor, all depicting landscapes, fields of poppies, sheep in circles, a house on top of a windy hill. watercolour on canvas. you wonder if he painted them by hand.

out of the corner of your eye, you gaze at his bedroom door — you can’t help it. under the light of the moon, it gleams like an omen. sealed shut.

your heart strings together a tale of worry.

(it’ll be fine, you tell yourself. he’s asleep.)

and so you venture down the stairs. placing one foot in front of the other, gripping onto the handrail with all your might, trying not to put too much weight into your steps. heart stuck in your throat. one steps, two steps. you can see the fireplace from here, though the flames have long been stifled. pieces of coal gleam under the light streaming in through the windows, blue flickers that disappear when clouds devour the moon. red carnations painted indigo.

eight steps. nine steps.

when your foot meets the rug on the living room floor, soft under your bare soles, a pang of relief squeezes your veins; a moment where you allow yourself to simply breathe. inhale, exhale, because the hardest part is over. almost there, almost free.

your next couple steps are hungry. burning with delight, moving towards the front door, still careful not to stumble over or into anything — but really, all you can think is that the crispy midnight air is just beyond your grasp. it’s all you can think when you fumble for your shoes in the dark, glance up towards the top of the staircase every other second. anxious, despite your excitement. it all bleeds together.

it’s all you think when you pull up the rug by the front door, grab the key you knew would lie beneath it. all you think as you stick it into the keyhole and twist.

freedom. that’s what the air smells like, as it floods your starving veins — as you move your feet to cross the threshold. floods your lungs, as you gaze up at the moon, smiling in the sky like nothing’s wrong. welcoming you back to the stage-lights. the wind feels cold on your cheeks, streaming into his house when you push the door open, wild and untethered; swaying the field of flowers just beyond his fence.

freedom. freedom. freedom.

you take a decisive step, leaving the boundary of his home —

and the door slams shut behind you.

(a betrayal of the wind.)

it rings in your ears. you stay frozen in place.

the light flickers on, behind the window right above you. casts a glow on the frosted landscape, on your figure— and you know he’s watching. you feel it.

so you run.

it’s sudden, the spike of pure adrenaline rushing through your veins, completely flooding your senses and numbing your legs— you do not feel the cold of the air, barely see the way your breaths turn into mist as you inhale and exhale. you only think to leap towards the fence, fumbling with the lock, your shaky fingers pushing and pulling until you finally decide to simply climb over— placing the sole of your shoe on the picket and tearing your nightgown on the way down, tripping over your own feet and landing on your palms, scrambling to get back up again. the bruising doesn’t ache, the drag of your skin against gravel. you don’t even hear the tear of fabric. you only hear the pounding of your own heartbeat, feel it crawling up your throat like a snake suffocating on the rabbit it just swallowed whole.

it pitters and patters, against your windpipe, and you run. sprint. everything in front of you is dark, mist thick enough to drown in, clouds devouring the moon again— you don’t really know which way you’re going, only that it’s away from here.

your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.

and you hear the door slam shut behind you.

(— the hunter begins his chase.)

tall grass melts around your ankles, ice-cold drops of dew and frosted flowers whipping your bare skin, but you don’t feel it, only feel the fear in your heartbeat as it threatens to make your ribcage burst. fear, fear, the primal kind. everything ahead of you is dark but it doesn’t matter, you’re only focused on running as far as your legs can take you — you’ve never felt a rush like this before. never felt so much like an animal being pursued. the wind tugs your hood away.

distant woods beckon you closer, closer still, swaying and waltzing on a moonlit night. you think yourself mad, to follow that shimmer, but you’ve never been quite right in the head, never really. frost, mist, harsh nips at your skin. the sky above is wide and vast, and everything is silent. everything except for you — a litany of frightened whines tugging at your tongue.

you don’t need to look to know he’s after you. yet you still cast a glance over your shoulder, shuddering suddenly, a gasp pushing past your lips —

he’s stares back at you.

golden eyes, sharpened in the night.

you’re knocked off your feet. thrown forward, with an almost brutal lunge, your body hitting the ground of the flowered field beneath you — it knocks the air from out your lungs, and for a moment you can’t breathe, can only feel the wet earth under your cheek and the sickening weight upon you. he’s pressing you down, with all his body mass, and he’s panting into your ear. holding your wrist so tightly you’re scared it’ll break. the fight doesn’t leave you. the rush is still there. but it has nowhere to go, with your legs stuck, it’s just wasted blood sugar.

you can do nothing but wriggle like a worm. his hair tickles your neck, hot breaths leaving goosebumps across your skin. you want to cry, the fear is coursing through every narrow of your bones and you’re completely out of breath. you trash and trash, a sparrow with broken wings, but it’s futile.

(he caught you. he caught you. he caught you.)

”i caught you,” he finally pants, like a wounded dog, collapsed on top of you. but you hear his smile, that sickening sound of relief. ”silly, silly little thing.”

it hurts. he’s heavy. your knee is pressing into the soil, uncomfortably, you feel the moisture seeping through the fabric of your nightgown, his pulsing heartbeat against your spine. now the adrenaline is leaving you, sinking out of your body, leaving you boneless. like an animal about to be devoured.

resigned. surrender.

suguru presses a kiss against the side of your neck, teeth just barely grazing your pulsepoint— and the fear inside you spikes like the snap of a mousetrap.

”what were you thinking, hm?”

he doesn’t sound upset, only gently reprimanding. fondly exasperated. somehow, that scares you even more — the shift, the dichotomy, his voice a soothing thunderstorm as he keeps you pinned against the flowerbed. his overwhelming strength, in contrast to how relaxed he sounds. like this is nothing but the natural consequence of your actions.

”… you never change.”

the vice grip on your wrist begins to loosen, as he lifts himself up, no longer crushing you. it’s easier to breathe, but you’re still too rattled to try. still playing dead at your instinct’s demand, eyes pried open as you stare into the eyes of bugs above your nose. you can’t do anything but go limp, as he scoops you up, holds you against his chest, stands up straight. one heavy hand on your head and the other on your back.

when he turns around, and begins to walk back to his house, your stomach fills with dread.

”n-no…” is all you can muster, too exhausted to make anything other than a quiet whimper, a weak weep of a protest. but he hears you, and he croons.

“shhh,” he soothes, as you whine into his neck, panting softly. rubbing your back. as if shushing a child that just had a temper tantrum. “you’re okay. i wouldn’t hurt you, little one, you know that.”

but you don’t.

(you don’t know anything anymore.)

”you’re my baby,” he continues, another sickening coo, and it sounds like a death sentence. giddy. he leans down to kiss your throat and you can only think of his teeth. ”only mine. my silly thing.”

a final glance at the sky, before he’s closing the door behind you. you see darkness, only darkness, a page being sewn shut. worms crawling out of the moon.

your skin itches from the burning cold.

suguru wastes no time in seating you by the fireplace, cocooning you with knitted blankets, murmuring something else about how you worried him sick, doing something so reckless. you barely hear him, there’s still blood on your palms and bruising static in your ears, everything stings and you’re still shaking from the rough fall.

he apologizes for that, too.

”i’m sorry i scared you,” he smiles, cupping your chilled skin, the slightest tufts of hair running down the tops of his fingers. ”but you needed the lesson.”

maybe you did.

he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.

you’re sure of that, now, no matter how much he’d insists he wouldn’t — no matter what he says. he’s fractured any dream of a cohesive narrative.

the tea he brings you smells of cinnamon, hot and sweet, but you make no move to drink it. just kind of sit there, as he tries to comfort you, rub salve into your bruised skin, assure you that he isn’t mad. you vacantly stare at the butterflies pinned to the wall, until he says something that catches your attention.

“once i’ve found the wolf, you can leave.” he promises, rubbing your shoulders, your already aching muscles. as if it’ll soothe you, as if telling the truth. “it’ll be okay… just let me handle everything.”

you raise your head to look at him, to meet the river of gold inside his eyes, weaving webs of silk. holy grails are always hoaxes, that’s how the stories go.

”… do you mean it?”

his lips curl up, just a bit, at the sound of your raspy voice, at the sight of you taking shaky sips from the cup. and he nods, silky, only slightly tousled hair swaying tenderly with the lull of his voice. ”i do.”

when he kills the wolf, you can leave.

if only it were that easy.

this is what you know; the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he won’t let you leave his home, never runs out of tea to pour you, his voice turns raspy when it’s late and his arms are hairier than they were yesterday. this past week, you haven’t heard a howl echo from the woods at night even once.

it always starts small. small, decaying pieces, molding together and creating something bigger, more rotten. more than just a carcass.

it’s a corpse.

(and he’s inside it. playing hide-and-seek.)

he’s still smiling at you, making his hands useful, throwing wood into the fireplace when the angry flicker begins to sputter out. you recall your mother’s words, her many warnings. wolves are dangerous. wolves only want to do you harm. wolves don’t know how to love, they only ever show it with their teeth. always the same old stories, the same monsters at the end of every book. wolves, wolves, wolves.

always a wolf, never a man.

when you glance up at the hunter, his ever so softly parted lips, his keen eyes — you think to yourself that you can scarcely tell the difference. that even if you could, it wouldn’t matter. rot is rot, it still decays. you’re still at the mercy of it, of him.

(you’re beginning to think that’s all there is to it.)

you make no move to protest, when suguru pulls you into his lap. holds you close and kisses your wounds until you’re all warmed up, his honeycombed eyes never leaving your face, lit like a slowly sinking sunset. like a man who finally has what he wants.

by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.

the more time passes, the worse he gets.

the more comfortable.

(he must have taken your resignation as an invitation.)

every morning, when you walk into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a kiss — always just his lips, no tongue, as if he’s afraid of what he’d do to you if he parted them. his big hands squeeze your hips and even if you struggle, try to push him away, he brings you back in, keeps your wrists locked in a steady grip if you’re really putting up a fuss. purse your lips and he’ll pry them open, as simple as peeling an orange.

he’s sweet, about it. gentle.

”let me say hi, little one.”

all you can do is turn limp. just give in, let him take what he wants — which usually isn’t a lot. a kiss, and he’s satisfied, a kiss and he beams like nothing about this is wrong even in the slightest. a kiss, and then he’ll make you tea, and then he’ll watch you drink it.

it’s been just shy of a month since he lured you into his home. you know what he expects of you, by now, you’ve settled into some semblance of routine; one that mostly consists of you being doted on, coddled. suffocated by his presence. he makes you tea every morning, every night, homemade meals of chestnuts and berries and meat. right now, he’s making lemon tea; slicing them with the blade of his knife, dipping them in honey, coating them in sticky-sweet residue. it does nothing to get rid of the sour essence, bitter on your tongue — only makes it bearable.

there’s a gentle smile on his face when he fills a tiny cup and hands it to you, watches you gaze into it. watches as you put your lips against the porcelain and sip, sip, sip. he doesn’t look away until there’s nothing left, his stare like a dagger to your throat.

it’s rare that he lets you out of his sight.

during the day, you’re free to do as you please — anything that doesn’t involve leaving his home, which isn’t a lot. you spend most of your time reading through the books on his shelves, tracing their spines, writing stories on the walls with sharp marker, painting animals and forests on the canvases he lends you. there’s joy to be found in captivity; you think of the rabbits your mother used to own when you were little. anyone can find comfort in a cage.

and it’s not like he never lets you push the bars a little. you may not be allowed to step anywhere near the woods, or outside his field of vision, but he’s taken to letting you play in his garden when he deems the moment right. just to give you some fresh air, as much sunlight as this time of year offers. of course, even then, he has his eyes on you — watching from the window, cutting wood just beyond the fence, each swing of the axe ringing in your ears like the drop of a guillotine. steady hands, toned muscles and arms, broad shoulders and those sharp eyes, sharp like his teeth when he smiles too wide on accident. you can always feel his gaze, and it keeps you from running away, even though the animal inside your chest screams at you to do it already.

but you’re sure you’d fail again.

and were he to catch you — you’re sure he’d no longer be able to resist. the temptation would be too much for him to bear. you were lucky, last time.

(lucky that he still hasn’t realized what he is.)

you’re stuck here, for now. forever. stuck with a man who seems convinced that what he feels for you is love, and not possession, something to hang up on his wall. love like hunters have for headless deer.

or a wolf for a stack of bones.

anyone can find comfort in a cage. it’s true, it’s true, you repeat it to yourself every night, try to find the silver lining in the home he’s made you. he does make it comfortable for you — a soft bed and fluffy pillows, warm food that settles nicely in your stomach, arts and craft to keep you happy. silken bags that never seem to run out. there are always more dried petals to pour into boiling water, a flavour you haven’t yet tried. he always expects you to drink it all. then, when the moon hangs itself in the air, and you’ve tired yourself out — he tucks you into bed. gentle, doting, his voice like a lullaby when he drags the covers up and sits by your bedside, or curls up beside you and reads you bedtime stories until you’re fast asleep. like you’re his grandchild. it’s never easy to relax with his hands on you, but the stories help.

that’s typically when it happens. when you’re lying in bed, when he’s unguarded, his own mind beginning to drift into slumber. he flips through the pages of a dusty fable, smooths your hair down with a steady hand, and his voice loses an octave; a noise that curls around the base of his throat, rumbles through his chest. deep, raspy, gravelly. just shy of a growl. it comes suddenly, reverberates through you, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

suguru clears his throat, and you pretend not to have noticed it. he rewards you with another page or two.

that’s how he is, you’re well aware. what he does best. he tells you things without opening his mouth, shows you his teeth without letting you see them. he knows you know they’re there, and he rewards you for pretending otherwise. keeping him content is in your best interest — he hasn’t hurt you, doesn’t seem like he wants to, but you know that he will.

no one can fight against their nature, and he has one set of teeth too many.

for now, playing into the part he’s made for you is your safest bet. the fire inside your eyes has dwindled, he’s suffocated it, and the rabbit in your chest is pretending to be dead. every morning, you drink the tea he makes you, go pliant as he kisses you, and every night you let him lull you to sleep.

a comfortable cage is exactly right.

(but the temptation to rebel never truly leaves you.)

it’s already been a month. a whole moonspin. that thirst for freedom is lingering, festering, pushing up against the walls of your throat. makes you nauseous, makes the thin thread of your patience tear at the edges. you yearn for the woods, the flower meadows, the squirrels and bugs of the forest grounds. willows and chestnuts and silky splotches of sunshine, fumbling fawns. your grandmother’s sickly stench, your mother’s striking hand. anything but this stasis.

you miss feeling alive.

(you’d cut your skin open to feel it again.)

you know running blindly would prove futile, but that doesn’t halt the desire. you’re trapped, one foot in a bearclaw, and you want out. he’s stronger than you, faster— and he’s always, always watching. you can’t outrun him, he’s always making sure you’re near.

the only advantage you have is this:

suguru believes himself to love you.

maybe, if you just beg enough — beg again, when the moment is right… he’ll let you go. maybe he’ll take pity on the pitiful, defenseless baby he caught.

(maybe if you hide your contempt, but show your desperation— you can win.)

the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.

they’re still in the basket you brought with you, under the knitted tablecloth, discarded in a storage room linked to the kitchen. you just wanted a quiet place to read, but now you feel too sick. sick with the stench of rotting fruit-flesh. you can smell it even without removing the cloth, and you know what you’ll see if you do — a bottle of wine, molded slices of cake, and sticky, sickly-sweet decay. dirt-brown in colour.

you’re reminded of the day you came. reminded of how long it’s been, who these apricots were for.

and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

(no one can fight against their nature. that includes you, too.)

with a start, you stand up straight, and leave the rotting basket behind you; opening the door of the storage and making your way to the living room. a wreath of bluebells is hung above the fireplace, crackling and sputtering, snowflakes falling softly from the skies beyond the windowpane. suguru is right where you knew he’d be, seated on an armchair and knitting a sweater, looping two needles through thick thread. his hair is down, and his eyes are closed in pure contentment; formed into thin crescents.

the air smells of chestnuts and incense.

you inhale it, walk up to him with a plea on your tongue — your voice a desperate push of air.

”please let me leave.”

his smile falls. before he even has a chance to open up his eyes, caramel spilling out through slits, before he can usher you into his lap and knead his hands into your body, ’warm you up’ the way he likes.

it’s rare, to see him without it. it makes him look naked.

(it makes him look unsettling.)

but he’s still gentle, when he breathes out a sigh, places the needles on the wooden table to his left.

”… this, again?” he clicks his tongue, sounding disappointed in a way you don’t like, a quiet lull. ”and i here i thought you’d finally decided to behave.”

his tone makes you shiver. something about it feels final, like you’ve pushed too far, reached some kind of dead end he’d been keeping concealed until now. there’s a barely noticeable crease between his brows, and his jaw is tense, lips formed into a tight line. not rough enough to be truly reprimanding, but it’s close. you’re suddenly aware of how small you feel, like this.

how powerless you are against him.

but you push through.

”… i just —” you try, gnawing at your bottom lip even though he’s told you not to bruise it. ”i’m just tired. i don’t want this, i — i’m not happy.”

a slip of your tongue, and a twitch of his jaw.

(his lips curl into a scowl.)

”you are,” he exhales, strained, like you just struck a narrow nerve. ”you’re happy. i take care of you.”

a shuddering breath. you inhale, shallow, trying to stay your ground, trying not to falter after snapping on the twig of his patience. you know what sleeps inside him, and you’re afraid of it. terrified. the hunter is one thing, the wolf is another. but there’s a line between the two, and you can tread it through —

tread it through and through and through.

”… you take care of me,” you concede, watching as the muscle of his jaw slacks, softens, ever so slightly. ”but i’m still not… i’m not happy. i want to leave.”

the fire crackles behind you, logs of wood splintering and snapping, budding heat easing the tension in your bones. silence settles over the scene, stretches out and lays itself to rest there like a wounded animal. suguru just watches you, with smothering eyes, like he knows something you don’t; gaze focused, expression set in stone. knitting your features into his mind with a broken needle.

and then a grating sigh.

”… how many times have we repeated this, little red?” he asks, his voice thick with anger, though you’re unsure as to who it’s aimed at. his eyes burn with something devastating, something that smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog. ”how many times will you make me go through this?”

suddenly, he’s standing up from his armchair. rising to his full height, towering over you, lifting a hand up to caress the apple of your cheek. it makes you flinch, and his lip twitches, and suddenly his fingers are trailing down to the very base of your throat. as gentle as if he were handling one of the butterflies on his wall. you’re worried he’s going to squeeze down, but he never does, just keeps a hand there like all he wants is to feel the rapid thumping of your pulse.

and his eyes burn you to cinders.

”how many times have i had to watch you be swallowed down… by someone other than myself?”

the question hangs in the air like a noose. grates your ears, heavy with an anguish you couldn’t hope to understand. a skip of your heartbeat — except it feels more like a crash. his fingers never move and your body turns to ice, accepts the hand that feeds it, if only because he looks like he could swallow you whole and still not feel satisfied.

”… far too many,” he seethes. palm finally moving from your throat to cup your cheek, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ”you’re too frail, too — naive. i can’t trust you to be good.”

a gasp pushes past your lip, when his other arm curls around your waist and tugs you closer, keeps a possessive hold on your hip. his body heat is suffocating, it only makes your heartbeat sputter.

”… you can’t keep me here forever,” you murmur, the words laced with fear. spoken carelessly.

(and this time, you can practically hear the snap.)

a dangerous flicker, through his earthen eyes. it’s there and then it’s gone, and it’s enough of a warning on its own, a spark of fury that has you biting your tongue, squirming where you’re held against his steady frame. his grip around your waist morphs into something almost painful, just a pinch away, not quite enough for you to get away with pulling back.

you hear the words before he says them. they rattle against the back of your teeth.

”i can.”

spoken in a whisper, through gritted teeth, an echo from deep within his stomach— he practically spits them out, eyes burning into yours, an overwhelming density in how he carries himself. the words are heavy like lead, and you can tell he believes them.

he can keep you here.

(forever, and ever, and ever.)

a shiver claws against your spine, drags its nails down your back, and you think he can tell, that he feels you shudder against him. like a frightened fawn in front of a headlight. it’s enough to have his pupils dilating, his fingers loosening their grip, a breath of shaky air escaping his lips— like he’s finding it hard to keep his composure. to be tender and merciful.

once the silence has stretched on for a beat too long, and your breathing still hasn’t mellowed— he speaks.

”don’t you think it hurts me?” he asks, just above a tender whisper, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone. just barely grazing your lower lashline, streaks of black hair framing his burdened eyes. ”watching you be deceived, again and again…”

suguru exhales a bated breath, chest moving in tandem, pressed flush against your own. for a moment, you think he looks rather sad.

”… i’m tired,” he admits. ”i’m tired of having to cut you out of his stomach. you did this to yourself.”

…

when you empty your thoughts, you can still feel it. the warm embrace of succulent flesh.

(you never asked to be devoured.)

”you can’t protect yourself,” he tells you, with the same tone that he always has, the tone that tells you he knows best. ”so i will do it for you.”

a twitch of his fingertips. you feel it, as his hand slides down the expanse of your face, tips your head up with a finger underneath your chin. you’ve gone pliant, again. he leans in, until you can’t tell who the breaths you’re exhaling are coming from.

”do you understand?”

every bone in your body wants to move, pull away, but you’re worried his nails will sink into your skin if you dare to try. he’s positively suffocating, like this. demanding a response. you want to flee, you want to fight, you want to grab the axe behind you and drive it into his skull. you’re terrified of him. you loved him, once. the hands that are keeping you locked away are the same that dug through blood and guts to drag you out of your grave. he’s never letting you go.

never again.

no matter how much you beg.

you can see it in his eyes, the trail of ash they leave behind when he blinks. the carnal desperation in his voice. there is no ’leaving’ him — the fire that burns in him is brighter than yours, far more damning.

so there’s no point.

his lips are inches away from your own. golden eyes peeled open, palm covering the expanse of your jaw, arm like a bear trap around your waist — snapped shut. suguru awaits your response, and you give it to him with a voice that barely sounds like your own.

”… i understand.”

(obedience and ignorance, you echo inside your mind. obedience and ignorance is all he asks.)

a moment passes, and his muscles finally go lax, eyes softening like melted snow; a sigh slipping past his lips. closing in, claiming your own. you can taste what he’s feeling, but it’s too much to bear.

”… good,” he smiles, against your lips. ”good baby.”

the praise does nothing to soothe the pit inside your stomach, but it doesn’t matter. he’s not angry, anymore, and that’s as good as anything. you let him kiss you and it doesn’t even make you want to vomit.

it doesn’t make you feel a thing.

”if you just stay here, you’ll be fine,” he continues, breathing you in and out again. ”you’ll be safer.”

safer tucked between his ribs, or lodged inside his throat. so much safer playing dead all year.

(you think of rotten apricots, and bile rises in your throat.)

a moment’s hesitance. you find the will to speak. ”just… my grandma,” you murmur, pulling away from the kiss by a hair, not that he’d let you go if you tried. you look up into his eyes with a pleading gaze, voice a little broken. ”can you at least… give her the wine?”

suguru pauses.

then sighs, a rock from out his heavy chest. pulling back and giving you space to breathe, cradling a lock of your hair with greedy fingers. ”you don’t have to worry about her, anymore,” is all he says. ”believe me.” he’s smiling, just barely, voice meant to soothe you out of making a fuss. but there’s really no need.

you’re well aware of what he means.

(and that’s the end of that.)

”… okay,” you answer, the words pulled out of your throat by an invisible string. ”i won’t, then.”

the smile you muster is strained at best, but suguru glows in its light. looks proud, eyes crinkled at the edges, burning pages of paper on an open fire.

a coo on his tongue that he wants to let out.

”sweet thing,” he purrs, sweltering. ”you were just feeling a little cranky, hm…? must be hungry.”

his hand caresses your stomach, rubbing the skin just beneath your navel, and you feel the beginnings of nausea swell up in the very back of your throat. but you stifle it, lean into it, you have no choice.

you nod, and he smiles.

”i was meaning to use that wine for something, anyway…” he lets out a hum, thinking for a moment. ”coq a vin, perhaps? would you like that, little dear?”

”… mhm.”

he seems content, with that response.

the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.

time continues to pass. the cycle repeats, the same as always.

you think you’re finally starting to get used to it.

suguru grows more wolfish by the day. there’s more hair on his arms and chest, his teeth are longer, when he kisses you he sometimes starts to drool. his voice is deep, his meals taste about the same, he still never runs out of lullabies or bags of tea. wolfsbane, lupine, ipomoea alba — he tastes them on your tongue, drinks them from out your mouth. you’re beginning to forget who you were before him. every day, he tells you that he loves you. you think you could believe it if you tried. maybe, you could even love him back.

if only you didn’t know the truth.

it’s more than a suspicion, now. no longer an if, but a when, a question you don’t dare ask — but there’s no need to. when the hunter falls asleep, the wolf makes tea in the kitchen. you live with them both. they’re a duo, a pair of lovers; never one without the other.

(one of these days, you’re sure they’ll eat you.)

the book you’re reading feels weighty in your hands. you’ve already read it before; you’ve read nearly all of them, fingers far too familiar with the dusty shelves. suguru promised to go get more, though you have no idea from where. you’re not sure knowing would do you any good. he’s upstairs, in your room, scrubbing at the walls to get rid of all your scribbles. it’s bound to take a while — if you dashed out the door now, maybe he wouldn’t notice. but the key is in his pocket, and he’d hear the crack of window glass.

it’s nothing more than a temporary comfort. something to indulge in, roll around and around in your head until you realize how silly you’re being.

you’re broken down, plain and simple, and winter is gnawing itself into the world. ice-cold teeth sinking into the ground beneath your feet, and eating the baby hares buried there. suguru chops wood for the fireplace every single day, just to keep you warm, made a sweater for you that smells too much like him. you sneak a glance out the window, admiring the heavy blanket of pure-white snow draped around the woods; a red fox scurries across your vision, yipping joyeously, skeletal trees shimmering faintly in the distance. a whole world just without you.

it’s comforting, all the same. the air smells slightly toasted and your feet are warm, clad in fuzzy socks. you haven’t been outside in some time; suguru’s been reluctant since you sprained your ankle on a sheet of ice in the backyard. you wish you’d hit your head instead.

(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)

each turn of a new page drags you deeper into your own subconscious, sinking into a fragile illusion of peace. paper-thin, falling upon your thumb, your eyes scanning the inked letters tiredly. stories aren’t worth reading more than once, you think, the magic fades away eventually. you can barely taste the citrus the protagonist eats, fingers dipping between the ridges, teeth sinking into the tender flesh. rinse and repeat. boring, boring, you want something new — a thriller, a romance, even something like —

a noise, echoing from the hallway.

rap, tap, tap.

(knuckles against wood.)

it rings in your ears. rattles down your spine. two seconds, eight, ten — all thoughts disappear from your brain and leave only misty foam behind them. a blank slate. rap tap tap, curling inside your ear canal.

when you come to, your heart is pulsing.

a moment of silence.

the house is quiet, so very quiet, you’re afraid suguru will hear your breathing from the second floor. everything feels frozen solid and suddenly you want to hurl, get the sickness out of your gut — watch it spill out all over the floor. but you remain planted in front of the fireplace, watching flames lick a stripe from coal to wood, waiting for something to happen.

(how silly, when it already has.)

another knock.

this time, you shoot up to your feet — like your mind just realized it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, another mass of hysteria seething in your frontal lobe — your hands clammy as they try to find solace in the fabric of your clothing. gripping onto the wool.

on shaky legs, you move forward, making your way towards the hall. slow and steady, soles against soft flooring. eyes blown wide, skittishly peeking around, out the windows and towards the stairs. suguru. you picture him on his knees, tail wagging behind him, dragging wet cloth against faded tapestry, salvaging his walls so you can ruin them again. you picture him hearing the knock, rushing down, pinning you against the floor until your knees ache.

you picture him none the wiser, and inhale the air like you haven’t in days — gathering courage, dragging your feet towards the source of the noise.

(ba-dump. ba-dump.)

your heart throbs inside your chest, flexes its legs until it knocks against your ribs, makes you jolt — your lungs holding onto every breath you take with shaky fingers. the deer mount on the wall gazes at you, antlers pointing towards the front door, and when your eyes land on the handle you swear you can feel it. the presence of a living, breathing thing.

just behind the door.

and you can do nothing but stare. unblinking, heart still crammed at the base of your throat, scraping at the walls like a squirming bug. you feel like a deer trapped in headlights. your mind crackles, halts, comes to life again, the pages coming undone from their bindings and spilling out over the floor — smudged with ink, a seven-letter word.

freedom. freedom. freedom?

(hope.)

a third knock, more curt. it sends a tingle down your spine, down your bones, makes your hand twitch, as if eager to twist the doorknob. finally, someone is here. someone came to get you. no one forgot.

no one forgot about you.

you move your leg, and —

”keep still.”

… a breath brushes against your neck.

only stillness. only silence, strangling you. there’s someone behind you and you didn’t even notice, there’s a hand on your hip to keep you in place, another latching itself onto your mouth to keep you from making any noise. your heartbeat spikes, collapses in on itself, but he is there to catch you.

he’s always there to catch you.

suguru has you enveloped, his scent like a heavy pelt tossed over your shoulders, familiar tones of earth and musk polluting your senses. you’re wrapped up in it. you feel so small, small enough to disappear into the dip between his chest and stomach, right between his ribs. he’s keeping you so still you barely remember to breathe, can only pant shallowly against his big hand and pray he isn’t angry at you.

too frightened to do anything else, you gaze at him out of the corner of your eye.

and ah, there it is. black hair, golden eyes, a silent quiver of his jaw; like he’s trying not to snap it, trying not to bare his teeth. they’re sharp. when he kissed you this morning you felt them nip at your skin.

(you think he was trying to control himself.)

his pupils are sharpened, eyes blown open, staring straight ahead. he’s making no noise, no sound, only the most subtle of breathing patterns — like a hunter in waiting, like he’s got one finger on the trigger.

yet another knock, impatient, and his grip around your waist grows tighter. a barely audible growl rumbles in his throat, you feel it against the back of your head, let out an involuntary whimper that has something growing hard behind you but you refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to think about it, you’d rather die. he’s immobile and you’re just as paralyzed, only able to watch the door, watch your salvation slip away. again. again and again and again.

one, two, six, nine. the seconds tick on in time with your mismatched heartbeats, and nothing happens.

then, the sound of boots against gravel.

moving farther, and farther away.

(they’re leaving, they’re leaving, they’re leaving.)

”… there,” he rasps, finally, lethally deep, as if culling a calm to your nerves. it doesn’t work, only makes your heartbeat pick up in speed, another tiny whimper muffled against his hairy palm—

you swallow down a sniffle.

and he loosens his grip. sharp eyes melting into liquored honey. a coo, as he spots the beginnings of tears at your lashline, glistening like morning dew.

(you can’t take this, anymore.)

”… my poor baby,” comes a croon, a voice thick with fondness; shushing you softly, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. ”poor little thing.”

you’re still pressed against him, chest to back, he’s warm and suffocating and you’re reliant on his thrumming heartbeat just to find your own breathing. he’s cradling you like a mother to her child, and it makes you feel anything but safe— makes you feel like a bird in the maw of a rottweiler, like your clothes are soggy and dragging you underwater. your chest is caving in, hot tears burning at your eyes, and god, you’re just so fucking tired.

you’re tired of this. tired of him, tired of the story you’re in. tired of having to hope again and again.

(no one’s coming to rescue you. no one at all.)

”must have been so scary,” he continues, rubbing his cheek against your head, leaning down to smear a kiss against the side of your neck, ”’m sorry. i’ll handle everything, you hear me? don’t be afraid.”

another sniffle, you can’t help it. you bite down on your lip to stop it but all it does is make you taste iron, hot and heavy, a burning sting. your voice feels wobbly, forcing it into shape feels like trying to turn water into ice with your bare fingers; yet you try.

it comes out pitiful.

a broken, battered whisper:

”… i wanna go home…”

more of a whimper than a sentence, it pulls a sigh from out his lips. ”you are home,” he tells you, softly.

you struggle to withhold a bubbling sob, one you know will have you stuck in his arms for the rest of the night. your limbs feel limp but you still dig your teeth into your bottom lip and wipe at your eyes with frustrated humiliation, refusing to let him see you crumble. suguru stays still, just watching, waiting for the ripe moment to pluck your tears and comfort you, but he won’t get it. you won’t give it to him.

when he noses at your pulsepoint, something like an animal whine rips from your throat, scratchy and dry. you squirm, scratch at his forearms where they’re wrapped around you — panicked, feral — and he lets go. he lets you glare at him, through eyes wet with freshly spilled tears, only gives you a look you know means he’s feeling sorry for you. something like a silent oh, look how you’re trembling, look how much you need me, poor thing. it’s demeaning, but all you care about is pushing him away, storming up to your room. for once, he lets you. must think it’s best you deal with your little tantrum on your own for now.

you’re sure he’ll come knocking when it’s time for your bedtime story, but for now you’re alone. free to close the door behind you and collapse against it.

a weak, gurgling sob.

home. this is home.

(if you accepted that — would it hurt any less?)

all you can muster is the strength to smush your snotty face against your elbows, knees against your chest, curling in on yourself. choking out hitched little breaths, all broken and bruised and wrecked into bits. a marble bashed against concrete, over and over and over again, there’s nothing there but glass-splatter. you’re glad he isn’t here to see it. glad he can’t force you to seek out his body warmth, his steadying heartbeat, that you won’t have to hear him coo out reminders that you aren’t needed out there.

nobody out there needs you. not your mother, or your grandmother, not the story you’re in.

(you’re a lousy protagonist. better off in the ground.)

if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again, if only that wasn’t your very nature. if only you had known better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all.

if only you weren’t you —

maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

broken, broken, a crack in the middle of your heart.

suguru comes knocking at your door, eventually. there is no lock, you have to let him in, but by then you’re fast asleep. faded into a dreamless slumber.

(you won’t feel it, won’t see it, won’t have to kiss him back. he’ll tuck you into bed without waking you.)

it happens, at last. a long overdue curtain call.

but not to you.

the smell of rot sticks to the walls, bleeds out against the carpet and wails like a dog. the stench of flesh, suffocating ever narrow of your cells, the marrow of your bones. he probably thought you’d be asleep. he probably doesn’t know how thin the walls are.

you stand by the threshold to the kitchen, and peek in through the gap left by the storage room’s open door.

pale moonlight spills in through the window, casts a dim-lit blue across the floorboards and shatters on suguru’s back. illuminates him, where he lays, hunched over like a dog. eating something.

someone.

(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)

you can barely make it out, seeing only shadows and shapes. hell on earth, hell permeating the world and forcing it down your throat. you can’t see his face, only his ears, his tail, beautiful blood pooled underneath his knees and glistening in the light. can only hear the noises of him chewing, the sickening crack of a bone being split, gnarls and growls like he’s having trouble fitting it all into his mouth, taking too-big bites all at once. they make you nauseous, make your stomach twist with panic and disgust. desperate to quell your terror-struck breaths, you keep a hand clasped over your mouth— willing your guts to stay unspilled. you’d rather not have him clean it up; rather not owe him any favours at all.

rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal.

the stench is excruciating. iron and molding meat, damp clothes and patches of wet fur. thick enough to make tears sting behind your eyelids, burn at your lashline, your entire body shaking, skeleton rattling under your skin— panic wailing in your shuddering veins.

it’s happening. it’s happening, but not to you.

(and isn’t that a blessing? to play the role he always has. always just watching everything go wrong.

maybe you’ve always hated him. maybe you just couldn’t tell.)

it takes effort to keep yourself upright, to force your knees not to buckle. you’re scared, you’re scared, whatever rabbit made a nest inside your heart is trying to gnaw its way out and it hurts. you’re cold and hot all at once. you think you might pass out, like this; clutching onto the wall with unsteady fingers.

suguru seems to be enjoying himself, feasting on god knows who, tearing through veins and muscle tissue, carving a path that reeks of rotten fruit and guts. it’s horror incarnate. you pray it’s all a dream, a nightmare. you pray you’ll wake up soon. but you’re still frozen when you squeeze your eyes shut, and he’s still hunched over in the storage room when you open them. shallow breaths scrape against your throat, and you swallow down the bile building up at its base. taking a wobbly, wobbly step back.

you thank your lucky stars he does not peek over his shoulder. tip-toeing towards the stairs, leaving the blood and the grit behind before he spots you. you are gone by the time he’s finished, gone by the time he licks the entrails from between his teeth and cranes his head to look behind him.

golden eyes violating the dark.

when you crawl back into bed, fruitlessly trying to gain control over your trembling limbs, wipe the sight from your mind — you are sure of only one thing.

this is the tipping point. this is where the cup runs over. it has to, or it’ll break into pieces, bleed open. you’re never going to forget this; the buzzing of fleas, the smell of rotten apricots. the smell of death, hot and heavy, iron seeping into the back of your tongue and tearing out your teeth. warm, hot blood. gurgling up at the base of your throat with steady thumps.

(your story wasn’t supposed to be like this, a voice echoes in your head. not like this.)

terror. terror. desperation, a silent crack in the night. something in your gut settles, right when you feel so faint you’re sure you’ll pass out — a cold calm.

suddenly, you know what you have to do. you know exactly what the story is about to demand.

(keep that fire burning. even if you burst aflame.)

you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.

a tentative sip.

you hold onto the rim of the cup with steady fingers, warm skin against cold porcelain, and drink slowly; one gulp after another. it tastes good. mellow and vibrant, makes a home on the roof of your mouth, sticks to the back of your teeth. there’s a nutty aftertaste that you can’t help but savour.

he’s trying out something new, today; a bundle of golden leaves, simmering in the liquor-like water, a trail of sweet-smelling steam wafting up into the air. beautiful, if nothing else. flickering softly.

it’s a wonder you still haven’t grown tired of tea. a wonder he keeps finding new ones for you to try.

(he’s fond of flowers, you’re well aware. fond of plucking them by hand, while they’re young and pretty, robbing them from the ground, putting them in hot water and vases and paintings on the wall.)

(yesterday, he asked if he could do your portrait.)

it’s time for your bedtime story. you’re curled up in bed, on freshly washed silken sheets, buried under a fluffy blanket with suguru to your right, sitting on a wooden chair with a fable in his lap. paintings of rabbits and foxes, girls and goats. they’ve grown more childlike, over time, the books he reads to you aloud; the ones he keeps on his shelves. he doesn’t like it when you indulge in anything too graphic.

a nightlight keeps you company, shines a light on the pages in the dark of your room. a small comfort.

in tandem with his words, the curtains sway, tender as the lull of his tongue— window barricaded just behind them. he’s wearing a blouse, with puffy sleeves that barely reach down to his elbows anymore. he’s gotten bigger. there’s a rasp in his throat when he speaks but the softness is still present, the silent turning of another page, he holds them in between his fingers before letting them fall. looks at peace. it’s raining outside, a quiet drizzle, warming up the earth from the frost and snow — a gentle pitter patter against the windowpane. you can almost smell the damp earth, the moss and worms, content to imagine it as tea trickles down your throat, pumps its way into your heartbeat.

content to watch your captor playing house.

(soon, this’ll all be over.)

(soon.)

”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”

your words cut into the silence, shatters the illusion of peace and quiet, spill into the open air. the wolf by your bedside looks surprised, for a moment; a silent series of blinks, raven lashes taking flight. usually, you’d be nothing but silent during this routine.

”do you not like it?” he asks, letting the page flutter shut, fall over his thumb. ”i can shave.”

you pay no mind to his response. only push yourself up on your elbows, sluggishly, reach your fingers out to curl around his roughed up knuckles.

”and your hands are big…”

a flicker, in his ashen eyes. he lets you trace along his hands, dip your fingertips down the valleys and across the bumps, the callouses and scars.

(and oh, he knows what you’re doing now.)

so he plays along.

”… the better to hold you with,” he whispers, low and sweet — bringing your hand to his lips, smearing a kiss against the inside of your palm. you feel the curve of his smile cut into your skin.

a beat. your hand slips away from his touch, travels down to his jaw, tips it up with a thumb beneath his chin. suguru eyes you. hungrily, your instincts tell you. he’s pliant, though, a domesticated thing — doesn’t bat an eye when your fingers tug at his upper lip and expose a row of white teeth. pink gums.

a silent intake of breath.

”… and your teeth are sharp.”

silence. you can see your own reflection in the gleam of his canines, watch it waver like great tides in the sea. you look nothing like you remember.

and suguru looks conflicted.

”the better to…” he whispers, latches onto your wrist and cups your palm— keeps it in place as he nuzzles against it, closing his mouth. ”protect you with.”

something in your chest tightens and coils, at that. he smiles, almost sheepish, and you want to kill him, want to drag his own axe through his stomach, hear the clanking of metal against the bone of a rib.

a voice like no other rings in your ears.

(at least have the gall to say it out loud.)

the fwhip of a book being shut. his thumb slips out from between the pages, comes to rest against the spine, and you know it’s time for bed. you feel a tentative lick, against the skin of your palm, before he’s letting go of your wrist. it makes you shudder, and his eyes crinkle like you just did something cute.

(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)

you feel as if you might throw up.

”… goodnight, sweet thing.”

his voice curls into your mind, around your neck, wriggles like a worm inside your ear. you don’t say it back. you stay silent, as he pulls away.

the nightlight flickers off.

once upon a time, you’re sure your story had an ending.

it’s a distant memory, at this point. a bundle of blurry memories, a sense of knowledge about what goes where. but you can still recall the catharsis.

at its core, little red riding hood is a tale about foolishness. a tale about girls who stay snug in the bellies of beasts, curl up close to their intestines and wait patiently to be rescued. this is no surprise to you. you’ve been devoured thousands of times, it’s in your nature, what you were born to do— there is no version of the story where you aren’t tangled up in meat thread or being swallowed whole. no version where you aren’t a victim, born to wait your turn.

you’re well beyond accepting that.

all children must exit the womb, and all little reds must escape the wolf’s stomach. neither cage was meant to keep you, even if he’d disagree.

but now you really are trapped.

(trapped in the cage he made you, a bookmark glued to paper-skin.)

you sit in his armchair, and gaze into the fireplace. waiting for a cue. suguru is in the kitchen, as always, the sound of a whistling kettle seeping through the air, chattering with steam. gusts of wind claw against the windows, wail and whine against the glass. the woods sway in the distance, mocking shades of green shimmering faintly; beckoning you closer, closer still, into their depths. winter is about to end.

the sun is stuck in vitro.

the deer mount on the wall looks at you with dead, glazed-over eyes. dead like the pinned-up butterflies, dead like every single thing in his home. dead tea leaves, dead men in storage rooms, dead little reds.

the axe glimmers by the fireplace.

an inhale, inflating your lungs. it has to end. the story hungers for it — there has to be some way to reach it.

(everything’s already broken, anyway.)

crackling, splintering, wood on fire. ash gathers at the bottom of the hearth, tears itself into pieces and crumbles into a lifeless heap. your eyes watch the flames lick into each other’s mouths, make a home there. they’re consuming each other. getting their fill. you think of his tongue, his teeth, his voice— you think of the shotgun over his shoulder and the glint in his eye, his greedy hands squeezing at your midriff. you think of the axe, just resting there, leather sheath snug around the steel. waiting, waiting, waiting.

”the tea is ready, honey.”

— and you stand up.

his voice carries across the living room, a jumbled growl of syllables — you scarcely hear them, eyes fixated on the gleaming steel in front of you. fingers hungry for contact, eager to rip the sheath right off.

it’s time to choose an ending.

you could live in his belly, if you wanted, just like this. forevermore. could tuck yourself between his teeth and grow comfortable there. that, or you could cut your way out — stain the last page red yourself, before he gets the chance to. lick the excess off your wrist and tear the binding in half. it’s all or nothing, this or that; an axe in his stomach, his teeth in your neck. your choice, yes, but it’s time to make it.

you know which one you want.

(”and little red riding hood reached for the axe.”)

— it feels right, in your hand. feels right to hold, have it weigh you down, become part of your skeletal structure. everything finally feels just right.

an inhale. your breathing turns more shallow, quiet breaths seeping from out your throat, lips parting silently. a flicker, your gaze darting in the direction of the kitchen, zeroing in on the shadow cast across the threshold. heart, liver, lungs. you can feel them all, count them all. they’re all clambering up your esophagus. worms in your throat, under rocks.

(now. now. do it now.)

hunger. hunger. hunger.

you don’t care what the consequences are, anymore.

a moment of silence. you hear not the whooshing of the wind, the whistling of the kettle, or the sound of tea being poured into cups. you hear neither his voice nor your own footsteps — only the steady beating of your own heart, a bunny about to break into sprint. one step forward. two. his back is visible, the hair at his nape, he’s pouring tea into porcelain cups. he’ll never know what hit him, what he brought into his home. ba-dump. ba-dump. the floorboards split apart, and the binding comes undone.

his guts will spill out just the same.

[ … AND ▇▇ ▇NE DID ▇▇▇ING T▇ HARM H▇▇, ▇▇▇ AGAIN. ]

you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —

and swing.

#geto x reader #geto x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #jjk x reader #yandere geto #cw dark content #cw yandere

901 notes · View notes

cherryxbooo · 4 months ago

Text

I’ll always be your rock

Summary: Going undercover at your husband’s job is one thing, but going undercover to catch yourself is the last thing you would expect.

Note: I think it's pretty obvious from which episode I got this idea lol. I had my eyes on this episode for a long time and finally decided to turn it into a fic with my own spin. Hope you enjoy it! 🤍

Reader x Tim Bradford

Genre: angst(ish)/ fluff

Being married to Tim Bradford was an adventure in itself.

Not in the he’s reckless and unpredictable way, no, Tim was as solid as they came.

But being the wife of a man so dedicated to the LAPD meant every day carried a thread of uncertainty.

Long nights waiting for him to come home and phone calls that made my heart race became part of my routine.

Yet, despite the challenges, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because at the end of those long shifts, when he finally walked through the door, everything felt right again.

I could always tell how his day had gone by the way he held me.

Some nights, it was a quick kiss to the temple before he shuffled off to the shower, but other nights, he’d pull me in close like he needed to remind himself that home was real.

I wasn’t exactly the most outgoing person.

More like the shy type like Tim liked to call me.

Social situations weren’t my forte, and I much preferred curling up with a book or baking something in the kitchen.

And yet, his team had unofficially adopted me as one of their own.

Angela looped her arm through mine at station events, Lucy subtly checked in to make sure I wasn’t overwhelmed, and even Nyla once told me,

“You keep him sane. That’s an impressive feat.”

Then there was the teasing... so much teasing.

“How the hell did you convince someone so sweet and quiet to marry you?”

Aaron had once asked, smirking as he nudged Tim’s shoulder.

Tim had just given a slow, confident shrug, his arm casually draped around my waist.

“What can I say? She has excellent taste.”

I’d rolled my eyes, but the warmth in his gaze made my heart stutter. Even with everything unpredictable about his job, I never doubted how deeply he loved me.

It wasn’t always easy, to love a man who belonged to a completely different world than mine.

But in the quiet moments, the way his fingers traced lazy circles on my back, the way he saved the last bite of dessert for me, the way his voice softened when he said my name. I knew.

I was his safe place, just as he was mine.

And that made every uncertain moment worth it.

That afternoon, I was at home, curled up on the couch with a blanket and a book, enjoying the peace and quiet.

The rain lightly tapped against the windows, creating a soft, rhythmic backdrop to the cozy scene.

I’d spent the morning tidying up the house and making a simple lunch, nothing fancy, just a grilled cheese and a cup of tea, but it was enough to make me feel content. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed having a quiet day to myself.

The soft hum of the TV played in the background as I turned the page of my book, smiling at a passage that reminded me of Tim.

It was the kind of rare, uninterrupted moment where I didn’t have to worry about him working late or being out in the field.

I heard the distant sound of the wind picking up outside, but I didn’t mind.

It only made the house feel more like a safe, warm refuge from the world.

Then, my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

At first, I ignored it, assuming it was just a notification.

But when it vibrated again, this time with the unmistakable sound of Tim’s custom ringtone, I immediately reached for it.

“Hey,” I answered, settling back against the cushions. “You okay?”

His voice sounded a little distant, like he was concentrating on something.

“Where are you right now?”

“Just at home,” I replied, my brow furrowing slightly.

“Why? What’s going on?”

There was a long pause on the other end, just long enough for my stomach to tighten with unease.

“Stay there. I’m on my way.”

Before I could ask more, the line went dead.

I set my phone down, a knot of worry starting to form.

Tim wasn’t the type to act like this, something was clearly wrong.

Beforehand,

The bullpen at the LAPD station was buzzing with the usual mid-afternoon energy.

Officers milled around, coffee cups in hand, and chatter filled the air as files were passed back and forth.

Tim was hunched over his desk, a stack of reports in front of him as he scribbled notes.

He’d had a relatively calm morning, but now, the pile of paperwork was a reminder that the job never really let up.

Across the room, Lucy was at her desk, scrolling through the latest security footage from a robbery that had occurred the night before.

It wasn’t until her eyes caught something odd on the screen that the atmosphere in the bullpen shifted.

She leaned in closer, squinting at the grainy image.

“Uh… is it just me, or does that look like Y/n?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief.

Nyla, who had been sitting nearby, looked up and walked over to Lucy’s desk.

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the screen.

“Bradford… what are the chances?”

Tim, absorbed in his own thoughts, turned at the sound of his wife’s name.

When his eyes landed on the image, his stomach dropped.

The woman on the screen wasn’t just similar to Y/n... she was her.

Same height, same build, even the way she carried her bag over her shoulder.

But it wasn’t her. He knew his wife.

Tim’s grip tightened around the edge of his desk, his jaw clenching.

“Run facial recognition.”

Angela, sitting across the room, was already moving toward the computer.

She tapped a few keys, and within moments, the results came in: Inconclusive.

The suspect had a baseball cap on, obscuring her face enough to prevent a clear match.

Lucy, still staring at the screen, hesitated.

“Tim… should we call Y/n?”

Tim didn’t hesitate. He was already reaching for his phone. “Yeah.”

As the phone rang, he felt his heart rate pick up.

His mind raced, trying to process the situation, but the image on the screen was all he could focus on.

Her voice finally came through, soft and familiar. “Hey. You okay?”

Tim tried to steady his breathing. “Where are you right now?”

“At home. Why? What’s going on?” she replied, the confusion clear in her voice.

“Stay there. I’m on my way.”

Tim hung up the phone without saying anything else, his mind already on his way to her.

He turned to his team, his face taut with concern. “I need to go.”

Angela nodded quickly. “We’ll keep digging.”

Lucy spoke, her voice still laced with disbelief.

“If that’s not Y/n… then who the hell is she?”

Tim didn’t respond, already on his way out the door.

Meanwhile,

I began pacing the living room, my mind racing through every possible scenario. Was he hurt?

Was someone else hurt?

The uncertainty gnawed at me, and I chewed my lip nervously, my heart heavy with dread.

I tried to focus, but each thought seemed to spiral into another until I heard the familiar sound of his truck pulling into the driveway, like a lifeline amidst the chaos in my head.

When the door creaked open, I looked up and saw Tim walk in, his face unreadable.

His sharp, assessing blue eyes immediately scanned me from head to toe, and I could feel the weight of his gaze.

It wasn’t the kind of look that said everything was fine, but the kind that silently assured me he was here, watching, protecting, making sure I was truly safe.

“What’s going on, Tim?” I asked, my voice small and fragile, my hands gripping the hem of my sweater like it might anchor me.

The air felt thick, charged with all the unspoken questions and fears swirling between us.

Tim exhaled through his nose, rubbing his jaw as he seemed to gather his thoughts.

His eyes softened just a fraction when he met my gaze, but the tension was still there.

“There was a robbery last night. We just got an image of the suspect, and-”

He paused for a moment, as though weighing the impact of his next words.

“It looks exactly like you.”

I blinked, trying to process what he was saying, my breath hitching in my throat.

“Excuse me?”

My voice barely rose above a whisper, a rush of unease flooding my chest as my mind tried to catch up.

Tim took a deep breath, pulling out his phone.

He handed it to me gently, his fingers brushing mine, but the contact felt like a reassurance I didn’t know I needed.

When I saw the grainy image, my stomach twisted, the weight of the moment sinking in.

The woman in the photo looked almost identical to me, same face, same posture, even the way she carried her bag over one shoulder.

But it wasn’t me.

I swallowed hard, feeling a tightness in my chest.

“So… do they think it’s me?” I asked, my voice small and shaky, the uncertainty making my words tremble.

Tim shook his head immediately, his brows furrowing as if he wanted to erase any doubt from my mind.

“No one who actually knows you thinks that. But the resemblance is too strong to ignore.”

He reached out and gently touched my arm, his thumb brushing over my skin in a silent gesture of reassurance.

His touch was warm, grounding me even though my mind was still reeling.

I nodded slowly, trying to process his words, my fingers twisting together in my lap.

“This is… really weird.”

I couldn’t help but feel disoriented by the idea of someone else looking so much like me.

It didn’t feel real, but the image in my hand made it impossible to ignore.

Tim sat beside me, his knee bumping gently against mine as he leaned in, his presence a solid comfort beside me.

“We’re working on tracking her down. I just didn’t want you to be blindsided.”

His voice was calm, steady, but I could hear the concern behind it.

I glanced up at him, taking in the way his face softened when he looked at me, the unspoken care in his eyes.

I let out a shaky breath, trying to release the tension that had built up in my shoulders.

“Thanks, Tim. That… that would’ve been a nightmare.”

His words were a balm, easing some of the tightness I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

Tim reached over, his hand finding mine in a reassuring squeeze.

His fingers enveloped mine, and the warmth of his touch melted some of the cold fear still hanging in the air.

“It’s gonna be fine, baby. I just need you to stay put for now, okay?”

His words were steady, but there was a softness to them, like a promise that everything would be okay, even if I wasn’t so sure yet.

I nodded, gripping his fingers tightly.

The contact was grounding, and the storm of worry in my chest began to calm, just a little.

With Tim here, I knew I was safe, and that was enough for the moment.

Then, as I looked at the image on his phone once again, a small detail caught my eye.

The suspect had tattoos, visible on her arm, a sharp contrast to my own ink-free skin.

I leaned closer to Tim’s phone.

“She’s got tattoos,” I said softly, pointing to the image.

“I don’t have any.”

Tim’s eyes softened as he looked at the photo again, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I know, sweetheart. And that’s another reason I don’t think anyone’s actually confused about it being you.”

He gave me another squeeze, his hand warm and steady in mine.

“Because I also for a fact can recognize my own wife.”

I let out a soft laugh, the tension in my chest finally starting to ease.

It felt good to have him so close, his presence reassuring me in a way that no words could.

Days passed, and the investigation deepened.

Just because the suspect looked like me meant that I was automatically involved in the case.

Security footage continued to roll in, and every angle seemed to show the same thing, the woman in the videos looked exactly like me.

The more we watched, the more I began to wonder if I had an evil twin roaming around causing trouble.

But nothing in the footage could tell us who she was or where she came from.

The tension in the bullpen was growing, especially for Tim.

He’d been working around the clock, watching the same footage over and over again, his frustration building.

It wasn’t just the case; was the fact that someone out there looked like his wife, and the implications of that hit too close to home.

Days without a plan or strategies passed until-

Then came the suggestion.

“What if Y/n went undercover?”

Lucy’s voice broke the silence, her suggestion hanging in the air like a dare.

I froze, my heart skipping a beat. I wasn’t sure if I had heard her right.

I wasn’t exactly the best at faking confidence, especially not in front of criminals.

But Lucy’s gaze was intense, and Nyla nodded thoughtfully. They both seemed to believe it could work.

Tim’s reaction was immediate, like a reflex.

“Absolutely not,” he said, his voice harsh and protective, making it clear that no part of him was willing to entertain the idea.

“Tim, listen,” Lucy pressed, her hands going up in a placating gesture.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If she thinks Y/n is her twin, she might open up. We might be able to get the information we need to bring her in without the risk of violence.”

Tim’s jaw clenched. “Or she could see right through it and lash out. No. I’m not putting her in that situation.”

I stayed quiet, my hands twisting in my lap. I knew Tim’s worry wasn’t just about the case; it was about me.

The thought of him losing me in any way made his protective side go into overdrive.

But I couldn’t just sit by while someone else was out there causing havoc.

“Tim, I know it’s dangerous,” I spoke up, my voice quiet but firm.

“But if it means stopping her before someone else gets hurt, I have to try.”

Tim’s gaze snapped to me, and for a moment, it felt like the whole room held its breath.

His blue eyes, usually so calm, were stormy with worry and anger.

“Y/n, this isn’t a game. It’s not a mission I’m willing to risk you on.”

I took a deep breath, feeling my heart pound in my chest.

I knew I wasn’t the obvious choice for something like this, but I couldn’t stand the thought of not doing anything.

“I’m not asking for you to be okay with it, Tim,” I said, my voice steady despite the anxiety building inside me.

“But I can help. I know how to handle myself.”

The room fell quiet, and Tim stood there, his body tense, his gaze never leaving mine.

His protective instincts were strong, and I could see him weighing every possible outcome.

Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders sagging just slightly.

“Fine,” he said, his voice gruff but resigned.

“But I’m keeping an eye on you the entire time. The second things go south, you’re out of there.”

I nodded, the weight of his words hanging over me.

It wasn’t just about the mission anymore. It was about our trust in each other.

And no matter how nervous I was, I knew this was something I had to do.

A few hours later, the team gathered in the briefing room.

Tim was standing at the front, his face set in that usual grim expression, but his eyes softened whenever they flickered to me.

The plan was already taking shape, and now, it was time to fill in the details.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Tim said, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Y/n, you’re going to approach her as though you’re a long-lost twin sister. We’ll feed you enough information to make it believable, but you’re going to need to stay sharp. We know she’s tough, and we know she has connections. This won’t be easy.”

I listened carefully, my mind racing through the logistics.

Tim was giving me a look, one I knew all too well... his eyes searching mine for any sign that I might back out.

But I wasn’t going to do that. I wasn’t going to leave him with that feeling of helplessness.

“I’ll make contact with her,” Lucy chimed in.

“We’ve got her location traced from the security footage. She’s been hanging out at a dive bar on the edge of town. We’ll set up a surveillance perimeter.”

“You’ll be going in alone Y/n,” Nyla added, her voice steady.

“The goal is to gain her trust. She’s never seen you before, but the resemblance is undeniable. Use that. We’ll be in your ear the whole time, listening in on every conversation.”

Tim ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident.

“You’re going in alone,” he repeated, his gaze flicking to me.

“We can’t risk anyone else tipping her off. But Y/n, you need to be careful. If she even slightly catches on that something’s off-”

“I know,” I interrupted softly, my voice unwavering.

“I’ll be careful. I won’t give her a reason to suspect anything.”

Tim hesitated, then his face softened, even if just for a moment.

“This isn’t like anything we’ve ever done before. You don’t need to prove anything to me. Just… be safe. Please.”

I smiled faintly, understanding the unspoken fear behind his words.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, trying to reassure him.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

The team looked at each other, nodding, as they began setting the final steps in motion.

The plan was set. All that was left was execution.

And despite the nerves coursing through me, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of purpose settle over me.

The morning of the mission was tense.

The air felt thick with anticipation, but it was Tim’s worry that weighed on me the most.

We were in the car, parked outside the location where we would begin the operation.

Tim’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his jaw clenched, his focus unwavering, but there was a nervous energy about him that I could feel.

He glanced over at me, his eyes softening just a little, a small flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“If you want out, now’s the time. No one would blame you.”

I could see the worry in his eyes, the deep concern for my safety.

His protective nature had been on overdrive ever since we started this mission, and now that we were on the cusp of it, I knew it was getting harder for him to let go.

I reached over and placed my hand over his. “Tim,” I said, my voice firm but gentle.

“I’ve made up my mind. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do. I know the risks, but I trust you, I trust the team, and I trust myself.”

He let out a slow breath, his grip loosening just enough for me to feel his warmth.

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw a flicker of pride mixed with his anxiety.

“Just promise me you’ll stay safe,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.

“I promise,” I whispered back, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“And you’ll be right there with me the whole time.”

He didn’t say anything, but the way he held my gaze told me that, for the first time in a long while, he was allowing himself to feel a little bit of relief.

He knew how dangerous this was, but he also knew how determined I was.

Eventually, the car came to a stop at a discreet location near the target area.

Nyla was already briefing the others, while Lucy was in the process of running final checks.

Inside the SUV, the tension was palpable. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears as I tried to steady my breathing.

Nyla slid into the backseat beside me, her expression serious but focused.

“Alright, Y/n,” she said, giving me a quick once-over.

“This is the part where you have to stay sharp, okay? The goal is simple: we need to get close enough to the suspect, gain her trust, and get her talking. Once you’re in, don’t push her too hard, play it cool, keep it light, but don’t show any fear.”

I nodded, feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement. I knew the plan by heart, but hearing Nyla go over it again gave me a sense of confidence.

“Got it,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

“Keep it cool, get the information, and get out.”

“Exactly,” Nyla said, her eyes glinting with a touch of encouragement.

“You’ve got this. When you approach, make sure you tell her the story we agreed on. You’re her twin, you’ve been looking for her. If she buys it, it’ll help us catch her off-guard. Remember, we’ve got your back.”

I took a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves.

“I’m ready,” I said, forcing a smile, even though my stomach was flipping.

“I’ve got this.”

Tim, who had been quietly listening from the driver’s seat, finally turned around to face me.

His expression softened as he gave me a brief, encouraging nod.

“I’m proud of you, Y/n. Just be careful.”

I could feel his eyes on me as I climbed out of the SUV, the weight of his concern following me like a shadow.

I was about to step into the unknown, but I knew I wasn’t alone. He was with me, even from a distance.

My mind raced, but I pushed everything out except for the task at hand.

I spotted the suspect across the street, her dark hair falling in waves, the same confident air about her that I’d seen in the footage.

My heart skipped a beat as I took in her appearance. She really did look so much like me.

A small voice in my earpiece crackled to life, and I heard Nyla’s voice.

“Y/n, it’s time. Approach now.”

I swallowed hard, adjusting my bag on my shoulder as I took the first step toward her.

The street was quieter now, the hum of the city a distant murmur as everything seemed to slow down.

As I got closer, I could feel my nerves tightening again, but I kept my posture steady.

This was my chance.

I hesitated for just a moment, then took a deep breath and spoke, my voice steady despite the racing of my pulse.

“Hey, I know this is going to sound crazy, but…” I paused for effect, giving her a moment to meet my eyes.

“We’re twins. I’ve been looking for you.”

Jenna’s gaze flickered over me, studying me with that skeptical look I had seen in the footage.

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.

“Twins? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

But there was a glint of curiosity in her voice, the intrigue still there.

I forced myself to smile, trying to appear more confident than I felt.

“No joke,” I said, keeping my voice light.

“I’ve been searching for you for a long time. I think we have a lot in common.”

She didn’t answer immediately, but I could tell she was thinking it over.

I saw how she studied my face realizing that we in fact did look alike.

I kept the conversation going, careful to stay in control and play the part.

I could hear the faint crackle of Nyla’s voice in my ear again, but this time, it wasn’t just advice; it was encouragement.

“You’re doing great, Y/n. Just keep going.”

As the conversation continued, I knew it was just a matter of time before we got the information we needed.

The team was ready, and I could feel their support, even if they weren’t physically close.

Everything was falling into place.

As the conversation with Jenna continued, I could sense her growing skepticism.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied me, like she was trying to figure out if I was telling the truth or not.

“You know,” she said, her tone shifting to something sharper,

“you look like you could be my twin. But I’ve got to admit, I’m not buying this whole ‘looking for me’ story. You think I’m just going to fall for that?”

I could feel my heart race, but I kept my expression neutral. My mind was working overtime, searching for something, anything that could prove I was who I said I was.

And then it hit me. The one detail that might turn the tide in my favor.

I reached into my bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it up between us.

“I know this is going to sound crazy, but a few years ago, I found this,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“It’s an old family picture, one I never thought I’d find. But it’s us, this was taken when we were kids.”

It was a photoshopped picture to make everything more believable.

Jenna’s eyes flickered to the photo, then back to me. She looked almost intrigued, but there was still a slight hesitation in her expression.

I quickly added, “I didn’t know about you until recently, but after I found this, I had to track you down. I knew it was fate.”

Her eyes softened slightly as she reached for the photo, her fingers brushing mine.

She studied it for a long moment, almost as if she was hoping the photo would tell her something she hadn’t expected.

Finally, she looked back up at me, a small smirk tugging at her lips.

“Alright,” she said, her tone lightening a little.

“Let’s say I believe you for now. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to trust you completely. You might still be playing me.”

I took a breath, maintaining my calm exterior despite the racing thoughts in my mind.

I needed to push further and make her believe me.

“Look,” I said, lowering my voice just a bit,

“I know it’s hard to trust someone who just shows up out of nowhere. But I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just trying to find the truth. And you know what?”

I paused, letting the silence linger before continuing.

“I can help you. I can help you get away from this life. You don’t have to keep running.”

The smirk faded from her face as she regarded me seriously now.

“You think you can just walk in and fix everything for me?” she asked, a hint of doubt in her voice.

“You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’ve done.”

I swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on me. But I didn’t back down.

“I don’t know everything. But I know enough to help. I know you’re scared. You don’t have to keep hiding, Jenna. I’m not here to judge you.”

There was a moment of silence, and then her eyes flickered to the ground, her hands trembling slightly.

She seemed to be weighing something in her mind. Then, to my surprise, her voice dropped to a quiet whisper.

“You want to know what I’ve done? Fine. You wanna know why I’ve been running? I’ll tell you. But you’d better not try to stop me when I say this.”

I nodded, urging her on. My stomach twisted with anticipation. This was it.

“I’ve done more than just that robbery,” she began, her voice cold.

“I’ve been part of some dangerous things... more than I can count. I’ve been involved in setting up people, running scams, and doing things I can’t even talk about. Robbing that boutique? That was easy. But that’s nothing compared to the bigger stuff.”

I could hear the tremor in her voice, but there was also a sense of relief, like confessing was something she’d been holding back for far too long.

I was recording every word, making sure I had the evidence we needed.

“There’s a group... and we’ve been working together for years. It’s not just petty crime. We’re talking about things that could ruin people’s lives, and I’ve been a part of it all.”

She paused, her eyes darting to the street around us as if expecting someone to appear.

“But I’m done. I don’t want any more blood on my hands.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me, knowing that I had gotten her to confess, but I kept my face neutral.

I also knew the whole "I'm done" thing she confessed was a big lie. She probably told me that since she didn't trust me.

“You don’t have to do it anymore, Jenna. You’ve got a chance to make things right.”

The moment Jenna finished confessing, I could feel the tension in the air shift.

Her eyes, wide with the weight of her words, slowly began to narrow.

She was still processing what she had said, admitting to the robberies, the dangerous work, and the people involved.

But as she looked at me, something seemed to change.

“You tricked me,” she spat, taking a small step back.

Her body stiffened, and I could see the realization dawning on her.

“This whole thing was a setup, wasn’t it?”

My heart raced in my chest, but I forced myself to stay calm.

I had to stick to the plan, to remain steady.

I could feel the tiny earpiece buzzing in my ear, Tim’s voice coming through with quiet reassurance.

“Stay calm. You’ve got this.”

Jenna’s eyes flickered around, now more alert, more paranoid.

“I knew something didn’t add up. You can’t trust anyone, not in this game. You’ve been playing me the whole time.”

She stepped back again, her hand brushing the side of her jacket as though she was about to pull something out.

My pulse quickened.

I had to do something, anything, to keep her calm, make her think I wasn’t ready for what was about to happen.

I gave the tiniest of nods, the secret signal that I had to use to alert the team. That was the first sign.

My fingers were trembling, but I kept my hand steady as I subtly tapped the recorder hidden in my sleeve.

Jenna seemed to miss the movement, her gaze still darting around the alley.

“So what now, huh?” she asked, her voice almost too casual.

“You gonna turn me in? Is that how this works?”

I swallowed hard, holding her gaze, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve already turned yourself in, Jenna. This isn’t a game anymore. This is your chance to make it right.”

But before she could respond, I saw the shadow of movement from behind her.

The officers were closing in, carefully, silently, just like we’d planned.

Jenna hadn’t seen them yet, but I could feel it in my gut that we were running out of time.

Her expression shifted again, suspicion creeping in.

“I don’t buy it,” she muttered, shaking her head.

“I don’t trust you. This is too easy.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not your enemy, Jenna. The only one you’ve been lying to is yourself.”

My words were quiet but firm, and as I spoke them, I could see Jenna’s eyes flicker.

Her hand twitched again, and for a moment, I thought she might bolt.

I could see a shiny object in her pocket and I could immediately recognize it as a knife.

But I couldn't be scared I had to stay calm.

I took another step closer, my movements slow and calculated.

I had to keep her from panicking or doing something that might harm me.

“Look, I’m not here to hurt you. You’ve done what you’ve done, but it doesn’t have to end like this.”

Jenna’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. She looked at me, searching for something, for a reason to believe.

Then, just as I could feel the officers positioning themselves, I saw Jenna’s hand slowly move away from her jacket.

She seemed to hesitate like she was waiting for a signal.

That was my chance.

I nodded again, just barely enough to be noticed, and the team moved in.

The quiet shuffle of footsteps grew louder as the officers emerged from their positions, surrounding the alley.

Jenna’s eyes widened in panic as she finally realized what was happening.

“What the hell-” she started, but before she could finish, one of the officers stepped forward.

“Jenna Morrow,” the officer called out, his voice firm and commanding.

“You’re under arrest for robbery, conspiracy, and multiple counts of criminal activity. You have the right to remain silent.”

Jenna froze, her breath catching in her throat.

Her eyes darted around, her hands raised defensively as though she could still escape, but it was too late.

The officers had her surrounded. Her body stiffened, but I could see the resignation in her eyes.

She knew the game was up.

“You tricked me,” she repeated, her voice raw with betrayal, but it lacked the same fire it had earlier.

She looked at me one last time, and I could see the bitter realization sinking in.

“You played me, just like everyone else.”

I met her gaze and shook my head softly.

“No, Jenna. You did this to yourself. I didn’t want it to end this way, but this is the truth.”

As the officers began to secure her hands with the cuffs, she didn’t fight back.

She was too far gone, too tangled in the web she had spun.

Jenna let out a long, defeated breath, her shoulders slumping as she realized there was no way out.

Tim’s voice crackled through my earpiece, warm and full of relief.

“Good job, baby. You were amazing out there.”

I barely had time to respond before the officers led Jenna away, her steps heavy, defeated.

The weight of the mission began to lift off my shoulders, the adrenaline still coursing through my veins, but I felt a quiet sense of accomplishment. It was over.

The team had done it.

And I had done it, too.

Tim was waiting by the SUV when the last of the officers brought Jenna to the car.

His expression softened when he saw me, his eyes scanning me for any signs of distress.

As soon as I approached, he pulled me into his arms, his grip firm and reassuring.

“You did it,” Tim said, his voice low, filled with pride.

I leaned into him, feeling the rush of emotions from the mission finally settle.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I whispered, my voice catching slightly.

“I knew you were with me.”

Tim pulled back just enough to cup my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against my cheeks as he gazed at me with a softness I rarely saw.

“I’m so proud of you, babe,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“You were brave out there. You handled it all perfectly.”

I smiled softly, my heart swelling in my chest.

“I couldn’t have done it without you or the team,” I repeated, my voice full of gratitude.

“You were my rock.”

Tim kissed me gently on the forehead, his arms holding me close.

“I’ll always be your rock, sweetheart.”

We stood there for a moment, just holding each other as the sounds of the arrest faded into the background.

The mission was over, and we had won. Together.

Back at the station, the air was thick with relief.

The operation had been a success, and the team was buzzing with excitement, celebrating their hard work.

Laughter and chatter filled the room, but I could feel someone's eyes on me, Tim.

I caught Lucy’s teasing glance as she looked between us, a smirk pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“So, still think your dear wifey shouldn’t have gone undercover?” she asked, her voice playful.

Tim let out a reluctant sigh, though his eyes never left me.

“I still don’t like it and it was a one-time thing for your information Chen,” he muttered, but I could see the softness in his gaze.

I ducked my head, feeling a bit shy under the attention.

“It worked though,” I said quietly, my voice almost a whisper.

Tim groaned, running his hands through his hair in mock frustration.

“I walked right into that one, didn’t I?” His tone was teasing, but I could see the pride behind it.

The team burst into laughter, and I couldn’t help but smile.

I felt Tim’s gaze warm as he watched me, and even though he was still grumbling about my undercover mission, I could feel the pride radiating from him.

He moved closer, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me in, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.

“You’re never going undercover again,” he murmured, his voice low and reassuring.

I tilted my head up to look at him, a playful glint in my eyes.

“Maybe just once more?” I teased, earning another groan from him.

He sighed dramatically, but there was no hiding the fondness in his expression.

“I swear, woman. You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, but I knew he didn’t mean it. Not really.

The team laughed harder, and I leaned into Tim, resting my head on his shoulder.

In that moment, everything felt right.

All the tension, all the danger, melted away. And I knew, no matter what came next, Tim and I would always be in this together.

And most importantly my evil 'twin' is behind closed bars and won't ever give me a bad image again.

The end

#the rookie fanfiction #the rookie fic #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fic #tim bradford imagine #tim x reader #tim bradford #tim bradford fluff #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford x fem!reader #tim bradford angst #the rookie fanfic #the rookie imagine #the rookie x reader

492 notes · View notes