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seospicybin · 1 day ago

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DOUBLE FEATURE

CHAPTER THREE

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

DOUBLE FEATURE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: After a strange accident on movie set, you and a stunt actor, Minho, wake up in each other’s bodies. The two of you are forced to live one another’s lives while searching for answers. But the longer both of you are stuck, the more both of you begin to see each other differently. (15,9k words)

Author's note: It's here! Hope you enjoy this one too and pls let me know what you think of it ♡

The set hums under harsh lights and the buzz of equipment being dragged across concrete. It's past midnight, but the night shoot shows no sign of slowing down. Crew members move like ghosts through pools of white and amber light, adjusting rigs, calling out cues, and checking monitors. The sky above is a blank, starless black, and everything feels suspended in that strange, electric hush that only happens after dark on set—where time stretches and blurs and the whole world feels like it only exists inside camera frames.

You tighten the Velcro on your wrist wraps and glance down again at the folded paper in your hands—the list of stunt sequences scheduled for the film. It’s slightly wrinkled now from how many times you’ve looked at it, studied it, memorized it. But your eyes keep getting stuck on the same line, the one halfway down the page, where Minho had circled something in red ink like it was a warning sign:

Scene 57 – Tank drop + underwater hold

It makes sense now. After yesterday’s therapy session with Dr. Severine—after hearing what really happened a year ago—you can't unread the memory. The truck. The river. The silence that followed. You’d only known the surface of the story, a passing headline that didn’t belong to you. But now it’s under your skin, and it's not just a story anymore. It's his trauma. It’s the waterlogged weight he’s been carrying ever since.

You should be focusing on today’s scene. Today, it’s just a choreographed fight with Felix, nothing remotely close to drowning. But that circled stunt won’t leave your mind. It haunts the edge of your concentration, and the more you try to ignore it, the louder it echoes.

You fold the paper again, slip it into the back pocket of your pants, and exhale slowly. You stretch your arms, roll your shoulders back. Get your head in the game. No room for hesitation—not in front of the camera, not with Felix, and especially not while you’re still in Minho’s body.

Across the set, someone calls out that you’re needed for wardrobe fitting. You nod and move toward the tent, already feeling the faint heat of the lights and the flutter of nerves in your stomach. It’s just a fight scene. But somehow, you can’t shake the feeling that something bigger is looming.

Everything smells faintly of sweat and dust and coffee that’s long since gone cold as you wait in the tent. You’ve already changed into your costume—combat boots, scuffed jeans, a loose hoodie damp with mist from the outdoor fog machine—and you're rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the nerves crawling under your skin.

Minho comes in not long after, wearing your face, your body, your skin—and somehow still carries himself like he’s the original. Confident. Steady. All sharp edges and focus.

“Nervous?” he cuts through your thoughts.

You look up to find him watching you, his expression unreadable but calm. You shake your head and force a playful smile. “Honestly? I’m starting to like this stunt gig. Way more fun than spreadsheets.”

He lifts a brow, skeptical. “So that’s why you won’t switch back—you’re stealing my job?”

You grin and nudge his ankle with your foot. “Exactly. I’m keeping the abs and the hazard pay.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and you don’t press him either. But you know he doesn’t believe that’s the real reason. Neither do you.

“Alright,” he says, tossing a soft crash mat onto the floor. “Up. Let’s run it. I’ll be Felix.”

You step behind him and slide your arm around his neck, locking into the first move. Your arm fits too naturally against his throat.

“Not too tight,” he says dryly, glancing over his shoulder.

You tighten your hold just slightly. “This is for trying to seduce yourself, you creep.”

Minho laughs—low and real. “Touché.”

Then he moves—quick and practiced—grabbing your wrist, spinning, sweeping your leg. You let him. It’s like a dance, fast and fluid, and then suddenly the mat’s at your back, and Minho’s body is on top of yours.

Your breath hitches. It should be just practice. But it’s not. He has you pinned, one hand planted beside your head, the other pressing your shoulder down. His face is close. Closer than it needs to be. His breath is warm, and his eyes—your own eyes—search yours like they’re looking for something. You don’t say anything. You don’t move either. The space between you charges, heavy with something unspoken.

“You okay?” he murmurs, not teasing, just quiet.

You nod, your chest rising slowly beneath him.

He loosens his grip, as if giving you permission to break the moment. But neither of you do—until the walkie-talkie crackles.

“Please, check on Felix. He’s in holding.”

He blinks and slowly eases off you. The air feels different when he’s gone from above you. “Stay loose,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out. “And maybe… stay dangerous.”

You lie there for a moment, catching your breath. That felt… like something. You don’t know what, but something.

The floodlights are harsh on your skin, turning everything around you into sharp shadows and glints of sweat. The night air feels heavy, weighed down with exhaustion and adrenaline. You’re already warm from rehearsing with Minho earlier, but now you’re sweating for real—because this is the take. This is where the camera rolls and everyone watches.

Felix steps up beside you in his fight costume, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s already in character. He nudges your shoulder.

“We got this,” he grins. “Let’s go out there and make it look sick.”

You smile, though your jaw is tense. “But let’s try not to actually kill each other, yeah?”

“Deal,” he laughs, and then someone yells from behind the monitor—

“Rolling—aaaand action!”

You spring into motion, but a half-beat too late. Felix’s fist swings, aiming for the air beside your jaw—except you didn’t duck fast enough. Crack. Pain explodes in your face, sudden and sharp. Your head snaps slightly to the side.

There’s a collective gasp from somewhere off-set. Felix immediately breaks character, hands reaching out. “Shit—oh my god, are you okay?”

You blink a few times, teeth gritted, jaw throbbing. You want to say something clever. You want to shrug it off. You don’t want anyone remembering this moment as the time Minho flinched.

“I’m fine,” you say, waving him off with a quick shake of your head. “It’s on me. I was slow.”

Felix frowns but accepts your answer, brushing a bit of dust off your shoulder before giving it a reassuring pat.

“Let’s go again,” he says, voice gentler now but still full of energy. “This time we’ll nail it.”

You nod, and when the AD calls for another take, you plant your feet more firmly. You’re ready this time. No hesitation.

Action.

The fight plays out like choreography this time—fluid, practiced, fast. You slip into the movement like second nature, ducking the fake punches, countering, grappling. You let your body move like it’s meant for this. Because in this moment, it is. You hit the mat exactly where you should. Felix plays his part flawlessly.

“Cut! That was good! Let’s go again—different angle!” Flickerman calls.

Around you, crew members scatter, shifting lights, adjusting sandbags, resetting props. You step off to the side and someone hands you a cold water bottle. You twist it open, take a long sip, and wipe the sweat from your upper lip with the back of your hand.

From behind the camera setup, you spot Minho, standing still amid the movement, watching you. His eyes meet yours. He lifts his hand and gives you a thumbs-up, expression unreadable but steady. You smile, just a small one and then you cap your water bottle.

You’re just about to return to the set when Mr. Kim intercepts your path, stepping in with that quiet presence he always carries—calm, observant, and just a little too perceptive for your comfort.

He’s holding a clipboard, though you’re not convinced he’s looked at it even once. His eyes are on you. Studying. “That last stunt,” he says, nodding back toward the space you just cleared. “It was clean. Technically. But…”

You hold your breath, waiting for him to finish his sentence with so much anticipation. Afraid that he can see right through you that you're just an impostor in Minho’s body.

“There’s a hesitation in your movements,” he continues, his tone not scolding, just... careful. “A pause. Small, but it’s there. Like you’re bracing instead of committing.”

You nod once, slowly, trying not to let it show how tightly his words hook into you. He thinks you’re Minho, of course. Which only makes this harder. Because the concern in his voice isn’t just professional. It’s personal.

“I’m fine,” you say, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll warm up better.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. He just steps forward and gently squeezes your shoulder—steady and firm, grounding. There’s something fatherly about it. Not in the way Flickerman condescends, but in the way people who actually care speak with their hands.

“Take it slowly,” he says.

You nod again but he doesn’t walk away right away. Instead, he lingers for a second longer, eyes softer now, his voice quieter when he adds, “Be gentle with yourself.”

It hits like a ripple in your chest. The words. The tone. The timing. They echo—not from this moment, but from another. From that small, clinical office, with a quiet ticking clock and Dr. Severine’s eyes peering into you the same way Mr. Kim is now.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

It’s not a warning. It’s an invitation. And somehow, that makes it heavier to carry.

You swallow, offer a small thank-you under your breath, and Mr. Kim gives you one last reassuring look before he turns and walks off. You take a moment. Just a beat. One breath in, one breath out. Then you roll your shoulders, shake the nerves out of your limbs, and step back onto set.

You and Felix go over the choreography one last time before cameras roll. The two of you going through the moves and timing and you're thankful you’ve practiced this before with Minho, over and over until your limbs could perform it in your sleep.

You bounce on your toes to loosen your legs. Your knuckles press into your palms to ground yourself. You nod at Felix, who grins and gently knocks his fist against your shoulder. “We got this,” he says, the way he always does before every take. It helps. It really does.

“Rolling,” someone calls out. “Action!”

And then everything kicks in. Your body moves automatically—strike, duck, pivot, grab. It’s all muscle memory now. You follow the flow without thinking. You trust your reflexes, your rehearsal, the weight of the sweat that’s soaked into the collar of your borrowed shirt. But somewhere in the middle of it—right after Felix swings wide and you slip under his arm—your mind flickers.

“Be gentle with yourself.”

The words slip in. Not loud, not jarring. Just enough to pull you inward. Just enough to tilt your awareness away from where it needs to be. You hesitate, not even a full second, but it’s enough to cause you to lose focus.

Felix pushes you—on cue—and you’re supposed to fall to the left, onto a padded mat just out of frame. But your balance is off. Your back foot stutters on the concrete. You twist in the wrong direction. And suddenly—

Your body lurches the other way and your foot misses the edge. There’s no mat waiting on this side. Just cold, unforgiving steps. You don’t even get to scream. Your ribs hit something hard. Your shoulder scrapes the edge. The back of your head smacks concrete.

And then it’s gone. The lights. The noise. Everything. It all collapses into black.

The world filters back in slowly—bright lights, shuffling feet, someone calling your name. No—Minho’s name.

“Minho,” Mr. Kim’s voice breaks through the static, calm but edged with concern. “Can you hear me?”

You force your eyes open. It takes effort, like dragging yourself up from underwater. The night sky blurs into the harsh glow of set lights. Mr. Kim is crouched beside you, eyes scanning your face. Behind him, more figures hover—Felix, pale and wide-eyed, a couple of crew members, and the on-set medic scrambling with a kit.

Then it hits you—what just happened. You were filming. A fight scene. You were supposed to fall left, but you didn’t. You failed to land. You fell the wrong way. Your stomach sinks. The pain hasn't even fully registered yet, but the embarrassment arrives first.

Minho’s body lies here, bruised and scraped and covered in someone else’s mistake. You shoot upright on instinct, teeth clenched against the sharp stab that radiates down your side and up your neck.

“Whoa—slow,” Mr. Kim says quickly, placing a steadying hand on your back as you sway. “Take it easy.”

The touch is gentle. So is the look in his eyes.

Felix crouches closer, guilt all over his face. “I pushed you too hard. I’m so—”

“No,” you interrupt, waving him off with a wince. “It’s not you. I messed up. I… lost my footing.”

“Don’t talk yet,” Mr. Kim says quietly. “Let the medic do his job.”

The medic checks your pupils, starts asking the usual questions. “Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?”

You shake your head, even though every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. “I’m fine. Just sore.”

“You’ve got a cut on your forehead,” the medic mutters. “Nothing deep, but you’ll need to clean it properly. Let’s get you checked.”

You nod and let them help you stand. Your legs ache with every step as they guide you toward the waiting ambulance. The set buzzes behind you—muted voices, equipment being reset, the production trying to keep moving despite the incident.

Mr. Kim trails closely behind. You glance up at him as the medic wipes blood from your temple. “I can keep filming. I’m okay.”

Mr. Kim’s lips twitch into something between a frown and a sigh. “You’re not. Your job’s done for the night and I’ll take you home.”

You hesitate. “I don’t want to hold up the shoot.”

He gives you a look. “The shoot can wait. You can’t.”

You open your mouth to argue, but—

“I can take him,” a voice says from behind him.

You turn your head and spot Minho stepping into the light. He looks calm, collected—even a little tired—but his eyes flick to the scrape on your forehead, and they darken.

Mr. Kim turns, surprised. “But you’re working.”

Minho nods. “It's fine. I wrapped early.”

Mr. Kim looks between the two of you—between Minho and you in Minho’s body—before something in his expression softens. Maybe it’s relief. Maybe it’s something else. He turns back to you and rests a hand on your shoulder again. “Go home. Rest. That’s an order.”

You nod and don’t even try to argue this time because beneath the throbbing pain and the scrape across your cheekbone, you feel something worse. Guilt.

Now you have to go home with the very person whose body you just threw down a flight of stairs. Minho’s hands stay steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, his jaw tense and unmoving. You glance at him from the passenger seat more than once, hoping for some kind of clue—an expression, a twitch, anything—but he gives you nothing. And somehow, that’s worse.

You know he’s saving it, holding it all in until the moment you step through the front door. That silence feels louder than anything he could say.

When you both walk into the apartment and the door shuts behind you with a soft click—the tension settles in with a weight of its own. You don’t wait but decide to be the first to break the suffocating silence.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, spinning to face him. “Minho, I—I really didn’t mean for that to happen. I just got distracted and—God, I know it’s your job to be perfect and professional and I just—”

You keep going, your voice tumbling out too fast, your words a mess of apology and shame.

“I made you look unprepared, and now people are going to think you can’t handle one scene—Mr. Kim looked so disappointed and I swear I’ll make up for it, I’ll do better, I’ll rehearse more—”

Minho doesn’t say a word. Just watches you with that unreadable expression.

Your voice falters. “Can you just… say something? Please?”

But he doesn’t—not in the way you expect. Instead, he takes one step closer. Then he reaches for you, grabs the front of the t-shirt you’re wearing—his shirt, technically—and starts to lift it.

You freeze. “Wait—Minho, I…”

But you don’t stop him. You know you’ve already upset him enough. You know whatever this is, it’s part of the fallout you’ve earned. So you let your arms lift as he let him peel the fabric off and over your head.

It’s only when he pauses, staring down at your torso, that you look too—and you finally see what he sees. Bruises. Large, deep, blossoming purple across your ribcage. Tiny cuts across your shoulder and along your collarbone. You hadn’t even noticed them before but now they sting under the apartment lights, angry and raw. You lower your eyes, ashamed to even be in his skin right now.

Minho lets out a slow breath through his nose. You can’t tell what it means—anger, frustration, restraint—but you follow when he gently nudges you toward one of the chairs by the dining table.

Without complaints, you sit and watch as he leaves to the kitchen without a word, and you hear the clink of cabinet doors opening and closing, the shuffle of supplies. He returns with the first aid kit and sets it on the table with a thud that makes you flinch. He pulls out another chair and sits across from you, knees bumping lightly into yours. You glance up just as he does—and for a split second, your eyes lock.

You look away first but his hand comes up to your chin, firm but not rough. He tilts your face to the side and begins tending to the small cut on your jaw with a Q-tip and ointment. The antiseptic stings. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from wincing. You take it, because maybe you should, because you deserve it.

Minho doesn’t speak. He just works in silence, every movement precise, his touch clinical but not cold. You want to say something. Apologize again. Ask if he’s mad. But you’re too afraid of the answer. So instead, you just sit there, wearing his pain and your guilt like they belong to you now.

Minho dabs at the cut on your jaw with careful hands, but his chest feels like it’s caving in. He sees every bruise, every scrape blooming across his skin—but it’s not his pain he feels. It’s yours. He watches the way you try not to flinch, how you look anywhere but at him. Like you expect him to explode. Like you're waiting for punishment.

It hurts more than he expected it to. Not the injuries. Not the misstep on set. You. You, sitting in his body, trying to hold it together when it’s obvious you’re in pain. Blaming yourself for what happened like you did something unforgivable.

And still—you whisper it again, “I’m sorry,” voice barely audible.

That’s when he breaks and snaps. “Shut up.”

The words come out sharper than he means them to. He sees it hit you immediately—your eyes snap wide open in alarm, and your lips clamp shut like a switch has been flipped.

He swallows hard, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m not—God, I’m not mad because you got injured.”

You blink at him, confused as Minho sighs, chest heavy, voice rising with frustration. “I’ve gotten injured before. I’ve had worse. That’s not the point.”

Your brows furrow, searching his face like there’s something you’re not understanding.

He leans back slightly, exhales hard through his nose, then points to you—himself. “I’m mad because you’re not me. You’re not supposed to take the fall. You’re not trained for this. And you got hurt. Badly. And it could’ve been worse.”

His throat feels tight all of a sudden. Words catching. He shakes his head and bites back the rest, overwhelmed.

You look at him then—really look at him—and your voice comes out small. “So… you’re not mad I messed up the stunt? You’re… worried?”

He hates how earnest that sounds. How surprised you are by it. But he nods anyway. “Of course, I’m worried.”

Something in your expression softens—like the ground under your feet finally settles—and Minho doesn’t give himself another second to think. As if he needs to prove he meant his words, he leans in. His hand finds your jaw, the one he just tended to, gentle even in its urgency and as innocent as it sounds, he presses his lips against yours. Not out of impulse. Not for show. But because he wants to. Needs to. Because his heart’s been banging at the walls of his chest since he saw you hit the ground, and now that you’re here, hurt and safe and sitting in front of him—he can’t hold it back.

You’re stiff for a moment, caught off guard, but then you melt into him. Your mouth moves against his with something deeper than want. Something raw. Real.

And then you yelp.

Minho jerks back almost immediately. “What—?”

Your hand flies to your jaw and you wince.

“I—I... uhm,” you mumble, pressing gently into the skin. “I accidentally took a punch from Felix in the first take.”

Minho just stares at you and then he lets out a scoff that turns into a short laugh as he leans back in his chair.

“Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I knew.”

Minho pulls open the fridge and grabs the coldest can of soda he can find. When he returns, you’re still sitting obediently at the table, hunched slightly like you’re bracing for another lecture.

“Here,” he says, nudging the can into your hand.

You look up at him in surprise, but you take it, pressing the cold aluminum carefully against your jaw with a tiny wince.

Minho sits down again and grabs a fresh Q-tip, continues to tend to the scrape under your chin. The skin’s red, slightly raw, but he’s gentle with it. Too gentle, maybe. Like touching it any harder will make the whole thing worse.

“What happened?” he asks softly. “You’ve practiced the scene enough. It’s basically muscle memory now.”

You go quiet but he can tell you’re debating how much to tell him. “I… lost focus,” you admit after a beat. “Just for a second.”

He doesn’t push. Just dabs the ointment in slow circles, waiting. Then finally, you say it. “Mr. Kim took me to your appointment.”

Minho’s hand stills. Just for a second. A beat skips in his chest like someone punched through his ribcage. But then he moves again, keeping his fingers steady as if nothing happened. “Oh.”

“He insisted,” you rush out. “I—I didn’t even know where we were going until we got there. I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear.”

He nods once, still avoiding your eyes.

“I know about the accident,” you say gently, like the words themselves might spook him. And they kind of do.

Minho places the Q-tip down on the table, then closes the ointment lid. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even look at you. He feels...bare. Unzipped. Like someone’s peeled back his skin and left him there for you to see everything underneath. He thought he could pretend. Thought he could stay in control. But you know now. You know. And somehow, the silence becomes heavier than anything else in the room.

But then your voice cuts through it—soft, steady. “I won’t tell anyone. And you don’t have to tell me anything about it either. I just… I needed to be honest with you. That’s all.”

Minho finally looks up. There’s no judgment in your eyes. No pity either. Just that same strange warmth that’s been growing between you since this all started—something he doesn’t know what to name, but feels frighteningly close to trust.

Suddenly, he gets it. Why you asked him, not long ago, if he was ready to come back. You weren’t just asking for logistics. You were asking if he was ready to return to this version of himself—the one who’s still scared. Still healing. Still learning how to face the water, and everything beneath it. His throat tightens, but he doesn’t say anything yet. He just nods. Quiet. Grateful. Exposed. And for once, not ashamed.

Minho thinks that’s it. That the worst of the conversation has passed—until you speak again, your voice hesitant but sure.

“And I know about the upcoming underwater stunt.”

Minho’s head lifts slowly, his eyes narrowing—not from anger, but from the slow, heavy realization that you’ve seen deeper into him than he expected.

And then you go and say the most absurd thing. “I can do it for you,” you offer, like it’s obvious. Like it’s a solution instead of another disaster waiting to happen.

Minho shakes his head immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

You lean forward, earnest. “I can do it, Minho. I’m not just saying that—I was on the swim team in high school. I’m a good swimmer, I swear. I’ve done some underwater shots before, I know how to hold my breath, and I—”

He holds up a hand, and you stop mid-sentence, lips still parted like you’re afraid he’s going to yell at you. But he doesn’t. His voice is soft—firmer now, but not harsh.

“That’s not your job,” he says. “It’s mine. I’m the one who signed up for it. I’m the one who’s supposed to do it.”

You open your mouth again, stubborn as ever, but Minho doesn’t give you the chance. He lifts your hand with the can of soda and presses it back to your jaw—gently, but pointedly. The cold metal makes you flinch slightly. His gaze locks with yours, unflinching.

“This isn’t up for debate,” he says, low and clear. “We need to switch back. Immediately.”

There’s a weight to his voice now that hadn’t been there before—something final, something quietly desperate. Because it’s not just about the stunt anymore. It’s about you. It’s about how close he came to losing you tonight—how easily it could happen again. He can’t let that happen. Not in his body. Not in any body. And especially not because you were trying to protect him.

You look at Minho—really look at him—and for the first time, you understand. Why he’s been so insistent about switching back. Why he’s been pushing for it harder since the accident. It’s not because he’s mad you got hurt or because you fumbled a scene and made him look unprofessional.

It’s because he’s scared.

Because this—doing his job, living his life—it’s not yours to carry. And if anything worse happened to you while carrying it, it’d break him in ways you’re not sure even he understands yet.

Your arms wrap around your body almost reflexively at the realization, like you’re trying to shield yourself from the direction this is going. Your voice trips out before you can stop it.

“I—I can’t have sex right now.”

Minho pauses mid-turn, blinking. “What?”

You cringe, face heating. “I mean, you’re probably thinking about doing the magic… switchy sex thing again, right? And I just—my body hurts. That’s all.”

His brow lifts and then—That smirk. That wicked yet attractive smirk. “Did you think I was gonna jump you just now?” he teases, stepping toward the kitchen.

You try to hold it together, to act unbothered, but your mouth flounders for something—anything—to say. “No! I just meant—it’s not a good time! I’m sore, and… I fell down the stairs, Minho.”

He chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm as he puts the first aid kit back into the cabinet. “Okay, okay,” he says easily. “Not tonight.”

You exhale, shoulders relaxing a little but then, just as you think it’s over—

“Maybe I’ll try again in the morning,” he says over his shoulder, casual as ever. “You know. Since you’re always the one waking up with morning wood.”

You groan, flustered and defeated, smacking your palm to your forehead. “Oh my god, shut up—”

Except your jaw shifts with the movement and pain flares, sharp and instant. You yelp, hand flying to your face as your eyes water.

Minho’s teasing expression drops in an instant. “Hey, hey—careful,” he says, already stepping closer. “Don’t make me tape your mouth shut.”

The moment Minho turns around, you throw your shirt back on like your life depends on it. Your muscles protest with every movement, your ribs ache, your jaw throbs—but modesty (or panic) wins out over pain.

Minho approaches you, and you instinctively hold both hands up like he’s a threat. “Wait—hold on, wait—”

He stops in his tracks, raising an eyebrow. “Relax,” he says, clearly amused. He lifts his hand, revealing a small bottle. “It’s just liniment. For your shoulders.”

You blink. “Oh.”

But you still take a step back. Just in case.

Minho tilts his head, a little smile creeping onto his face as he eyes your fumbling. “What, you think I’m gonna tackle you?”

“No,” you blurt. “But I think—before we do anything else—we need to make an agreement.”

That gets his attention. His smile fades into a curious expression. “What kind of agreement?”

You straighten up, ignoring the burning in your ribs. “I’ll only do the sex magic thingy under one condition.”

Minho’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Which is?”

“You have to let me help train you for the underwater stunt.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Minho actually scoffs. Almost sarcastically. “You want to train me? I’m the one with a decade of experience.”

“Yeah, but I’m better in the water than you,” you say confidently, arms crossing despite the protest from your bruised body. “I was on the swim team in high school.”

Minho stares at you, completely silent now. His gaze lingers, calculating. You can’t tell if he’s offended or impressed—or both. Then, finally, he exhales and gives a small, almost reluctant nod. “Fine.”

You blink. “Really?”

“But—” he holds up a finger, “you’re not allowed to do anything reckless.”

“Deal. But also—no sex,” you say firmly, pointing at him. “None. Of any kind. Until I say we’re ready.”

Minho grins at that, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should. “Wow. You drive a hard bargain.”

You extend your hand, and after a short pause, he takes it. His palm is warm against yours. His fingers curl tight. And just like that, the deal is sealed.

After a while, you start to pull your hand away, but Minho grips it tighter—and before you can react, he yanks you forward. You stumble right into him, your chest bumping lightly into his. His face is just inches from yours now, eyes glinting with mischief.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just smirks. Then, low and teasing, he murmurs, “I can’t wait.”

You open your mouth to scoff but it catches in your throat—probably because your brain short-circuits the second he looks at you like that. Instead, you sputter something unintelligible, awkwardly shove at his chest, and bolt.

“I'm going to bed!” you call over your shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

You hear his quiet laugh behind you and you don’t want to give him the satisfaction by looking back. God, you hate him. Wait— Are you really?

The morning light slips through the crack between the curtains, casting a soft glow across your sleeping face.

Minho leans quietly against the doorframe, arms folded, just watching you. Your mouth is slightly parted. One arm is tucked under the pillow, the other sprawled across the bed. Even in sleep, you look sore—your brows faintly drawn, your breathing just a bit uneven.

He exhales through his nose. You look wrecked. Because of him.

Mr. Kim had insisted you take the day off. "Make sure he rests," he'd said on the phone call—not even knowing it wasn’t him in his own body.

So now, Minho stands there, caught between guilt and gratitude. Grateful you’re safe. Guilty you ever had to be in danger at all.

He checks the time and you should be up. But he can’t do it—not when you’re sleeping so soundly for the first time since the accident. “…Just rest,” he murmurs under his breath, barely audible.

Minho steps back and gently closes the bedroom door until it clicks shut. Then he grabs your bag, slings your coat over his arm, and walks out the door— Off to do your job for the day.

At the movie set, Minho wipes sweat off his brow with the hem of your hoodie, squinting toward the lighting rig someone’s adjusting above the set. Your clipboard is tucked under his arm, headset looped around his neck, and he’s half-listening to two crew members arguing over prop continuity when your name lights up his phone. He sighs, already bracing himself, and picks up.

“You didn’t wake me up!”

Minho pulls the phone slightly away from his ear at your sharp voice. “Good morning to you too,” he mutters, earning a few amused glances from nearby.

“You were supposed to wake me up for work! We had a deal, Minho!”

He rolls his eyes. “Relax,” he says, cutting you off before you wind yourself up further. “Mr. Kim told me to. He said you’re resting today.”

You go silent.

“And,” he adds smugly, “I’m doing your job just fine. Everyone’s still alive. No sets have burned down. You can stop worrying.”

He can hear you hesitate, like you’re trying to come up with something to nitpick. Minho smirks to himself. Before you find anything to say, he chuckles and cuts in, “I’m busy working, by the way.” And hangs up.

Sliding the phone back into his jeans pocket, he’s still smiling when a voice pipes up beside him. “Was that your boyfriend or something?”

Minho looks up—Felix is watching him with a sly little grin, head tilted, arms crossed. He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

Felix shrugs. “You looked stupidly happy.”

Minho lets out a scoff. “You’re imagining things.”

But he glances at Felix again, more pointedly this time. It’s been on his mind since the body swap. Felix has always been friendly to you—overly so sometimes. And now Minho’s seeing it from the inside, he’s starting to wonder…

With a tone that teeters between playful and serious, Minho asks, “Do you perhaps... like me, Felix?”

Felix blinks, caught off guard, then laughs. “Wow. Straight to the point, huh?”

Minho stares, unflinching. A faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Felix’s grin grows. He steps closer, leans in a little. “And what if I do?”

Minho’s jaw ticks, just slightly.

Felix leans back with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “What are you gonna do about it, huh?”

With that, he turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, that damn sunshine smile still lingering behind him.

Minho stays rooted to the spot, lips pursed, brows drawn. So Felix really does like you. And the strange twist in his chest isn’t confusion. It’s something else entirely. Something harder to ignore.

The midday sun is harsh, the gravel crunching under his boots, and there’s a hint of sweat gathering at his collar. Compared to the usual hustle and bustle of the movie set, today is a slow day because filming is going to move to a new location.

Minho walks with steady steps toward Flickerman’s trailer, the clipboard tucked securely under his arm with the new schedules and updates. He’s halfway rehearsing what to say—something efficient, professional—when the AD steps out from behind the grip truck and intercepts him.

“Hey,” the AD says, a little out of breath. “Flickerman’s still on a call with the execs. Just give me the updates, I’ll hand them off.”

“Sure. Here.” He passes the clipboard over without question, grateful to avoid another round of Flickerman’s long-winded tangents.

The AD flips through the papers, gives Minho a nod. “You’ve done enough today. You can head out early.”

Minho doesn’t argue. “Cool,” he says, already turning to leave.

As he walks toward the parking lot, his eyes wander toward the craft service table—what’s left of it. Most of it has been raided by the crew, but there, almost absurdly untouched, is a neatly boxed set of donuts. Bright pink box. Still sealed. He slows, something like amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Of course, he thinks. You’d lose your mind over these.

Without even pretending to hesitate, Minho picks up the box and tucks it under his arm, carrying it like a small, ridiculous trophy. He doesn’t know what you’ve eaten today. He doesn’t even know if you can chew properly with your sore jaw. But still. He’s bringing you donuts.

You press the wet corner of a towel gently against your forehead, dabbing away the faint trace of dried blood. The bathroom light is harsh and cold, but it makes the cut easier to see. You lift your head slowly, eyes meeting the mirror—and for a moment, the breath catches in your throat.

It’s not your face staring back. It’s Minho’s.

Bruises bloom across his collarbone and shoulder, the edge of a cut still healing on his jaw. Faint scrapes. Purple smudges on his ribs you hadn’t noticed until now. You trace your gaze across the damage, taking in the details like you’re seeing it for the first time. And maybe… maybe you are.

You realize something that knots your stomach: all this time, you’ve been careful—yes—but not because you truly respected this body. You’ve been careful because you didn’t want to get scolded. Because you didn’t want to screw up. Because you didn’t want to face the shame of breaking something that wasn’t yours.

But this? This is more than just a borrowed vessel. It’s Minho’s. It’s the body that danced across years of hard-earned muscle memory, that survived an accident and still showed up to work, that’s quietly been holding his fears and his strength and his pain.

You look again, more intentionally this time. His body is toned, sculpted with discipline—earned. It’s all so distinctively him, and the thought makes your chest tighten with something like guilt. You reach for the ointment and apply it more gently this time to your forehead, then carefully press a fresh bandage over the cut.

You take another breath, then one more look in the mirror. “I’ll be better,” you murmur, not to yourself, but to him—even if he can’t hear it right now.

Then, the sound of the front door opening jolts you from your thoughts. You scramble to grab a t-shirt, tugging it over your head quickly and stepping out into the hallway.

Minho steps in like he’s just returned from a café run, not a film set. His jeans are dusty, and the collar of your shirt—his now—sits loosely around his neck. But it’s the smile on his face that throws you off. Relaxed. Amused. He looks strangely in a good mood.

When his eyes find you standing in the hall, he grins wider. “I bring you two things that will make you very happy.”

You blink, confused. “Two?”

Minho lifts one arm. “First—” He holds up the pink box in triumph. “—donuts.”

Your stomach growls at the sight, almost on cue. “And the second?” you ask slowly, squinting at him.

He shrugs, already kicking off his shoes. “Me, obviously.”

You roll your eyes at his smug face, his lopsided grin practically asking for a sarcastic comment. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter as you step forward to take the box from his hand.

Minho holds it out proudly like it’s a peace offering. “Come on, you know you want it. Pink box. Slightly warm. Lots of icing sugar.”

You glance down at it. Your mouth waters immediately, but your body tenses too. Not because you don’t want it. You do. But you remember what you told yourself just minutes ago in the bathroom—that this isn’t your body, and you haven’t been treating it with the care it deserves. Also— What if it’s a test? What if he’s trying to see if you’ll just dive back into thoughtless habits?

So instead of grabbing a donut like your instincts scream at you to do, you step around him and place the box neatly on the kitchen counter. You don’t even peek inside.

Minho blinks. “Hey. Aren’t you going to have one?”

You shake your head. “Later.”

He frowns, just slightly. “What, are you full from the air you’ve been eating all day?”

You suppress the smile creeping on your lips. “I said later, Minho.”

There’s a flash of disappointment on his face. He was expecting some kind of donut-induced praise or reaction. Or maybe he really just wanted to feed you something sweet for once. But you stay firm, because this is bigger than donuts.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to push again—but you cut in, clapping your hands once.

“You're home early. That's good. Now, go get changed.”

Minho squints at you. “Changed?”

You cross your arms, letting a sly smirk pull at your lips. “Your training for the underwater stunt starts tonight.”

His whole expression shifts. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

Minho’s eyes narrow like he’s gauging how far you’ll actually take this, but you can see the gears turning in his head.

“…Now?” he asks, cautiously.

You grin wider. “Yes. Now.”

Minho follows close behind as you lead the way down a dim hallway, passing the familiar silence of late-night apartment stillness. You stop at a door marked FACILITY ACCESS ONLY, punch in a code, and pull out a key like it’s nothing.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “You have keys to the pool? Should I be concerned?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder but say nothing as you turn the lock.

“Wait—” he grins, “did you date one of the security guys or something?”

You scowl as the door clicks open. “Unlike you,” you say dryly, “people like me because I’m kind. I don’t have to flirt my way into everything.”

Minho scoffs. “Kindness, huh? That’s what we’re calling your passive-aggressive death glares now?”

You ignore him, pushing the heavy door open. The scent hits him immediately—chlorine and faint humidity—and Minho steps inside, the soles of his sneakers squeaking softly against the tile.

The room glows with the faint blue light cast from underwater lamps. The surface of the pool is still and glassy, undisturbed, mirroring the tiled ceiling above. It’s quiet, almost serene. Peaceful. And surprisingly… he doesn’t tense.

No cold sweat creeps up his neck. No pounding heart. The usual pressure in his chest that arrives uninvited every time he sees open water isn’t there—at least not yet. The water is calm. Contained. Almost inviting.

Minho’s shoulders ease a bit. That should be a good sign. Right?

He glances at you as you toss a towel down on a bench and kick off your shoes with purpose. There’s a quiet determination in your movements, like you’ve already decided this is going to work. Like you already believe he can do it.

Minho stands stiffly near the bench, arms loosely at his sides, completely unsure what to do with them. He watches as you methodically stretch—neck rolls, shoulder rotations, a quick shake of your arms like a seasoned athlete—and it hits him that you’ve probably done this a thousand times before.

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you casually pull off your T-shirt, revealing the lean strength of his body underneath. The bruises are still faintly visible along your ribs and shoulders, reminders of yesterday’s fall.

Minho clears his throat, masking his sudden nervousness with a smirk. “Wow,” he says, lifting his brows. “You’re getting pretty comfortable flashing my hot body around, huh?”

You glance over your shoulder, clearly unimpressed. “Shut up,” you deadpan, before pointing at him. “You start warming up. I’m taking a lap.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles, rolling his shoulders in a half-hearted circle. He starts mimicking your earlier stretches—stretching your arms, bending side to side—still distracted by the echo of his own voice coming out of your mouth.

From the corner of his eye, he sees you walk to the edge of the pool, crouch, and with a clean, fluid motion, dive in. The splash is minimal. You cut through the surface with practiced ease, gliding underwater in long, controlled strokes. No panic. No hesitation. Just motion.

Minho slows his stretch as he watches your form ripple beneath the water. There’s something almost eerie about it—how natural you look in his body, in a place where he’s always felt so unnatural. And for a moment… it soothes him.

The water doesn’t look so scary from here. Contained. Predictable. You’re swimming effortlessly—he’s swimming effortlessly.

It’s just water, Minho tells himself, pressing his palm down his thigh in another stretch. I can handle this.

Minho continues to watch as you cut through the water effortlessly, gliding back toward him. The water clings to every line of his body—your body—as you reach the edge and emerge. Droplets cascade down your face, catching the soft blue light of the room, and for a split second, Minho forgets how to breathe—not out of panic, but awe.

You push your wet hair back and look up at him. “Ready to get in?”

He swallows hard and steps forward until his toes are hanging over the edge. The water laps quietly against the tiles below. So still. So calm. It almost doesn’t feel like the thing that’s haunted him.

You float easily beside the edge, looking up at him with patience. “Take your time.”

But Minho thinks he’s ready. He has to be ready.

Without answering, he tugs the hoodie over his head and tosses it aside. His denim shorts come off next, leaving him in your swimsuit that he found in the back of your underwear drawer. He walks slowly to the deep end, where the water looks darker. Deeper. A different kind of still.

You’re waiting for him. Your—his—face open, calm, trusting.

“I’ll be here,” you tell him gently. “I’ll catch you if anything happens.”

Minho gives a tight nod. It’s just water. It’s just water. He sucks in a breath, plants his feet firmly on the edge, and jumps. The water swallows him whole and all of a sudden, it’s not the pool anymore.

It’s the car. It’s the river. It’s the sound of glass cracking under pressure and cold rushing in through broken seams. It’s the seatbelt that wouldn’t unclick. It’s his friend pounding the window, panicking, stuck—stuck—and Minho running out of air as he tried to reach for him.

The cold presses in like it wants to crush his chest. His limbs thrash. He's kicking the water but he can’t find the surface. Instead, he’s sinking deeper and deeper. The fear wraps around him like a fist.

Then—arms. Around his chest. Pulling. Breaking the memory’s grip. Pulling him up. And suddenly, he’s gasping, coughing, as air hits his face and your arms tighten around his chest, holding him steady above the water. Minho clings to you with a strength born of terror, his entire body shaking.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, your mouth near his ear. “You’re safe. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Minho breathes raggedly against your shoulder, still clutching you like you’re the only solid thing in the world. And he realizes—his fear isn’t gone. Not even close. It’s worse than he thought.

The apartment is quiet—too quiet—and it’s driving you out of your mind. You stand outside the bedroom door, arms folded tightly over your chest, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You’ve been standing there for ten minutes now. Behind that door, Minho hasn’t made a sound since he disappeared into the room, towel wrapped around his shoulders and silence wrapped even tighter around him.

You’ve been thinking about knocking. You lift your hand—then drop it. Again. You feel awful. You didn’t mean for this to happen. The water was supposed to help. You were trying to help. But now… now you can’t unsee the way he looked at you when you pulled him out of the pool. His body shaking so hard it rattled through your bones. His grip on you like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his eyes—wide, distant, full of something far beyond fear. Something deeper. Raw.

You’ve seen Minho angry, smug, even vulnerable—but not like that. Not this version of him. Not broken. And the worst part is that you’re the one who asked him to get in.

You sigh and lean your forehead against the wall beside the door, guilt gnawing at your insides. You just wanted to help him. You didn’t realize what it would stir up. Maybe you should have realized. Maybe you pushed too hard.

You raise your hand again. This time, you don’t drop it. You hesitate but then, you knock on the door. Soft. Careful. Like you’re afraid the sound alone might break him further.

“…Minho?” you call quietly. “Can I come in?”

You hear him faintly responding. “Yeah.”

You open the door slowly, the faint creak of its hinges sounding louder than you expect in the quiet apartment. You linger by the doorway, eyes scanning the room until you find him—Minho, sitting at the edge of the bed, towel draped around his shoulders as he slowly dries his—your—hair. His back is to you. His posture is hunched slightly, as though the weight of everything still hasn’t left his body.

You swallow, keeping your voice low. “Hey…”

No response.

You try again, softer this time. “Are you… okay?”

A beat passes. Two. Then, finally— “Yeah,” he says, his voice low and distant. “I’m okay.”

It’s not convincing but you don’t push. You can’t. Not after earlier. So instead, you nod, even though he can’t see it.

“Okay,” you say gently. “Well… you can take the bedroom tonight.”

You take a step back, your hand finding the doorknob, ready to pull it shut behind you—

But then Minho speaks again. “You don’t have to. We can… share the bed.”

For a second, your brain short-circuits—not because you think he means that. That he'd be using this opportunity for the magic sex cure thing. You know he doesn’t. At least, not tonight. Not after what happened.

You look at him—his back still to you, towel still in hand, movements slower now. You understand that maybe he’s not asking to be close, but he’s asking not to be alone.

You step fully inside the room and nod. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

Minho lies on his side, facing the edge of the bed, a good stretch of mattress and blanket between the two of you. The room is quiet, the air thick with unspoken words and the soft whir of the ceiling fan. It's dark—comfortingly so. In the dark, no one can see how tightly he’s wound beneath the covers. In the dark, he can pretend he's okay.

But he knows you’re still awake. He can feel it in the way your breathing is a little too measured, too careful, like you’re trying not to disturb the silence but also trying not to fall asleep.

Then, your voice breaks through. Soft, hesitant.

“…I’m sorry.”

Minho blinks slowly, eyes fixed on the shadows across the wall.

“I thought I could help,” you continue. “Thought I could train you, push you past it, but… I was wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t think—”

You pause and then he hears you shift slightly, turning your head. “I’m really sorry, Minho.”

In the darkness, something inside him softens. And strangely, it's the silence that gives him the space to speak.

“It’s okay,” he says. Then, after a moment, “I should’ve known better too.”

He draws a breath, steadying himself, feeling how his chest still tightens a little like he's underwater. “I thought I was ready. But the second I hit the water…”

He swallows, blinking hard even though there's nothing to see. “It took me back. To that day. In the car. The sound of the windows cracking. The water flooding in so fast I didn’t have time to think. I remember—I remember the seatbelt wouldn’t budge. I was kicking at it, panicking… thinking this is it.”

His voice dips lower as he continues. “And then he got me out. My friend. He freed me. But he was still stuck. His foot… it wouldn’t come loose. I tried, I really tried, but…”

Minho trails off. His hands curl into fists beneath the blanket. “I was already out of breath. I could barely see. I swam up without him.”

He closes his eyes. And it’s like the memory plays again in full color, full sound, inside the dark behind his lids. “He didn’t make it.”

The room is quiet again, only the sound of the fan ticking and the sound of his pulse thudding in his ears. His eyelids flutter. His throat tightens. He doesn't cry—but the fear, the guilt, the weight of it… it's all still there, wrapped around him like water he hasn’t escaped yet.

And still, somehow, saying it aloud in the dark—feels like the start of learning how to breathe again. “I could’ve gone back,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve gone back.”

His knuckles ache from how tightly his fists are clenched under the blanket.

“I was out, I could breathe again. But I didn’t dive back down.” His voice trembles now. “I was scared. I knew I couldn’t hold my breath long enough again, but—what kind of coward doesn’t even try?”

He blinks rapidly, eyes burning even though no tears fall. “He was the better one. Kinder. Smarter. He should’ve been the one to live, not me.”

He shuts his eyes tight, like he can keep the pain from spilling out by sheer force. But it doesn’t work. The words have left a crack in him, and everything is pouring through.

Then—your hand finds his. Warm. Gentle. Real. You wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, grounding him back into the present.

“Minho…” Your voice is soft but firm. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. But he doesn’t pull away either.

“You didn’t choose what happened,” you continue. “No one could’ve predicted it. You tried. You did. And it was terrifying and impossible and unfair. But it’s not your fault.”

Minho swallows hard, his throat aching.

“I should’ve been braver,” he says, and this time his voice breaks. “I should’ve been the one to die.”

You grip his hand tighter, refusing to let that sit in the silence. “Hey! No. Don’t say that.”

Your voice is fiercer now, shaky but certain. “Don’t you ever say that.”

You shift closer, just enough that your presence reaches him even through the dark. “The fact that you’re still here, breathing, trying—hurting like this—it proves you deserve to live. You didn’t run away from what happened. You carry it. Every day. That doesn’t make you less. That makes you… human.”

Minho doesn’t respond, not right away. He just lies there, listening to the sound of your breath. Feeling the way your fingers are still holding his.

Then, quieter than before, you ask, “If it were the other way around… if you died, and your friend lived, but he carried all this guilt with him… would you want that for him?”

Minho’s breath hitches. Would he? Would he want his friend to live like this, buried in pain, drowning in guilt?

He doesn’t answer. He just holds your hand. Holds onto it like it’s keeping him above water.

The train ride is long but quiet, the rhythmic rattle of the tracks lulling you into a stillness that feels almost meditative. When you step off at the small-town station, the air smells different—cleaner, lighter, and edged with something earthy, like pine and damp soil. You stretch your limbs as Mr. Kim begins ushering the group of stuntmen toward the waiting cars outside.

The drive is short, no more than twenty minutes, but you spend it gazing out the window. The town is sleepy, with narrow streets and small shops lining the sidewalks, all tucked into the surrounding hills. The change of scenery feels good. Needed, even. Like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding finally let go.

The car stops in front of a weathered little motel—low-roofed, sun-faded, but clean. You already knew this was the only accommodation close to the new filming location, and most of the movie staff is staying here too. Still, the quiet around it is comforting. A break from the usual chaos of the city sets.

You’re handed a room key without much fanfare. You thank the clerk, mumble a tired goodbye to the others, and head straight to your assigned room. It’s on the second floor, tucked into a corner with a window that overlooks a modest stretch of trees and the curve of the distant hills.

Inside, the room is small but neat. A queen bed, a dresser, a chair near the window, and a little desk in the corner. You drop your bag on the chair and sigh as you roll your shoulders. For a brief moment, the thought of throwing yourself onto the bed is tempting.

But then—knock knock.

You freeze, hand hovering above your hoodie zipper. Walking to the door, you open it slowly. Mr. Kim stands there, still in his jacket, still with that composed, unreadable look on his face.

“Hey,” you say.

He gives you a small nod. “Just checking in.”

You step aside instinctively, gesturing for him to come in, but he shakes his head. “No need. Just wanted to make sure you’re settled in all right.”

“I am.” You nod. “Thanks for asking.”

There’s a flicker in his expression. Like he’s searching your face for something—confirmation, maybe. A sign. A crack. You can tell he has more on his mind than just accommodations. Something heavier lingers between the words, but he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push.

“I’m just going to rest for a bit,” you say gently. “It’s been… a long week.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer. Then he nods again. “Good. Do that.”

With that, he turns and walks back down the walkway, his steps even and measured. You watch him go, your hand still resting on the doorknob. A thought itches at the back of your mind and refuses to go away.

How much does he know? About Minho. About the trauma he carries. About what he’s been hiding behind that sarcasm and practiced perfection. You step back into the room and close the door slowly behind you. You finally let yourself collapse onto the edge of the bed, sighing as the mattress dips beneath you. Your body feels like it's vibrating with residual tension from the three hours long of train ride, from holding in thoughts, from Mr. Kim’s quiet concern still echoing in your chest.

However, as you’re about to lie back and close your eyes— Knock knock.

You groan into your hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dragging yourself off the bed, you shuffle toward the door, already muttering under your breath. You yank it open, fully prepared to snap—but stop short when you’re met with your face grinning back at you from the hallway.

Minho—you—leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, his head tilted as his eyes sweep lazily around your room. “Cozy,” he muses, clearly amused.

You squint at him. “Let me guess. You’re staying at a hotel with a view and room service?”

Minho snorts. “I wish. It’s a bed and breakfast. I’m sharing a bathroom with Rhonda from wardrobe.”

You blink, then grin. “Well. That sounds exactly like what the AD would assign. I bet she’s already made a shrine of you in there.”

He rolls his eyes. “She offered me organic shampoo. Lavender-something. I’m traumatized.”

You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, mirroring him. “Why are you here?”

Minho shrugs. “Just checking in.”

The way he says it so casually almost makes you scoff. Checking in? He was the one who had a freak out in the pool the other night. The one who held onto you like his whole body was unraveling.

You almost ask—Are you okay now? But before you can say anything, Minho’s—your—phone rings shrilly, slicing through the moment.

Minho doesn’t even hesitate. He picks up the phone, and presses it to his ear. His expression immediately drops into exaggerated boredom as whoever’s on the other end starts talking. His eyes roll so hard you’re convinced he can see his own brain. “Yes… mmhmm… yeah, I got it. On my way.”

He hangs up dramatically and turns to you, pointing a finger. “Duty calls. Your very boring job awaits.”

You smirk. “Have fun.”

“I won’t,” he says with all the theatrical despair in the world.

“I’m going to lie down and do absolutely nothing,” you tease, stretching your arms high overhead in a show of relaxed bliss.

He groans loudly and stomps his feet in protest like a child, grumbling under his breath as he heads back toward the hallway. “Unbelievable. I should be the one resting.”

You just laugh. “You’ll live.”

Minho turns halfway, walking backward now with that stupid grin still tugging at your—his—mouth. “Unfortunately.”

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing in the doorway smiling to yourself before finally closing the door behind him. This time, when you lie down, you actually let yourself rest.

The air smells like fresh paint and sawdust, the set still half-built, buzzing with energy as crew members move like ants around him. Minho has barely had a minute to breathe since he got to the new filming location. He’s already gone over the location safety, walked the perimeter with the AD, triple-checked the new lighting rig schedule, and now he’s trying to finish filling out the stunt schedule checklist on the clipboard in his hand. He’s mid-sentence explaining something to one of the camera rig guys when someone from the props team waves him over.

“Hey! We need you for a second!”

Minho nods, mutters a quick “Be right back,” and jogs toward the prop storage room—one of the only enclosed places in this otherwise chaotic outdoor lot.

The second he pushes open the heavy door, the air shifts—dusty, dim, and colder than outside. The room is massive, metal shelves lined with rubber weapons, breakaway furniture, mock explosives. At the far end, two cars sit under sheets. One of the prop crew pulls the cover off the first one with a dramatic flourish.

“These are the two options for the underwater scene. We need to confirm which one’s getting rigged for submersion.”

The words hit Minho like a brick. Underwater scene. It’s as if the walls narrow around him. His breath shortens.

The cars sit there innocently, old sedans stripped and prepared for modifications. But the shape, the interior, the weight of them—it all slams into his chest like a memory. His hand tightens slightly on the clipboard as he steps forward.

Don’t think. Don’t feel.

“Both models are almost identical,” the prop guy continues, walking around them. “We just need a decision so the effects team can get started on sealing and rigging. Flickerman wants realism—cracked windows, pressure build, the works.”

Minho doesn’t trust his voice for a second, so he nods instead, jotting down a note on his clipboard. His fingers clench the pen a little too tightly. Car for underwater scene – confirm w/ Flickerman. Breathe. Breathe.

He forces himself to write it down with steady strokes even though his palm feels slick. His eyes lift one more time to the cars. They don’t look dangerous. Not yet. But just the sight of them makes him want to be anywhere else.

He draws in a slow, shallow breath through his nose and turns briskly toward the door, holding the clipboard to his chest like a shield. There’s still too much to do today.

Minho’s on his way to find Flickerman to report, clipboard in hand, rehearsing the list of notes he needs to report about the car props. But just as he rounds the corner past the catering tent, the Assistant Director comes barreling toward him like a man on a mission.

“Hey!” the AD barks.

Minho stops in his tracks, startled. “Yeah?”

“Stop whatever you're doing. I need you to get Felix. Now.”

Minho blinks. “From the airstrip?”

“Yes,” the AD snaps. “Flickerman needs him on set in fifteen minutes.”

Minho glances down at his watch. “I can call a driver—”

“No, you go. Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be faster with someone who’s, I don’t know, trained to drive like hell through a dirt town?”

The AD grabs his arm and yanks him to the side, lowering his voice but raising the stakes. “Listen. Flickerman’s waiting on Felix to rehearse the next sequence, and if he doesn’t show up on time, he’s going to blow. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen him lose it, but if he does, it won’t just be Felix who’s in trouble. It’ll be all of us. You included.”

Minho stares at him, the seriousness in the AD’s face draining any protest left in his chest. He swallows hard as all he can think about is your rule about not getting fired from each other’s jobs.

“Fifteen minutes?” he asks.

“Fourteen now,” the AD says grimly, already turning away.

Minho huffs and spins around, muttering, “Great. No pressure,” under his breath. He starts pacing toward the edge of the lot, his brain moving as fast as his legs. How the hell is he going to cut a 30-minute drive down to half the time?

He rounds the corner near the prop storage again, and something catches his eye through the half-open rolling door. A sleek black motorcycle, parked near the wall with a helmet hanging off the handlebar.

He stops. Looks at it. And then he grins. “Of course.”

With no hesitation, he strides toward it, tossing his clipboard to a nearby intern as he snatches the helmet in one hand. He mutters to himself, “You’re welcome, Felix,” as he swings one leg over the bike and kickstarts the engine.

The roar of it echoes through the lot. Minho revs it once for good measure before speeding off the lot.

The tires screech just slightly as Minho pulls up to the airstrip, kicking up dust as he slows the motorcycle to a hard stop near the small tarmac where Felix is just stepping off the private charter plane, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

Felix squints at the sight of the motorcycle rolling to a halt—at the sight of you on the motorcycle—and his brow furrows in confusion.

Minho pulls off the helmet, hair a wind-tossed mess as he swings his leg down and plants his feet. “Felix!” he shouts, waving him over. “Let’s go!”

Felix walks over, looking around as if expecting someone else. “Uh… hi? Where’s the driver?”

“You’re looking at her,” Minho replies flatly, tossing a spare helmet toward him. “Get on.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“No time,” Minho says as he hops back on the bike. “Just get on, Felix.”

Felix looks at the helmet, looks at the motorcycle, then back at Minho. “You’re serious.”

“I said get on.”

Felix hesitates only for another second before sighing, handing his duffel bag to his manager and hopping onto the back seat of the motorcycle.

“This better not be some elaborate prank,” Felix mutters as he fits the helmet on.

“You wish,” Minho shoots back, gripping the handles.

“Okay, what’s going on?”

“You’ll find out in about ten minutes—assuming we make it in ten.”

Felix doesn't get a chance to respond before Minho revs the engine, loud and sharp, and the bike lurches forward onto the road. Felix instinctively tightens his arms around Minho’s waist, startled by the jolt of speed.

“Hold on!” Minho shouts over the roaring wind.

They weave through the narrow back roads with practiced ease—Minho leans low into the turns, the engine growling beneath them like it knows they’re racing the clock. Felix presses in behind him, ducking when Minho ducks, trusting him without question, even though he doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

All Minho knows is the timer in his head is ticking fast and he’s not about to be the reason Flickerman burns the set to the ground.

The scent of garlic and roasted meat wafts through the sma hall of the motel, mixing with the quiet clatter of forks and soft chatter between crew members. You’ve barely touched the food on your plate, mostly pushing steamed vegetables around with the side of your fork as Mr. Kim laughs at something one of the newer stunt guys says.

You glance up once in a while to watch as everyone chat with each other before you look back down at your phone, deciding to scroll for a moment while you chew and that’s when your thumb freezes mid-scroll.

A video plays on your screen—shaky, filmed from a phone, but clear enough to catch the unmistakable image of you—or rather, Minho—riding a motorcycle like a scene ripped straight out of an action drama. But it’s not just that. No.

Seated behind you is Felix, helmet and all, one arm clearly wrapped around your waist as the motorcycle speeds away from the small airstrip.

You nearly choke on your food. You cough into your napkin as your heart skips a confused beat, your eyes glued to the phone as the video loops. You blink, just to make sure you’re not hallucinating. Nope—still there. Felix’s arm. Around your waist.

It’s Minho’s body, yes, but still—you. Your finger slides down to the comments.

“WHO IS SHE OMG I’M SO JEALOUS 😭😭😭”

“wait that’s not a manager is it???”

“i heard it’s just a staff member lol chill”

“lucky girl... taking felix on a motorbike ride… i’d die.”

“felix’s arm around her waist?? HELLO?????”

You lock your phone screen, slowly placing it face-down on the table. Your appetite has officially disappeared.

You sit there, unsure whether to laugh, scream, or both. You don’t even know what you’re upset about—if it’s the misleading image of it all, or the way fans are shipping you with Felix, or maybe... maybe it's that you weren’t told. That Minho didn’t even think to warn you. That you're only finding out through a fan video.

You pace the motel room floor with your phone clutched tightly in your hand, the screen dimming every few minutes as your unanswered texts pile higher and higher in the chat with Minho.

come to my room. now.

we need to talk.

don’t make me come find you.

MINHO!!!!!

You glance at the clock—11:54 PM—and just as you’re about to fire off another message, a knock finally comes at your door. You fling it open before he can even knock twice. And of course, there he is, grinning like a child who’s convinced himself he's done nothing wrong.

"Hi," Minho says, way too cheerfully for someone being summoned like a fugitive. Before you can say a word, he breezes past you into the room like it’s his. He drops himself onto the edge of your bed, leans back, arms propped behind him, looking way too comfortable.

You shut the door with a sigh and walk up to him, shoving your phone in his face with the screen lit up. “What is this?” you ask, voice sharp.

Minho squints at the video still playing. “That’s me giving Felix a ride on a motorcycle.”

“No,” you say through clenched teeth. “That’s me giving Felix a ride. In that body. Which means that you made me the center of some wild fan theory.”

He shrugs. “Well, technically, I made you look cool. You’re welcome.”

You glare at him in disbelief. “Seriously, what were you thinking?” you ask. “You’re in my body, Minho. You don’t get to just show up with a movie star clinging to your waist and pretend it’s no big deal!”

Minho waves you off like you’re being dramatic. “You should be happy. Isn’t it your dream to date a movie star like Felix?”

You scoff. “Oh my God, no.”

He grins wider, like that’s exactly the answer he expected. “Okay, then why are you so flustered?” he asks, eyes narrowing with mock curiosity. “Unless—”

“No,” you cut him off quickly.

Minho lifts an eyebrow, head tilting slightly as he adds, far too casually, “Felix likes you, you know.”

Your entire body stiffens. “…What?”

“Yeah,” Minho says with a careless shrug. “He told me. Like, the other day. Said he likes you. Pretty straightforward.”

You stare at him, blinking. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, the smirk never fading. “Unfortunately, nope.”

You take a step back, overwhelmed, uncertain if your face is heating up from embarrassment or confusion—or both. Minho notices instantly, his grin widening with satisfaction.

“You’re flustered,” he teases. “Oh, this is rich. Who knew the tough girl act would crumble this fast?”

You shoot him a glare and turn your back to him, trying to compose yourself. “We’re not talking about that.”

“Oh, we’re definitely talking about it later,” he says smugly.

You spin back around. “Right now, we’re talking about you recklessly putting me in the center of internet gossip!”

At that, Minho sighs and finally sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Look. I didn’t mean to turn you into fan bait. Flickerman needed Felix on set in fifteen minutes, the AD practically threatened my life, and there was no time for a driver. The motorcycle was the fastest way.”

You cross your arms. “And it didn’t occur to you to, I don’t know, warn me?”

“I was going to,” he says. “But it's either that or... I got fired so... I didn’t think it would blow up this fast, okay? Sorry.”

You sigh, finally letting the tension out of your shoulders. His reasoning is… actually valid. And given the crisis-level urgency the AD was projecting earlier, you get it.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll let it slide. This time.”

You’re just about to sit down, maybe finally unwind from the entire emotional rollercoaster of the day, when Minho—still lounging on your bed like he owns the room—sits up and says, “Go get changed.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward your duffel bag. “I saw a pool out back. Looks decent. Let’s train. Tonight.”

You stare at him, confused. “You… want to get in the water? Tonight?”

He nods, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. But it isn’t. Not after what happened the last time. Not after the way he shook so violently in your arms, as if the fear had swallowed him whole.

Your brows knit with concern. “Minho… are you sure? Because we can take it slow—”

“I am taking it slow,” he cuts in, his voice calm but firm. “We only have three days left until the underwater stunt. I need to be ready. No matter what happens, I want to be prepared.”

There’s something in his voice—not the cocky tone he usually wears like armor, not the biting sarcasm either. It’s steadier, grounded, but underneath it, you can still hear the tremor of fear he’s trying to bury. He meets your gaze head-on. Determined. Maybe a little scared, too—but this time, he’s not running from it. He’s walking straight into the storm.

You nod slowly. “Okay,” you say. “If that’s what you want.”

He nods back once, appreciative. And you can’t help but respect it—his resolve, his decision. Because when Lee Minho sets his mind on something, there’s really no changing it.

You sigh and head to your bag to grab your swimming trunks. If he's really going to do this, you’ll be right there with him. Every terrifying, breathless second of it.

Minho exhales slowly as he stands at the edge of the pool, the air cool against his skin and the silence of the night pressing in around him. Most of the motel lights are off, the building behind them dark and quiet. He figures a splash too loud could wake a light sleeper on the second floor—but that’s a risk he’s willing to take.

He rolls his shoulders once, then pulls off the hoodie, folding it neatly over a nearby chair. His jeans follow, and now he’s just standing there in your black swimsuit, hugging his frame in a way he’s still not quite used to. But he doesn’t let it distract him because tonight, he has a goal.

Minho takes a step forward onto the tiled steps and slowly begins to descend into the water. Each inch higher on his skin feels colder than the last. It seeps into his bones. He tries not to think of the weight of it. He tries not to think of the last time.

Another breath. Another step. The water reaches his knees. Another breath. Then his thighs. Another. Then his waist. He stops, closing his eyes for a moment. The water laps gently around him. It’s quiet. Peaceful, even. He doesn’t feel the same panic in his chest. Not yet. And that’s a small win.

When he opens his eyes, he turns around—and there you are. Standing at the edge of the pool with your arms crossed, your expression a mix of concern and calculation.

Minho exhales sharply through his nose. “Why aren’t you getting in?”

You hesitate. “I just think… maybe you shouldn’t push it.”

Minho nearly rolls his eyes. “Do I look like I can’t handle a kid’s swimming pool?”

He gestures down at the waist-high water surrounding him and lifts both brows at you, the sarcasm sitting comfortably in his voice. “Aren’t you going to train me?”

You let out a breath, shaking your head like he’s being ridiculous—which, of course, he is—but it makes you move. You peel off your T-shirt, revealing the swimming trunks beneath, and step into the water.

Minho watches you quietly and somehow, just having you in there with him makes everything feel a little easier like maybe, this time, he won’t drown. You step into the pool and make your way toward him, water rippling around your legs. You stop just in front of him, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your presence in the cool water.

The motel lights are dim behind you, and above, the sky stretches wide and dark, sprinkled with faint stars. It's quiet. The kind of quiet that makes him feel both grounded and exposed. He glances around, then back at you. “So…” he says, voice low, “what are we doing tonight?”

You shrug and think for a second. “Maybe we try holding our breath underwater?”

Minho lets his gaze drop to the surface of the water. It shimmers faintly under the moonlight. His reflection blurs, shifts, disappears. He swallows air as he wonders if he can handle that.

As if you heard his thoughts, you reach out and gently take both of his hands, lacing your fingers with his. “Let’s do it together.”

Minho looks up. The quiet certainty in your voice steadies something in him.

“We go down on the count of three,” you explain, watching him closely. “If you feel like you can’t do it—don’t. Just come back up. No pressure. Got it?”

He nods. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else.

“One…”

His grip tightens in yours.

“Two…”

He inhales deep, steadying himself.

“Three.”

Together, you begin to lower yourselves into the water. Inch by inch. The coolness brushes up against his neck, his jaw, his cheeks. He shuts his eyes before the surface swallows him whole.

For a second—just a second—it’s okay. He’s in the water, and it’s still. His hands are still in yours. He can feel the slight squeeze of your fingers, anchoring him.

Then it comes. A flash of memory—metal pressing against him, water rushing in, the suffocating fear of being trapped, lungs aching for air. The illusion of control snaps. He kicks upward and bursts back through the surface, gasping. His breath comes in ragged, uneven pulls. His chest heaves. Cold air hits his wet skin, and he blinks the water from his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, you're there. Still holding his hands. Still in front of him. No pity in your eyes. No judgment. Just quiet reassurance.

“That was good, Minho,” you say softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Minho stares at you. The panic doesn’t leave immediately, but the sharp edge of it dulls under your voice. He doesn’t reply. He just nods slightly, still trying to catch his breath, still holding on.

You watch him—yourself—in the shimmering reflection of the pool under the night sky, and for a moment, it feels surreal. But the way Minho's chest rises and falls, the tremble in his breath, the fear flickering in his eyes—you see all of it and all you want is to reach in and take it from him, to carry it yourself, just to give him a second of peace, but you can’t.

What you can do is be here. Hold his hands. Tell him that he’s safe. That he’s doing okay. That he’s not alone.

After a moment, his breath slows. You see the fear fade a little, not gone—but quieter, smaller. “Maybe this is enough for tonight,” you offer gently.

But Minho shakes his head. “I want to try again.”

You pause, but you nod, meeting his eyes with calm and quiet respect. “Okay. Take your time.”

He nods. His grip on your hands is tighter this time. Tighter than before.

You wait. You patiently wait. And when he finally says, “I’m ready,” you move closer.

You carefully place his arms around your shoulders, letting your hands settle against his waist. “You can hold on to me,” you tell him. “It’s okay.”

He nods again. And you can feel his breath ghost over your neck as he tries to steady himself.

“One,” you whisper.

“Two…”

“Three.”

Together, you sink beneath the surface and the world above disappears in a ripple.

Minho clings to you while you stay still, hands firm on his waist, grounding him. His body is tense—tight like a wire—but his arms stay around you, and his grip doesn't falter. His eyes are shut, his brow drawn. You watch the fight happening inside him. The way he braces against something invisible, dark, heavy. He’s trying. You can feel it. So you don’t move. You don’t pull him up. Not until he decides.

The seconds stretch. One, then two, maybe more. You lose count in the hush of the water. Then suddenly, he kicks up, dragging you with him, and both of you burst back into the air.

Minho is panting, arms still around you. You wrap yours around him without hesitation.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, close to his ear. “You did so well.”

He doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, forehead resting against your shoulder, chest heaving, water streaming from his hair and face. You hold him tighter, letting the silence say everything that needs to be said and the two of you stay like that, in the middle of the pool, until the ripples settle and the night calms once more.

By the time the two of you return to your motel room, the air is cool against your damp skin, and silence settles between you—not heavy, not awkward. Just quiet. The comfortable kind.

You grab a towel and toss another toward Minho. “You can use the bathroom first,” you say, voice soft.

He nods, wordless, and disappears behind the door. The lock clicks afterwards.

As you wait, you dry your hair with the towel and glance toward the window. The night is still, the stars blurred by mist, the world calm in a way it hasn’t been for days.

Then the bathroom door flies open and you turn on your feet, expecting a small comment or maybe a mumble about how cold the water was—but Minho steps out with only a towel wrapped around him. Water glistens on his shoulders. His eyes find yours.

You blink. “Minho—?”

He doesn’t say anything but walks toward you, steady, almost cautious. And he doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth rising from his skin, smell the faint trace of your body wash on him.

You open your mouth to ask—but you don’t get the chance as Minho leans in and presses his lips to yours. Soft at first. Gentle. Like he’s still asking a question with every touch. But then you feel his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer—and the kiss deepens. He kisses you like he’s been holding back for too long. Like everything he’s been feeling—all the fear, the guilt, the gratitude, the relief—is pouring out through this single point of contact.

And you don’t hold back either. Your arms wrap around him, and your fingers curl against his bare skin. You kiss him harder, your heart thudding against your ribs. The room falls away, the air thick with heat and something unspoken that you both finally stop running from.

Minho’s touch is confident but careful, and the next thing you know, his fingers curling around the waistband of your swim trunks and easing them down. You inhale sharply but don’t stop him—can’t, really—not when your heart is pounding so hard in your chest, not when everything between you feels like it’s been building to this very moment.

Your trunks fall to the floor, and a beat later, his towel follows. Then it’s just the two of you. Nothing between you. Bare, vulnerable, exposed—not just physically, but in the quiet way that only happens when someone truly sees you.

He takes your hand, warm and steady, and leads you gently toward the bed. You follow wordlessly, your steps slow, breath caught somewhere between nerves and anticipation. When he lays down, you move with him, hovering just above as you brace yourself over his chest.

Minho cups your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek as his eyes search yours, then he pulls you down into a kiss—deep, slow, unraveling. You feel his other arm slide around your waist, anchoring you closer, until you’re lying right against him. Every inch of your skin touches his. The heat between you blooms.

The kiss grows heavier, more consuming, yet never loses its tenderness. You lose track of where his body ends and yours begins. Fingers trail along ribs, lips part, breath mingles.

And all the while, the world outside fades away. The fear. The pressure. Even the memory of cold water.

It’s just you and him. Together—closer than ever.

Minho doesn’t flinch when you pull away from the kiss. He keeps his eyes on you, steady and calm, reading every flicker of hesitation in your gaze. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist are trembling slightly, and he knows—it’s not just nerves. It’s the weight of everything that’s strange and new, the unfamiliarity of being in his body, of feeling all the sensation in ways you’ve never felt before.

You look at him, searching. “Minho, I don’t… I don’t know how to do this in this body.”

Minho expected this. Maybe he’d been waiting for it—maybe even hoping you’d say it out loud, rather than pretending like you weren’t overwhelmed. So he offers you a small, reassuring smile, one that you’ve worn on your own lips more than once. He reaches for your hand and gently guides it to his abdomen, just above the place where every part of him aches for more of you. His breath hitches, but he keeps his voice even as he murmurs, “Then just touch me the way you like to be touched.”

And then, softer: “And I’ll do the same.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just stay quiet, eyes wide and searching his. But then you give the faintest nod, like you’re trusting him—trusting yourself.

He pulls you back into a kiss, slower this time, deeper. Your hands begin to move—cautious at first, unsure, but growing bolder with every breath. You touch him like the way you like to be touched, running your fingers between the folds and easily locate your bundle of nerves. You begin circling on it as it pulsating, throbbing with every gentle pressure you apply on it and keep the stimulation going.

Minho mirrors you, touching with a kind of reverence, exploring the body that was once his with new wonder, new intent. His fingers trail the length of his cock, aching and hardening around his palm even though he hasn't moving yet. He gives it slow strokes, thumb pressing on the slit on the tip and once he gets his cock hot and hard in his hand, he begins pumping it at a steady pace.

Minho senses your nervousness giving way to something else—curiosity, anticipation, heat. And through it all, he holds you close, grounding you with every kiss, every breath.

Two bodies, one connection—tangled in a space where roles and boundaries blur, and all that remains is how you make each other feel.

Minho exhales, the sound shaky, as your fingers continously circling on the clit—slow, delicate, like you’re still unsure of how far you can take this, but every touch still lands just right. There’s something reverent in the way you explore him, like you’re memorizing a map of yourself through him, and the care in your movements makes his breath catch in his throat.

His body arches into your hand, craving more before he even realizes it, and his own hand wrapped around your length falters for a moment—sloppier now, less rhythm, more instinct. But when he hears your breath, hot and shallow against his neck, and feels how your body reacts to him, it spurs him on again.

Minho lets his lips part, soft moans escaping freely—he doesn’t try to hide how good it feels. “Oh yeah, just like that,” he murmurs, voice low, raw. “Whatever you're doing, keep going.”

You press closer at that, bringing your mouth to wrap around your breast, and Minho shudders at the contact of your hot tongue on the sensitive bud, his fingers curling around your cock tighter and with more purpose, matching your rhythm again. It’s clumsy in places—new, uncharted—but it’s real. It’s honest. And with every breath, every whispered sound, every stammered gasp, Minho gives in a little more to the pleasure, to you.

It's clear that you're both ready for more so Minho holds your face between his hands, thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks, and when your eyes meet his, there’s nothing but sincerity between you. “We’re ready for this,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, even as his heart pounds. You nod, almost instinctively, like you’ve both known this was inevitable from the start. The weight of waiting disappears in that shared look—there’s no more fear, no more hesitation. Only trust.

He kisses you again—slow, deep, full of something he can’t name—and then leans back, letting himself open to you. His legs part, completely baring himself to you and he breathes deeply, eyes fluttering shut as he whispers, “You know what to do.”

You nod again, more certain this time, and the moment your body aligns with his, he holds onto the sheets. Carefully, deliberately, you guide yourself into him, and Minho gasps at the sensation—foreign, yet achingly right. The stretch, the fullness, the press of your body—it all crashes into him at once.

His moan slips out before he can catch it, back arching into your chest, and then he sees you—your brows drawn tight in focus, your mouth parted, trying to hold it together but falling apart just the same. As you push in all of your length into him, your bodies settle together, chest to chest, skin to skin, breath tangled in breath.

Minho wraps his arms around your back, eyes stinging with the emotion of it all, and holds you there, completely overwhelmed. The feeling, the closeness, the quiet burn beneath his skin—it’s almost too much. It’s everything.

Your breaths are warm against his neck, the rhythm of your body grounding him more than the chill of the motel air or the weight of reality ever could. This—this moment—is more than just bodies colliding. It's a plea. A quiet, desperate prayer sealed in sweat and skin and unspoken promises.

He shuts his eyes and in the hush between heartbeats, Minho dares to wish. Let this work. Let this be it.

Because if it isn’t—if this isn’t the way back—he doesn't know how much more he can take. He doesn't know if he can survive waking up again in a body that doesn't feel like his, trapped in a mirror that reflects someone else’s face. The drowning, the panic, the constant pretending—he can barely hold himself together under the weight of it all.

But more than that—more than the fear of being lost inside someone else’s skin—he’s terrified of losing you. He doesn't say it aloud. He doesn't have to. Because in the fragile, fleeting quiet of that motel room, as your breath evens out and your heart beats against his, Minho only thinks it, clutching the thought like a lifeline:

Please… I can't lose you too.

✨ DOUBLE FEATURE: FINAL CHAPTER is available on my Patreon ✨

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the-californicationist · 10 months ago

Text

The Window (6 of 7)

Ch 01 // Ch 02 // Ch 03 // Ch 04 // Ch 05 // Ch 06 // Ch 07

AO3 Link

TW: lactation kink

The house is lonely without your boys, especially when your breasts are so full and achy. If only there was someone home to help you…

You settled into the house almost too quickly. You each had your own space, but the main bedroom was where you all spent most of your time. The bedroom was huge — one of the reasons John had picked this house — and the en suite bathroom could more than accommodate all five of you, if need be. But, when the boys were away, the sprawling, expansive house was… lonely.

They tried to leave you in shifts, but it wasn’t like they were logging hours at a normal job; it was war. War didn’t have a schedule. So, you padded around the house, trying to play some music or keep the television on, but it wasn’t the same. It was just you and… who?

You’d asked the doctor not to tell you the sex of your baby at your ultrasound appointment, and none of the potential fathers had been around to go with you. So, you were in the dark. You’d thought about names, and Johnny had offered a good many family names to keep you busy for a while. But, even though you had plenty to think about and plenty to do – you were still working remote on recon and data tracking – it was just an empty sort of existence.

To make matters worse, you’d hit a bit of a snare. Right at the sixteen week mark, you’d started leaking more than just a little milk. You’d woken up to a wet, messy situation, and you quickly scheduled an appointment. The doctor had taken some time to assure you all was well, but then, not even a week later, you had swollen, painful blockages and you were back in his office, waiting for more news.

“Looks like you just have tiny ducts,” he shrugged, looking at your scans. His hands were dry but chilly as he peeked under your hospital robe to examine your sore nipples, “You may need to express them. I know it may put you at risk of an early labor, but we can monitor you in the meantime. Try to only pump when absolutely necessary.”

So, you’d followed his orders. Once every few days, you pumped out the heavy, engorged globes that used to be B-cups, watching as your nipples filled jar after jar. There was no use in freezing it this early, so down the drain it went.

Now, at week twenty something, you were a walking milk nightmare. You’d never done so many loads of laundry in your life. The embarrassing thing about it though was that you liked it. Just the thought of attaching the plastic suction cup onto your breast was enough to make you slick between your legs, and the act itself was frequently pleasurable enough to send you over a climactic edge. To say that your nipples were sensitive was an understatement. But still, you tried to only do it when need be. You didn’t want to make a mistake.

When the boys came home, you filled them in on all the updates. Johnny was a little sad he’d missed the ultrasound, but it just added fuel to his fire of picking out names. He seemed even more interested in the pain-relieving, pleasure-inducing qualities of your breast pump, though. At dinner, you caught him staring down your shirt more than once when you tried to speak with him, and when you lay together on the couch, his hand was always massaging your swollen flesh, all under the guise of keeping you from getting another painful duct.

But, you knew the truth. His cock had never been so hard as when you started to leak through your top and had to go change, rushing to wash and find your nipple pads. Johnny stalked you into the large bedroom, thumb crooked in the waistband of his pants,

“You alright, bonnie? Need me to help you?”

“No, yeah. I’m okay. Just… dealing with the dairy farm over here,” you said, exasperated.

He sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, watching you pull out the tubes and machine with all of its parts and cords. His hand fell to your thigh, squeezing you gently,

“Think I could do it instead?”

“You…” You turned to face him, hands still tangled in the pump, making sure you heard him correctly, “You want to try it?”

Johnny adjusted himself in his jeans, his eyes pinned to your cleavage, unable to look away even for decorum’s sake,

“Aye, lass. More than anythin’.”

“Um, sure. I think it’s fine. It all gets thrown out anyway. I’ll get you a towel,” you moved to get up, your belly now at a round enough size to be a hindrance, but he stopped you, pulling you back down roughly.

“Hey —” You protested, but he interrupted you.

“Sit down,” his voice was gravelly and heavily accented, almost like when he was drunk, “Let me…”

“Johnny, wait,” you tried to twist away from his grip, but he was too strong, “It’ll be such a mess. They’re so full right now. Just wait for me to—”

His eyes shot up to yours, pinning you in place, his full lips set in a hungry snarl,

“I dinnae need a towel, bonnie. I’m gonna taste you, messy or not.”

He let his vow sink in, and you could feel yourself melting, literally and figuratively, at his words. You didn’t fight him as he began to kiss you, smearing his mouth all over you, doing his best to shove down your tank top, stuffing the neckline under your tits, fumbling around the back to unhook the clasp of your bra.

“Johnny,” you breathed, your voice giving away the wet rush that was flooding straight to your core, “The laundry…”

“Fuck the laundry. I need to drain you fuckin’ dry. Right now.”

Your whole body responded to that comment. Your skin flushed hot and your sore nipples hardened, eager to experience the way his mouth would feel as he drank from you. You weren’t even sure if he’d know how to draw out your milk.

All of your concerns were cast aside as he settled you in his lap, pulling off your clothes like a much-desired present, tossing your clothes aside like wrapping paper to get to the good part. He fumbled with his jeans, freeing his thick, curved cock from his pants, pumping it roughly to spread his precome over the heavy head.

You helped him, angling your body over his dick and lowering yourself down onto him, as carefully as you could, spearing your pussy with his rod, inch by trembling inch, listening to him try to catch his breath. Once you reached the middle, at the deepest part of his curve, you struggled to fit him the rest of the way in, grinding forward and back, looking for that sweet spot.

Then, impatient and hungry, he finished the job, pulling you down by your hips and forcing himself the rest of the way. It made you cry out from the shock of it. It wasn’t necessarily painful, but his roughness was a stark change from how he had been treating you. When he knew about the baby, he spent a lot of time preparing you, using his mouth to lap at your pussy and prying you apart with his fingers. Always gentle and mindful of your comfort. But, not now. Now, he had his sights set on devouring you in the literal sense of the word.

“Johnny…” You gasped, rocking against his shape tentatively.

“C’mere, lass,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice sharp and commanding.

His eyes were fixated on your dark, round nipples, and as you rode him, grinding yourself down onto his lap, he latched onto your left breast, taking the meat of your peak all the way into his mouth. Then, he began to suck.

You thought it would be gentle and sensual, expecting it to be largely for his pleasure and not effective enough to get the thick, creamy milk out of your poor swollen ducts, but you were wrong. Johnny began to suck and swallow, suck and swallow, suck and swallow; a terrifying, rhythmic feeding, drinking from you like his life depended on it. You peered down at him as he delivered this unknown pleasure to you.

Johnny’s eyes were fluttering closed, the whites of them rolling back into his head, and he began to let out these long, deep, guttural moans. You could feel the relief in your breast the moment he began, and with each suck, you could tell that his mouth was filling with squirt after squirt of warm, sweet milk.

Your hips humped against him involuntarily at this point, too horny to think straight, and you realized that your right nipple had begun to let down, full as it was. You tried to catch it from dripping onto him, swiping away the white rivulets with your palm, but he caught you, realizing you were trying to take what was his.

He moved his mouth from your left nipple to your right, letting his score drip down his chin and neck, caring nothing for the mess. Then, he latched onto your right nipple just as he had the left, sucking and swallowing until his cock throbbed inside of you.

You cradled his head as he drank from you, using his neck and shoulders to keep you steady as you rode him, feeling him suckle against you over and over, your hot milk filling his belly.

“Havin’ fun without us, Johnny?” Price’s voice rumbled from the doorway, startling you. You tried to turn around, but Johnny had you in a vice grip, and all you could do was ride and whimper from his fucking and his feeding.

“John…” You moaned, and he stepped around to sit next to his sergeant on the bed, smiling at the two of you, admiring the mess you were making.

“Can I try, love?” Price asked, leaning forward to drink from you without waiting for your permission.

All you could do was moan, high and helpless, your pussy so wet that it was practically gushing over Johnny’s thick cock. As soon as you felt John’s mouth on you, suckling from you just as intently as Soap’s, you started to come. You felt yourself clenching around your hungry lover, flooding him with your orgasm, wrecked by their insistent mouths.

“Tha’s it, bonnie,” Johnny pulled away, white streams of cream falling from his lips, looking like he was drunk, “Come for me.”

Price was greedier than Soap, even though you weren’t sure how that could be possible, and he used his strong hand to knead and squeeze your tits, forcing your body to drop even more milk for him to drink. His mustache tickled your sensitive flesh, and you couldn’t see it but you could hear the twisting, slapping wetness of him jerking his fat cock as he drank from you.

“Fuck, she tastes so good, hm?” Prince crooned.

“Hngh, Johnny… I can’t…” You whined, feeling yourself start to become overstimulated, “I can’t…”

“You can, lass. And you fuckin’ will,” Johnny grabbed your face in his hand, squishing your cheeks, forcing you to kiss him. You could taste your own milk on his tongue. It was warm and a little sugary, like the dregs of a bowl of cereal, thick and creamy.

He released your jaw and went back to work, suckling from you with a relentless vacuum, making your head spin. You didn’t know how you were able to make so much milk, but it seemed endless. You were hypnotized by the way his throat bulged as he swallowed gulp after gulp of your body’s gift, sucking you down.

Price seemed just as hungry, and you saw how, from the corners of his mouth, tiny droplets of milk would escape and wet his beard, the white cream staining his dark hair. He teased you with his hand, leaving his cock to fend for itself as he smeared his precome all over your asshole. Then, as you rode Soap back and forth, thrusting against him with abandon, John put his finger against your puckered hole and let you push yourself onto it. As you canted your hips back, your hole would let your captain’s huge fingertip slide inside it. As you thrust forward, you would pull away, losing the feeling of fullness that he was giving you.

It was agony. You wanted him to fuck you on his hand, or to take you with his cock — as painful as it may be without prep — anything to make you feel filled up. But he didn’t; he kept his finger right where he wanted it, letting you fuck yourself with just the tip until you felt stinging tears in the corners of your eyes.

“Please, John… please…” You barely had any words left, but he knew what you wanted.

He met your eyes with his own as he took a particularly long suck from your sore breast, making you watch as he coaxed your nectar into his mouth. Then, he pulled away with a swift pop, licking across your swollen nipple to soothe the pain he had caused. He smiled at you, patronizingly, teasing you still with his finger,

“Does our girl need me to fuck her tight little arse?”

You nodded, barely able to keep your eyes open, overwhelmed by the pleasure,

“Yes, please… I need it. Need to come again. Please…”

“Fuck, bonnie. If you come again, you’ll take me with you,” Soap murmured, unwilling to take his mouth away from your tits too far, talking with his mouth half-full.

Price bent his head, returning to his rough suckling, filling his cheeks with more of your milk. But, this time, as you thrust yourself against Johnny, you felt two, curled fingers shove themselves deep inside of your asshole. Your whole body convulsed, your pussy clenching and gushing with wetness, twisting its muscles around Soap’s dick, trying to get him to fill you with his load. Your legs shuddered, unable to keep from shaking as you rode him, feeling numb as the tantalizing sensation of your stretched holes washed over you.

John fucked you without mercy, pulling his fingers all the way out and stuffing them all the way back into your ass everytime you thrust forward and back. You were screaming, and your poor, well-used cunt was pumping itself against Soap’s rod, making heinous slick noises as you rode him. Beyond any sort of politeness or gentility, your men were noisy in their feasting as well, slurping and sucking loudly, grunting every time you clenched yourself around them.

When Price added a third finger, you came again, your pussy quickly running out of room to accommodate them both. Soap’s hot seed burst inside of you just as he’d promised, burning your core and painting your walls with his come.

“Oh, fuck! Johnny, fill me up. Fill me…” You slurred, letting your head hang back limply, basking in the feeling of his orgasm.

Price took the opportunity to haul you off of Johnny’s lap and onto his own, replacing the emptiness in your pussy with his fat cock, sliding through his sergeant’s come and keeping his fingers in your ass as you rode him.

Even though he was spent, Johnny didn’t let up on his feeding. He’d ripped a page out of Price’s playbook and was massaging your breast with both hands, squeezing out every last drop from your body. When he finally stopped suckling from your bruised nipple, he licked you, over and over, running the warm flat of his tongue across your nipple to swipe up any stray drops, chasing your peaks as you bounced on your captain’s dick.

Price squeezed your tits in his hands, letting the one that was still full squirt all over his mouth and nose, covering himself in your cream. When he noticed Soap’s desperation, he switched positions. The sergeant fell onto his back, resting against the mattress, and the captain threw you on all fours, letting your tits dangle over Johnny’s open mouth. Then, he climbed up behind you, feeding himself back into your pussy.

As Price fucked himself into you, your breasts swayed back and forth, your nipples rubbing across Soap’s mouth as he moved from one to the other. You felt him latch onto the left one, drinking from you in thirsty slurping gulps, his puckered lips pressing onto your flesh with as much suction as he could muster. Meanwhile, your stretched cunt was being stuffed with Price’s shaft, his head invading your deepest parts, filling up your hole over and over and over.

Finally, when you were out of milk and practically sobbing from the brain-breaking orgasms you’d been given, he pulled out, flipping you onto your back and laying you right beside Soap, aiming his load at your bruised tits. His teeth were clenched as he grunted out his climax, painting long, white ropes of come all over your nipples.

You looked down, unable to tell what was his and what was yours, your breasts messy and covered in cream of all kinds. John’s hands came down and rubbed his spend all over your nipples, smearing it around them like a salve. Johnny leaned over you, licking up Price’s come just as greedily as he had your milk, latching and suckling from you over and over, even if you were empty, like a greedy puppy.

Exhausted, and with a belly full of breast milk, Price crashed to the mattress beside you and Soap.

Standing in the doorway, Gaz and Ghost looked down at you with smug, satisfied expressions, and Garrick chuckled,

“Better recover quick, babes. Got me workin’ up an appetite.”

#call of duty fanfic #captain john price #john price #call of duty #captain price #captain price x you #john soap mactavish #john price smut #soap smut #soap x you #sharing is caring #cod #sharing couple #fun for 3 #poly tf141 #cod mw2 #poly 141 #the window by the californicationist #the window

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triptuckers · 10 months ago

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feelings that flicker - remy lebeau

Request: nope Pairing: remy lebeau x mutant!reader (reader has the ability to manipulate and control electricity) Summary: remy thinks you have trouble controling your powers, but there’s something else going on Warnings: none! Word count: 1.6K A/N: to think this is the third fic I’m writing today and I also finished reading the darkness within us and read and finished what moves the dead… no wifi making me do crazy things lmao enjoy!

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as remy walks into the kitchen, he notices the lights briefly flicker and the coffee machine starts beeping furiously.

‘oh, fuck!’ you say, abandoning your breakfast as you bolt over to the coffee machine.

you put your hands on either side of it and concentrate, making sure the machine’s temperature goes back to normal. remy waits for you to step back before reaching for the coffee pot.

‘I’m not gonna burn my mouth now?’ he says.

‘nope, you’re all good.’ you say, briefly smiling at him before you go back to your breakfast.

jubilee gives you a knowing smile as she nods her head towards remy. you elbow her in the side, shooting her a warning glare. you never should have confided in her about your feelings for remy. it’s bad enough you nearly lose control whenever he enters the room. you don’t need jubilee to start dropping hints around him.

remy doesn’t seem to notice any of it, as he’s rummaging through the kitchen in search for breakfast. you ignore jubilee’s not so subtle nudges as you continue to eat your breakfast.

for the remainder of the morning, no lights flicker and no coffee machines overheat.

as you go on about your day, teaching some of the kids, remy has been thinking hard.

those flickering lights haven’t gone completely unnoticed to him. every time he enters the room you’re in, the lights flicker and if there’s some sort of machine or electronic device, it also acts up. the same thing happens when you enter a room he’s already in.

the electric stove that suddenly turned on in the kitchen. the tv turning on while no one was holding the remote. beasts’ many monitors that all started beeping at the same time – and you apologising over and over, making sure there wasn’t any damage.

and always those flickering lights.

but he knows you regularly go to the danger room to train. mostly with jean, storm and jubilee. occasionally scott calls for the entire team to have a training session, and remy always watches you closely during those sessions.

you never seem to lose control during a simulation. and he has yet to see you lose control in the field.

if anything, he’s impressed by your abilities.

the things you could accomplish never fail to amaze him. in his opinion, you’re one of the best and most amazing x-men he’s ever seen. not that he would ever admit that out loud. the teasing would be endless. and he doesn’t want to embarrass you.

still, it doesn’t sit right with him the way you sometimes slip up.

is it something about him? does he bother you somehow?

he’s so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice the conversation stops when he enters the kitchen again in the afternoon.

remy looks up to see jubilee, scott and jean. he raises a single eyebrow in question, but no one explains anything, and jubilee starts talking about the latest session in the danger room she did with roberto.

while getting a snack, remy can’t help but to think he was a topic of conversation before he walked in.

‘hey cyclops, you gon’ work with y/n on controlling her powers?’ he says.

scott frowns at his words. ‘why would I?’

‘she always loses control when I see her.’ remy points out. ‘just this morning she nearly made the coffee machine overheat and combust. jubilee, you were there.’

‘have you ever seen her lose control during a mission?’ says scott.

‘non, but it doesn’t make sense why she would lose control in the kitchen and not when there’s people actively trying to kill us.’ says remy.

at his words, jubilee chuckles.

‘you never noticed?’ she says.

‘noticed what?’ says remy, confused.

‘jubilee, he’s a man. they never do.’ says jean, before turning to remy. ‘she only ever slightly slips up when you enter the room. why do you think that is?’ she says gently

‘que? only when I enter the room? why? I thought she was just jumpy, maybe I move too quietly?’ says remy.

‘come on, gambit, use those brains of yours, you’ll figure it out.’ says jubilee.

remy starts thinking out loud. ‘she only slips up when I’m in the room. or when she walks in and I’m already there. she never loses control in the field. oh, merde, does she like me?’

‘there you go! took you long enough.’ says jubilee.

‘she likes me?’ mumbles remy, smiling to himself.

‘she’s in her room.’ says jean pointedly.

‘oui, yeah, merci.’ says remy, a bit dazed as he leaves the kitchen.

he had never once considered you might like him, and that that’s why you lose control. it makes sense now that he knows. in the field, you’re too concentrated on staying alive to focus on where he is and if he’s near.

and he did notice you seemed to blush a lot whenever the lights flickered. you thought it was just embarrassment that your control slipped, but what if it was about him?

of course he’d noticed you when you first arrived at the mansion. how could he not? you were beautiful and he’d seen you demonstrate your powers when logan asked about it.

now that he knows all of it, he doesn’t get how he didn’t see it before. clearly everyone knew but him? but why hadn’t you said anything to him?

as he reaches the top of the stairs, he sees the door to your room ahead.

what was he even going to say to you? maybe he’ll just start by asking you about your powers, maybe you were aware of why you lose control.

he knocks on the door.

‘coming!’ he hears you say.

‘it’s me.’ says remy.

the light spilling onto the hallway through the gap near the floor flickers slightly, and remy smiles to himself.

you open the door and smile at him.

‘remy!’ you say. ‘what’s up?’

since that conversation earlier with jubilee and jean, it’s like he sees you in a different light. your hair is up, and the sleeves of your shirt are rolled up. when he looks closely, he sees a slight blush on your cheeks.

‘just came to check up on you. and tell you the coffee machine is okay.’ he says.

‘oh ha ha.’ you say sarcastically. ‘thanks very much for that update.’

you step aside to let him in. he notices the workbench in the corner of the room, scattered with various pieces of machinery. a steaming mug shows that you were working on something.

‘did I disturb you?’ he says.

‘not at all, I was just messing around.’

‘you control electricity, right?’

you frown. everyone knows about everyone’s abilities. there aren’t any secrets about powers.

‘and create it, yes.’

‘and you’ve been training for a long time.’

‘yes? what are you getting at, remy?’

‘why do you lose control when I’m around?’ he says, not dancing around it any longer.

‘I don’t.’ you say, hoping he doesn’t see through the lie.

there’s no way he knows, right? he can’t. unless, of course, he talked to jubilee. damn that girl and her traiterous mouth.

‘come on, chéri, don’t deny it.’ says remy.

you briefly look at him before you reach out to toy with some of the machinery on your workbench. you mumble something remy can’t hear, so he steps closer to you.

‘what was that?’ he says.

you swallow and look at him. ‘I have issues controling my powers whenever I’m around someone I have very strong feelings for.’ you admit in a soft voice. ‘it’s how I knew I was a mutant in the first place. I nearly electrocuted my first boyfriend.’

‘strong feelings, hm?’ says remy, stepping even closer to you.

‘remy, I’m trying so hard not to burst every light in this room right now.’ you say. ‘you’re making it very difficult like this.’

‘like what?’

‘like this.’ you say, gesturing to the small amount of space between the two of you.

‘but you admit you have, in your words, strong feelings for me?’

‘yes…’

‘parfait. I have strong feelings for you too, chéri.’

your eyes snap up to his upon hearing his words.

‘please tell me you’re not messing with me.’ you say. ‘because if you are, it really isn’t funny.’

remy lightly shakes his head. ‘non, I would never.’ he says.

you notice how close his face is to yours and take a tenative step back, but your back hits your workbench.

‘nervous?’ he says.

‘no.’ you say.

the lights in your room briefly flicker.

remy smirks at you. ‘the lights say something different, chéri. would the lights explode if I kiss you now?’

you feel a blush on your cheeks. ‘I don’t know.’ you say softly.

‘want to find out?’ says remy, leaning closer.

‘yeah.’ you manage to say.

remy closes the remaining space between you, pressing his lips against yours. you’re glad the workbench is at your back, because you’re sure your knees have given up on you.

you feel how his hands come to rest on your hips. through your closed eyelids, you can tell the lights are indeed flickering, and you can feel remy smile against your lips.

but you don’t give a damn about those lights. because remy lebeau is finally kissing you. you couldn’t care less if all the lights burst in the mansion. it’ll be worth it.

A/N: thanks for reading! everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. please do not copy, translate, plagiarise or repost my work! some of these are requested by other people and I spend a lot of time and effort on my works <3 much love, marit

#remy lebeau x reader #remy lebeau fanfics #remy lebeau fic #remy lebeau fanfic #remy lebeau fanfiction #remy lebeau oneshot #gambit #gambit fics #gambit fic #gambit fanfiction #gambit fanfic #remy lebeau

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tudipblog · 2 months ago

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Beyond the Buzz: How IoT Redefines Business Operations

Moving from Hype to Reality

IoT has moved from being a futuristic idea to a practical solution that businesses use daily to improve operations and achieve sustainable growth. Though much of the discussion around IoT is about its potential, the real value that it presents is in how companies can use the technology to solve real-world problems.

Today, IoT is no longer a buzzword; it’s a necessity for any business looking to remain competitive and agile in a dynamic global environment. With its power to integrate devices, data, and processes, IoT helps businesses achieve efficiencies, improve customer satisfaction, and create new revenue streams. In this blog post, we explore how IoT is changing business operations across industries and what companies need to do to maximize its potential.

How Tudip Technologies Redefines IoT Solutions

Tudip Technologies empowers businesses with IoT solutions that tackle complex operational challenges and drive measurable outcomes.

Our Specialized Approach:

Edge Computing Integration: Enabling faster data processing closer to devices for real-time responsiveness.

IoT Ecosystem Design: Creating scalable ecosystems that adapt to changing business needs.

Sustainability-Focused Solutions: Tailoring IoT frameworks that align with environmental goals.

Example: Tudip partnered with a logistics provider to implement IoT-powered edge analytics, reducing data processing times by 60% and improving delivery accuracy across global operations.

Key Takeaways: Turning IoT Into Operational Strength

Invest in Scalable Solutions: Ensure your IoT systems can grow alongside your business needs.

Prioritize Security: Robust cybersecurity measures arToday, IoT is no longer a buzzword; it’s a necessity for any business looking to remain competitive and agile in a dynamic global environment. With its power to integrate devices, data, and processes, IoT helps businesses achieve efficiencies, improve customer satisfaction, and create new revenue streams. In this blog post, we explore how IoT is changing business operations across industries and what companies need to do to maximize its potential.

Redefining Operational Efficiency with IoT

1. Predictive Analytics: Smarter Urban Operations with IoT

IoT is revolutionizing energy management by integrating renewable energy sources into business operations. Smart systems analyze usage patterns and adjust power drawn from solar, wind, or traditional grids in real time.

Optimized Renewable Usage: IoT ensures renewable energy is used efficiently by monitoring supply-demand gaps.

Grid Stability: Balances energy loads to prevent outages during peak hours.

Sustainability Goals: Helps businesses achieve net-zero emissions by prioritizing clean energy consumption.

Example: A technology campus integrated IoT in optimizing its solar energy consumption and reduced dependence on traditional grids by 40%, with a significant reduction in operational costs

2. Energy Management: Advancing Renewable Solutions

Predictive analytics powered by IoT is transforming urban infrastructure. Cities can now monitor critical assets like bridges, roads, and utilities in real time, ensuring timely maintenance and preventing costly failures.

Public Safety: Early detection of infrastructure stress minimizes risks to citizens.

Cost Efficiency: Avoiding large-scale repairs reduces budget overruns for municipalities.

Sustainability: Proactive maintenance extends the lifespan of assets, reducing waste.

3. Automation Excellence: Better Disaster Response Logistics

IoT-driven automation is transforming how disaster response occurs—getting aid to where it is needed, faster and more efficiently.

Real-Time Inventory Management: Monitors relief inventory and ensures its proper distribution to areas of greatest need.

Smart Transportation: Optimizes routes for rescue and supply vehicles during crises.

Collaboration Across Agencies: IoT systems enable seamless communication between response teams.

Example:In a recent hurricane, one global aid organization leveraged IoT-connected drones to survey damage and automate the delivery of supplies, resulting in a 50% faster response time.

Overcoming Common IoT Challenges

1. Integration of IoT with Existing Systems

One of the biggest hurdles businesses face is integrating IoT solutions with legacy systems. Compatibility issues can hinder seamless data exchange and functionality. Solution: Use a flexible IoT platform with built-in interoperability; make sure it provides APIs for smooth integration. Careful planning and phased implementation may also reduce disruptions to a minimum.

2. Data Security and Privacy

IoT ecosystems are all about continuous data gathering and transmission, which increases exposure to cyber threats. The security of sensitive information is the foundation of trust with stakeholders.

Solution: Implement robust encryption protocols, regularly update security measures, and educate employees on cybersecurity best practices.

3. Adapting to Rapid Technological Changes

The rapid rate of innovation in IoT can make it challenging for businesses to adapt to new developments and keep their systems current. Solution: Collaborate with technology providers that offer scalable solutions and ongoing support to adapt to emerging trends without overhauling existing systems.

How IoT Drives Operational Transformation

1. Enhancing Decision-Making with Real-Time Insights

IoT provides companies with real-time data that enables informed decision-making. Whether it is revising supply chain strategies or optimizing production schedules, IoT ensures that companies can act quickly and confidently.

Dynamic Adaptability: Businesses can change their strategies according to up-to-date information and stay responsive to market demand.

Improved Collaboration: IoT systems enable better communication across departments, enabling coordinated efforts.

2. Creating Value Through Customization

IoT’s ability to collect granular data allows businesses to tailor their offerings and services to meet specific customer needs. Personalization not only enhances user experience but also builds stronger customer relationships.

e non-negotiable in today’s interconnected world.

Focus on Outcomes: Use IoT to achieve specific goals, whether it’s reducing costs, enhancing customer satisfaction, or achieving sustainability targets.

Conclusion: Moving Beyond the Buzz

IoT has evolved into an indispensable solution, reshaping how businesses optimize operations and achieve sustainable growth. By addressing real-world challenges and delivering actionable insights, IoT enables companies to stay competitive and adaptive.

To fully realize the benefits of IoT, businesses must focus on integrating flexible solutions, safeguarding data, and aligning technology with strategic objectives. With the right approach, IoT becomes more than a technological innovation—it becomes a cornerstone of operational excellence and sustainable growth.

Click the link below to learn more about the blog Beyond the Buzz: How IoT Redefines Business Operations

https://tudip.com/blog-post/beyond-the-buzz-how-iot-redefines-business-operations/

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lilarylrosie · 4 months ago

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This is my Reverse!Harley AU! :]

Well its mostly called SCBD_AU Here's the lore/information about the AU:

Doctor Sawyer is head Scientist, however he was the one to come up with the successful BBI (Creating Poppy), and decided to not push the project forward, losing Playco money. Executives couldn't get rid of Sawyer, so Eddie comes up with the idea to make Sawyer into a machine, and encourage/push Dr. White into leading the project and getting them their doe as well as letting Dr. White give the order to turn Sawyer into an experiment since Playtime was mostly interested in Sawyer's intellect.

Cut to Sawyer being kidnapped and turned, He is always monitored and sometimes abused by Eddie, Eddie takes a liking to Sawyer's personality and decides to make him a dress-up doll for the next 2-3 years, keeping him chained down in specific locations to help with the project against his will. Leith and Stella aren't mean to Harley, but tolerates and pities him.

Before the hour of joy happens, Eddie locks Sawyer away in a metal box in the Prison underground with the chains around his wrists, never to be seen or heard from for the next 10 years until The Prototype releases Harley, makes a bargain with him for his service of being a pawn to spare his life. The Player comes down, and encounters Harley roaming the prison halls, and the he tasks them with helping him get the shock collar off as it still goes off in most specific locations or when Harley gets worked up (emotional), in which they find the remote and successfully do that, he then could return to the one of the rooms he wasn't aloud to go into.

For the rest of the game, it mostly goes the same with some changes here and there, and Poppy and Doey requests the Player must kill him to stop The Prototype, out of self defense, Harley tries to make it difficult for the player to get to the control room. Once they show up, He snaps and tries to kill the player, and ends up ultimately dying and claiming they are no angel and saved no one. Also I added some securityangel in the corner for the AU.

Random funfact: Harley despises wearing clothes

#doctor harley sawyer #poppy playtime #the doctor poppy playtime #poppy playtime fanart #artists on tumblr #fanart #my art <3 #harley sawyer #my shayla my shayla #my shayla <3 #my au art #my au #my au ideas #au #poppy playtime au #securityangel #player x harley sawyer #reverse!harleysawyer au #SCBD AU

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mrderofcr0ws · 4 months ago

Text

HEADLOCK

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES

that was the name written on a gravestone in brooklyn with no body below it since the sergeant had been pronounced dead in 1945.

the body that once belonged to that name was now hydra's most prized possession— but the winter soldier was not the only danger locked away down in the remote siberian facility. you were there, too. a monster made from horrors most refused to believe could be real.

two trained killing machines.

one bound to commands and trigger words.

the other bound to instinct and bloodlust.

it had been a long time since either of you had seen the sun. you could get out with his help in the brief, painful moments of clarity he had. when he answered to that long forgotten name, you could escape together.

but bucky was often buried under that brooklyn headstone-and the winter soldier who slept in the bunk below you nearly every night was a danger to even you.

this is a fic that explores bucky's time in hydra. the content warnings are as follows: torture, manipulation, angst, pain, psychological horror, graphic descriptions and language, poetic comparisons to cannibalism, hurt with minimal comfort at times, stockholm syndrome, smut, degrading, power imbalance, canon divergence. 18+ fic.

bucky x fem!reader (you have a given name in this fic for the sake of making writing easier, but it will be used sparingly)

word count: idk i write on tumblr— but this one is long... (roughly edited)

<- previous part

PART THREE —

— GREAT ADVENTURES

it was snowing.

outside the walls of hydra’s siberian facility, it was snowing. the snow glimmered like millions of diamonds under the glow of the midnight moon. you stomped through it like a toddler stomped through puddles. you kicked it up at you walked, bearing your teeth in a smile that was all too feral as they escorted you both to the chopper.

the last time you had gone outside it was barren. it had been summer. and although summer was nearly just as cold as it was now, there had been no snow.

you liked the cold.

the real cold.

not the stale cold of the hallways or your bedroom.

not the cold of the cryochamber.

you liked the cold of winter.

“keep your head down,” he said, grasping the back of your neck and dipping you with him as you climbed into the chopper.

a team of three was dispatched with you. handpicked by the head captain, the heavily armored soldiers stood a chance against everything except you two. you did not know their names. you did not see their faces. they were nothing but extra hands on the job.

you could kill them all in an instant if you wanted to.

it made you grin to think about.

he noted the line curled across your lips and pressed his leg against yours. you looked up at him. to others, the blank expression on his face meant nothing— but you could see what others could not. every micro expression was as loud as if he were to have shouted at you.

‘behave.’

you turned your head away and stared out at the open sky. it had been a long time since you had flown anywhere. you used trucks on most missions. they loaded you into the back together — usually in handcuffs — and you would stare at each other and brace for each rattle on the bumpy, unpaved roads down the mountain. you were loaded into underground trains. choppers were only used if you were going somewhere far, far away.

and that’s exactly where you were going.

far, far away.

the chopper landed at a small airport controlled by hydra intelligence responsible for monitoring the airspace along the mountain range where the siberian base was located. as you climbed out of the chopper, you were each sent to change. while this was an assassination attempt— it was an recon mission, too.

your group was joined by two more hydra agents.

officers.

these faces you knew. you knew their names, too: karov and nikta. two nasty rats that spread disease everywhere they went— and for the last two months, they had been following the unlucky shield agent you’d be taking the head of.

“this is ridiculous,” you muttered. you tried to tug the brown skirt down lower but it wouldn’t stay put. despite the fact that you had thick winter stockings on, you felt exposed.

“it looks fine,” he said with a glance your way.

“you get to wear that,” you gestured to his outfit that consisted of plain blue jeans and a nice winter jacket with a red and black flannel below. “and i have to wear this…”

you stared at yourself in the mirror and scowled at what you saw. a skirt. a blouse. earmuffs! you looked like an office secretary. you looked ridiculous! the fur-lined coat was nice but you wanted your gear. your leather padding and bullet resistant armor. you had never gone anywhere without it— and now you were in furs and…tights.

you did not like this whole going undercover thing.

you turned away from the mirror without looking at your face.

the small office room was quiet as the two of you finished getting ready. you slipped on chic winter boots and pulled on velvet-lined gloves. looking over your shoulder, you watched as he pulled a beanie over his head.

with a gentle hand, you reached up to straighten a piece of his hair. it was strange to see him in clothes like this. he looked like a lumberjack. you weren’t quite sure what you thought lumberjacks wore these days — you still had no idea what year it was — but you felt like it was close enough.

he looked…normal.

if only he were normal.

if only you were.

the plan was simple.

you would take a small passenger plane out of one of russia’s major airports to new york city in the states. while each one of your team members had different roles to play and backstories to go along with their reason for travel, you and the winter soldier would pose as a married couple on their honeymoon. you had been issued fake passports with the same last name. you were given fake wedding rings. the suitcases you carried with you had the same tags.

an easy cover for the two of you to keep, all things considered.

you toyed with the ring on your index finger as you recited your script in your head. in the back of the cab with him on the way to the airport, you had never felt so claustrophobic.

‘the year is 1983. my name is natalia andreev. this is my husband, ivan, and we are on our honeymoon. we have been together for five years. i am twenty-seven years old. my name is natalia andreev,’ you told yourself over and over again in your head.

my name is isla constantinescu.

you could see yourself in the reflection of the window.

you looked as though you had seen a ghost.

it had been a long time since you said that name to yourself— and it made your stomach lurch.

you kneaded at the edges of your skirt and squeezed your eyes shut. being in the warm, wobbly taxi made you nauseous. you bit the inside of your lip and tried to focus on your breath.

you were going to be sick…

you looked up at him as he brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. one at a time, he kissed each knuckle on your hand. each one on your fingers. the tension in your shoulders dropped and you found your breath. as his eyes met yours, he nodded once.

you nodded, too.

when you arrived at the airport, whatever nerves that had come over you in the taxi were gone. you slipped your sunglasses over your eyes. the sun had not risen yet but it was habit to cover a part of your face. you took his hand as he helped you out of the car. he tipped the taxi driver the minimum before taking ahold of his bag and guiding you inside.

you couldn’t recall the last time you were at an airport like this. the crowded, noisy place was exhilarating. you never saw more than a group of twenty people at a time. right now, you saw hundreds upon hundreds.

“this way,” he said with a soft tug of your hand.

you felt a bit jealous as you watched him do all the talking. your script was so minimal. hi, my name is. this is my husband. and yet here he was talking all sorts of nonsense to the worker at the counter as you both handed over your passports and luggage that would go underneath the plane.

“honeymoon, aye? are you both excited?” the lady at the desk asked. she looked at the two of you with a beaming smile.

“very,” you said, a bit tenser than you meant to.

he hooked his arm around your waist as if you were his most prized possession and smiled between you and the lady at the check-in desk. “it’s our first international trip together. new york has been on our bucket list for a long time. what better place to go to celebrate us being in love than the big apple?”

you kissed his cheek but couldn’t muster the courage to say anything.

you don’t know why it made you sad.

why it made you mad.

it felt like they put you both through this on purpose— like they were rubbing normalcy you’d never have in your faces.

as you walked with him through the airport holding nothing but each others hands, you could see on his face that he was thinking something the same.

“when we get to new york, we will have to wait for karov and nikta to arrive. they are landing at a different time and in a different airport in the evening. the strike team arrives in the morning. we will spend the night in a hotel alone together and tomorrow once the strike team arrives, we will kill nick fury.” he whispered into your ear.

to those passing by, you were a couple giggling and murmuring a quiet conversation to each other as you shared an orange. you picked a piece free and offered it to him, “lucky us. no cameras watching. no guards hawking over us. how will we spend our night of freedom?”

“i’m going to fuck you.”

you shoved the orange slice into his mouth and he laughed as you scowled. he grabbed your wrist and tugged it down away from his mouth before you could swat at him. you shook your head and scrunched your nose— but you couldn’t help but laugh, too.

“you’re not funny.” you whispered. your face was unhelpfully hot.

“you’re laughing.” he said, chewing the orange slice you stuffed into his mouth.

you rolled your eyes and turned away. “am not.”

“are to.” he said, pinching your cheek.

you leaned against him and tucked your face down into his chest. he let you stay there. he rested his lips against the top of your head and pressed soft kisses to your hair. all the tension you held within you dissipated entirely. for the first time in a long, long, long time, you felt like you could breathe.

— ☆ —

you didn’t like flying.

helicopters were something you had grown used to, but you had never been on a airplane for longer than an hour or two.

you grew more and more restless on the long flight to new york. he didn’t seem the most thrilled either. while other people napped and talked amongst each other, the two of you stared at the seats in front of you and didn’t say a word.

what was there to say?

what did you two ever talk about?

nothing.

you talked very little to each other despite spending nearly every waking second in the same room unless forced apart. you didn’t know how to talk to him. there was nothing to catch up over. no future plans to fill each other in on. there were very few fond memories to discuss— but out of habit, you never spoke of anything fond out of fear that those memories would be stripped from you.

if hydra knew you kept anything close to your heart, they would grind it down to dust so fine it would be indistinguishable from all the other black gaps in your memory.

“try to sleep,” he said softly.

you looked up at him but his head was tipped back against his headrest. his eyes were closed. you doubted very much that he’d be able to sleep. he hardly slept in his own bed as it was. he hardly slept ever. you were supposed to be the nocturnal monster, not him.

you wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to potentially pass the time though.

you hooked your arm through his and rested your head down on his shoulder. when he didn’t nudge you off, you let your eyes fall closed. the closer you were to him, the harder it was to let your guard down but it was an itch you couldn’t help but scratch. a festering wound.

he was the most dangerous thing to you— and yet you clung to him, seeking some semblance of normalcy between you both.

it was too warm.

it was too noisy.

it was too bright.

he was the only familiar thing.

not even the clothes you wore were your own…

you couldn’t keep your eyes shut for long. you tried. you really did. you squeezed them shut as hard as you could but it felt like invisible fingers pried them open.

you were bored.

for the first time ever, you were bored.

on base camp, every single move you made had to be calculated. you could never let your guard down. not ever. there was no time for boredom. you focused on training. you focused on what the cameras may see if you did something out of line or said something you weren’t supposed to. you spent time in bed with him, drowning out any downtime the two of you had at night until you were exhausted.

you looked down as his hand slid over your thigh. you realized then that you were squirming in your seat. you were so tense you could’ve broken your own bones if you didn’t relax.

you watched as his warm, calloused fingers danced along the edge of your skirt.

your chest stilled as he slid his hand underneath it. you looked up at him as if he were crazy. in a way, he was. the bastard hadn’t even bothered to open his eyes and check if anyone was around.

that’s because everyone was already around.

the plane was full. the people in front of you were smoking and chatting about business deals and money. the people across the isle were sharing snacks and reading separate books. the people behind you were arguing under their breaths. one of them was a lair and the other was a fool.

his palm pressed against your thigh and you spread your legs out of habit. grasping ahold of your arm rests, you held your breath as he traced circles onto your clit through your fleece-lined tights. you had never wanted to moan more. you bit the inside of your cheeks to keep quiet. when you looked up at him, he was finally glancing around to make sure no one was paying any mind to the two of you.

“winter,” you breathed his name against the warmth of his shoulder.

“shh,” he murmured. he pinched your inner thigh and made you squirm. he smiled to himself. “be a good girl and i’ll make you cum as soon as we’re alone.”

you didn’t make a peep the rest of the flight.

— ☆ —

from the moment you stepped off the plane and out of the airport, you were smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world. cars honked and people shouted vulgar words at each other. the streets were congested with hundreds of people. thousands of them.

the world was so much larger in real life than you could ever remember it being.

and the sun was so unbelievably lovely.

but american’s were so noisy.

as the two of you stood in line to call for a taxi, you were curious if people in new york knew they didn’t have to yell to speak to each other. the two of you couldn’t help but stare as a loud group of men passed by. one of them pursed his lips and blew a kiss at you. you grabbed ahold of winter’s arm as his faced pinched with disgust.

“easy,” you whispered.

winter hooked his arm around your shoulder and tucked you into his side. “pig…”

you smiled to yourself.

you couldn’t help but close your eyes and tip your head back, resting it on his shoulder. the sun felt good on your skin. it felt good on your face. you could’ve spent hours basking in it. it was warmer here than it was back in russia. it was noisy and crowded, but you were comfortable on the sidewalk despite the commotion. you did not shiver the way you did outside the airport back home.

even your companion was tilting his head from side to side to catch the sunlight on his face.

the taxi ride took longer than you thought it would. it was longer than the drive down the mountain did when you left the basecamp for internal ground missions. there were so many streets in new york and not one of them had a steady flow of movement. too many cars. too many people. the two of you stared at each other as honking and swearing sounded off all around you from outside.

it was hard not to laugh.

it was hard not to be amazed by the city itself.

you never imagined buildings could’ve been built so high. the two of you stared up in disbelief at the size of the skyscrapers as you drove by. you pointed at all the flashing lights and dazzling signs. there was so much to see. so much to smell. but not all of the smells were good…

“thank you,” he said in english as he reached over to slip the taxi driver the american money he kept in his pocket.

it was strange to hear him speak anything other than russian. it was strange, too, to finally hear a language that wasn’t russian.

that was all you two spoke day to day.

that is what the guards spoke.

the doctors.

the overseer.

sometimes, you forgot that you even knew english.

the hotel was…standing.

you hadn’t expected anything lavish. you had not known what the world was going to be like when you stepped foot back into it. you were assassins on a mission to take a man’s life. you weren’t expecting a pool— but maybe something more than a grimy old building that smelled like dust and mold.

you really, really hated this undercover shit…

it was easy enough to find your room. third floor, third door on the left. he twisted the key into the lock and pushed it open— but it wouldn’t budge. he bumped his shoulder into it. nothing. he rammed into it a bit harder and the door popped open with a stickier sound than either of you would’ve liked to hear.

“after you,” he said, gesturing his metal arm.

you pulled your suitcase inside and tried to keep the facial expressions to a minimum. “hm…”

the room wasn’t as bad as you were expecting. whatever cleaning services the hotel employed, they employed one’s that at least kept the rooms to a healthy degree of cleanliness.

it was a small room. obnoxious floral wallpaper matched god awful floral bedsheets, but the bed was comfy. you sat down on the edge and bounced a bit. it was much comfier than your mattress in your cell.

there was a large mirror across from the bed. a desk with a lamp that didn’t turn on. a small ice box that had nothing inside it. a large window with white curtains drawn open. a bathroom off to the side with a bathtub and shower all in one.

“this is something, eh?” he sat down beside you and tested the mattress for himself. he cocked an eyebrow. the bed was the redeeming quality of the whole hotel thus far.

“definitely something,” you agreed.

it grew quiet between you.

painfully quiet.

you couldn’t help the way you brought your hand to your mouth and chewed on your nails. you never bit them off. they were too long for that. they were weapons no one could take from you— but you did chew and click them against your teeth when you felt on edge.

when you felt nervous.

“look at me,” he said.

you couldn’t.

“look at me, isla.”

you stood.

turned away from him, you cringed at the sound of him standing, too. you cringed at the way that name sounded. you could feel him behind you like a shadow. looming over you. he stared down at you. his fingers twitched at his sides.

he’d chase you if you ran.

you’d run away so many times…

the first mission you ever went on, the reason you bit him was because he got between you and the only thing that mattered to you.

blood.

you’d run away each and every time they let you out. you never ran with the intent to go away. you knew nothing but your cell in the facility. you knew nothing but chains and following orders. you knew nothing but him— which is why you always came back.

and he would wait for you.

he would wipe your bloody mouth once you’d had your fill of whatever you could find in your small moments of freedom.

“i need to shower,” you said under your breath.

he said nothing.

you could hardly hear the spray of the shower head pouring down onto the tile. you could hardly hear anything that was not your blood ringing in your ears. you stared at yourself in the mirror as it began to fog. you leaned forward, your fingers brushing against the reflective glass.

is that really me?

you looked up as he caressed your face in between his metal fingers. he pursed his lips and tipped his head, a silent warning not to slip down into that rabbit hole. he’d be forced to pull you out of it— and he didn’t want to do that. not now. not after your neck had just finished healing.

you weren’t allowed to look in mirrors.

hydra feared that if you looked at yourself, you’d get lost trying to find the woman in the mirror.

for him it was easy. he was fractured into thousands of pieces that made it impossible to see himself as anything at all.

his reflection was nothing but that.

your reflection was every question you didn’t know how to ask— that you could never have answered.

you watched as he stripped himself of civilian clothes with a bitter taste in your mouth.

you wanted to shower.

but you went nowhere without him.

it drove you mad sometimes.

he drove you mad.

always him. always you both. always together. never apart. never alone. never not beside each other.

even now, with no one forcing you to stand side by side or be in the same room, you were still together. still right next to each other.

everything you did he had to do, too.

you wanted more than anything to hate it. you wanted to hate him. you didn’t like him. he was a parasite at your side. a collar around your neck. you could’ve hit him right now it made you so angry to see his face. you wanted to.

you wanted to want to be alone, too, but that was a feeling that had never once come.

if he walked out that door right now and decided to lay in bed and watch shitty cartoons instead of shower with you, you’d follow after him without a second thought.

there was no where he went that you did not go.

there was nothing you did that he did not do, too.

you stood together in the shower close enough so that the water could spray down over the both of you. your soft, warm breath fanned across his chest as you both soaked in the heat of the scalding hot water. you’d never taken a shower so hot. it hurt— but it felt so damn good.

you took turns under the stream once you began to clean yourselves off. you washed away the airport air from your skin. you washed away the cigarette smell that had clung to you from the taxi. you washed away the chill under your skin that living in the lab put inside you.

you wished you could wash more off you— but the hotel would run out of water before then.

you sat on the floor by the bed in nothing but a towel as you watched him struggle to work the tv. the small shitty box was fuzzy with static that made an awful noise. he pressed all the buttons at the bottom. only more static. he slammed his hand on the top of it, hoping to rattle something into place.

nothing.

you made him turn it off and he obliged.

he sat down beside you on the floor in nothing but a towel, too.

you whispered it like a passionate confession, like it was something sacred, “i hate you.”

but it was a lie.

you both knew it.

and he said nothing.

“i really, really hate you.” you finally looked at him, wanting to see his reaction. you wanted to see him angry because you were angry— but he just stared at you. like he always did.

he narrowed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, tilting his head. “i hate the color of this room.”

for a long moment, it was quiet.

“i hate the tv.” you said, your lips twitching with the urge to frown.

“i hate the way those jeans felt.” he said.

“i hate the clock. it ticks at an off time.” you said.

that was true. every three seconds, the little red second hand would stall. it would miss a beat.

you glanced at him as he reached over to grab something out of sight. your eyes widened as he threw his boot and shattered the clock. glass fell onto the floor and the clock broke into bits. you looked at him, eyes blown wide.

the corner of his lips twitched.

yours did, too.

and the two of you laughed.

he watched you as you crawled over to the mess he’d made. holding your towel to your chest with one hand, you picked up a large shard of glass with the other. you admired it. he’d broken something and there was no one to scold him for it.

you looked up as his shadow swallowed you whole.

his palm lay open. waiting.

you placed the piece of glass in his hand and expected him to toss it away. he would clean up the mess. he didn’t like mess.

your eyes widened as he pressed the glass into his skin and cut a line down his lower stomach. dark red blood trickled down his toned belly. it stained the towel.

“what the fuck are you—”

he grabbed you by the roots of your hair and shoved your face towards the wound. a wince escaped you. you glared up at him as he forced your lips against the cut. red smeared across your chin.

“drink,” he said softly.

“i— i don’t want it.” you whispered, his blood spreading across your lips with every word.

“you always want it.” the way his voice sounded made you feel small. “you fool the others— you may even fool yourself, too, but you don’t fool me, little monster. i see the hunger in your eyes. i hear you breathe in the smell of me in when i’m near. i feel it in every kiss.”

“now drink.” he commanded.

a soft cry escaped your lips as you gave in. your hands curled around his thighs and you sat up on your knees to reach the wound. you wrapped your lips around it and sucked the red into your mouth.

his blood burned on the way down like whiskey did.

the frenzy of bloodlust did not consume you whole as you swallowed mouthful after mouthful. you were too well trained to feel that when it was he you drank from.

but you felt euphoria.

he gripped your hair between his fingers and groaned as you sank your teeth into him. sharp and quick. you licked at the hurt. you kissed it. you suckled at the weeping injury and swallowed everything it had to offer, clinging to him as he spread across your tongue, slipped down throat, and warmed your stomach.

“fuck,” he breathed, rubbing his thumb across your hairline. “that’s a good girl.”

“more,” you pleaded, your breath hot on his skin.

“more.” he whispered, nodding his head.

you dug your nails into his thighs and bit him again. he groaned at the sensation— at the sight. your mouth was covered in him. your teeth. your tongue. and you were looking at him. staring up into his eyes as he stared down into yours.

he wanted you to eat him whole.

he wanted to be inside you— apart of you.

you were eager to have him.

you dipped your head down and grazed the edge of the towel around his waist with your mouth. he let go of your hair slowly. you bit down on the damp fabric and tugged.

the towel fell.

his long, muscular legs were covered in dark hair. his waist was outrageous. the V-line of his naval was covered in blood. it made your mouth water. you ran your eyes along the dark trail of hair matted with red that went from his belly button to his cock.

you’d never put him in your mouth before.

not really.

he had every right to be reserved about it.

sharp fangs weren’t exactly ideal for such a sensitive place. you knew part of him was always worried that you’d bite it off.

“kiss it.”

you looked up at him. an emotion you hardly ever felt squirmed within your insides. a furious blush colored your face and it became hard to draw a steady breath as he wiped his blood off your lips.

humiliation wasn’t something you ever felt.

but you did right now.

and you liked it.

“kiss it, isla.”

the tip of his cock was soft against your lips as you kissed it. once. twice. three times. once you began you didn’t want to stop— and he let you cover him in kisses.

you kissed down the curve of his shaft. you grazed each pulsing vein with your lips. the heat of his erection burned your cheek. it weeped sticky, pearlescent tears from the slit— and you caught them on your red-stained tongue.

he pulled you off the floor by the back of your neck and consumed you in a hungry, feverish kiss.

your head hit the mattress with a thump that didn’t hurt. you grabbed him as he crawled atop you. he tore the towel around you open. his human hand grasped your breast as he bent down to kiss you. he could taste himself on your tongue. the metallic twang of blood and salty sting of precum.

that’s what he wanted.

he wanted you to consume him so he did not have to feel guilty for consuming each and every bit of you.

it was a mess of red between you as you hooked your legs around his waist. the cut on his stomach and bite marks beside it dripped with blood. it smeared between you both. it was hot on your skin. it spilled onto the duvet and stained the sheets as it slipped off you.

you squirmed helplessly as he grabbed ahold of his cock at the base and angled it down towards you. ragged, broken breaths escaped you. you dug your nails into his shoulders as you felt the tip at your entrance. he grabbed ahold of your chin with his cold, metal hand and stared into your eyes as he pressed the head of his cock into you.

a low sigh of relief escaped you both.

you reached up to caress his face and you pulled him down into a desperate, wet kiss. he parted his lips to taste your moans as he began to ease himself inch by inch into you. your eyes pinched shut and you whimpered into his mouth. he let you have it all— and you took the whole of him, settling for nothing less.

you hooked your arms around his neck and clutched him to you as he began to thrust. hard. so hard that it stung the skin of your thighs as he snapped his hips into you. he buried his face down into your cleavage, grunting against your skin. your hips rolled in time with his, grinding down onto him at just the right angle that his pelvis hit your clit.

it was so easy for him to make you cum— and he fulfilled his promise on the plane.

your eyes rolled back as you tipped over the edge. sharp, breathless moans spilled through your lips as he watched you come undone below him. he smiled. he always did when you came. he kissed down your neck, making you tremble as he placed warm, savory kisses to your sensitive skin.

a sudden strangled cry escaped you.

you looked down as his teeth pressed into the skin of your chest, right above your left breast. you smashed your palm against the side of his face, trying to shove his mouth away. he caught your wrists and stole the other, pinning them above your head with his metal arm.

tears wet your lashes. it felt like fire. like terrible, awful fire that kept growing and growing.

he did not have sharp teeth— and it hurt far worse to be bitten by him than it did to be bitten by you.

you felt your skin give way and his teeth sank in.

you swallowed the cry at the tip of your tongue and watched as he pulled his mouth off you. his eyes widened. blood began to rise out of the marks his teeth had left. a tremble ran through you as his lips curled up into a smirk.

you tasted like sweet cider.

a quiet moan slipped passed your lips as he thrusted his hips forward and fed off you.

it was a sight you never wanted to forget.

he picked his head up and licked the bright red blood off his lips. the sound of his pants made you squirm. he did not try to hold you down as you reached for his face. he let you— and he let you kiss him.

he let you on top.

his head tipped back and his breath shuddered as you bounced above him. the wet, sloppy sound of your movements mixed well with the thump of the headboard against the wall and the squeak of the bed springs. his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your waist, eliciting a wince from you.

you liked that it hurt.

you liked that you were a mess of red and sweat that dirtied a bed that didn’t belong to you.

you liked that you were raw, weeping wounds.

he did, too.

“enough,” he rasped, entirely breathless. “get up.” his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “i’m close.”

“finish,” you whispered, dipping your head down. you ghosted your lips across his and stared into his eyes.

he laughed lowly, “don’t piss me off, kúkolka.”

you frowned at him.

his brows drew together in a small expression of sympathy. he patted your bottom and gave you a soft kiss as he nudged you, insisting you get off.

you did as you were told.

you laid down on the bed and kept still as he slid behind you. he pressed his face against your back and let out a shaky breath as he reached down to stroke himself. the tip of his cock slid over your ass as he worked himself to the edge of his release.

“kiss me,” he breathed against your ear.

you turned your head over your shoulder and pressed your mouth onto his. he grunted against your lips. his hand move furiously, chasing the climax he had been cresting.

as the seconds passed into minutes, he grew frustrated.

“you witch of a woman,” he hissed through his teeth. he pressed his forehead down against yours and growled under his breath. “fuck…”

a small purr escaped you as he grabbed your wrist and placed your hand on his cock. he looked into your eyes, pleading for your help. you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips.

all you had to do was tease the slit with the pad of your thumb and he crumbled into a mess of tremors, moans, and ribbons of cum that painted your belly.

you watched as he rolled onto his back. his chest rose and fell wildly. a flush of blood to his face colored his cheeks pink and sweat beaded on his hairline. his stomach and waist were covered in dark, dried blood— but so were yours.

“so much for a shower…” he whispered.

he turned his head at the sound of your laugh.

a real, genuine laugh.

it made him smile— and then it made him laugh.

really laugh.

it was deep sound that came from his belly.

you crawled beside him and giggled as you placed kisses to the scar where flesh met metal. “let’s clean up. i don’t want nikta or karov to come knocking and find us like this.”

“in a moment,” he said as he wrapped his arms around you. he tucked his face in between the warm, soft nook of your breasts and closed his eyes. “let me catch my breath.”

— ☆ —

karov and nikta brought pizza.

you sat on the floor by the window, eating your second slice as you watched the three men huddle around a map that nikta had spread out on the bed.

the mess you and your companion made was no where to be found. no glass on the floor. no blood on the bed. not a single thing looked out of place which gave neither officer anything to hold a grudge about.

officer karov was a short, doggish-looking. he barked like one, too. his voice was gruff and deep. a low bass that rumbled across the room even when he did his best to whisper. he wore nothing but his uniform every time you saw him— except for now. he was wearing a hawaiian shirt and tan cargo pants.

office nikta was a tall, brown haired man with bright green eyes. he had hundreds of freckles on his face and the broadest shoulders you’d ever seen. he wore a nyc sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing all the bite marks and scratches that usually stay hidden under the layers of his uniform.

you knew nikta well.

he had been on the team that looked over you when you were first created. he had been the one to break you in. to teach you hydra’s version of right and wrong. it was his job to make sure you followed orders.

the only man who scared you more than the winter soldier was officer nikta patrova— and the bites on his arms were all accidents.

most of them, at least.

“it will work.” nikta said, crossing his arms over his chest. his voice was a buttery rasp that sent chills down your spine. “you have never missed a shot.”

the winter soldier dipped his head.

but you noticed the deep crease between his brow.

“you don’t think so?”

all three men turned to look at you as you asked the question. you stood up and brushed any lingering crumbs off your shirt. karov and nikta made space for you as you wiggled your way between them.

the mission was to kill agent nicholas fury.

nikta and karov had studied the agents whereabouts every day for two months. like clockwork, agent fury would enter the shield agency posing as a bank at 7am for work. he would leave at 1:13pm on the dot every day to get himself a slice of pizza three streets over on his lunch break. he would return to work at 2:33pm without a second to spare.

the plan was to shoot nicholas fury on his walk back from his lunch break at 2:22pm when he passed by the ironwork offices where the winter soldier would be perched in the window ready to fire the shot accompanied by officer karov and one of the strike team’s guards.

if the grace of god blessed nick fury and winter somehow missed the shot, you would be waiting on that street for him and take a shot of your own. if all went the way it should and winter hit his target, you’d be sitting a cafe with officer nikta and the remaining two strike team guards ready to confirm the kill and take the agents remaining eye.

a request from the overseer himself.

“you don’t look confident, soldier.” you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

his jaw tightened and he forced a smile. “i guess i’m a bit butt-hurt there’s a plan in case i miss.”

a beat of silence passed as you two stared at each other. if you had knives, you would’ve been digging them into each others guts.

the officers stiffened beside you before they bursted into fits of laughter that felt painfully out of place.

“you are a funny guy, soldier.” nikta said, clapping winter on his metal shoulder. “don’t be so hurt. i don’t believe you’ll miss, but someone does have to be down there to take what we need.”

winter dipped his head once more and let the tension from his shoulders go.

“do you understand the plan?” karov asked as he looked up at you.

“mm,” you grunted before returning to sit by the window and watch.

— ☆ —

karov and nikta overstayed their welcome.

you were grateful they got your tv to work and brought the best food you’d eaten in stretched out decades, but you were happy to shut and lock the door behind them as they left.

you did not mind that he turned the tv off as soon as they left.

he could feel you staring as he cleaned up the mess of greasy napkins they had left behind on the desk alongside the empty pizza box. “what?”

“truth. now.” you demanded, plain and simple.

“i find it odd,” he said as he tossed everything in the trash. he glanced over his shoulder at you. “the fact that they would separate us.”

“we have done missions like this before. the murder of chairman kruger and his son is one that comes to mind first. the virus plant in…tch…what was it again? 1957?” you asked.

“1956, actually.” he said passively. he hook his head, “but this is different.”

“it’s no different. you kill. i confirm and clean up any mess that you make on the ground— most of the time by killing everyone else.” you said.

“not when shield is involved.”

you closed your mouth.

you had killed shield agents before. it was always an ambush somewhere quiet. somewhere they couldn’t be reached by help in time.

and yet agent fury was going to be only a street and a half away from a covert shield agency.

he was right.

“maybe there is more to this than we know. we are deployed with officers, after all. they must know more. there has to be more.” you said softly as you sat down on the edge of the bed.

you looked over at him and shrugged, trying your best to ease his worry by being rational. “there are always secrets they keep from us, winter.”

he said nothing as he walked over.

you felt your lips twitch with the urge to frown as he kneeled in front of your legs and rested his head down on your thighs. you ran your fingers through his hair and leaned down to kiss the stubble on his face.

“we will do what we came to do and then we will go home.” you said softly, assuringly.

he could only muster a nod.

you nudged him and he picked his head up. the look in his eyes made your heart tremble in your chest. those deep, blue eyes were full of unease.

what you did, he did.

but not tomorrow.

“come to bed,” you whispered, scooting yourself back onto the mattress. you pulled down the covers and slipped underneath them.

he clicked the lights off before he crawled into bed beside you. the city outside the window was bright with flashing signs of all kinds. it was easy to see his face as he laid his head next to yours on the pillow. your hand curled around one of his metal fingers rested on the mattress between you both. he stared into your eyes as you burned this moment with him into your memory.

“tomorrow,” he said softly. he lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your fingers. “if i miss—”

“you won’t miss.” you interrupted.

“if i miss,” he said again, sternly this time as he met your eyes. “you run.”

your brows drew together and your lips parted in protest— but protest did not come. not when he pulled you in by the waist and ran his hand over the curve of your cheek.

not when he looked at you like that….

“promise me that you’ll run,” he whispered, his nose brushing against yours. “and that you’ll run to me.”

you nodded, hardly able to find your voice. it was tangled in your throat. “i’ll…i’ll run to you.”

he smiled. it was soft and sweet on his face and you wished you could’ve stared at it forever— but he pulled you into a kiss that tasted tender and devote.

you had little time to worry anymore about what spooked him so badly as he pulled you on top of him and slipped his hands under your shirt.

tomorrow would happen as it would.

for tonight, you focused only on him.

hope you enjoyed. next part ->

tags: @aegonshusband @homiesexual-or-homosexual

#bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky #the winter soldier #marvel fanfiction #mrderofcr0ws #the winter soldier x you #the winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier fanfiction #HEADLOCK bucky barnes

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realityjoey · 3 months ago

Text

SEASON 1, EPISODE 2: “CRASH COURSE”

Morning roll call was usually a mix of groggy faces, half-drunk coffee, and the soft buzz of officers murmuring about early calls or late-night paperwork. But today, the atmosphere carried a quiet anticipation—a hum of something brewing just under the surface.

The briefing room was full, rows of uniformed officers perched on the edge of plastic chairs, some leaning back with crossed arms, others hunched over paper cups of vending machine sludge. Tim Bradford stood in his usual position near the back, impassive. Talia Bishop and Angela Lopez flanked him, whispering something between smirks. The rookies—Nolan, Lucy, and Jackson—sat toward the front.

And then there was Dylan Jenkins.

In her uniform again, clean and sharp, hair pulled back into a sleek low ponytail, she stood off to the side with her arms crossed. She looked alert, ready. Detached—but not unaware.

Sergeant Grey stepped up to the podium, clearing his throat.

“Alright, people,” he said, voice echoing just slightly. “Before we get into assignments, I have something… enlightening to share.”

A murmur passed through the room.

Grey gestured toward the monitor that hung in the corner of the room—usually used for maps or departmental notices. Today, it glowed with a paused video frame and the LAPD watermark in the corner.

Grey turned back to the crowd, expression unreadable. “Now, I warn you. What you’re about to see is brutal. Possibly traumatic. If anyone here is emotionally fragile, consider looking away.”

Chuckles rippled through the room.

John Nolan frowned slightly, shifting in his seat.

Then Grey pressed play.

The footage started with a shaky shot of a narrow alleyway, the video jolting up and down as someone ran. Voices crackled over the radio.

The camera turned a sharp corner—and suddenly there was the suspect in the black hoodie, sprinting ahead.

Nolan’s voice could be heard, breathless. “Suspect heading eastbound on Temple!”

The body cam jolted again as Nolan tried to close the distance—then came the fence.

Everyone leaned forward.

On screen, Nolan made a heroic attempt to scale the chain-link fence… and failed. Spectacularly. His foot caught near the top, his body tipped sideways, and he landed awkwardly in a pile of cardboard boxes, arms flailing like a freshly landed fish.

The room erupted.

Laughter burst from nearly every corner. Officers slapped desks, shoulders shook, and a few people whistled. Even Tim cracked a rare smile. Lucy gasped between laughs. “Oh no, John! You didn’t tell us it looked like that!”

Jackson winced through a grin. “You good, bro?”

Nolan buried his face in his hand, groaning.

Dylan raised an eyebrow from her spot against the wall, her lips twitching into a half-smile. “Textbook form,” she said dryly. “If the textbook was written by a drunk giraffe.”

The laughter grew louder.

Grey let the room enjoy itself for a moment before raising a hand for silence. “Alright, alright. Let’s bring some balance to the universe.”

The footage on the screen cut forward—and then resumed from another angle.

This time, the camera was more stable. Tim’s perspective. The suspect appeared again, running hard—then, cutting in front of the screen, Dylan surged into frame.

A blur of motion—long strides, relentless pace—until she launched herself off the ground.

The room quieted.

The flying tackle was clean, powerful. Her body collided with the suspect mid-run, taking them both down in a spray of dust and gravel. The screen rattled slightly from the impact. Then: her voice, sharp and calm.

“LAPD. Stay down.”

The suspect was already on his stomach, groaning. Dylan sat up, brushed gravel from her elbow, and snapped the cuffs on like it was just another Tuesday.

Grey paused the footage.

“And that,” he said, gesturing at the screen with the remote like a conductor finishing a symphony, “is how you stop a runner.”

There was a beat—then applause.

Actual applause.

Not forced or sarcastic, but genuine. A few officers whooped. Someone at the back gave a slow clap. Even the veterans were nodding.

Dylan didn’t move. She just lifted her chin slightly, arms still crossed, expression unreadable—but her eyes? They burned with quiet pride.

For Nolan, it was a moment of humility. A harsh, funny lesson. His body still ached from the fall, and now it was immortalised in high-def for the entire department. But he took it in stride. Because this was the job—mistakes, learning curves, bruised egos and all.

And for Dylan, it was something else entirely.

She hadn’t come to the LAPD to impress anyone. She wasn’t trying to prove herself—not in the usual way. But in that moment, as she stood watching the room respond to her, something inside her shifted.

This wasn’t just her starting over. This was her planting a flag. Making it clear that she wasn’t just here to blend in. She was here to leave a mark.

Grey switched off the monitor and turned back to the room. “Now that we’ve learned what not to do and what to aim for, let’s get to work.”

As people started to rise, murmuring and laughing, Dylan stepped forward to meet the rest of her group.

Tim passed her, muttered, “Show-off.”

She didn’t look at him. “Jealous.”

And as they filed out of the briefing room, one thing was clear:

Dylan Jenkins was no longer just the Brit.

She was a detective the LAPD was starting to talk about—and not because of where she came from, but because of what she could do.

The sun sat low and mean in the sky, casting sharp shadows across the city as the LAPD scrambled into action.

Sergeant Grey’s voice still echoed in Dylan’s ears as she sat beside Tim in the patrol car, pulling on her gloves and adjusting her vest.

“Target is Eric Barlowe. Violated parole. Armed, dangerous, no hesitation with violence. I want him brought in today.”

Tim had said very little after roll call, only that they weren’t diving into the manhunt just yet. Dylan had sensed something in his tone—something measured, deliberate. Like he was setting the board before making his first move.

They turned down a back alley in Echo Park, the kind with graffiti tags, trash bins, and too many broken windows. Tim pulled the car to a stop near a crumbling brick building and cut the engine.

“Why are we here?” Dylan asked, eyes narrowing.

Tim didn’t answer right away. He just stepped out of the car, motioning for her to follow. She did, warily, keeping a hand near her holster.

They walked through a rusted gate and into the mouth of the alley. A tall, twitchy man in a ripped hoodie was waiting there, hands jammed into his pockets, a cigarette clinging to his lip.

“Jenkins,” Tim said casually, nodding toward the man. “Meet Travis. Small-time dealer. Caught him twice. Knows better than to run.”

Travis shifted on his feet. “Yo, Bradford. Long time.”

“Travis,” Tim said. “Got anything on you?”

“Maybe.”

Tim turned to Dylan. “Go ahead. Pat him down.”

Dylan blinked. “Are we arresting him?”

“Nope,” Tim said, stepping back. “Just checking him out. Think of it as… a test.”

Her expression darkened.

But she stepped forward anyway.

“Hands where I can see them,” she said to Travis, voice clipped.

Travis complied, raising his arms lazily, clearly amused. “Damn. English accent. Didn’t think I was gonna get flirted with today.”

Dylan ignored him, stepping in and beginning the pat down. She moved with the precision of someone who’d done this hundreds of times—quick, methodical, efficient.

But then his tone changed. Darker.

“You got hands like silk,” Travis murmured. “Bet you taste just as smooth.”

Dylan’s jaw tensed. “Say that again and you’ll be picking up your teeth with broken fingers.”

But Travis wasn’t done. His hand suddenly shot down, grabbing at her wrist.

In the same breath, he lunged.

They crashed against the alley wall, the fight sudden and vicious. Dylan twisted her body, slamming her elbow into his ribs, but he came back fast—faster than she’d expected. His fist clipped her jaw, then another swung at her ribs.

She staggered but didn’t fall.

Blood in her mouth. Familiar. Her vision tunneled—just for a second.

London. Brick hallway. That night she almost didn’t get back up.

But this wasn’t London.

She pivoted hard, dropped low, and drove her shoulder into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled, coughing, and she came up swinging—two fast jabs to the jaw, a knee to the thigh, and then she slammed his face into the alley wall.

He groaned, dazed.

She didn’t hesitate. Spun him, yanked his arms back, and cuffed him, pressing her forearm into his shoulder blades.

“Anything else you want to say about my hands?” she hissed into his ear.

Travis just wheezed.

She stepped back, breathing hard, face cut and lip bleeding slightly. But her eyes—those were colder than ever.

Tim hadn’t moved.

He stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching it all. No interference. No help.

Just a test.

Dylan looked at Travis, now slumped and cuffed against the wall.

Then she looked at Bradford.

“You knew he’d push back,” she said, wiping her lip. “Didn’t you?”

Tim shrugged. “Didn’t know how far. Figured we’d find out.”

Her jaw clenched. “So this wasn’t about drugs. This was about me.”

He met her gaze, unreadable. “It was about knowing who I’m riding with.”

“I told you I’ve done this before.”

“And now I’ve seen it.”

Dylan stepped toward him, fists still clenched. “You wanted to know if I could handle myself? You risked me getting stabbed just to answer a question you were too insecure to ask outright?”

“If he’d pulled a weapon, I would’ve stepped in.”

“But you didn’t,” she snapped.

They stared at each other for a moment—hot, breathless, angry.

Tim didn’t flinch. “You’re not a rookie. I don’t get to hold your hand. You say you’ve been through worse? Then I needed to see it.”

Dylan let the words settle, her heart still thundering in her chest. He wasn’t apologising. He never would. But there was something behind his eyes—not cruelty, but calculation. Wariness. Trust issues wrapped in duty.

She turned away, chest heaving. “Next time you want to know if I can fight, ask. I’ll show you without the bloodshed.”

She walked back toward the cruiser, leaving him standing there.

Travis groaned behind him, still cuffed, still stunned.

Tim looked down at the dealer, then back at Dylan’s retreating figure.

She’d passed the test. Brutally.

But the cost?

He wasn’t sure yet.

The alley still buzzed with leftover adrenaline. Dylan Jenkins walked briskly alongside Tim Bradford, guiding the cuffed dealer toward their patrol car. The man was still muttering under his breath, but Dylan ignored him—her jaw was sore, her knuckles raw, and her patience worn thin. She was already halfway through mentally writing a very pointed speech to deliver to Tim about ambush “tests” when—

“Let him go!”

The voice cut through the air like a wire pulled taut.

Both Dylan and Tim stopped.

At the mouth of the alley stood a woman—thin, jittery, with dirty-blonde hair hanging in lank strands over her shoulders. Her clothes were layered and mismatched, as if she’d dressed in the dark. Her eyes were wide and wild, darting between Dylan and Tim, then locking onto the man in cuffs.

Beside her, Tim… froze.

His whole body changed—every rigid, commanding line softened at once. His shoulders dropped. His breathing shallowed. He looked like he’d been shot without a bullet being fired.

He took a step forward, voice cracking open like glass.

“Isabel?”

Dylan’s gaze snapped to him. The tone he used—it was like nothing she’d heard from him before. Not the cold command. Not the clipped control.

This was raw. Fragile.

The woman flinched at the name, her jaw tightening.

Tim kept walking—slow, hesitant. Like one wrong move would scare her away.

“Isabel,” he said again, softer this time. “It’s me. It’s Tim.”

And there it was—everything fell into place.

Dylan’s eyes widened slightly. This wasn’t just a ghost from his past. This was personal. Intimate.

“I’ve been looking all over the place for you,” Tim said. His voice was cracking now. Desperate and delicate. “I wanted to find you— just to see if you’re okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” she snapped, eyes wild.

Tim flinched. “I just want to help. Let me help you. We can get you into rehab.”

Isabel looked away. Her hands trembled as she ran them through her hair. “I don’t need goddamn rehab.”

Dylan stood frozen, watching the scene unfold like a spectator in a theatre that had suddenly turned real. She’d seen pain. She’d seen heartbreak. But this—this was grief. Living and breathing and walking.

“I begged you to let me help,” Tim whispered. “I begged you, Isabel. I begged you then, and I’m begging you now.”

Isabel turned back to him, her voice sharp, desperate. “You wanted to fix me. Not help me. There’s a difference.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Then let me help now.”

She laughed again, but this time it sounded like it hurt. “You got money?”

Tim blinked. “What?”

“That’s what I need, Tim. Not your guilt. Not your speeches. You want to help, so give me all your cash.”

There was a long pause. A horrible silence where everything that had ever been said between them hung in the air like smoke.

Then, slowly, Tim reached for his wallet. His hands were shaking as he muttered something incoherent.

He counted out a few twenties. Hesitated.

Isabel stepped forward, eyes locked on the bills.

He held them out. “Just… don’t disappear again. Please.”

She snatched the money from his hand like a starving animal. Then she turned and ran. Down the alley. Gone.

Just like that.

The dealer in cuffs started to snort, amused. “Damn, man. Was that your—?”

“Shut your mouth,” Dylan growled, her voice like ice.

But her focus was on Tim.

He stood there, unmoving, the empty air where she’d been still stretched between his hands. His eyes were glassy. Wet. He didn’t cry—not openly. But the tears fell anyway, silent and slow, trailing down his cheeks and catching in the stubble on his jaw.

Dylan stepped closer, but didn’t touch him. She just stood beside him.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer. Just wiped his face with the back of his hand and nodded once, as if he was trying to pull himself back into shape. As if the last five minutes hadn’t shattered him in front of her.

“That was my wife,” he said finally. Quiet. Hollow. “I haven’t seen her in almost a year. She got deep into the drugs… deeper than I could follow.”

Dylan exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Tim laughed bitterly. “I told myself I’d never let her end up like this. That I could save her.”

Dylan looked down the alley, where Isabel had disappeared.

“You tried,” she said. “And you still would, if she let you.”

He nodded again. But it felt empty.

The kind of nod people give when they’re trying to convince themselves they can breathe through the pain.

They walked the rest of the way to the cruiser in silence. Tim’s hands didn’t stop shaking until they were halfway back to the precinct.

And Dylan didn’t say another word.

Because she knew this wasn’t something words could fix.

Only time.

And maybe, just maybe, someone who didn’t walk away.

The silence left behind in Isabel’s wake was deafening.

For a moment, Dylan Jenkins stood still, the cuffed drug dealer beside her still catching his breath, the only sound his quiet chuckle as if he’d just watched the finale of a tragic soap opera.

Then Tim Bradford turned to her, his voice hoarse.

“Let him go.”

Dylan blinked. “What?”

Tim’s jaw was set, eyes fixed on the alley wall like if he didn’t look at her, he wouldn’t break. “Just do it.”

She hesitated.

The man they’d fought to restrain—who’d taken swings at her, insulted her, earned those cuffs—stood smugly, shifting his weight from foot to foot like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Dylan opened her mouth to protest, to remind Tim that this man wasn’t just a throwaway side job, but a dealer contributing to the same streets that had chewed Isabel up and spat her out.

But something in Tim’s face stopped her.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t authority. It was the fragile, trembling grip of a man whose world had cracked open right in front of someone who wasn’t supposed to see it.

So, reluctantly, Dylan pulled the key from her belt and stepped toward the dealer.

“You get one break,” she warned coldly. “Use it wisely.”

The cuffs clicked open, and the dealer flexed his wrists with a smug grin. “Y’all are real generous today.”

Dylan stepped back, and the man took the opportunity, darting off down the alley without a second glance.

Tim had already turned and headed for the cruiser.

He got in, slammed the door behind him harder than he probably meant to, then slouched in the driver’s seat, his head falling back against the rest.

He took one breath. Then another.

Inhale. Exhale.

But each breath came out shakier than the last.

His eyes were shut tight. His jaw clenched. His lips parted like he was trying to hold in a scream—or a sob. His knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel, not in anger, but desperation. As if the leather might hold him together when everything else wanted to fall apart.

He couldn’t break down. Not here. Not now.

Not in front of her.

He was her training officer. Her anchor. The hard-ass, the example. If she saw this—really saw this—how could she ever respect him? Listen to him? Trust him to lead?

He tried to slow his breathing, but the effort made his throat tighten more. His lip trembled. He bit down on it, hard, trying to force the weakness back where it came from.

Outside, Dylan stood by the cruiser, taking her time.

She didn’t want to crowd him. Didn’t want to make him flinch, or speak when there was nothing she could say.

Because she knew that look.

She’d seen it before—in her own mirror.

When her dad had vanished into the bottle. Slowly at first. Then all at once.

She knew the way your chest tightened when you saw someone you loved become someone you couldn’t reach anymore. Knew the helplessness, the guilt, the way it made you question your own worth. The shame of still loving someone who kept choosing the thing that was destroying them.

Her father had been an alcoholic. Loud, cruel, impossible to please. But when he was sober? He was her hero. Which made it all the worse.

She’d spent years trying to fix him. Years learning she couldn’t.

So now, she waited.

Gave Tim time to put the pieces back together. Not to spare him embarrassment, but because she respected him more for breaking.

The fact that he cared—that he still tried to reach Isabel after everything—meant more to her than any badge, any takedown, any test he could throw at her.

After a long moment, she finally opened the passenger side door and slid in, her movements calm and quiet. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t mention the tears he’d blinked away. Didn’t call attention to the way his breathing was almost back to normal—but not quite.

She simply buckled her seatbelt.

Then, after a pause, said softly, “My dad was an alcoholic. Got sober once, stayed that way for about two years. Slipped again the day I graduated the Academy. Missed the whole ceremony.”

She didn’t say it to comfort. Just to let him know: I see you. You’re not alone in this.

Tim stared ahead, his hands still tight on the wheel.

After a moment, he finally spoke.

“What happened to him?”

“He drank himself into a seizure a few months later,” Dylan said, matter-of-fact. “He lived. But that was the last time I tried to save him.”

The silence between them stretched again—but this time, it wasn’t sharp.

It was steady. Shared.

Tim nodded once. And when he spoke again, his voice had steadied too.

“We’ve got a fugitive to catch.”

Dylan gave him a glance. “You ready?”

He looked at her. Just a moment. A flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

Then he nodded again. “Yeah.”

And this time, she believed him.

The late afternoon sun baked the pavement in golden haze as the cruiser rolled to a stop at the mouth of a quiet side street in East Hollywood. The block looked abandoned—silent, eerie, the kind of stillness that put seasoned cops on edge.

Dylan Jenkins sat up straighter in the passenger seat, her eyes narrowing on a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe idling directly across from them.

Four figures sat inside.

One in the driver’s seat—wide-shouldered, profile unmistakable.

Eric Barlowe.

Dylan reached for the radio.

“This is 7-Adam-19,” she said, voice clipped but calm. “Visual on the suspect—Barlowe—parked in a black SUV at the corner of El Centro and Marathon. Four occupants. Appears armed. Requesting immediate backup.”

The radio crackled.

“Copy that, 7-Adam-19. Units en route. ETA four minutes.”

Tim’s voice was already tight as he threw the car into park, hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. “Four minutes is too long.”

They stepped out of the cruiser in unison, each moving behind their open doors for cover. Guns drawn. Eyes locked.

Tim’s voice boomed across the quiet street.

“Eric Barlowe! LAPD! Step out of the vehicle and show me your hands—now!”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then—Barlowe looked up. Just a flick of his eyes, a glance at Tim, then Dylan. Smirking.

And in one fluid, chilling motion—he reached down, yanked up a sleek black automatic weapon, and opened fire.

The sound was deafening.

Bullets shredded through the stillness like a buzz saw. Glass exploded, the cruiser windows shattering into a thousand glittering pieces. Dylan dropped immediately behind the door, weapon raised, heart pounding.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer under fire!” she yelled into the radio, voice drowned under the sharp bark of gunfire.

Tim returned fire, but they were massively outgunned. Barlowe’s crew joined in, bullets pinging off the cruiser’s frame, tearing into metal, ricocheting off asphalt.

Then—a grunt.

Tim’s.

Dylan looked just in time to see him stumble backward, the side of his body twisting violently as a bullet slammed into his hip through the car door’s shattered window. He hit the ground hard, groaning, clutching his side.

Dylan didn’t think—she moved.

Still ducking, she sprinted through the hail of bullets, skidding to her knees at his side. Her hands were already on the radio clipped to her shoulder.

“Officer down! Officer down! Repeat, Officer Bradford has been shot. Requesting immediate medical and tactical support. We’re pinned!”

Tim was pale, teeth clenched, blood soaking rapidly through his uniform. His breathing was sharp, uneven.

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “Just—just focus on them—”

“Shut up,” Dylan snapped, returning fire over the top of the cruiser as she shielded his body with her own. Her gun barked three, four times—targeting flashes of movement in the Tahoe’s windows. She hit something; one of Barlowe’s crew shouted in pain.

But there were still too many of them.

She dropped low again and looped her arms under Tim’s armpits.

“Alright,” she whispered to him, voice ragged but controlled. “I’m dragging you. Stay awake. Scream at me later.”

With all the strength she could muster, Dylan began dragging him across the asphalt, inch by painful inch, toward the rear tire well of the cruiser, using it for maximum cover. Bullets whizzed past, splintering concrete, pinging off metal.

“Come on, come on—” she muttered under her breath, teeth gritted.

Tim groaned, his weight slumping more heavily into her arms.

Once they were tucked in behind the rear wheel, she dropped beside him, panting, sweat and blood streaking her face. She looked down at the wound—bleeding fast.

She made a split-second decision, yanked off her uniform shirt, leaving herself in a black tank beneath. Folding the fabric into a makeshift pad, she pressed it hard against the gunshot wound.

Tim flinched, hissing in pain.

“Keep pressure on it,” he whispered.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Dylan remarked.

Then—sirens.

A fleet of black-and-whites screamed around the corner, tires squealing. Barlowe’s gang reacted fast. The driver threw the Tahoe into gear and peeled off, two other vehicles speeding behind them, spraying one last barrage of bullets into the air as they fled.

Backup officers spilled out of their cruisers behind Dylan and Tim, weapons raised, taking defensive positions, shouts erupting across the block.

But Dylan didn’t move.

She stayed crouched beside Tim, still applying pressure, her arms slick with blood, chest heaving.

His eyes fluttered up to hers, blurry. But focused.

“You good?” she asked softly.

Tim gave her a faint, pained smirk. “You dragged me like a sack of potatoes.”

“You are a sack of potatoes,” she shot back, voice shaking. “A heavy, stubborn one.”

And then, finally, her hands eased just slightly as the paramedics rushed in.

But even as they took over, Dylan didn’t step away. She stayed beside him, hand still braced against his chest.

Because in that moment, there was no badge hierarchy, no rank, no tests.

Just two cops. And a bond forged not in trust—but in fire.

The flashing lights of black-and-white cruisers painted the street in stuttering red and blue as backup swarmed the scene. Officers spilled from their vehicles, weapons raised, eyes scanning for threats—but the immediate danger had already peeled away down a side street.

Barlowe was on the run.

Down on the asphalt behind the cruiser, Tim Bradford lay propped up slightly against the rear tire well, a paramedic trying to assess the gunshot wound to his hip. He winced as the pressure increased on the torn muscle, but when he caught movement from the corner of his eye, he turned his head.

Nolan and Bishop had arrived.

John jogged up, wide-eyed and already kneeling beside Tim. “Are you okay?”

Tim gave him a look. Equal parts pain and exasperation.

“No, I got shot!” he snapped, his voice laced with sarcasm and a wince.

Nolan raised his hands. “Right. Got it. Dumb question.”

Tim’s expression shifted quickly, urgency breaking through the pain. “Barlowe’s on foot. That alley to the east—he’s moving fast!”

Then he turned his head and shouted past them, toward where Dylan crouched, breath still ragged and skin slick with sweat and blood.

“Go get him, Jenkins. Go!”

She didn’t hesitate.

She rose fast, gun still in hand, and took off down the street—Bishop, Nolan, and Lopez right behind her.

Their boots pounded the pavement in rhythm, sirens still echoing in the distance. The scent of cordite and hot asphalt filled the air. They pushed hard, weaving around wrecked trash bins and ducking under hanging wires.

But after only a few strides, something shifted in Dylan.

Her vision tilted slightly.

Her footsteps—once solid and deliberate—grew clumsy.

Her breath hitched, shallow now, and she felt a strange cold spreading across her back and shoulder. Her gun wavered in her grip, but she kept pushing.

Until she couldn’t.

Her legs buckled beneath her mid-stride. She stumbled, then dropped to her knees. A second later, her body collapsed sideways onto the asphalt with a hard, jarring thud—not far from where Tim lay.

“Dylan!” Nolan cried out behind her, skidding to a halt.

“Officer down!” Bishop bellowed into her radio, already turning back.

Tim’s head whipped around at the sound. His entire body tensed as he caught sight of her motionless figure lying across the pavement, blood blooming in a dark red circle across her shoulder, seeping fast through the black fabric of her tank top.

His voice cracked as he called out, “Jenkins!”

Paramedics shouted in confusion as they shifted their attention from Tim to the second wounded officer.

Lopez dropped to Dylan’s side first, checking for a pulse, gently shaking her.

“She’s alive!” she shouted. “She’s—Jesus, she’s been shot! Left shoulder!”

Nolan was already helping roll Dylan gently onto her back. Her eyes fluttered, blinking in a daze.

She muttered something incoherent.

“Hey, hey, Jenkins—stay with me,” Nolan said, panic creeping into his voice. “You’re okay. We’ve got you. You’re gonna be alright.”

“She didn’t say anything,” Bishop muttered, pressing a hand down over the wound. “She didn’t even know.”

“She was too focused on Tim,” Lucy’s voice added from behind, wide-eyed as she caught up to the scene.

Tim’s eyes locked on Dylan, who now lay just yards away from him. His breathing picked up, a furious ache blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the bullet in his hip.

“You idiot,” he whispered hoarsely. “You should’ve said something. You were bleeding the whole damn time.”

But even as he said it, he knew.

He knew what it meant to put someone else first. To ignore your own pain because the person beside you was worse off. Because they mattered.

He’d done it a hundred times.

Now she had, too.

Paramedics dropped beside her, working fast—cutting away her shirt, checking for an exit wound. “Clean shot,” one of them said. “But she’s lost a lot of blood.”

They worked to stabilize her, oxygen mask over her face, bandages pressed tightly to her shoulder.

Tim watched helplessly, the taste of iron in his mouth from clenching his jaw so hard.

This wasn’t just about a chase gone wrong.

This was the moment that shattered the wall he’d built around himself.

Because now he wasn’t looking at a rival. Or a rookie. Or a smartass detective who gave him just as much grief as he gave her.

He was looking at his partner.

And she had bled for him.

The intensive care unit was unnervingly quiet.

Harsh, sterile light hummed overhead while the faint beep of monitors echoed down the polished corridor. The air smelled like antiseptic and fatigue.

Inside room 403, Dylan Jenkins lay motionless in the hospital bed. An IV line snaked into her arm, and a thick bandage wrapped tightly around her shoulder, stark against the paleness of her skin. A sling cradled her left arm against her chest. Her breathing was steady, but the rise and fall of her chest looked laboured—like even that much effort had a price.

She was doped up, drifting somewhere between lucidity and morphine fog.

But her eyes opened slowly as the door creaked open.

“Alright, sleeping beauty,” came a familiar voice, hushed but teasing, “you look like crap.”

Lucy Chen stepped in first, followed by Jackson West, with John Nolan bringing up the rear. All three still wore remnants of their uniforms, weary from the shift but unable to go home until they saw her.

Dylan blinked at them, eyelids heavy. “You lot lose a bet or something?”

Lucy laughed. “Oh good, you’re still sarcastic. I was worried the bullet might’ve done something to your personality.”

“Only shot my shoulder, not my charm.”

Jackson stepped forward, placing a small, slightly-wilted bouquet on the table beside her. “We brought you flowers. Nolan picked them.”

“I panicked and went with daisies,” John added.

Dylan arched a brow. “Touching. I’ll treasure them forever—unless they attract bees, in which case, one of you is getting punched.”

They talked for a while longer—Lucy filling her in on precinct gossip, Jackson reenacting Barlowe’s capture with dramatic flair, Nolan trying to subtly check on how she was really doing. Dylan played along, grateful for the company, even as her limbs felt heavy and her eyes kept wanting to drift shut.

Eventually, Lucy glanced at her phone and winced. “We’ve gotta go, or Sergeant Grey’s going to hunt us down for skipping paperwork.”

They lingered at the door a moment longer.

Nolan spoke last. “You did good, Jenkins. You saved him.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded.

And then the door closed, and the silence returned.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft rattle just outside her room—wheels squeaking faintly against the tile.

Tim Bradford was a sight.

Still pale, hospital gown hanging awkwardly off his tall frame, a fresh dressing peeking out from the hem near his hip. He wheeled himself slowly into the room, one hand bracing the armrest, jaw clenched in concentration. He looked like he hated every second of needing help. But he was here.

Dylan cracked open one eye. “Well, well,” she croaked. “Didn’t think they let grumpy patients wander the halls unsupervised.”

Tim gave a long exhale through his nose as he parked himself beside her bed. “There was a nurse. I ditched her.”

Dylan grinned faintly. “You’re such a rebel.”

Tim didn’t look at her right away. He sat in silence, hands on his lap, staring at the monitor beside her bed like it might explain something he couldn’t say out loud.

Eventually, he spoke. Rough. Quiet.

“I saw the footage.”

Dylan blinked slowly.

“The moment I hit the ground… you ran for me. In the middle of all that—bullets flying—you chose me. Dragged me out. Took a round yourself and still kept going.” His eyes flicked up, finally meeting hers. “You didn’t even flinch.”

Dylan’s voice was hoarse. “Wasn’t gonna let you bleed out in front of me. Would’ve ruined the whole shift.”

Tim huffed. A whisper of a laugh, more breath than sound.

He looked down again. Fidgeted.

Then, finally, he muttered, “…Don’t do that again.”

Dylan frowned. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t put yourself between me and a bullet. Not like that.” His voice was low, gravelly. “You could’ve died.”

Dylan was quiet for a beat, then lifted her good arm with great effort and gestured vaguely around the sterile room.

“Well,” she said, voice thick with sarcasm, “cheers for the appreciation. I’ll just go ahead and cancel my medal ceremony, yeah?”

Tim smirked faintly, even as his jaw clenched. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Dylan replied, voice softer now. “I do.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Outside, a nurse passed by, oblivious. Machines beeped steadily. The world kept spinning.

Inside that room, two people who had spent days pushing each other, testing each other, watching each other with suspicion—sat still.

Something had changed— slightly.

Tim finally leaned his head back against the chair and muttered, “Next time, we both duck.”

Dylan smiled faintly, eyelids fluttering.

“Next time,” she whispered, already drifting again, “you can carry me.”

And for once, Tim didn’t argue.

He just stayed by her side.

Because whether they were ready to admit it or not—this was what partnership looked like.

And they had it.

A couple days later, the sterile buzz of the intensive care unit gave way to the subdued chaos of a discharge day.

Tim Bradford sat on the edge of his hospital bed, fully dressed but clearly unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest like a man being forced into an unspeakable humiliation.

Across the room, a nurse stood holding a wheelchair, expression firm.

“You’re not leaving without it,” she said. “Policy.”

“I’m fine,” Tim muttered, scowling.

“You were shot.”

“Grazed.”

“Through the hip.”

“I’ve walked off worse.”

She raised a brow. “Then consider this a break for your bruised ego.”

Before Tim could respond, Dylan Jenkins walked herself into the doorway, smug as anything, her right arm still cradled in a black sling and her hair pulled messily back. She looked equally wrecked and radiant, somehow pulling off hospital exhaustion with effortless British sarcasm.

“Well, well,” she said, eyes twinkling as she took in the scene. “Look at this. Officer Bradford being rolled out like a royal.”

Tim glared at her. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I’m going to.”

With a slow grin, Dylan limped into the room, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair with her good arm.

The nurse looked mildly concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay to—?”

“Yup,” Dylan cut in brightly. “Doctor said I’m fit for wheeling disgruntled men out of buildings. Just said to avoid brawls and breakdancing.”

Tim sighed. Loudly.

“I can walk.”

Dylan leaned over his shoulder, voice low and wickedly amused. “Come on. Let me have this.”

And so, begrudgingly, Tim allowed himself to be wheeled out of the ICU, arms folded like a sulking child, as Dylan Jenkins—clearly enjoying herself far too much—maneuvered the chair through the corridors one-handed, her sling shifting as she navigated around corners like she was on a scenic tour.

“I could be dying, you know,” she said conversationally.

“You’re not.”

“Still. Think of this as me milking what’s left of my near-death experience. Let me have my moment.”

As they reached the hospital lobby, Angela Lopez and Talia Bishop walked in through the sliding doors, both in jeans and off-duty hoodies, grinning like cats who’d just found cream.

“Oh my god,” Lopez said, whipping out her phone. “Is this a Bradford in a wheelchair sighting? Rare footage?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Lopez—no.”

Click.

Too late.

“You blinked,” Bishop said dryly, peering at the screen. “We’ll have to take another one.”

Tim groaned, but Dylan just grinned over his shoulder, triumphant.

“He’s going straight to the LAPD retirement pamphlet,” she said.

Lopez and Bishop laughed as they helped both patients into the car—Tim slowly, with a stiffness he refused to acknowledge, and Dylan with a limp and a stubborn tilt to her chin.

They dropped Tim off first, at his clean-cut apartment complex in Silver Lake. Lopez helped him out while Dylan stayed in the back seat, watching silently as Tim paused before shutting the door.

He looked at her for a beat.

“Take it easy.”

She smirked. “You too. Or your nurse will hunt you down.”

The door closed.

Then it was her turn.

The car slowed in front of a squat, two-story apartment block on the edge of Koreatown—run-down, old, but intact. The kind of place where the walls were too thin and the paint peeled a little at the corners. But it had a roof. And privacy. And most importantly, it was hers.

Lopez frowned as she took in the building. “This where you’re staying?”

Dylan nodded. “Yep.”

“Not exactly luxury.”

“No,” Dylan said, already getting out, “but the rats keep to their side of the hallway, and the water’s only occasionally brown. I call that a win.”

Bishop opened her mouth, then closed it again. Dylan wasn’t embarrassed—she wore the truth like armor. She didn’t need their pity.

She just needed to get inside and get horizontal.

As she reached the entrance, Dylan turned back slightly, half-smiling.

“Thanks for the lift. I owe you one.”

“Just one?” Lopez teased.

“Alright, two. But if you don’t show enough people that photo of Tim, I’ll take them back.”

Bishop saluted with two fingers. “Noted.”

Then the car pulled away, and Dylan was alone.

She limped up the stairs, fumbled with her keys, and stepped into her apartment.

It was small. Sparse. A beat-up couch, a mattress on the floor, a few personal touches—a photo in a cracked frame, an old scarf on the coat hook, a mug shaped like a grenade.

She dropped her bag, sank onto the bed, and exhaled.

Pain pulsed through her shoulder, but beneath it was something quieter.

Something like pride.

She’d survived. She’d fought. She’d saved someone.

And Tim Bradford, of all people, had said thank you.

Even if it came dressed as a grumble in a wheelchair.

Day eleven.

That’s how long it had been since Dylan Jenkins had been discharged from the hospital, stitched up, bandaged, and sent home with a bottle of painkillers and a warning not to overdo it.

For ten and a half of those days, she’d done exactly that: stayed in bed, watched reruns of Frasier, and lived off cereal bars, black coffee, and self-pity. Her shoulder throbbed less now. The bruises were turning yellow. The stitches were still ugly, but healing. And the worst of the pain had dulled into an ache that reminded her she was alive.

But now her fridge was empty.

And she was starving.

And if she didn’t eat something greasy and utterly void of nutritional value in the next ten minutes, she was going to scream.

So, she dragged herself into jeans, a crumpled hoodie she hadn’t washed since the shooting, and laced up her boots with one hand. The sling still held her left arm tight to her side. Her keys jingled as she snatched them up, and she mumbled curses as she clumsily unlocked her car, slid behind the wheel, and pulled out into traffic—driving one-handed, with the general mood of a bear that had just woken up from hibernation.

Ten minutes later, she pulled into a battered strip mall with a glowing red sign that read:

“UNCLE RAY’S FRIED DELIGHTS — Open ‘Til You Regret It.”

Perfect.

She shuffled inside, the bell above the door chiming obnoxiously loud, and blinked in the harsh fluorescent light.

The smell hit first—fried chicken, grease, old oil, and something vaguely resembling cheese.

She was halfway through muttering to herself about artery-clogging America when a voice rang out from a booth near the back.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally left her cave.”

Tim Bradford.

Slouched slightly in a booth, cradling a styrofoam cup of what was probably black coffee, looking way too smug for someone who clearly hadn’t slept properly in days. His hoodie was dark, his hair slightly tousled, and the bandage peeking out from under his shirt told her he wasn’t doing that much better than her.

Dylan sighed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Tim took a slow sip. “Didn’t think you were the ‘Fried Delights’ type. I had you pegged for kale and tea that tastes like regret.”

She approached the counter, ignoring him completely as she squinted at the laminated menu. Her stomach growled.

Behind her, Tim kept going. “Let me guess—grilled cheese, fries, extra salt to match your attitude?”

She turned slowly, fixing him with a look. “You must be really bored if you’re heckling women in takeaways.”

Tim raised a brow. “Just the ones who’ve dragged me through gunfire.”

She finally ordered—chicken tenders, fries, extra hot sauce—then slid into the booth opposite him without asking. Her legs were tired, and the room was spinning just slightly. She didn’t trust herself to stay upright any longer.

They sat in silence for a moment, just long enough for the tension to curl between them like cigarette smoke.

Tim tapped his fingers on his cup. “You look like hell.”

“You don’t look much better,” she replied.

“Still got one working arm,” he said, lifting it dramatically.

She raised her brows. “So do I. I’m just not flaunting it like an idiot.”

He smirked. “Tell me, Jenkins—was it the hunger or the loneliness that finally drove you out of hiding?”

She rolled her eyes. “If I’d known you were here, I’d have eaten a tube of toothpaste and called it a meal.”

But behind her dry wit and sharp words, there was a faint flicker of warmth. Of familiarity.

Tim leaned back slightly. “You keeping up with your meds?”

Her eyes flicked to his. “What, you stalking me now?”

He shrugged. “Just asking. You look like the type to skip the painkillers and try to muscle through it.”

She didn’t answer.

That told him everything.

He exhaled slowly. “You need to rest properly. Let it heal.”

She looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to sound casual, still playing the sarcastic card, still keeping everything wrapped in layers of gruffness and jabs. But she saw through it.

She saw it in the way he kept glancing at her sling when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the way he shifted like he was still sore. In the way his voice softened—just slightly—when he said her name.

There was concern in him.

The kind neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

And it lived between every sarcastic jab.

Dylan’s food was called from the counter. She got up slowly, retrieved the brown paper bag, and returned to the booth. She opened it and took one greasy fry with her good hand, popping it into her mouth before leaning back and eyeing him.

“You always this annoying?”

“Only when I’m worried.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

There it was.

She paused, blinking slowly, then tilted her head, amused. “Aw. Was that an emotion, Bradford? Want me to alert the media?”

He groaned and sipped his coffee again. “Forget it.”

“No, no,” she said, picking up another fry. “You care. I’m touched. Truly.”

They lapsed into silence again—comfortable, this time.

And then Dylan grinned, wide and smug. “Still not sharing my fries with you.”

Tim smirked. “Didn’t ask. They smell like regret.”

“But they taste like survival,” she said, holding one up like a trophy.

And across the greasy table, in the most unlikely place, two wounded cops—one sarcastic Brit, one brooding American—shared a moment of genuine, unspoken understanding.

They weren’t friends.

Not quite.

But maybe, they were becoming something that mattered more.

It was just after 9 p.m. on a Sunday night, and Dylan Jenkins was slumped sideways on her battered couch, one blanket draped over her legs and an unfinished bottle of Coke balanced precariously on the armrest. A late-night documentary flickered on her TV, the narrator speaking in a soft British accent that made her homesick for all of two seconds before she tuned it out again.

Her shoulder still ached in dull pulses beneath the sling, but the worst of the pain had faded. Her stitches were healing. The bruises were fading from purple to yellow. Her appetite had returned with a vengeance, and her stubborn streak was itching to move again.

She hadn’t left the apartment all day.

Hadn’t planned to.

Until her phone buzzed.

She squinted at the screen as it lit up.

Unknown Number:

Back on duty tomorrow. 0700. Hope you’ve been sleeping in, because that ends tonight.

Her stomach dropped with the kind of dread reserved for dental appointments and interrogation rooms. There was only one person who’d text her like that.

She tapped back slowly.

You got my number how, exactly?

The response came almost immediately.

Bradford:

Department contact list. Welcome to the age of modern surveillance.

Dylan snorted, fingers already moving over the screen.

Jenkins:

You are such a pain in my ass.

There was a pause. Three dots. Then—

Bradford:

That’s my job.

She stared at the screen, jaw twitching slightly, somewhere between amused and annoyed. It was such a Tim Bradford response—dry, self-assured, mildly infuriating. And it landed exactly how he meant it to: reminding her, in the subtlest way, that they were back to reality tomorrow. No more takeaway food and naps. No more hospital walls and half-baked excuses.

Just the streets. The badge. The uniform.

And the Tests. She knew they were coming.

If he’d sent “get a good night’s sleep,” what he really meant was,

I’m going to make you run five scenarios before your second coffee, drag you into some morally grey standoff, and throw at least one philosophical speech at your head before noon.

She sighed, tossing her phone onto the blanket beside her and grabbing the Coke instead. One sip. Then another.

The phone buzzed again.

Bradford:

Seriously. Rest. You’re good. But I’m going to need you sharp.

She stared at that one a bit longer.

There wasn’t a joke in it. No smug jab.

Just something honest. Quiet. Almost respectful.

She didn’t reply.

But she smiled.

Just slightly.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

#fanfic #the rookie #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford #sergeant bradford #lucy chen #jackson west #john nolan #oc #oc x tim bradford

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blufblucake · 28 days ago

Text

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Accidentally In Love | Chapter One

Paring: Prowl x GN!Human!Reader.

Trope: Grumpy x Sunshine.

Warnings: This story will eventually contain sexual scenes, so MDNI. Potential sensitive topics addressed in the story will include a trigger warning before the chapter.

Summary: Transferred to a small town after a mistake that nearly ruined your newly started career, you find your last chance at redemption slipping away when a simple patrol turns into a nightmare. Amid mysterious disappearances and strange incidents, you discover that reality goes far beyond what the eyes can see – especially when you find out that your silent, grumpy work partner is, in fact, a giant alien robot.

Word count: 3k

Next chapter

❝Come on, come on, move a little closer Come on, come on, I want to hear you whisper Come on, come on, settle down inside my love Come on, come on, jump a little higher Come on, come on, if you feel a little lighter Come on, come on, we were once upon a time in love We're accidentally in love❞

Author's notes: Hi! I'm back to writing after many years away, and I still feel a bit rusty. I hope the reading wasn't too dull. Enjoy the chapter! :)

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Chapter One

Prowl walked with firm steps toward the meeting room where Optimus Prime was waiting for him. His expression remained serious and rigid as usual, but the others were already used to the mech's mood. Over the past few weeks, Prowl had been a bundle of nerves due to the Decepticons’ activities in that human city. He didn’t quite understand the faction's sudden interest in such a quiet and remote place, but he’d known their nature long enough to be certain that nothing coming from them was ever a good thing.

As he entered the meeting room, Prowl’s gaze briefly met Wheeljack’s, who greeted him with a subtle nod, which he returned. Optimus Prime sat at the head of the large table, his battle mask hiding his expression, but Prowl knew how concerned the Autobot leader was. He cared about all sentient beings in the universe and felt guilty for bringing their war to such a fragile planet. Prowl pulled out a chair and sat down, resting his servos on the table and intertwining his digits. His gaze remained fixed on a point on the table as he waited for a few more mechs to arrive for the meeting the leader had called.

Once everyone was present, Optimus cleared his throat before beginning to speak. “As you already know, we’ve been monitoring the Decepticons for a few weeks,” the leader said seriously, a noticeable trace of unease in his voice. “At first, we couldn’t understand their sudden interest in this city. However, we believe we’ve discovered the reason. Wheeljack, please, tell them what you found.” Prime passed the word to the engineer, who grabbed a datapad before standing from his seat. He walked to the other end of the table and used the datapad to project some images, allowing the other Autobots to see.

In the images unfolding before him, Prowl observed several inexplicable attacks and unusual interferences – unusual for humans, that is, but all too familiar to them as Decepticon activity. “I’ve been working for some time on a new machine, one that’s truly effective...” Wheeljack added before he started receiving judgmental looks from his colleagues. “My new invention was able to detect strange energy readings coming from the city. As we know, there are traces of crystallized energon here, but I have reason to believe these are more than just remnants.”

As he carefully watched the images and absorbed Wheeljack’s words, Prowl’s processor was flooded with thoughts of doubt. How many planets had they brought their war to? How many civilizations had been destroyed because of their actions? He understood that war came with losses, and innocent lives were unfortunately part of the price to be paid. But how high was that price? Prowl tried to hold on to reason, to the belief that no matter the means, the goal was what truly mattered. Yet, deep down, guilt consumed him, and he felt a painful tightening in his spark every time he thought of the families of the innocent lost.

“According to the new readings from the machine, this entire city is a massive reservoir of crystallized energon. Deep underground, there’s so much energon that, if the readings are correct, it could generate enough energy for a very, very long time!” When the engineer finished speaking, a brief silence filled the room, just a few seconds, before an explosion of voices erupted, all speaking at once. Most were asking the same question: Could Wheeljack’s machine be trusted, given the engineer’s reputation? Optimus Prime raised his arms and motioned for everyone to calm down, always maintaining his composure and ensuring everyone had a chance to be heard. His voice was tired as he said, “Please, my friends, settle down.”

He gestured for Wheeljack to sit, then stood and began pacing around the table, his arms behind his back structure, servos clasped at the end of his frame. “We began noticing Decepticon activity shortly after a human excavation project started in the city center. Some workers reported seeing a bright blue glow while operating machinery, and others mysteriously disappeared. We have every reason to believe Wheeljack’s readings are accurate, and that the Decepticons discovered this long before we did.”

Optimus stopped at the other end of the table, where Wheeljack had been standing just minutes earlier, and placed his servos on the surface in front of him, leaning forward. Even with his battle mask covering his faceplate, it was clear through his optics just how serious he was in that moment. “They’re a few steps ahead of us, harming weak and innocent humans. We cannot allow this to continue, we must intervene as quickly as possible. After an analysis with Jazz, we discovered they’ve infiltrated human society, spying and spreading chaos. We need to investigate up close, gather more intel, disguise ourselves and... Infiltrate.”

The Autobot leader straightened his posture and began pointing at each of them, assigning roles. When he reached Prowl, the mech adjusted his stance and waited for instructions. “Prowl, I need you to infiltrate the local police department. You’ll investigate the unusual occurrences and be our source of information on the inside. Autobots, I’m counting on all of you. Let’s roll out.”

With that dismissal, everyone rose from their seats and began leaving the meeting room. Prowl did the same, walking briskly through the base's corridors. His thoughts were fixed on how he would manage to infiltrate human law enforcement. He hated to admit it, but he hadn’t done much research on this planet or its customs since their arrival, only the basics. He would need to expand his knowledge and upgrade his holomatter avatar if he wanted to do a good job and avoid revealing the presence of Cybertronians on Earth.

He knew he could count on Jazz, head of special operations. The mech had developed a peculiar admiration for Earth’s culture and its people, he could help Prowl improve his disguise and understanding of humans. In the end, spending more quality time with his colleague wouldn’t be so bad either. With his mind made up, Prowl changed direction and headed toward Jazz’s habsuite.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Even though it was still early – not even 6:00a.m. – the sun was already shining brightly outside, spilling into the bedroom through the gaps in the curtains. You hurried across the plush carpet covering the floor, grabbing your brand-new uniform and getting dressed. You were so anxious about your first day on the job that you hadn’t slept properly, imagining countless possible scenarios and conversations in your head, rehearsing your introduction over and over to make a good first impression.

This wasn’t just a new job, it was a chance for a fresh start. You knew you’d messed everything up at your last post, and you also knew they had sent you to this middle-of-nowhere town as punishment for your mistakes. Well, not all of it had been your fault, but of course, they would never punish a seasoned, well-respected officer. Naturally, everything had fallen on the rookie. You still couldn’t believe you had been foolish enough to fall for the sweet talk of a notorious flirt, a real Don Juan in uniform.

After finishing getting dressed, you stood in front of the mirror and looked at your reflection. The uniform was completely standard and simple, bearing the city’s police emblem on the chest. There wasn’t much room for personal flair, even if you added some accessories, you’d still look as basic as any other officer. And that was fine. You preferred not to stand out, to remain discreet. Making a good impression was crucial, so no one could use your past mistakes against you. You gave yourself a wide, encouraging smile, even though anxiety bubbled inside you.

The alarm on your phone snapped you out of your thoughts, and you quickly grabbed the device to turn it off. It was time to leave, you couldn’t afford to be late. You packed a few essentials into your backpack and slung it over one shoulder, then walked over to the aquarium where your Guppy fish swam calmly. You grabbed the container of fish food and leaned over the tank, sprinkling a few flakes into the water. “Olivia Benson, wish me luck...” you whispered, a fragile smile forming on your lips before you put the container away and left the room.

You picked up your car keys from the small table near the door and checked your appearance one last time in the small mirror before heading out. Climbing into your old Beetle and starting the engine, you flipped through radio stations in search of something to soothe your nerves. Traffic was light at that hour, and a few people were already walking the streets, off to start their daily routines.

A serious reporter’s voice made you stop changing the station and listen closely. “Two more workers involved in the construction of the new subway station have been reported missing. According to their families and friends, both were peaceful individuals with no enemies, no criminal records, and no known connections to illicit activity. The local police are investigating the string of disappearances, but no updates have been provided to the press so far...”

You furrowed your brow, thoughtful at the reporter’s words. You hadn’t been in town long, but your elderly neighbors had told you it had always been a quiet place. Sure, there were occasional incidents and petty crimes, but nothing serious or recurring. And that’s what you wanted to work on – uncovering what was really going on, finding those people, and delivering justice. You knew you were new to the force, it had barely been a year since you graduated from the academy, but it had always been your dream to make a difference.

The drive to the police station was quick and uneventful. Upon arrival, you parked your old Beetle in one of the available spots in front of the building. Slinging your backpack over one shoulder, you got out and walked toward the entrance. Inside, everything was quiet as expected, considering the hour. Timidly, you approached the reception desk, where a woman in her forties was working with her head down, fingers furiously tapping away at a keyboard. She didn’t seem to notice you at first, so you cleared your throat until she looked up. You tried offering your best smile, but her stern expression didn’t change as she pushed her glasses up with one finger and gave you a once-over. “Yes?” she asked.

"Good morning, I'm the new officer-" before you could finish speaking, she cut you off with a long sigh of someone clearly tired of her job and pointed in the direction of a police officer who was standing by the water cooler. "You're the rookie, right? Sergeant Smith will show you around," she said, immediately turning her attention back to the computer, leaving you on your own. Looking in the direction she pointed, you hurried when you noticed the sergeant was already walking away. You gently touched his arm to get his attention. He stopped and slowly turned toward you. His gaze moved from your hand resting on his arm to your face, where you wore a warm smile. Subtly, Sergeant Smith pulled his arm back and took a sip from his plastic cup, his eyes questioning who you were and why you had touched him.

You cleared your throat before speaking. "Hello, Sergeant Smith, I’m the new officer. The lady at the front desk said you would help me on my first day." He sighed and turned to walk again, his ‘come with me’ so low you almost didn’t hear it. You followed him through the station's hallways until you reached the locker room. He pointed to one of the lockers before saying, "That one's yours. Leave your stuff there, and next time, do me a favor and change into your uniform in here." You barely managed to put your backpack inside the locker before he started walking away again, forcing you to rush to keep up. He gave you a quick and vague tour of the station, so fast you knew you wouldn’t remember most of it.

Finally, you both stopped in front of the cafeteria, and he looked you over from head to toe. "Listen, you’re new here. Most of us already know what happened at your last job, so try not to give anyone a reason to mess with you. Got it?" You nodded, placing your arms behind your back and trying to stay composed, though you were burning with embarrassment on the inside. "You’ll be on patrol today. Your partner is waiting for you in the garage." Before you could say anything, he walked off, leaving you alone. First day, and you had already made a bad impression on two people. You hoped things would go differently with your partner. So, you decided to buy two coffees and a croissant as a peace offering.

With a paper cup in each hand and the croissant in a small bag, you walked to the garage and spotted only one patrol car parked there. It looked so sleek and new that it almost felt wrong to use it for police work. With long strides, you approached and knocked twice on the passenger-side window. The tint was so dark you couldn’t see anything inside. Getting no response, and struggling a bit due to your full hands, you opened the door and slid into the passenger seat with a wide smile on your face.

The officer in the driver’s seat had perfectly styled red hair and icy blue eyes so intense they almost looked like contacts. His mouth was set in a tight line, brows nearly furrowed together, his eyes slightly widened in what looked like surprise at your sudden appearance. You placed one of the coffee cups in the holder and extended your hand toward him. "Hi, I’m the new officer at the station. You must be my training partner, Officer..." you leaned in slightly, trying to read the name on his badge, "...Rowley!" Your hand stayed extended for a few moments, but when it became clear he wasn’t going to shake it, you slowly pulled back and tried another approach. "I brought you coffee!" you said cheerfully, offering the cup. He only glanced at you up and down, his expression unreadable.

Realizing that wasn’t going to work either, you let out an awkward chuckle and placed the cup next to the other. "You’re the strong and silent type, huh? That’s okay, I talk enough for the both of us." Your attempt at a joke fell flat – he remained completely serious, staring at you. Before things could get any weirder, a call came through the radio. "Moderate fire, possibly arson, reported in an abandoned warehouse in the North District. Reports of internal explosions. Fire department en route. Nearby patrol car to secure the perimeter."

Great. Some action. You adjusted yourself in the seat and buckled up. "Alright, let’s-" your words were cut off as Rowley suddenly sped off at full throttle, forcing you to grip the seat with both hands. He stared at the road ahead with such cold intensity that it didn’t seem human. Your gaze flicked between him and the road, baffled by the urgency for what seemed like a standard call. When you finally spoke, your voice trembled slightly, paired with a nervous laugh. "Let’s take it easy, Mr. Strong and Silent. It’s just a fire, and the fire department’s already handling it."

The car slammed to a halt, your body jolting forward and then harshly back against the seat. Looking out the windshield, you saw another police car parked directly in front of you. Your partner had braked to avoid hitting what looked like a dare from the other officer. Before you could react, the officer in the driver’s seat beside you vanished, just like that. Not like he opened the door and got out, he simply disappeared. One moment he was there, and the next, he was gone.

Your eyes widened in shock, mouth agape. You’d seen a fair share of strange and disturbing things in life, but never someone vanish into thin air. Instinctively, you screamed – a sharp, piercing sound that echoed inside the vehicle. As if things couldn’t get any stranger, the car in front of you began to shift, morphing and rearranging itself until it stood upright in its final form: a towering robotic figure. Glowing red eyes stared directly at you, and a malicious smirk curled at the edge of its metallic lips.

You screamed even louder, panic taking full control. Then, a cold, commanding voice filled the car, as if coming from everywhere at once. "Shut up and get out of the car!" You looked around, desperate to find the source. "What?!" you shouted in fear.

"Get the hell out of the car, you idiot!" the voice snapped, now angrier. Wasting no time, you unbuckled your seatbelt and flung the door open, jumping out. You crawled away on hands and knees, gasping for breath, your mind spinning. Looking around, you saw nothing but a deserted street; no houses, no shops, no witnesses. Over your shoulder, you looked back at your patrol car and nearly fainted as it, too, shifted and transformed into a massive robotic being.

You turned your body, sitting on the pavement and inching back in disbelief as you took in the sight before you. Your vehicle now stood as a towering metal creature with sharp red horns, its expression eerily human-like, serious and composed, reminding you disturbingly of your silent partner. "What the actual fuck..." you muttered, eyes darting from one robot to the other. Then, a deep, mocking voice from the other bot sliced through the silence, sending a chill down your spine. "It’s been a while, Prowl!"

Author's notes: I hope you liked it, I believe I'll improve little by little. If you find any mistakes, I kindly ask you to let me know. Thank you! ＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚

#transformers #transformers prowl #transformers x reader #prowl x reader

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