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artficlly · 1 month ago

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show me again [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x mutant!reader

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

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

Word Count: 17k (jesus fucking christ)

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

main masterlist

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

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

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

And three, he didn’t want to be here.

He made no effort to hide that fact.

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

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

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

What even was normal?

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

There never would be again.

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

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

You hadn’t asked why.

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

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

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

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

Bucky stood behind you, all shadows and hard edges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mystery soup it was.

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

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

—

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

“Food. For you,” you said simply.

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

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

You shot him a look.

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

“Sit down.”

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

“Bland.” He commented.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat closed up.

He thought you were part of it.

He thought you were one of them.

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

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

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

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

The cages.

The screaming—

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

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

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

You stared at him, stunned for a heartbeat.

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

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

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

But the voice in your head always whispered something else.

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

You couldn’t find the words to defend yourself.

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

“Fuck you.” You seethed.

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

—

A week of silence had followed your argument with Bucky.

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

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

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

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

You already hated yourself enough.

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

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

You wanted to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

His nostrils flared as he narrowed his eyes.

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

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

Interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was a storm.

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

This was your only shot.

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

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

“What the fuck are you—”

But you were already gone, vanishing into the trees.

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

You didn’t know where you were going.

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

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

The world tilted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Put me the fuck down!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fence: two. You and Bucky: zero.

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

Bucky stared down at you with a scowl.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit. Down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop squirming.”

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

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

That shut you up.

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

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

Your breath hitched audibly. Embarrassingly.

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

A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.

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

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

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

He stared at you.

“Are you even listening?” he barked.

You jumped. “Sorry—what?”

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

You floundered uselessly like a fish for a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That stopped him cold.

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

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

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

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

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

“...Yeah.”

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

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

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

He was flinching from you.

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

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

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

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

What if this was different?

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

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

Would it make you… better?

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t dare look up at him.

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

He didn’t flinch.

That was the point.

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

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

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

“You’re a—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he didn’t let it go.

Of course, he didn’t.

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

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

It was that he cared.

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

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

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

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

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

His brow creased. “Pain?”

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

You drew in a breath, steadying yourself.

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

His face changed, eyes sharpening, expression folding inward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That startled you more than it should have.

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

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

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

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

“No, I… I get it.”

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

And the weather wasn’t helping.

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

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

You’d followed his eyes and silently agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait—Bucky, I can walk—!”

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

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

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

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

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

You opened your mouth to argue—too late.

The hem of your dress was already lifted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not babying you.”

“I feel like dead weight.”

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

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

That made him pause.

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

Your heart kicked in your chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You bit your lip, cursing yourself.

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

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

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

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

Your face burned.

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

So much for subtle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit—ah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled, long and slow.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught mid-page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You jolted in fright.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just—you let it burn you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you feel that?” you breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows furrowed.

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

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

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

His hand stilled against your face.

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here.”

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

“Just... closer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you took the plunge.

“Let me… let me show you something.”

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

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

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

You squeezed your fist shut just as his eyes opened in shock. “What was that?”

“Pleasure.” You muttered, almost sheepishly, as heat crawled up your neck. “It’s just another way I can manipulate the senses. Pain, pleasure, hot, cold—”

“Show me again.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard right. Momentarily stunned as your nervous ramble melted to nothing on your tongue. “What?”

His eyes met yours. There was no teasing in them, no bravado. Just raw honesty. Curiosity. Need.

“The feeling,” he said. “The pleasure.”

You hesitantly pressed your fingertips gently to the curve of his throat this time, just under his jaw. A warmer spot, closer to where his pulse thrummed, let the sensation unfurl more slowly this time. Syrupy and coaxing, a velvet ribbon of warmth that traced along his neck, over his chest, down his sides.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, body caught somewhere between a shudder and a squirm.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You bit your lip, focusing, and let it continue, sliding up through his arms, his back, the curve of his stomach. A steady rise and fall of sweetness and shimmer, like goosebumps made of sunlight.

“Tell me,” you said. “What’s it like? How does it feel?”

His voice was strained, breath catching. “It’s—fuck—it’s like… some is pouring honey down my spine. Like every nerve’s waking up. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s… good. So good.”

You swallowed hard, your own fingers trembling slightly now. The intimacy of it, watching him react, watching the pleasure ripple through him, watching him feel, it was dizzying. You hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected how much it would undo you.

You hadn’t meant for it to turn you on. But there was something so dangerously intoxicating about the control, not over him, but over what he felt. To give something gentle. Something sweet. To offer pleasure instead of pain.

And God, he took it like he’d been starving for it.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, barely recognising your own voice—breathy, tight, trembling with restraint.

“No,” he said immediately. “Please. Don’t.”

Your fingers drifted lower, brushing the soft fabric just above his chest. His eyes locked with yours, dark and dilated, his pupils swallowing the colour. Every inch of him was taut, vibrating beneath your touch. His thighs twitched from the phantom of sensation, his breath ragged. You held still, the thrum of your own pulse deafening. Your underwear clung uncomfortably to your skin, soaked through with want. You shifted instinctively, a slow grind against nothing, desperate for friction.

A wicked thought slid through you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, the magic spilt from your fingers, liquid light snaking down his torso, following the line of muscle, dipping lower, lower….straight into the heat of his groin.

His hips jerked up in response, a shocked, broken moan ripping from his throat.

Both of you froze, eyes locked, stunned. The golden glow in your palm flickered, fading, the magic receding like a tide.

And then something snapped.

Your lips crashed into his, sudden and sure. He kissed you back instantly, almost desperately, his hands coming up to cradle your face. You barely registered the storm outside anymore, the flicker of lightning on the windows, the hush of rain. He shifted, and suddenly he was between your thighs, pressing you back into the couch cushions. His weight blanketed you, but it only made your need ache sharper.

One hand cradled your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek as his lips moved against yours, needy and desperate. You fumbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward and over, your palms dragging over heated skin and hard muscle. His stomach flexed beneath your touch, and you traced along his ribs, up the carved lines of his back, just to feel how he moved.

He groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound that went straight to your core. His hips ground down against you, bandage and gash completely forgotten, lost beneath the press of flesh and want.

Your wrap dress loosened under his hands, fingers slipping beneath the knot and unravelling the fabric with an urgency that made your breath stutter. The fabric parted, cool air brushing your skin as he exposed your chest.

Your head tipped back as his mouth left yours, trailing lower in a feverish line, across your jaw, down your throat, over the arch of your collarbone. His head dipped beneath your chin, kissing his way down your sternum like he was worshipping every inch of you.

Then you sent another slow pulse of magic through your fingers and into him, this time directly into his skull.

His kisses faltered, breath catching. Teeth scraped gently across your skin as he let out a sound that was half growl, half groan.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart,” he rasped against your chest, breath hot and trembling. Goosebumps rippled over your skin in waves, the warmth of his voice sinking straight into your bones.

You only laughed, breathless. “Good.”

You sent another wave of pleasure, molten and slow, slithering down his spine.

He stiffened, body arching slightly as he rode the feeling. You used the moment to shift, rolling him carefully onto his back. He let you, too lost in sensation to resist. You knelt beside him, half draped off the couch, hair hanging wild around your face as you gazed down at him.

He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Lost. His eyes unfocused, lips parted, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. You watched the way his muscles jumped and twitched under his skin, the way his mouth struggled to form words.

When he blinked back into awareness, the first thing he did was reach down, hands fumbling at his belt with shaking fingers. You helped him, breath caught in your throat, both of you working together to strip him down.

And when his pants came off—

You stopped, just for a second.

Your breath hitched.

He was huge, hard and flushed, resting against his belly. Your mouth went dry.

“You have to tell me how it feels,” you murmured.

Your hand flattened against his stomach, fingers splayed wide. A deep, pulsing bloom of heat channelled through your palm, arcing downward into the thick, aching weight of him.

His reaction was immediate.

A sharp cry tore from his chest as his hips bucked up off the couch, hands flying to your thighs, fingers digging in as if he needed something to anchor him.

The pleasure took him like a tide.

And you could only watch, trembling, as he unravelled beneath your hands.

“I—I… fuck, sweetheart.” He stuttered, breathless, mouth slack as your magic surged through him, pushed to its limits. The strain already throbbed in your arms and back, a dull, familiar ache blooming beneath your skin, but you didn’t let up. Not yet.

He was beautiful like this, utterly undone. His cock flushed at the tip, slick with precum that beaded from the slit, catching the golden shimmer of your magic. His chest heaved, muscles tensing and quivering as pleasure rolled over him. His eyes were clenched shut, brows knit tight as he rode every pulse of sensation.

Then, just as he trembled on the edge, you withdrew, your magic vanishing abruptly.

He choked out a curse, hips jerking uselessly toward the absence, left hard and aching.

“Holy fuck—” he muttered hoarsely, blinking up at you with dazed eyes. “You’ve been holding that back, sweetheart?”

You giggled, warm and wicked, delight blooming in your chest as his vibranium hand slid up your belly and cupped your breast through your bra. His grip was firm, thumb brushing slow circles that had your spine arching.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” you whispered, almost shy despite the heat between you.

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky wasn’t real.

“Didn’t want you?” He looked stricken. “Shit, I thought you didn’t want me. If I had known… if I’d known you didn’t hate me, after everything, I would’ve had you pinned to this damn couch days ago.”

Your head spun. The words lodged in your throat. You couldn’t speak, not when your body was buzzing, not when your heart was hammering like the thunder overhead.

So you showed him.

Your palm lit once more, gold heat pulsing from your fingers like molten thread, weaving into the core of him. His face crumpled beautifully, a groan tearing loose as he squeezed your breast harder, his body lurching with the force of it. Precum spilt onto his stomach in a slippery trail, his hips trembling with the need to move, to finish.

You watched as his right hand dropped, trailing down his stomach in desperation, fingers clumsy, desperate for friction.

You caught his wrist before he could touch himself, eyes narrowing as your breath came in sharp pants. His gaze shot up to meet yours, pupils blown wide.

“I… you fucking minx—”

His voice caught, and then his eyes rolled back. His chest rose and fell rapidly, wrist twitching in your grip as he fought for release. His hips rocked into the air, helpless, caught between your magic and your mercy.

He was close. You could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, in the sounds he made. You wanted to see him fall apart. To come undone under your power, not in pain, not in fear, but in ecstasy.

For once, you wanted someone to reap the rewards of your magic—

But just as your focus began to flicker, just as your grip faltered, Bucky struck.

With a growl, he surged upward. His weight hit you like a wave, knocking the air from your lungs as he flipped you beneath him. Your magic sputtered out, lost in the sudden jolt. You gasped, blinking in surprise as he pinned you with his body, his hips snug between your thighs.

He grinned down at you, smug and breathless, as he locked your legs around his waist.

“You wanna say it?” he murmured, voice rough with lust and teasing threat as he rolled his hips with one testing thrust. “Or do you want me to make you?”

You arched up into him instinctively, a cry caught in your throat, the space between your thighs pulsing with need. Every nerve ending felt electrified, begging for contact, for friction, for him.

“Touch me, please,” you whispered, voice raw and aching.

That was all it took to break him.

“Good girl.” He purred, and then he surged forward, crashing into you with a kiss that was all teeth, tongue, and hunger. Your gasp was swallowed by him, your hands fisting in his hair as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he'd starve without you. His hand slid beneath your skirt in one bold motion, cupping the heat of your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice cracking with disbelief and lust. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch his fingers press into you through the fabric. “You’re dripping for me.”

You whimpered, head falling back against the cushions as his thumb found your clit, rubbing maddeningly slow circles through the damp cotton. Every movement sent a jolt up your spine. You couldn’t help the way your hips bucked, chasing after every scrap of friction he offered.

“God, Bucky—”

He latched onto the underside of your jaw, kissing and nipping, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

“Should’ve known,” he muttered against your throat. “Sitting here all sweet and pretty, thighs clenching, practically vibrating with it. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

Your only answer was a breathless moan as he hooked his fingers under your underwear and tugged them down your legs. The fabric clung to your slick folds before peeling away, leaving you bare and glistening, trembling beneath him.

Cool air hit your wetness, and you jerked, but he held you in place, palm braced firmly against your thigh.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmured like a promise, and then, finally, his vibranium fingers found you again, brushing through your folds, gathering your wetness before teasing at your entrance. “Such a good girl. Let me take care of you.”

Then he pushed inside, one thick finger curling into you with devastating control. You cried out, hips lifting from the couch as your walls fluttered around him, greedy and clenching. Then another finger followed, stretching you, filling you, and the stretch burned just right.

“Christ,” he groaned, voice ragged, his lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re so tight… gonna squeeze the life outta me, sweetheart.”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, anywhere you could find purchase as he fucked you slow and deep with his fingers. His thumb circled your clit in time, the rhythm perfectly matched.

But it wasn’t enough. You needed more.

Without thinking, your magic stirred, wild and hot and instinctual. It bloomed at your fingertips, golden light flickering like flame across your skin. You pressed your palm to his back, right between his shoulder blades, and poured it into him.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing above you as the magic hit him, raw pleasure cascading down his spine. His fingers faltered inside you, but you grabbed his wrist and pushed him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Let me…let me feel you feel it.”

His mouth dropped open, a strangled moan escaping him as the heat of your power flowed down his nerves, threading through his blood like lightning. His arm flexed beside your head, trying to hold himself up as your magic made him quake.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he rasped, voice nearly unrecognisable, jaw slack as he rocked his fingers harder into you, magic fueling his every movement. “You—fuck, sweetheart—”

“I know,” you cooed, hips stuttering.

You pressed another surge into him, palm glowing like molten gold. His body shuddered against yours, and this time, he groaned your name. And God, with his fingers driving into you, his mouth on your skin, and your magic wrapped around his soul like silk, you were close. So close.

“Fuck—what are you doing to me?” he groaned, voice cracking as your magic threaded through his chest like silk. “Feels like—feels like I’m burning—”

“You are,” you gasped, your back arching, thighs shaking. “Burning for me.”

Your walls clenched around his fingers, drawing him in as if your body was desperate to keep him there, to never let him go. Every drag of his fingers, every stroke of his thumb over your clit, sent a new wave crashing through you, building like a storm on the horizon.

“Bucky, I—” Your voice broke on a moan as pleasure threatened to spill over. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “You’re gonna be a good girl and fall apart for me. Right here.”

Your magic surged in answer to his voice, responding to the ragged way he spoke, to the desperation in his touch. You reached for him again, palm pressed flat to his chest this time, and pushed, magic pouring from your body into his, sparks dancing where your skin met his. It hit him like a shockwave.

His breath caught, a strangled gasp punching out of his lungs. “Oh fuck—”

His entire body shuddered. His hips jerked forward reflexively, grinding against your thigh as his body buckled under the pleasure, his orgasm taking him by force, torn from him by the sheer intensity of your power. A guttural, broken sound ripped from his throat, and you felt the warmth of him spill across your stomach, hot and thick as his cock twitched against you.

That was all it took.

Your climax slammed into you with brutal force, your body seizing around his fingers as the pleasure snapped through you. Your legs trembled, your hips rolled uncontrollably, and you cried out. Your back arched off the couch as your magic exploded outward in golden waves. You clung to him, trembling, your body pulsing around his hand as the orgasm rippled through you, again and again.

Bucky felt it all, every tremor, every pulse, every wave. He grunted, his eyes fluttering closed, mouth open in pure awe as you came around his fingers, your walls fluttering and spasming, slick dripping down his wrist.

Bucky groaned against your throat, his lips open and gasping against your skin, voice gone to gravel. “Jesus Christ.”

He collapsed half on top of you, arm catching his weight as his vibranium hand slowly slipped free, fingers drenched in your juices. You were both breathless, wrecked, his cum smeared across your stomach. You crumpled beneath him, limbs shaking, still tingling from the aftershocks.

“You okay?” he whispered, brushing your damp hair from your face with trembling fingers.

You managed a breathless laugh. “Are you?”

He chuckled, dropping a kiss to your collarbone. “You just hijacked every nerve in my body and made me see God. So yeah. I’m fucking great.”

You winced sheepishly, heart fluttering. “Sorry. Lost control a little there.”

“Don’t apologise,” he insisted, voice low and reverent. “If that’s you losing control... I want it. Again. And again…”

He kissed your temple, then pulled back slightly to look at you, eyes half-lidded and hungry even in the aftermath. “But next time, sweetheart… I get to make you lose it first.”

You grinned, your pulse still fluttering. “Deal.”

---

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#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes smut #bucky fanfic #beefy bucky #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #thunderbolts*#james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #thunderbolts #winter soldier #marvel fic #marvel au #marvel

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littlelamy · 10 days ago

Text

“rafe don’t, judge me.” your voice was so soft, almost nervous, while your fingers curled into the hem of your little pink cami, the really pretty yet basic one that barely covered anything. you were sitting on your knees at the foot of the bed, legs tucked underneath you, chewing your lip.

rafe blinked from where he sat against the headboard, with his shirt off. “baby,” he said, brows raised. “i’ve had my tongue in your ass. there’s nothing left to judge.”

you gasped, “rafe!”

he grinned showing his pearly whites, “just sayin’. if this is about the blowjob thing, you can relax.”

you crossed your arms under your chest, making your boobs push up even more. “it’s just—i want to. you do so much for me, and i keep thinking about it but i don’t wanna do it wrong.”

“there’s no wrong,” he said. “unless you bite me.”

you made a face, flinching at the idea, “obviously i’m not gonna bite.”

“some girls do,” he said, shifting his hips under the blanket, his cock already hardening at the just idea of you even talking about this. “you’re better than that. you’ve got good instincts.”

you narrowed your eyes, “how do you know what kind of instincts i have?”

“you’ve got natural mouth talent,” he said, smug. “i’ve seen the way you suck on your straws.”

you groaned, hiding your face in your hands, “God, this is so embarrassing.”

“it’s hot,” he said. “you on your knees, looking up at me like that, telling me you wanna suck my cock for the first time? baby, i’m gonna die.” you peeked up at him through your lashes, “okay, so…teach me?”

he moved the blanket back, revealing his cock—already thick, even before a touch. flushed dark at the tip, the long shaft curved slightly as it lay against his lower stomach, and his veins decorated the sides of it. when he shifted his hips just slightly, it slapped wetly against his abs—audible thwaap—leaving a smear behind.

your eyes widened, “it looks bigger like this.”

“that’s ‘cause you’re finally planning to be a good girl and put it in your mouth,” he said.

you rolled your eyes but heat reached your cheeks, crawling forward until you were between his legs. you reached out with one hand, fingers wrapping around the base, and he let out a low groan. “good grip,” he said. “now kiss it.”

you looked up, “just a kiss?”

“kiss the tip..get acquainted with him.”

you leaned in and pressed a soft, glossy kiss to the head. he twitched in your hand. “shit,” he breathed. “again.”

you kissed him again, slower this time, with a little more pressure. he tasted so clean, warm, and a little salty already. your heart pounded, but you weren’t scared. it was rafe. you wanted to do this.

“okay,” you whispered. “i think i’m ready.”

“open your mouth,” he said, lifting his head up gently manuvering his cock over your lips. “uh huh, tongue out, ah slowly. now lick the head.”

you dragged your tongue over the tip and he cursed, hips jerking up just slightly. “oh—oh okay good girl,” he muttered. “now use your hand and stroke while you suck.”

you started moving your hand, while wrapping your lips around the tip, letting it rest on your tongue before sliding a little further in. “hollow your cheeks,” he said. “not too much. yeah, just like that. fuck, fuck. chi, you’re natural.”

you blinked up at him, mouth full of cock, and he groaned again. “don’t look at me like that. you’ll make me cum.” you giggled, the sound vibrating around him, and he hissed through his teeth.

“Jesus, baby.” you pulled off, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “was that okay?”

he looked attractive already with one hand in your hair. “it was perfect, but you gotta take more, baby.”

you swallowed, nodding, “okay, i’ll try.” you went back down, slower this time, easing more of him into your mouth, tongue flat while your cheeks sucked in just enough. your hand worked what you couldn’t fit, and soon you were bobbing your head, building a rhythm, spit slicking your lips, his cock shiny and wet from your effort.

“you’re so pretty like this,” he whispered. “my sweet baby, so eager to please. look at you sucking on my fat cock. fuck, sexy..” you moaned around him again, taking him deeper. your eyes watered, but you didn’t stop. you liked how he sounded. “slow,” he said, whimpering, “i’m gonna—fuck, i’m gonna cum—”

you pulled back with a wet pop, breathing hard. “i want you to.” his eyes darkened. “you sure?”

you nodded. “yeah, i wanna make you feel real good. i love when you make me feel good. i wanna return the favor, regularly speaking..”

he grabbed your chin, kissed you hard. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

you went back down, hand pumping, tongue swirling under the head while you moaned just loud enough for him to hear. it didn’t take long for his 2nd climax. his hips jerked and he groaned your name, thick ropes of cum hitting your tongue, your lips, and your fingers.

you swallowed what you could, giggling as you wiped the rest from your mouth. “how’d i do?”

he stared at you, panting. “baby..you ruined me.” you crawled into his lap, straddling him with a smirk. “that’s what you get for loving a beginner.”

❤︎‬ tags below

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#my readers!𐔌´⠀ ᩙᩙ `๑꒱#chichi 𐙚˙⋆.˚#soft!rafe #chichi!reader #chichi x rafe #rafe #rafe imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe fic #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe smut #rafe fanfiction #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron blurb

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corkinavoid · 6 months ago

Text

Thank you, @aceinacorner, for this gem:

You are the inspiration for

DPxDC Ring of Rage? More Like Ring of Engage [pt. 3]

[<- part 2 | part 4 ->]

Duke narrows his eyes.

He swears Tim was not in the Cave just five seconds ago, and yet, in the brief moment when Duke wasn't looking, he just materialized out of motherfucking aether. Smelling like Chinese food and holding a chicken skewer that looks so good that Duke's mouth waters.

"Can I have a piece?" He asks, the divine smell of food overriding the urge to ask 'where did you get it' or 'how did you get here'.

Tim nods, smiles, and hands Duke the whole skewer before going for the elevator.

Is it Duke's hallucination, or is he really humming something as he goes?.. Actually, that doesn't matter. The chicken tastes even better than it smells, and Duke is perfectly willing to keep his mouth shut in exchange for food.

You don't talk with your mouth full, after all.

~☆~

Cass watches Tim over the table. She hasn't heard him coming into the dinner room - no steps in the hall, no rustle of clothing or breathing. It's like the boy has somehow appeared right in front of the door out of nowhere before entering.

What's more, he seems obviously not hungry, picking at his food with an absent, if a bit dreamy, expression. Granted, Tim always picks at his food, but Cass can see the difference between 'Tim's mind is busy with a new case and therefore too distracted to eat' and 'Tim already had dinner elsewhere and is too full to eat now'.

The bags under his eyes are also not as dark as they usually are. Come to think of it, Cass hasn't seen him in a bad mood for a few weeks now, which shouldn't really be that strange, but it's Tim. The smallest of inconveniences can put him in a bad mood.

Tim notices her looking and raises an eyebrow.

Cass blinks and goes back to her plate. Whatever is keeping her brother happy, it deserves her full approval.

~☆~

Jason is... not so sure as to what is happening.

He did notice that Tim was really chill lately, but this is going a bit overboard.

"Did you spike it with arsenic, Replacement?" He asks, suspiciously looking the offered cup of coffee over without taking it. Tim - surprisingly, actually - doesn't react to the nickname in the slightest, instead giving Jason a deadpan look. Then, he brings the cup up to his mouth, takes a sip, and hands it back again.

Okay, well, that proves no arsenic, at least. It's still very weird. Tim doesn't just buy coffee for people, and he especially doesn't buy coffee for Jason.

"Am I going to owe you something for it, or what?" He asks, slowly reaching for the cup. Tim sighs.

"No. It's just a drink - my boyfriend loves it, and I think you'd like it as well," he explains with a shrug, and Jason is honestly too befuddled to ask about anything. Including the boyfriend part.

No, but since when does Timbers have a boyfriend? He sure hadn't mentioned anything about it to any of the others.

The drink turns out to be not coffee but something else, tangy and thick, and when Jason takes the lid off, it's green like Mountain Dew.

It does taste great, though, and later Jason considers asking Tim for another one. He hadn't had anything better in ages.

~☆~

Damian strikes through the last one of the training holograms, breathing heavily. And yet, just as the 'simulation complete' message pops up in the air, he hears a step behind him.

He turns around faster than a lightning, and-

Finds Timothy's neck at the tip of his katana, with his hands up in surrender.

"What are you doing here?" Damian sneers, lowering his weapon, and Tim swallows. Not because of surprise or fear, though, he clearly had some half chewed up food in his mouth.

"Inaccurate drop off," he says, looking Damian straight in the eyes, "I was aiming for the main floor."

He smells of Indian food and spices, and Damian almost sneezes.

"What do you mean 'aiming'?" He demands, but Drake just waves him off, heading towards the elevator up.

"No worries, I'll do better next time," he shoots a smile over his shoulder, "See you on patrol!" And with that, the elevator doors close after him, leaving Damian alone.

Drake has always been strange, but this is too much even for him.

Not that it's Damian's business. He huffs and starts the simulation over again.

~☆~

If Dick didn't witness it with his own two eyes, he would have never believed it. Alas, he did, and even though the swirling green vortex has already disappeared like it was never there, Tim, whom the strange portal just spat out on the floor of the Cave, is still here.

"What the fuck was that?" He nearly yells, and Tim looks up, a face of perfect innocence.

"What was what?" He returns the question, and Dick can't find the words to explain, so he just wildly gestures to the place where the portal has been less than five seconds ago. Tim blinks, "Oh, that. That was my date."

Dick chokes on his breath.

"Your date?" He parrots, hoarse and breathless, and Tim nods, like there's not a single thing wrong with anything that has just happened. "Since when do you go on dates? Wait, I thought you were engaged, you said it was cheating to date anyone else, even if you didn't know the spouse, you said-" he cuts himself off, feeling his own face slowly falling and his stomach sinking down in horror. "No. No, don't tell me."

But the shit-eating grin on Tim's face is already proof enough.

Dick clears his throat. Takes a deep breath.

Seeing that Tim is still in one piece, and, well, that he did just casually come out of a magic portal in the middle of the Cave, it's probably safe to say that it's not the first time.

And, judging by the mirth in Tim's grin, it's also safe to say he's been rather enjoying it.

Dick releases one long, loud breath and forces a smile on his face as well.

"So, how is it?" He asks, trying in vain to sound light-hearted, not suspicious. Tim's smile gets wider, and there's a glint of excitement in his eyes now, which Dick considers a good thing, all in all.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask."

~☆~

Bonus Scene (that somehow turned out longer than I planned)

~☆~

"Where's Tim?" Bruce asks when all the rest of his kids are already seated around the table for breakfast.

"At Danny's, probably," Steph shrugs before digging into the waffles on her plate. Bruce frowns.

"Danny's?" He asks. He hasn't heard that name before. Is that a friend of Tim's?

"Drake's paramour," Damian clarifies, not bothering to look up from his own food, and Bruce's mind comes to a screeching halt. He blinks stupidly, looking around the table and sincerely hoping it is some sort of a prank, but Cass smiles and nods, and Dick has an expression of pure exhaustion on his face, and Duke is huffing a snort of laughter at him for it.

"Since when-" Bruce starts, but he is suddenly cut off by a glowing circle that appears just a few feet away from them all.

It grows quickly, morphing into a vortex, a green and ominous tear in reality big enough for a person to walk through, hanging in the air a few inches over the ground. The space around it feels staticky somehow, and the color is too bright to look at directly, and it definitely doesn't belong to their dining room. But before Bruce is able to say another word or do anything at all, Tim steps out of it, his hair and clothes ruffled.

"Oh, fuck," he mutters upon seeing them all, and turns around, sticking his head into the vortex just as it starts to close. The vortex pauses.

Bruce is almost too stunned to move.

His kids don't share the sentiment, though, most of them not paying the portal any attention at all. Bruce would have reprimanded them for the poor awareness of their surroundings if he didn't notice how Damian simply glanced up at it before going back to his food.

They saw the portal. They just didn't deem it dangerous. For some reason.

Tim's face comes back out, and he turns to Bruce. His expression looks different than before: a bit smug, a little mischievous, and just a tad bit nervous.

Then, another head pops up through the surface of the portal. A boy - or at least they look like a boy - with snow white hair that floats in the air and bright, almost neon blue eyes. His skin is far too pale for him to be human, and- he has freckles that look like constellations.

For some reason, that's the part that makes Bruce finally resign to the fact that this is just how his life is. With breakfasts interrupted by green portals and otherworldly boyfriends - because who else might it be, really - before he even had his morning coffee.

"Hi!" Said otherworldly boyfriend grins and waves his hand. "I'm Danny, Tim's fiance," he introduces himself, and Bruce conjures the last scraps of his scattered mind to smile and nod back.

"Good morning, Danny. I'm Bruce." He has no idea what else to say; it seems like a bit late for shovel talk, but a bit early for welcoming speech.

"Would Young Master Danny care to join us for breakfast?" Alfred's calm, but still slightly amused voice comes from the door. Bruce turns to look at the butler with a sense of exasperation - is he really the last one to learn anything in this house? - but the man seems... well, not surprised, at least not on the surface. But his grip on the pitcher of orange juice is just a little too tense for him to have been in the know all along.

Danny turns to him and smiles nicely - his teeth are also way too sharp for a human - before shaking his head, "No, sorry, I was just dropping Tim off."

"For God's sake," Tim rolls his eyes, "Just put on some pants and come out, I refuse to suffer through this alone."

Dick chokes on his toast. Steph gasps, her eyes snapping between Tim and Danny in delight. Cass snorts and kicks her under the table. Damian groans.

"Spare me from the details of your personal life, Drake. Need I remind you that I am thirteen," he narrows his eyes.

The constellations on Danny's cheeks shine just a bit brighter, and Bruce has no idea what that is supposed to mean, but his guess is along the lines of embarrassment. Especially when the boy completes it with rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"You mean to tell me that, at thirteen years old, you don't know what sex is?" Tim deadpans, running a hand through his hair in a useless effort to smooth it and taking his seat at the table. Dick's coughing fit comes back with renewed force.

"We didn't-" Danny starts, still kind of hovering midway through the portal, but Damian pays him little attention.

"I do. Yet, I prefer my mind free of the knowledge when it applies to you."

"I want all the details, though," Steph pipes up, looking at Danny from her seat, "Can you, like, sprout tentacles or something, because I know for a fact Tim likes that kind of-"

"Steph!" Tim yells at her, face red, and then turns to Danny, who suddenly has a very interested, if a bit mischievous, look on his face, "Don't you dare."

"Yeah, okay," Danny snorts and disappears back in the portal. Bruce half-expects it to close after him, but the vortex stays.

Which probably means the boy - the King of Infinite Realms, Keeper of Unseen Worlds, Eyes of the Universe - is going to be right back.

After he puts on some pants, supposedly.

Bruce watches Tim rub his face in frustration while Steph giggles and elbows him in the side, and sighs. This is so not how he expected this morning to be.

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ds-angel1 · 10 days ago

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hi my love! could you do a toxic! rafe turnt into a soft rafe. maybe he bodyshames her and makes her change herself to the point where she gets seriously ill and he realises how much she’s messed up? xx

1st part

cw: body shaming, eating disorder themes, emotional manipulation, fainting, a start towards recovery

a/n: i am so so so so so sorry that this took so long

You were tired all the time now.

Not in a way that could be fixed with sleep, but in the way your bones ached when you moved. Like gravity had gotten heavier just for you. Like your body was protesting the way you treated it, and you didn’t have the energy to fight back.

But you still tried to smile.

You still brushed your hair. Shaved your legs. You still waited for his compliments like they were rations. Little affirmations you could chew on until the next day.

“Damn,” he said one night, eyeing you while you changed in the low lamp light. “I can see your ribs again. That’s so hot.”

It made your skin crawl. But you laughed. Twirled for him like you were proud. Like this was a reward, not a symptom.

It was so easy to pretend, especially when he wrapped his hands around your waist and said, “This- this is what I want. Just like this.”

You stopped eating in front of people. They asked questions. Said you looked pale. Said you looked small.

“You always say you’re not hungry,” one friend pointed out during a group brunch. “But you never eat later, either.”

You shrugged, picked at your napkin, smiled too hard.

Rafe squeezed your thigh under the table. Not lovingly. Not reassuringly.

Just… pressure. A warning.

“Some people are just disciplined,” he said, tone smooth. “That’s rare these days.”

You basked in it. That was love, wasn’t it?

Being the girl he could brag about.

But it got harder.

Your period vanished. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d had it. Your hair started thinning, clinging to your brush like strands of guilt. You wore concealer to cover the purple hollows beneath your eyes, but it always creased. Your hands trembled at the steering wheel. Walking up stairs made your head spin.

You kept going.

Because when you skipped a meal, he kissed your temple. When you skipped two, he said, “Good girl.” When you skipped three, he fucked you like he couldn’t get enough. Told you you were perfect. Told you he could carry you forever.

It was working. It was finally working.

…

It didn’t happen in some dramatic moment. There was no gasp, no cry for help, no cinematic fall.

You were standing in the bathroom, brushing your teeth. That was it.

Your vision wobbled at the edges like heat on pavement. You blinked. Swallowed. Thought, Just sit down. Just breathe.

But your body didn’t listen.

The brush slipped from your fingers, clattered into the sink. And then your knees just buckled. Not hard, not sudden, like your bones had simply… given up.

You folded in on yourself, shoulder hitting the cabinet, hip skimming the edge of the tub. Not loud enough to call attention, but enough to leave a bruise. Enough to knock the breath from your chest.

And then the tile was under your cheek, cool and oddly comforting.

You didn’t black out.

You just laid there, watching the light shift on the ceiling, your heart skittering like a trapped bird. Too fast. Too light.

Rafe didn’t find you right away.

He was in the kitchen. You heard him, talking to himself, opening drawers, swearing about something stupid like misplacing his wallet.

When the door creaked open, you didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. You were afraid to.

He stood in the doorway for a second too long.

“…Baby?”

His voice was cautious. Not yet afraid. Not yet anything. Just confused.

You saw his bare feet cross the floor toward you. Then a pause. A sharp inhale.

“What the fuck are you- are you okay?” He crouched. Reached for your wrist. His fingers were warm and dry and trembling.

“Hey. Hey. Talk to me.”

You swallowed. Your mouth tasted like metal.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled.

“You’re on the fucking floor,” he snapped, voice pitching up now, something sharp edging in. “Did you fall?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t explain it. The fatigue. The hollowness. The way your limbs didn’t belong to you anymore.

“I just got dizzy,” you said. “It’s not- just give me a second.”

His hand hovered near your face, then pulled back like he didn’t know what to do with it.

You turned your head away, eyes fluttering shut. “It’s not a big deal.”

Silence.

Then:

“How long?”

You blinked. “…What?”

His voice was low. Flat. Measured.

“How long have you been like this?”

You didn’t answer.

And that told him everything.

He helped you sit up slowly, carefully, like you might break in half. His hand pressed against your back. You were shaking. He could feel it.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re freezing.”

You rested your head against the cabinet. Couldn’t quite lift it. Your limbs felt miles away.

“I’m okay,” you murmured. “I just need water. I haven’t eaten yet today.”

He flinched like the words physically struck him.

“Not yet?” he echoed. “It’s five o’clock.”

You blinked slowly.

That felt irrelevant.

He looked at you for a long time, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched.

Then he stood, walked out, and slammed the door behind him.

You sat there alone for a while. Not crying. Not thinking. Just… still.

Then the door opened again. Softly this time.

He came back with a hoodie. A glass of juice. A granola bar in his pocket.

He knelt beside you, quietly, and pulled the sweatshirt over your head. Guided your arms through the sleeves like you were fragile. Like you were made of glass.

You didn’t meet his eyes. You didn’t want to see what was in them.

But when he pressed the cup to your lips and said, “Please,” his voice cracked.

And that made you drink.

…

He started small.

Grocery runs with color. Fruit, bread, things with softness and warmth. No more scale. No more poking. No more comments. He made pancakes one morning and nearly cried when you ate three bites.

“You don’t have to finish,” he said, gently, when your hand started to shake. “I’m proud of you either way.”

It sounded fake. It sounded like a script.

But he meant it.

He put his phone away at dinner. Looked you in the eye. Watched your face instead of your plate.

He still touched your waist sometimes, out of habit, but now he stopped himself. Flinched like he had been burned.

And at night, when he pulled you into him, he didn’t grope. Didn’t grab. He just held. Whispers soft and shaking into your hair:

“I love you even like this.” “I’m not going anywhere.” “You’re not a mirror. You’re mine.”

You weren’t better yet.

You still skipped meals sometimes. Still counted calories without thinking. Still searched for the old praise in his eyes like an addict looking for a fix.

But he never gave it anymore. And maybe that hurt. But maybe it also helped. Because you weren’t shrinking for him anymore.

You were growing, painfully, into someone who could survive this. And this time, he wasn’t leading the way. He was just following. Soft. Careful. Quiet. Like he finally understood how close he’d come to losing you for good.

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strangerexee · 2 months ago

Text

(1) ᴛᴏʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ɢɪᴀɴᴛꜱ | ᴇʟɪᴊᴀʜ "ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ" ᴍᴏᴏʀᴇ

𝙼𝙾𝙳𝙴𝚁𝙽!𝙶𝙰𝙽𝙶!𝙰𝚄

pairings: Elijah "smoke" Moore x black!fem!reader

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

You weren’t even supposed to be out that night.

Whole week had been trash — your boss on your ass, car acting stupid, apartment loud as hell with neighbors fighting through the walls.

You needed a break.

So when your girls hit you up — “Bitch, we outside tonight, put some heels on” — you said yes.

You didn’t even think twice.

Short dress. Glossy lips. The kind of heels that said you might make a bad decision if the right man breathed on your neck.

The club was packed — lights flashing, bass thumping deep in your chest — and you felt yourself finally breathe when you got a drink in your hand and a song you loved came on.

You were dancing, laughing, living your little free life — when you felt it.

Eyes.

Heavy.

Watching.

You turned your head — slow — and caught them across the room.

Two of them.

Tall. Built like trouble. Dark eyes gleaming under the lights like wolves in the woods.

And fine?

God help you.

One leaned back against the wall — arms folded, chewing on a toothpick — looking at you like he already knew what you tasted like.

The other was talking to some girl, but his eyes? Still on you.

You swallowed — heart hammering.

Your friends screamed when the song switched — dragging you further onto the dancefloor — but you kept glancing back.

Who the hell was that? You couldn't really tell.

Fast-forward twenty minutes — you outside cooling off, drink in your hand, scrolling on your phone.

And he stepped to you.

The one from inside.

Black jeans. Black hoodie. Gold chain swinging. Those heavy-lidded eyes eating you alive.

“What’s your name, lil’ mama?” he said, voice low and slow.

You squinted up at him — heart pounding — but your mouth moved faster than your brain.

He was tall in that way that made you straighten your spine, hoodie hanging loose on that broad-ass frame like it was clinging for dear life. Gold glinted at his neck, catching the low streetlights, and the way his eyes moved—

Slow. Unhurried. Heavy-lidded like sin itself.

He wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t smiling either. He was watching.

And it was doing something to you that your little glossed-up, club-ready self hadn’t prepared for.

You scoffed lightly, not letting your eyes linger too long on his mouth, or his hands—veined, tatted, big enough to make your thighs press a little closer.

“Who, me?” You sipped your drink. “I don’t know you like that, sir.”

That “sir” was sweet. Smart. Maybe a little sharp.

And it made his jaw tick.

He dragged his tongue across his teeth, slowly, like he liked the way you tasted already.

“You gon’ know me,” he said. “Sooner or later.”

Lord.

He didn’t say it loud. Didn’t say it with a smile.

Just…stated it. Like gravity. Like fact.

You swallowed hard and tried not to show how hot your neck was getting.

He took a step closer.

Not enough to scare you. Just enough for the space between you to feel smaller. Warmer.

You leaned back against the wall casually, trying to play it cute—but your pulse was thudding. Your friends were still inside, probably throwing ass to the beat, and you were out here flirting with a man who could’ve been the devil’s body double.

“What’s your name?” you asked, voice smooth.

He smirked—but barely.

“Smoke.”

“That your real name?”

“Nah. But it’s the one you need to remember.”

You hummed, glancing down at your phone. Trying not to melt.

You had heard the name before. People whispered about him.

And his brother, Stack.

The Moore twins.

Trouble in two different fonts.

But Smoke? Smoke was the one they said moved different. Quieter. Crueler.

The one you didn’t want mad.

He didn’t act out.

He handled shit.

And here he was. In your face. Asking your name like it wasn’t probably already in his notes app under “sweet lil’ thing in that pretty dress.”

“You dangerous?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“What you think?” he said, voice low. “I look dangerous to you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Because the way your lashes dipped told him plenty. The way you bit the inside of your cheek, looked away real quick like you weren’t all hot in the chest…

Yeah. He knew what time it was.

But still—you had the final move. And you weren’t about to let him play you into giving it all up like a dumb little groupie.

So instead—you smiled.

Real pretty.

You put your hand out slow, took his phone when he offered it, and dropped your number in.

Just your first name. Nothing more.

He looked down at it like it was gold.

And when you handed it back—you leaned in. Light. Soft.

Kissed his cheek.

“That’s all you getting tonight, smoke.”

And then you turned—heels clicking, dress swaying—walking right back into the club like you hadn’t just left the king of the damn city standing there with your number in his hand and a smirk blooming slow on his face.

He didn’t even chase you.

Just watched.

You woke up in your bed with one heel still on and glitter in your eyelashes.

Head pounding.

Mouth dry.

Phone buzzing.

“Ughhh…”

You rolled over and squinted at the screen.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:07 AM.

Hell no.

You tossed the phone face down and curled back under the blanket. Mind still foggy with club lights and too many tequila shots, feet sore from dancing in heels you should’ve thrown out two summers ago.

The night felt like a dream.

A blur.

Except him.

You remembered him crystal clear.

That voice. That smirk. That goddamn cheek kiss you gave him like some sweet lil’ Southern belle.

You groaned into your pillow.

Why did you do that?

Phone buzzed again.

Smoke (Mobile) 9:12 AM.

Back-to-back?

You side-eyed the screen, biting your lip.

And then—

Third call.

Smoke (Mobile) Incoming Call…

You stared.

Then finally hit ignore.

“Sir, it’s not even 10am,” you muttered, dragging yourself upright.

You made it to the kitchen, sipping orange juice straight from the bottle like a menace, still in last night’s dress with one strap slipping off your shoulder.

You rubbed your temples, then your phone dinged.

Unknown Address shared a location with you.

Your stomach flipped.

No name. No message.

Just a red pin hovering over your damn building.

You froze.

Then another message dropped.

“Come open the door”

No punctuation.

No emojis.

Just that.

Your eyes snapped to the door.

Was he joking?

You tiptoed over, heartbeat in your damn mouth. Peeked through the peephole.

And there he was.

Black hoodie. Hood up. Leaning against the wall like he owned the entire floor. One hand in his pocket. Other hand holding his phone. Head down.

Smoke at your damn front door like he’d lived there his whole life.

You didn’t even think.

Just unlocked it.

He looked up when it clicked open — and that slow, heavy gaze rolled over you like smoke under a door.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes dipping down your body. “You always look like this in the morning?”

You pulled the door open wider and stepped aside, blinking up at him.

“How the hell you know where I stay?”

He stepped in without answering, brushing your shoulder — his presence thick — that quiet heat pouring off him again.

He looked around slow. Clocked your messy counter, the couch, the half-dead plant in the corner.

“You live alone?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, arms crossed. “You still ain’t answer—”

“I will get to that,” he said, low. “I asked a question.”

You stared at him, mouth open.

He just smirked.

“Relax,” he said. “Ain’t like I kicked the door in. You let me in.”

Damn.

You did let him in.

Something about the way he stood — tall, calm, like a storm in a hoodie — made your mouth dry.

You cleared your throat.

“I need a shower.”

“Go ahead,” he said, tossing himself onto your couch like it belonged to him. “I’ll be here.”

You blinked.

He pulled his hood down, leaned back, spread his legs — just making space. His gold chain caught the light. His eyes flicked to you.

“Go on, baby. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You stood there like a deer in headlights, every nerve buzzing.

You turned and headed to the bathroom — lowkey speed-walking — and locked the door behind you.

Your back hit the wood. Chest rising and falling.

Why was this man in your house?

More importantly—

Why did it feel good?

You stripped, hot all over, and stepped into the shower.

Let the water run over you while your mind raced.

He was sitting on your couch.

Comfortable.

Knowing damn well you were naked in the next room.

And your heart was pounding like you liked it.

You stepped out, dripping, towel wrapped around you, and cracked the door open to peek.

He was still there. Phone in hand. One knee bouncing slow.

“You good?” he called out, not even turning around.

“Yeah…”

You closed the door fast and leaned against the sink.

He didn’t knock.

Didn’t ask to come in.

Just showed up.

Showed up and sat there like he belonged.

And maybe that was the scariest part.

Because some twisted, hungover, half-dressed part of you?

Kinda wanted him to.

Anyway —

You weren’t about to be that girl. Walking out in a towel like you ain’t have an ounce of sense. He was fine, yeah. Dangerous, yes. Built like everything you knew you should run from…

But still.

You had dignity.

Even if you did keep looking at yourself in the mirror—checking your face, adjusting your curls, heart thudding like you had something to prove.

You took your time. Went out the bathroom and into your bedroom.

Lotioned slow. Fresh pair of panties. Cotton shorts. Cropped tank top, soft and snug, your favorite one that always sat just right.

Simple. Cute. Still had a little “you can leave if you want, I ain’t pressed” to it.

Even though you were very much pressed.

You stared at the door for a second.

Took a breath.

Then turned the knob and stepped out.

The scent of your vanilla body cream followed you like a cloud as you moved through the hallway—each barefoot step slow, hesitant, but steady.

And there he was.

Smoke.

Exactly where you left him.

Leaning back into your couch like it was a throne. Legs spread. One arm tossed over the backrest. Phone gone now—he was looking at you.

Eyes dragging from your face, to your neck, to your waist, to your thighs.

Slow.

Like he was learning you.

“You clean?” he said, voice low, warm.

You nodded once.

“You still here?”

He smirked.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

“You mad about that?”

“I ain’t say that.”

He nodded, eyes never leaving yours.

“But you thought about it.”

You shrugged, stepping into the kitchen to pour a glass of water—partly to distract yourself, partly to avoid looking back at him.

He watched you move, the way your shorts hugged your curves, the way your fingers curled around the glass.

“You let all strangers up in your spot like this?”

“You a stranger?” you asked, turning to lean against the counter.

His lips curved.

“Not after last night.”

You swallowed and sipped slow, heart tight in your chest.

"I kissed your cheek — you're acting like we fucked."

He wasn’t loud.

He wasn’t boastful.

But something about the way he said it — like you were already his — made your skin hum.

“So,” you said, setting the glass down. “You just…decided to pull up? No warning?”

“You ain’t answer the phone,” he said simply. “You gave me your number, yeah? Thought that meant something.”

You squinted.

“So you tracked me down?”

“Didn’t have to,” he said. “You know how many people know you? Or watch you? You too pretty to be out here thinking nobody’s paying attention.”

That made your breath catch.

And he saw it.

He leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees, voice dropping deeper.

“Don’t matter how late you leave. Don’t matter what you post or what you don’t. Eyes on you. Always. I’m just the first one to say something about it.”

You didn’t know if you were flattered or terrified.

Maybe both.

But you crossed your arms, trying to act cool.

“You always this intense?”

“Only when I want something.”

That shut you up.

Because that gaze? That posture?

He didn’t look like he wanted your number anymore.

He wanted you.

And not in some quick, messy way.

No.

He wanted to pull you. Keep you. Figure out how your day started and ended. Learn what made you tick. Put his name in your phone and in your mouth, just to hear how it sounded.

He wanted to sit on your couch with his hood off and his legs wide and look at you like you were already home.

And it was scaring you.

Just a little.

“You hungry?” you asked finally, voice smaller than you meant.

He leaned back, eyes raking over you again.

“I’m good. Unless you cooking.”

“You ain’t getting all that today, sir,” you said, smiled a little. “I’m still hungover.”

“I could fix that.”

You gave him a look.

He just chuckled — low and short — like he already knew he’d wear you down eventually.

And maybe he was right.

Because when you sat down across from him, arms still crossed, biting the inside of your cheek —

You didn’t tell him to leave.

But the quiet stretched out thick between you.

Not awkward — but heavy. Heavy like smoke after a fire. The kind of silence that made your skin itch ‘cause you felt like you were supposed to be doing something, saying something — but he was doing just fine saying nothing.

His eyes moved slow when he looked at you.

Not greedy, but precise.

Like he was trying to clock your tells. Your tics. The way you blinked when you got nervous. The little tongue poke when you were being smart.

Made you wanna fidget.

But you didn’t.

You sat on that couch, one leg crossed over the other, arms still tucked under your chest like a shield, trying not to let your eyes drop to the gold chain hanging loose around his neck.

That chain was disrespectful.

“So what you do?” you asked finally. “For work. For money. Or is that a rude question?”

Smoke snorted low — amused.

“What I do,” he said, dragging the word out, “ain’t always something you ask in daylight. Especially not when you still smell like vanilla body oil and got your knees showin’.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Sir—”

“But since you asked,” he cut in, “I got a few things. People call. I handle it.”

“So vague.”

“You want details, or you want the truth?”

“Both.”

He smiled—slow, lazy, like it tasted good in his mouth.

“Truth is, I move weight. Truth is, I don’t clock in nowhere. Truth is…” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, head tilting just slightly. “I don’t let nobody tell me what to do. Been that way since I was fourteen.”

You blinked.

He didn’t sound like he was bragging. No hype, no theatrics. Just matter of fact. Like he knew what he was and wasn’t about to apologize for it.

“So you are perilous.”

“I’m useful.”

“That what they call it now?”

“Only when I’m being nice,” he said, eyes dipping low as he glanced over your body again, “which I usually ain’t.”

You felt your breath catch. Again.

God, this man was good.

“I feel like I should tell you I don’t get down with all that,” you said, voice light, deflecting. “I like peace. Quiet. I like my little paycheck and my little business and my little sanity.”

“And yet,” he said, “you still gave me your number.”

Damn.

He had you there.

You leaned back, lips pursed.

“You’re real sure of yourself.”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m just sure about you.”

You looked away.

Because what the hell do you say to that?

No man ever told you that before—not like that. Not like he meant it.

Not like he already decided that the two of you were something, and your mouth just hadn’t caught up yet.

“You ever get tired?” you asked. “Of acting like nothing scares you?”

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t like when I act like that?”

You snorted, surprised.

“You good at reading people?”

“I’m good at reading you.”

That stopped you. Again.

You felt your arms uncross before you even realized you were doing it.

Like some part of you was already surrendering.

Your voice was softer when you said, “Why me?”

Smoke let that question sit.

Then —

“’Cause you smart. Real smart. But messy with it. Like you trying to keep it together and falling apart at the same time.”

You blinked.

Hard.

“And you pretty,” he added. “But you don’t lead with it. You act like it ain’t your weapon. That’s cute. Dangerous too.”

Your throat got tight.

“And I like the way you talk. Mouth slick. You got fight in you. But your eyes? They stay looking for something. You tired, but not done yet.”

His voice dropped.

“I like that.”

You weren’t sure what emotion was creeping up your chest, but it was hot. Heavy. A little scared, a little intrigued. A lot turned on.

You leaned your head back on the couch.

“You always do this?” you asked. “Pull girls in with that therapy voice and street prophet energy?”

“Nah,” he said. “You special. I don’t do repeat games.”

You swallowed again.

"Right, right..."

Felt your stomach knot.

“You staying long?” you asked.

“Long as you let me.”

You looked at him.

He was still sitting back like he owned the room. But now his hand was resting on his thigh, slow-tapping, like he was thinking about moving.

Like he wanted to.

“Don't you got a brother?” you asked randomly, needing to ground yourself.

He nodded.

“Twin.”

You tilted your head.

“Fraternal or Identical?”

“Identical.”

“So there's two of you running around town?”

Smoke smirked.

“Yeah. But he ain’t me.”

You smiled — real slow.

“Noted.”

He tilted his head.

“Why? You planning to test it?”

“I don’t repeat games either.”

That made him grin — wide this time.

“Told you,” he said. “You real slick. Keep playing like that and you gon’ have a hard time getting rid of me.”

“Who said I wanted to?”

You didn’t even mean to say that out loud.

But the way his eyes lit up? Whew.

“Aight then,” he said, voice silk. “Now we getting somewhere.”

You rolled your eyes, checking the time without meaning to.

He’d been on your couch longer than some of your exes lasted in your bed. Legs spread like he paid rent here. Voice low and lazy like he had nowhere else to be.

So you said it.

“You don’t got shit else to do today?”

Smoke turned to you with that half-smirk, half-squint thing he kept doing. Like every word out your mouth amused him more than the last.

“I mean, I’m flattered,” you added, kicking your bare heel against the floor. “But I know y’all street boys don’t just sit still like this. Ain’t you got corners to stand on or money to count or something?”

He snorted.

“You think that’s all I do?”

“Ain’t say that,” you shrugged. “But I know you didn’t wake up and decide to play house on my couch. I’m not that fine.”

“You are that fine,” he said easily. “I just got better taste than time.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Boy, whatever.”

But he didn’t respond.

His phone buzzed.

Once. Then again.

You clocked the quick glance he gave it. The screen lit up bright across his thigh. He tapped it, turned it face-down, didn’t move.

“What’s that?” you asked, leaning a little.

“Nothing.”

“Your girl?”

That made him grin. Head tipping back a little as he stared at the ceiling like he couldn’t believe you asked that.

“You think I’d sit this long in your house if I had somebody else blowing up my shit?”

“I don’t know. I’ve seen men do worse for less.”

“Ain’t my girl,” he said, straight-faced now. “If I had one, I’d have said it.”

You gave him a long look.

Didn’t say anything else.

But then the phone rang.

Loud. Sudden. The name flashed up — too quick for you to catch it — but his mood shifted the moment he saw it.

Just a flick of something. That calm-mask tightening.

“Yo,” he answered, standing up.

His tone dropped. Business.

He turned away, walked toward your door.

You stayed on the couch.

Didn’t ask.

You weren’t stupid. You didn’t need the details. Man like him? Phone call like that? It wasn’t brunch plans.

“Aight,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.”

He hung up.

Turned around.

And there it was — the shift back.

That calm he wore like armor.

You didn’t bother asking what it was. You already knew better.

Instead, you pulled your phone into your hand and scrolled. Just enough to let him know you weren’t pressed.

He watched you for a second. Then:

“Lemme get a kiss.”

You scoffed — head jerking up.

“You for real?”

“Deadass.”

“You wasn’t even here ten minutes and now you tryna act like this our place. Boy, please—”

“C’mon, baby,” he said, slow and syrupy. “You not gon’ do me like that.”

And the worst part?

You folded.

Not fast. Not right away.

But slow, like butter melting on hot bread.

You rolled your eyes — hard enough to give attitude — and stood.

“You so needy,” you muttered.

“You like that.”

You walked over.

He was already smirking.

And when you got close enough for him to reach — you knew.

You knew what he was gon’ do.

Still leaned in.

Still let him pull you in soft. One hand to your lower back, the other brushing your jaw.

His lips found yours like he’d kissed you before.

Like he’d been thinking about it since the second he saw you.

The kiss was slow — firm. Not sloppy, not rushed.

Just pressure. Warmth. Intention.

And right when you started to lean in deeper—

Boom.

Not one, but both his hands slid down to your ass.

Gripped.

Full palms, full squeeze.

You pulled back just enough to give him a look.

“Really?”

“You surprised?”

You tried to step back.

He didn’t let you.

Just stood there with that fucking smirk, hands still in place like they had a right to be there.

“You gon’ let go?”

“You gon’ ask me nice?”

“Smoke.”

“Aight, aight.” He finally eased up. “Go on then. I’ll call you.”

“Please don't.”

He leaned in one more time — kissed the corner of your mouth.

Then he was gone.

Door clicked shut behind him.

And your heart?

Still tapping a wild rhythm in your chest.

What the hell was that?

And why the hell did it feel like the beginning of something you wasn’t ready for?

#elijah moore #elijah smoke moore #sinners x reader #sinners imagine #sinners smut #sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners movie #michael b jordan #elijah moore x reader #elijah smoke Moore x reader #smoke and stack #strangerexee #au fanfiction

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whisperedmeg · 7 days ago

Text

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

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mercvry-glow · 2 months ago

Text

you, me, and empty space between us

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

warnings. widower!jack, age gap as always (jack late 40s, reader late 20s early 30s), jack literally talks reader off the ledge, undefined relationship but they're clearly in love and going through something, unspecified mental health issues, panic attacks, possible suicidal ideation, talks of losing people, bittersweet ending though.

notes. ever since we learned jack was a widower i've been cursed with angsty thoughts. I think this one is really hard as we see both the reader and jack struggle with each other. I love them your honor, and I'm really in my noah kahan loneliness era for this man. as always any feedback is appreciated and I love all of you!

wc. 2700+

You don’t know when it had become so hard to breathe.

It wasn’t after the first patient death, or even the fourth or fifth. That was just life in the Pitt, and you had grown accustomed to it long ago… at least that’s what you thought.

It certainly wasn’t when he had walked in—Jack Abbot, all swagger and scruff, fresh on shift while you were finishing yours. You truly don’t know when you came to love him as more than a mentor. Maybe it was in the quiet, exhausted nights on his couch, or the rare mornings when your coffee mugs clinked in place of words.

Never open, always tucked away.

And maybe that’s why it hits you like a punch to the chest—because it’s something so small, something that you have no business caring about.

A glint of gold as he reaches for his first chart of the night.

His wedding band.

Still there. Still shining. Still hers.

And your breath just… goes. Like someone pulled the air from your lungs and replaced it with something heavy and wet and cruel.

You don’t even remember walking to the lockers. Just the click of the door behind you, the fluorescent lights buzzing too loud, and the burn behind your eyes as your hands shook, held tight against your sides. Everything became too much all at once.

God, you're so tired.

Tired of the codes and the screaming and the silence that follows. Tired of watching children and parents die and pretending you’re not breaking a little more each time. Tired of watching your friends break each and every day more and more as this job steals their youth like it’s doing to yours. Tired of giving your heart to a man who, no matter how gently he touches you, will never touch you like you’re loved by him.

Not like he touched her.

You don't even cry. Not at first. You just run up the stairs, heart hammering like it's trying to escape, destination both known and unknown to your frazzled brain. Then you do cry—loud, ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs that don't stop. Not even when someone passes. Not even when your pager buzzes again.

You make it up to the roof before anyone sees you.

The cold Pittsburgh wind bites at your cheeks, but at least here, you can breathe again.

Kind of.

You wrap your arms around yourself, eyes burning as you stare out over the city like it's supposed to give you some kind of answer.

But it doesn't.

It never does.

You’re not even sure how long you’ve been up here.

The city stretches out below, distant and indifferent—cars moving like blood cells in some great, uncaring artery. You’ve spent your whole life trying to keep things alive, and now, standing here, arms wrapped around yourself in the wind, you’re not sure how to keep yourself going.

It’s not just Jack.

It’s everything.

You’re tired in your bones. In your soul, if that’s a thing people really have.

Tired of the endless codes that ring like alarms in your dreams. Tired of holding hands that go cold while families scream down the hall. Tired of smiling when you’re empty. Laughing when your throat aches from swallowing everything you can’t say.

Tired of being second.

To a memory.

To a career.

To a system that chews you up and spits you back out with new scars and fewer tears left to give.

You love your job. God, you do. But lately it feels like it’s eating you alive. And no one sees it. No one wants to see it. Because you're the one who keeps it together. The calm in the storm. The smile at the desk. The one who always says, “I’m fine. Go. I’ve got this.”

But you don’t.

You don’t got this. Not anymore

You’re drowning.

And Jack—Jack is just the wound you thought you could bandage, only to realize it was deeper than you ever let yourself admit.

You see the way he softens when he talks about her, the few times you got to hear.

The weight in his voice when he says her name.

And you? You’re the comfort. The quiet. The body he falls into when his ghosts get too loud, too much to handle alone.

But not the one he chooses.

Never the one he chooses.

A sob claws its way up your throat, and this time you don’t stop it. You sink, knees scraped by the roof's edge, standing past the metal railing and let it all go—the grief, the love, the years of being almost enough in every aspect of your life.

You cry until you’re raw. Until your breath hitches like a broken record.

Until you feel like there’s nothing left inside you.

And still, the world keeps turning. The city lights don’t flicker. The wind doesn’t pause.

You are so deeply, achingly alone.

And in this moment, you don't even want to be saved. You just want to rest.

To be done.

“You know,” comes a familiar voice behind you, easy and low, “if you wanted to get me alone on the rooftop , all you had to do was ask. I would’ve brought you coffee.”

You flinch. Just barely. But he sees it.

Jack steps closer, hands tucked in his cargo pockets like he’s just wandered up here on a whim, not after checking every paitent room and hallway trying to find you. There’s that half-smile tugging at his mouth, the one he uses like armor—dry wit and soft hazel eyes, his whole coping mechanism wrapped in a single expression.

But the smile falters when you don’t answer.

When he really looks at you.

You’re standing with your hands pulled to your chest, fingers white-knuckled in your scrubs, eyes red and swollen. Shoulders shaking just enough to make him stop in his tracks after realizing you’re past the guard rail.

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “What happened?”

You shake your head. A tiny, useless motion. You can't even bring yourself to look at him, back still turned.

He steps toward you, trying to search your face. “Talk to me. Did something happen with a patient? Was it that kid from earlier? Or—”

“No,” you whisper, barely audible. “It’s nothing.”

“That,” he says, voice a touch sharper, “is a lie. And a bad one, kid.”

You let out a bitter little laugh that turns into another sob. “Everything’s just… too much.”

Jack doesn’t speak right away. Just watches you, the tension in his jaw building slowly. “You’re scaring me,” he admits, quietly.

“Fuck,” you snap through the tears. “Now you actually see me?.”

That stuns him. You can sense it—how his shoulders tighten, how his eyes scanning like they’ve missed something right in front of them.

You wobble, or try to move—your knees tremble under you, and Jack moves instantly, hands ready to grab you.

You pull away.

“I’m tired, Jack,” you say, voice breaking. “So goddamn tired. Of being here. Of being overworked. Of watching people die. Of pretending I don’t care that you still wear her ring when you’re in my bed.”

Silence slams between you.

He swallows hard, words clearly stuck in his throat.

“I know she meant everything to you,” you say, softer now. “And I would never try to take her place. But it’s killing me. Being your person… Being the one you come to… but never for.”

His mouth opens, then closes again.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And look, now I’m making my issues about you again. God, I’m tired of that too.”

Jack steps forward, hesitant, like he’s approaching something fragile. Or dangerous. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“I didn’t want to make it real,” you whisper. “Because if I said it out loud, I’d have to admit that I’m not okay. That this job—this place—you—are breaking me.”

He’s quiet for a long time. The wind whistles around you both, cold and uncaring.

“I didn’t know,” he finally says. “I should’ve. But I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

You look up at him, exhausted and open and completely undone. “I don’t want you to say sorry. I just… I wanted to matter.”

“You do,” he says, quick and firm. “You matter to me,”

You shake your head again, biting back another sob.

He doesn’t try to touch you this time. He just stands there in the silence you’ve created, eyes on yours like they’re the only thing he sees now.

And maybe—for the first time—they are.

Jack exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady his own heart before he reaches for yours.

“You wanna know something?” he says, his voice rough but quiet. “First week I met you, I thought you weren’t cut out for this. All business, too rigid, straight spine, soft. Honestly? Scared the hell out of me, I thought you’d be gone by the end of the week.”

You huff, tired, but something like a breath of a laugh escapes you.

“But then you stayed two hours after your shift because a twelve-year-old was afraid of needles,” he continues. “And I saw it. That heart of yours—the one you hide behind clipped words and all that damn competence. You care so much it hurts you.”

He pauses, lets that sink in. You turn your face slightly toward him, just enough for him to see your profile in the wind.

“I know you think nobody sees you,” Jack says. “That you’re just some extra in other people’s stories. But I see you. I always see you.”

Your lips part, but no words come.

“You’re the one holding the line when everyone else is cracking. You’re the one who stays up on nights like this, falling apart where no one can find you. But I found you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He steps forward again, slowly, cautiously. Like he’s giving you every chance to step back under the rails and hoping you don’t choose the other way down.

“I don’t wear this ring because I’m not over her,” he says, tugging at the band absently. “I wear it because she made me better. And you… you keep me better.”

That stops your breath cold.

“I never meant to make you feel like you were just something temporary,” he says. “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Then why not just say it?” you choke, voice trembling.

He looks at you like he wants to. Like the words are right there on his tongue—but something stops him. Not fear. Not doubt. Just the weight of everything this moment holds.

“I’m saying what I can,” he says instead. “Until I can say it all.”

He steps closer, right in front of you now, eyes searching yours.

“You matter, okay? Not just as my best resident. Not just as a damn good doctor. You matter to me. You’re not alone in this. Even if you feel like you are.”

Silence again. Heavy, but different this time.

“I don’t know what happens next,” he adds, quieter now. “But I know I don’t want to face it without you.”

You feel something give inside you—something that’s been clinging to the edge for weeks, maybe months. You don’t fall apart again, not this time. But you do lean forward. Just a little. Just enough.

Jack reaches out to touch you, wanting to pull you in. Standing right there on the other side of the guard rails, steady as gravity.

Letting you decide.

You stand there for a second, barely breathing. His words echo in your chest, ringing against all the places that have been cracked and hollowed out.

You matter to me.

It shouldn't be enough. Not after all this. But somehow, it is. Or maybe it’s just enough to stop the bleeding.

Your shoulders slump as the tension you’ve carried finally starts to unwind. You don’t fall into him, not dramatically. You just… lean. Your forehead comes to rest against his chest, tentative, uncertain. But you stay there.

And Jack? He doesn’t hesitate.

His arms move around you with a kind of quiet reverence—gentle but solid, like he’s anchoring you to the hospital roof. One hand settles between your shoulder blades, the other against the back of your head, cradling you like he’s afraid you’ll break again.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmurs against your hair.

“I scared myself,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

“You could’ve told me,” he says, not accusing—just brokenhearted.

“I didn’t know how,” you admit. “I thought if I said it out loud, I’d lose everything and never come back together.”

Jack pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushes gently along your wind bitten cheeks, catching a stray tear you didn’t even feel fall.

“You are coming back together,” he says, firm but soft. “Right now. Piece by piece. You’re still here. That’s what matters.”

You nod, barely, like you’re still trying to believe him.

“I don’t need you to be okay all the time,” he continues. “You don’t have to be strong for anyone. You get to fall apart. You get to feel this.”

“But what if it doesn’t stop?” you whisper, voice cracking. “What if it just keeps coming?”

“Then we’ll face it together,” he says, without missing a beat. “Shift by shift. day by day. As long as it takes.”

Your eyes search his, and for once, there’s no hiding behind sarcasm or guarded silences. Just truth. And maybe something deeper behind it—something he’s still not quite ready to name, but it’s there. Burning steady like a soft fire.

You close your eyes, letting yourself rest in the warmth of him, in the safety of this rooftop moment.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you take a full, deep breath.

You both stand like that for a long time—no words, just breath and heartbeat and wind. The hum of the city below feels miles away, like a different world. Up here, it's just the two of you.

Eventually, Jack shifts a little, his arms still around you. His voice is soft, barely above the wind.

“Hey,” he says gently. “How about we get back on the safer side of the rail, yeah?”

You realize, with a sudden twist in your stomach, that you’re still on the wrong side. Still too close to the edge, with nothing but cold air and steel keeping you tethered.

You don’t move right away. Your fingers grip the rail, not because you want to jump—God, no—but because the world still feels unsteady. Like if you let go, you might float off into something you can't control.

Jack doesn’t rush you.

He stays with you, warm and steady at your side, hands never leaving you. “One step,” he says softly. “Just one. I’ve got you.”

You look at him, and there’s nothing performative in his expression. No pity. No fear. Just calm, unwavering care.

You nod once. Then slowly, carefully, you swing your leg over the first bar. He helps you the rest of the way, hands guiding you gently, like you’re something precious. When both feet land solidly on the rooftop again, you don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it finally releases in a shaky exhale.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Safe and sound. Mostly.”

You laugh, barely. “I must look like a mess.”

“You look like someone who’s been through hell,” Jack says. “And is still standing. That’s not a mess. That’s a goddamn miracle.”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, and something flickers between you. Quiet. Heavy. Unspoken.

His hand lifts slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, then lingering—fingertips grazing your jaw, gentle as rain. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Can I…” he starts, then stops, catching himself. “I’m not asking to fix it. I just—”

You answer by leaning in.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just soft. Slow. Like an exhale. Like the kind of kiss that says I’m still here. I still want this.

His lips meet yours, warm and steady, one hand still at your waist, the other against your cheek. There’s no fire in it—not tonight. Just light. Just steady comfort.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing a little easier now.

“You sure about this?” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. You believe him. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe in yourself again, too.

mercvry-glow 2025

#the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt hbo #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbott #jack abbott x reader #jack abbott x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbott #dr. jack abbott x reader #dr. jack abbott x you #❥ - Jack Abbot

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writeriguess · 2 months ago

Note

hiii

may i request a katsuki x reader where the reader and katsuki are new to their relationship and make out for the first time?

Caught in the Heat of You

The air crackles with the tension of unspoken words, the weight of anticipation pressing on your chest. Katsuki stands close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, every inch of him taut and electric. His crimson eyes bore into yours, searching—daring you to look away. But you don’t. You won’t.

“You’re staring,” he mutters, the words rough but edged with something softer.

Your cheeks burn as you bite back a smile. “You’re one to talk.”

“Tch.” Katsuki scoffs, crossing his arms, but the way his eyes flicker down to your lips betrays him. “Not my fault you’ve got a face worth staring at.”

“Oh?” You tease, heart fluttering. “So you think I’m pretty?”

His eyes narrow, but a faint blush betrays his bravado. “Shut up. You already know I do.”

Warmth spreads through your chest. Despite the roughness in his tone, you can hear the sincerity underneath. You’ve only been dating for a couple of weeks—new, exciting, and a little terrifying. Katsuki Bakugo is an explosive force of nature, and being close to him feels like standing at the edge of a cliff: thrilling, dangerous, and breathtaking.

You take a breath, trying to gather your courage. “Katsuki…”

He raises a brow. “What?”

You chew your lip. “I want to kiss you.”

The room falls silent. Katsuki’s eyes widen a fraction before his expression hardens, but you’ve learned to read him by now. The rigid set of his jaw, the twitch in his fingers—he’s nervous.

“I-if you’re just gonna talk about it—”

“I’m not just talking.” Your voice shakes a little, but you push through. “Unless you don’t want to?”

His glare sharpens. “Did I say that?”

“No, but—”

He curses under his breath before stepping closer, crowding you against the wall. He smells like smoke and caramel, a familiar comfort that sets your pulse racing.

“Shut up already,” he mutters, and before you can react, his lips crash against yours.

The kiss is clumsy and rough—more teeth and stubbornness than grace. His lips are warm, insistent, and demanding. You gasp, and he takes advantage of it, pressing in deeper. One of his hands slides around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while the other tangles in your hair. He growls against your mouth when you kiss back just as fiercely.

You grab onto his shirt, tugging him closer. Katsuki grunts, and his grip tightens possessively. He tastes like mint and something fiery, a dizzying mix that leaves you breathless. When you finally pull back, panting, his eyes are hooded and intense, the pink flush across his cheeks proof that he’s just as affected.

“Damn,” you breathe, staring at him.

His smirk is sharp and self-satisfied, but there’s a softness in his gaze. “Hah. Didn’t know you could kiss like that.”

“Me?” You raise a brow. “You nearly knocked the wind out of me.”

Katsuki scoffs. “Suck it up. You can handle it.” He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. “Unless you can’t?”

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears. “Oh, I can handle it. Can you?”

The challenge is enough to spur him on. He kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, until your knees go weak and you cling to him for support. The world narrows to the warmth of his mouth, the steady strength of his arms, and the rasp of his breathing. His hand slides lower, tracing your waist before settling possessively on your hip.

A shiver runs down your spine. The kiss slows, turning languid and exploratory. He nips at your bottom lip, and you whimper softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth. Katsuki groans, and his grip tightens. When he pulls back, his lips are red and kiss-swollen.

“You make it real damn hard to hold back, you know that?” he mutters, glaring at you like it’s your fault he’s this flustered.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, breathless.

He groans, pinning you harder against the wall. “You’re a menace.”

You grin up at him, emboldened by the haze of desire in his eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

He huffs but can’t hide the twitch of his lips. “Keep talking, and I’ll shut you up again.”

“Promise?”

Katsuki curses and kisses you again, and this time, you know neither of you is backing down.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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comatosebunny09 · 4 months ago

Text

helpful | sylus

— summary: you can’t sleep because aunt flo is a bitch. sylus decides to help. — cw: female reader, female anatomy described, dry humping, riding, menstrual cup mention, period woes, mild language, praise, incredibly self-indulgent, bro this is a hot mess, i wrote this instead of carpe noctem ‘cause i wanted sexy time, mdni — now playing: monster - irene & seulgi

For the umpteenth time that morning, you fidget.

Stupid restless leg syndrome. Stupid cramps. Stupid period.

Man, fuck!

He stirs behind you, and you stiffen. He groans something abrasive. Brushes his lips against the outer curve of your ear, his hold around your waist tightening the slightest bit.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

You wince at the grit of his tone. Feel shitty because he sleeps like shit as it is. With your added squirming, you’re only making things worse.

“Nothing,” you sigh, hoping he won’t pursue it and fall back asleep.

“Can’t sleep?”

You shrink. Of course he’d press.

“Cramps again?”

You nod wordlessly, smoothing an apologetic thumb over his wrist and rubbing his ankle with your toes. He shifts against you, curled around you like a clingy feline, legs entangled, body a warm, calming pressure at your back.

“How can I help?” purrs your love, rooting his nose against the sensitive space behind your ear. Inhales, taking in the warm scent wafting off your skin, leaving a shudder and goosebumps in his wake.

“Dunno,” you return with a pout. “Maybe take my uterus out.”

His chuckle is throaty. Sleepy. Alluring.

He eases a hand beneath the hem of your shirt, battle-worn palm smoothing over your belly. It’s soothing. Like your own personal heating pad, somewhat easing the gnarl of your gut.

“Unfortunately, I can’t do that, sweetheart. You might need it later. Any other way I can assist?”

You chew on your lip, listening to your pulse thrum. To the sound of his even breaths, the slide of his hand over your stomach, and the wrens singing their morning hymnal outside your window.

You’re too lazy to grab medicine for the pain. And you don’t want Sylus leaving the bed, either—you’d miss him too much, no matter how briefly he’d be gone.

You recall once reading up on other methods to ease cramps.

Your cheeks warm with the memory of one particular bullet point that stood out.

You clear the phlegm from your throat in an attempt to redirect your thoughts.

Sylus, the observant bastard, senses your evasiveness. He lifts his chin from the hollow of your neck, snowy strands tickling your skin. You don’t have to glance back to know he’s looking at you with those dangerous duel flames and wariness pulling at his sleepy face.

“Talk to me,” he coaxes, patting the meat of your belly.

You swallow past the barbs in your throat, fidgeting once more. Your voice is small. Tentative. “Well, there is one way.”

You picture an inquisitive brow lifting. “Enlighten me.”

Quietly, you shift around on your bed in his arms until you’re faced with a mop of white. With drooping eyes glistening like the sun refracted off sea waves.

You take his warm cheeks in your palms, sliding your thumbs along the scratchy stubble residing there. Trace over his bottom lip, entranced by its elasticity. Its fullness. He groans something soft and bitten-off, tugging you closer until your chests meet.

You look down between your bodies, a hot wash of embarrassment flooding your insides. A dismissive smile rounds your lips. “It’s stupid. Go back to sleep. Don’t worry about me.”

His hand slinks down your side, settling on your hip. He pitches himself forward, stealing the taste of your lips with a sticky, languid kiss. Nuzzles your nose with his beautifully sculpted one, a youthful quirk to his mouth.

“Nothing is ever stupid when it comes to you. Tell me. I want to ease your pain.”

You worry your bottom lip again with your teeth, mulling over your next words. You burn hot when, in your peripheral, his eyes darken whilst following the action.

“I read somewhere that, um…”

Sylus strokes reassurance into your waist with his thumb. Wordlessly encourages you to continue, painting an attentive line between your mouth and lashes.

“Orgasms…help.”

“Oh?”

You flinch at how his voice rolls like thunder in his chest. You shut your eyes tight, to which he chuckles, dragging you impossibly closer until your pelvises acquaint themselves with each other. He traps your legs with his, mooring you to the spot. To him.

Gentle digits pinch your chin, guiding your gaze back up. The look on his face makes your stomach twist, contending with your cramps. He kisses you once more, pressing that devilish smile to your lips. You relax after some time, letting him guide you through the languorous waltz of your tongues.

Your arms snake about his neck, and you pour the deftest little sound into his body, allowing him to plunder every ridge and crevice of your mouth. He pulls away with a sticky click, and the smolder of his gaze is unmistakable.

Lust. Playfulness. Danger.

“Allow me to help,” he says, voice warm milk and honey.

Your stomach flips.

There is no warning. No preamble when he effortlessly maneuvers your body until you’re straddling him, legs bracketing either side of his devastating hips. His fingers burn like cinders, clasped around your waist. The seam of his pants digs something harsh against the inner cut of your thigh. You throb, blinking dumbly down at your love.

He tugs with a chuckle, and you careen forward, catching yourself on palms perched on his virile chest. With a smirk canting one corner of his mouth, he pillows the back of his head with his palm, watching you expectantly, the pinnacle of smugness.

“Use me.”

Your face contorts with confusion, a hot thrill shooting through you. “Huh?”

“To get off,” he returns as if it’s as obvious as the night’s transition to day.

He lightly swats your ass, and you release an indignant sound, bowing forward, a warm, dizzying pressure pushing against the seam of your cunt.

Is that—

Sylus scoffs at your indecision. “Do I have to do everything for you, sweetie?”

It’s a tease, a challenge. Yet, before you’re granted the time for a response, his hand is firm and possessive on your hip, sliding you forward, and—oh, fuck.

You pulse at the pleasant glide of your cunt against his awakening bulge. He repeats the motion, this time sliding you back on his lap. And spurred by your pleasured response, he begins undulating your hips like the lazy pull of a tide receding into the sea. The friction brewing between your thighs is enough to make your eyes roll and your head loll back, your mouth falling open with a silent gasp.

His lips part slightly, his unoccupied hand clasping around your other hip to keep you in rhythm. “Just like that,” he rasps, watching the strings of your resolve fray slowly.

He knows what his voice does to you. How his tender instruction curls in your stomach like smoke, unfurling upward to scorch your chest.

When he’s convinced you’ve caught on, he releases your hips, blistering palms closing around your wrists to keep you anchored to him. To keep your palms pressed firm against the rigid pane of his chest for leverage.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Use me. Take what you want from me.” His voice is murky. Gritty. Intense. Strained as if he’s enjoying the steady wind of your hips, the union of your bodies, just as much as you are.

Something twists low in your belly. You peer down at him with half-slit eyes, not once relinquishing the pleasurable knock of your hips. He studies you with equal fervor, pelvis slowly surging off the bed to meet you rock for rock. He’s goaded by your pleasure. By the soft, pathetic keening sounds leaving your lips, and his grip on your wrists is almost bruising.

“Take me, sweetheart. Take me.” He groans something heady, throaty, and it puddles in your core, searing hot like magma.

Your walls quake around the menstrual cup nestled within, amplifying the sparkling sensation threatening to wholly take hold of you.

“Don’t stop,” he urges on a groan. “Take your pleasure. Keep going until you’ve had your fill.”

You’ll lecture him later on his obsession with being used like something disposable. For now, you chase the tingling sensation stewing between your bodies, riding him a little faster than before, your clit perfectly dragging against his dick.

Your mouth hinges open as your hips paint a rhythm of their own accord, driven by feeling alone. Your orgasm creeps up your back like spindly, spidery limbs, and the world falls away, making way for a blinding surge of white. Your hips stutter. Stiffen, your tongue wrapping around his name.

You barrel forward, falling into Sylus’ embrace, and you laugh as the final vestiges of your orgasm wade over you, leaving you a shaking mess of tendons and sweat.

He smooths a hand over the notches of your spine as you come down, humming low, whispering dulcet words of encouragement into the crown of your head.

“That’s my girl. So good for me. So sweet. So pretty.”

His heartbeat is mollifying beneath your cheek. You smile, breaths evening out, sleep beckoning you with her feathery call.

That’s one way to combat menstrual pain.

#sylus x female reader #sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus qin #tw: periods

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shouyuus · 5 months ago

Text

sfw; modern neighbor!vi au

cool but enough about that. thinking about vi who lives in the same apartment building as you and is on the same floor just a few doors down, who sees you struggling with some boxes when moving in so she sweeps in to your rescue and well i mean you're not one to look a-gift-horse-muscular-butch in the mouth when she's so valiantly offering to carry these boxes for you.

who introduces herself and tells you that she lives here with her sister, who's studying mechanical engineering at the university. her? oh, she's a freelancer! you know how it is these days, teaches boxing at the local gym, helps her dad with the family bar on the weekends sometimes, "bit of this and a bit of that." and it sounds like she doesn't wanna talk about it all that much so you don't ask.

you ask her in for a cup of coffee, say it's the least you can do to thank her for helping you with the boxes.

"pleasure's mine, helping a pretty girl like you."

woof.

you swallow, busying yourself with your beat up little moka pot, asking her if she wants sugar or creamer. both, she says, and you pause, looking over your shoulder. she's leant up against your half-unpacked sofa, her arms knitted loosely over her chest.

"what? i've always like my stuff with a little bit of sugar."

it's a simple enough statement but the way she says it makes all your fingers and toes tingle. you swallow, fiddling with the fraying edges of your sweater sleeve.

"yeah, no -- that's --"

you jump as the moka starts to bubble and you pull it off the stove, feeling the same heat working it's way into your skin.

it's easy, so easy, after that. she offers to help you unpack (only if you need it of course) and well, you could use another pair of hands. you tell her that you'll pay her in pizza, and she smiles so wide you can see the hint of a dimple etching itself into her cheek.

you end up spending the whole day together, and when all the boxes are broken down and tamped into a pile by the door, your fingers grease-stained, sitting curled up on your now fully built-out couch, with plastic cups of prosecco, she sighs, staring into the bubbling liquid with a smile just a hitch away from sadness.

"cool! well -- thanks for the pizza," she sets down the cup and pushes up off the couch. you clear your throat and scramble up as well, pressing your palms into your thighs.

"no! thank you for helping me --" you motion around your apartment, "and uh --" you chew on your lips, teetering on the balls of your feet.

"if you ever wanna hang out," vi says, grinning as she rounds the sofa, glancing over her shoulder, "i'm just two doors down."

you slump down onto the sofa, pressing a hand to your chest, feeling it's wild, fluttering beat beneath your palm as you try to steady your breathing.

a few days later, you knock on her door, only to find a girl with shocking blue space buns and a pair of magnifying goggles on her head that make her look truly unhinged.

"who're you?"

you blink, fingers clutched around a large mug.

"uh -- uhm -- i just -- i moved in to the unit two doors down a few days ago and i was -- i was wondering if i could -- borrow some... sugar?" you hold out the mug, wondering if you've just royally fucked up.

"powder? who's at the door?" vi's voice calls out just as the girl with blue hair opens her mouth.

powder pauses, a sly smirk twisting the edge of her lips as she pushes up her goggles to reveal bright blue eyes just a few shades darker than vi's.

"oh no one, juuuuust... the super cute neighbor you couldn't shut up about from a few days ag --"

something clanks from further in the apartment and the girl named powder gets yanked back as vi appears, wide-eyed and a bit disheveled, clearing her throat as she almost crashes into her doorframe.

"h-hi! what -- what're you doing here?"

"i uhm --" you swallow, warmth prickling beneath your skin.

"sugar," powder says, rolling her eyes, waving a hand as she prances back into the apartment.

"sugar...?" vi asks, almost uncomprehending.

you lick your lips, holding out the cup, "yeah... i -- uh -- ran out..."

vi blinks down at the empty mug for a second too long before her eyes flash up to meet yours.

"yeah? what've you been up to, using so much sugar?"

you lick your lips, biting down on our bottom lip as she steps back to motion you into the apartment. it's not big, but it is cozy, sticky-notes and doodles littering almost every available surface, cups with day-old coffee/water/tea cluttered on the countertops. but vi reaches up into the cupboards and tugs down the sugar bag.

"i --" you cut off as she fills up your cup.

you don't want to tell her that you were trying to bake cupcakes of all things. and for her no less.

"ahh... don't wanna tell me? s'okay -- fine then, keep your secrets," she teases, shooting you a tiny wink as she leans up to put the sugar back.

"it's --" you nearly trip over your words as they tumble out of you, "i was -- wanted to make some cupcakes -- f-for... you..." you force out, turning away as her eyes widen slightly, "but i keep fucking up the measurements so --" you chance her another glance.

vi watches you with a soft smile, leaning against her kitchen counter.

"for me, sugar?"

you nod, now feeling impossibly hot as she vi slates you a knowing smile.

"well, lemme know when you're done," she says, "and uh..." she glances down at your sugar cup, "don't be afraid to put in a little extra for me, okay?"

you walk back to your own apartment in a daze, staring down at the cup of white sugar grains as you finally get back to your kitchen and set the mug down. you look at the two batches of failed cupcakes sitting on the counter and sigh, a helpless little smile ticking up the corner of your lips as you remember the twinkle in vi's eyes as she'd told you to add a little more sugar for her.

you drop your face into your hands with a loud groan, slumping back onto the couch, letting your feet dangle off the side as you stare at the light-stricken ceiling.

and you say, to no one in particular --

"i am so, so fucked."

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 1 month ago

Text

Till Death Do Us Part

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

Wordcount: 14.5K (Yikes, my longest one yet.)

Playlist: 'Flawless' - The Neighbourhood | 'War of Hearts' - Ruelle | 'See You Bleed' - Ramsey | 'Scorpio' - Pour Vous | 'Terrible Thing' - AG

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Oral receiving (F.) - Rough Play - Hair pulling - Face slapping (y'all, they try and kill each other before doing the dirty) - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames

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

Next chapter: Till Death Do Us Part | Pt. 2

The chicken is roasting in the oven, filling the open-concept kitchen with the smell of lemon, garlic, and rosemary. You stir the sauce on the stove slowly, absently, the motions muscle memory after five years of this routine. The marble counters gleam under the recessed lighting. The wine—your favourite Châteauneuf-du-Pape—is already breathing on the island beside two empty glasses. His glass is always on the right. Yours on the left.

You glance at the clock. 6:42 PM.

Right on time.

The sound of the garage door humming open cues your body before your mind catches up. You smooth your blouse, run a hand through your hair, and put on that soft, wifely smile you’ve perfected over the years. Not too eager. Not too cold. Just domestic enough to look real. Even if everything about your life is a lie.

Seungcheol walks in like he owns the world. Black slacks, white shirt rolled up to the elbows, collar slightly unbuttoned—just enough to make you pause for half a second longer than necessary. His wedding band gleams under the kitchen lights when he sets down his leather satchel by the counter. Not too fancy. Not too cheap. Just believable enough to pass for a self-employed contractor with a few wealthy clients.

“Smells amazing,” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek like he always does.

“Roasted lemon garlic chicken,” you reply, turning off the stove. “Figured we should use the good thyme from the garden before it dies again.”

He chuckles and pulls his chair out at the dining table. “You mean before you forget to water it again?”

You raise a brow. “I have a busy job, babe. Not all of us get to spend our afternoons measuring structural load capacities.”

“Hey,” he says, pointing his fork at you once you plate the food and set it down in front of him, “developing office towers and commercial buildings is an art.”

You laugh, sipping your wine as you sit across from him. He leans back slightly, watching you for a moment, and there’s that fleeting flicker in his eyes—the one you’ve never been able to pin down. The one that makes you think he’s hiding something. But then again, you are, too.

“The curtains look different,” he says, eyes drifting toward the large windows facing the garden. “When did you change them?”

You glance toward them. White, linen, sheer, with silver grommets. “Yesterday. The old ones were too heavy for spring. I wanted light, breezy. Open.”

He nods. “Makes the room feel bigger.”

Silence settles between you for a moment. Comfortable. Familiar. Until he says, almost casually, “Thinking of redoing the backyard.”

You spear a piece of asparagus, chew, and swallow before replying. “Again? That’s the third time in two years.”

“The koi pond doesn’t flow right. Feng Shui’s off,” he mutters.

You hide a smile behind your glass. What a load of shit. He doesn’t believe in Feng Shui. But the first rule of your kind of marriage is: always let the lies live in peace. Challenging them only brings unnecessary fire.

“We’re invited to Kim and Soojin’s baby shower,” you say next, leaning your chin into your palm. “Next Saturday. You’ll come, right?”

He exhales a sigh that borders on a groan. “Do I have to? It’s gonna be baby-themed everything and forced small talk with people pretending they like children.”

“So… normal Saturday then?”

He grins. You grin back. It’s routine. Polished. Perfect. This suburban domesticity you’ve curated over five years of marriage—it’s nothing short of an illusion built brick by brick. The neighbours believe you’re the golden couple. You believe it, too, sometimes. Right until the phone in your shoe closet buzzed this morning.

“By the way,” he says, reaching for more wine, “I’m going to be out of town this week. Client in Busan wants me to redesign his outdoor deck. Real high-end stuff. Might take three days.”

You take another sip of wine to give yourself time. “That’s funny,” you say carefully. “I’ve got to fly out for a case, too. Some corporate merger—kind of messy. I’ll be in Tokyo until at least Friday.”

You both pause for a moment. You tilt your head. He doesn’t blink. There’s no suspicion. Only understanding.

Of course, what you don’t tell him is that your “corporate case” is a sheikh in Shibuya who’s been secretly funding illegal arms trades across the Pacific. The briefcase hidden within a closet contains three fake passports, a suppressed Glock 19, and a single vial of poison discreetly hidden in a lipstick tube.

You think he’s consulting engineers and overseeing concrete pours. He thinks you’re in meetings arguing over contracts and legal strategy.

“I’ll be back Friday,” he says.

“Me too,” you lie.

You both smile.

After dinner, you rinse the dishes while he dries them. He hums a song—something old, you can’t place it—and you listen, eyes scanning the subtle tension in his shoulder. The way he tucks away the wine bottle too precisely. The too-casual stretch of his fingers over the dish towel. You wonder—not for the first time—What if he knows? What if he suspects me?

But no. That’s just habit. Paranoia bred into your bones after a decade in the field. You’re too good to get caught. Too careful to leave traces.

You fall asleep beside him like you always do. His body warm and steady, one hand slung lazily over your waist. His chest rises and falls, breath even, slow. But you can feel it; your instincts have never failed you before.

A shift in the air. Something is about to change.

Tokyo glitters beneath you like a fractured mirror. Sleek, sharp, reflective. Just like you.

The job is simple—child’s play, really. You’ve done more complicated hits in less time and less forgiving cities. But what makes Tokyo special is the sheer absurdity of how easy this one is going to be. All it takes is a certain kind of lingerie, a well-composed photo for your “ad,” and the universal male weakness: ego.

You don’t even roll your eyes when your target—the sheikh with too much money and far too many skeletons—responds within six hours. The meeting is set at the rooftop bar of his hotel. You’re already three steps ahead.

By the second night, you’ve laughed at all his jokes, played coy, offered just enough intrigue for him to feel like he’s getting something exclusive. He discusses his preferences like he’s bartering over silk—submission, obedience, a woman who knows how to give orders and isn’t afraid to bite. You smile, legs crossed, swirling your drink with one finger as you look at him like he’s a king. He believes it. They always do.

By the third night, the suite door clicks open. You’re in your trench coat, tall black stilettos clicking against the marble as you step inside. The lights are dim. You glance around, clocking everything: one camera, unplugged. Two exits. No bodyguards in sight. Idiot.

He’s sipping champagne, eyes glittering with anticipation. You face him, slowly undo your coat, and let it fall to the floor.

The look on his face is pure awe.

The black leather lingerie hugs your curves like sin. Thin straps, silver hardware, strategic cutouts. A blend of dangerous and divine. You step forward, heels clicking against the tile.

“On your knees,” you command, voice low, sultry.

He lets out a chuckle, half-impressed. “You’re quite bold, aren’t you?”

“That’s what you asked for, isn’t it? Someone who knows how to take control?”

He kneels. You circle him slowly, like a lioness. He doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down the back of his neck. That’s his final mistake.

In one swift, silent movement, you grab his head and twist. The crack is sharp and clean. He slumps forward.

You step over him without blinking, grab your phone, snap the picture, and send it to your handler.

Within minutes, you’re back in your coat and heels. Earlier that afternoon, you had already stashed your luggage, passport, and backup cash in the hotel’s laundry chute. Everything else is clean.

You keep the lingerie on underneath the coat. Always easier that way. No suspicion. No loose threads. No wasted time.

At the airport, you change in a bathroom stall. Simple wrap dress. Low heels. Hair in a bun. Lipstick wiped clean.

Back to your other self.

You arrive home first.

The late-afternoon sun casts long golden lines across the immaculate front lawn. You park the sleek black sedan in the driveway like any respectable suburban professional might—precise, not showy. Your eyes sweep the cul-de-sac before exiting the car, a habit you’ve never shaken. Two kids ride their bikes across the street. Someone’s dog barks. Mr. Park is watering his azaleas again. Perfect suburbia. A flawless, manicured illusion.

The moment you step inside, the temperature shifts. Cool, quiet, untouched. Home.

You close the door silently behind you and lean against it for a breath. This is the part you hate the most—returning. The shift between identities. Going from the woman who killed a man, to the woman who folds laundry and shops at the farmers market on Saturdays.

But you do it.

You carry your luggage upstairs, heels clicking against hardwood. Once in the bedroom, you head straight to the walk-in closet and kneel beside the third shelf from the left. With practised ease, you access the hidden panel and slide your suitcase inside the compartment. You place your heels neatly in their usual spot. Everything in order. Everything back to “normal.”

Inside the bedroom, you drop your coat over the chair, peel off your dress, and let it slide to the floor. Then comes the lingerie. You unbuckle each piece with methodical care and toss them into a loose pile with your dress. You’ll hide it in a minute. Right now, the steam of the shower is calling, and the ache in your shoulders is starting to settle.

He won’t be home until later, you remind yourself. He said evening. That buys you time.

You step into the ensuite bathroom and turn on the shower, the glass fogging up almost instantly. The water is hot—too hot—and that’s the way you want it. You stand under the spray, letting the pressure hit your spine and loosen your mask.

And that’s when you hear it. The front door.

Your breath stalls in your chest.

“Honey, I’m home,” Seungcheol calls from downstairs.

Shit.

“You’re back early?” you manage, pitching your voice into that sweet, casual tone. The one you use at neighbourhood barbecues.

“Took an earlier train,” he replies, his voice carrying him to your bedroom. “Got bored in Busan. You just got in?”

“Just now. Thought I had a little time to unwind before you arrived.”

You run your hands through your hair and try to slow your heartbeat. You can’t see him through the foggy glass. You pray he didn’t walk too far into the room. That he didn’t look down.

“How was the job?” you ask, still facing the tiled wall.

“Same old corporate mess,” he says easily, his tone not betraying anything. “Engineers screwed up the plan, had to clean up after everyone. Nothing new.”

You smile like you believe him.

“Join me?” you offer. Better to keep him close than to let him wander around.

He pauses for a beat too long. Then: “Absolutely.”

You hear him undress behind you, the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of his belt against the counter. You keep your eyes closed as his arms wrap around your waist under the stream. You press your body back into his. You touch him like always. You even kiss him the same way. And he responds. His hands are familiar. Comforting. Steady.

Seungcheol heads downstairs first. Something about garlic and butter and “making up for all the garbage food I ate this week.” You nod and wrap a towel around yourself, moving into the bedroom with practised calm.

The first thing you do is gather his clothes from the bathroom floor. His shirt, socks, pants—crumpled and smelling faintly of clean sweat and travel. You carry them into the bedroom, where your dress and lingerie still lie in that careless heap.

Stupid, you scold yourself, picking up the leather and bundling it in your arms with your dress. You walk toward the hamper in the corner of the room, shifting your hold.

And then—something falls.

A soft thud on the floor. You frown and bend down.

It’s a badge. Rectangular. Laminated.

Grand Palace Hotel Busan – Event Staff

You blink once. Twice.

This wasn’t part of the story he gave. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near an event space. Especially not as staff. This isn’t a building site. It’s something else entirely.

Your blood chills.

Slowly, you crouch, pick it up, and study it again. What the hell?

You slip it into the pile of his clothes in the hamper and push it to the bottom, hiding it beneath his pants.

You’ll retrieve it later. When he’s asleep. When the house is still.

Your expression smooths again as you grab your brush, run it through your damp hair, and slide into a fresh sweater and leggings. You head downstairs, footsteps light, shoulders squared.

He’s plating dinner when you walk in. The scent of garlic and butter wraps around the kitchen like a warm lie.

“You used the fancy pasta,” you comment, voice airy.

He grins over his shoulder. “Only for special occasions. You made it back in one piece, didn’t you?”

You kiss his cheek. “Barely. Tokyo traffic is a nightmare.”

He pours wine. You set the table. You talk about “contracts”, “clients”, “blueprints”, and “boardroom blowups.”

You laugh at his jokes. He holds your gaze just a little too long. The wine is smooth, the dinner perfect, the rhythm between you effortless. But as you lay awake that night, Seungcheol sleeping peacefully beside you, your mind drifts back to the ID card in your hamper.

From the outside, Lim & Associates looks like any other high-end boutique law firm in Gangnam.

The fourth-floor office has all the trappings—frosted glass doors, minimalist furniture, soft grey carpeting, and tasteful art in the hallway. The name etched above the door in elegant serif font gives off the exact kind of authority clients expect from corporate litigation experts.

But once you pass the seemingly standard reception desk and slide your hand across the biometric panel behind the framed Business Insider article on “Female Founders in Finance,” everything changes.

The glass seals. The lighting adjusts. The air shifts from ambient calm to calculated intensity. No paralegals. No phone calls. Just encrypted servers, blueprints for extraction routes, and a killboard that updates in real-time.

Welcome to the real Lim & Associates.

Not legal. Lethal.

You’re in the war room this morning—sleek and sharp, like everything else in this place. A long table stretches across the space, the wall lined with oversized displays streaming drone footage, internal comms, and heat-sensor readings from satellites you’re not supposed to have access to.

You sip your Americano in silence as Reina, your tech lead, flips through the feed. She’s always first in, last out, perpetually in dark lipstick and heels sharp enough to stab.

“Target codename: Jackal,” Reina announces, pulling up a grainy image of a man half-hidden by shadows. “Real name unknown. Hacker for hire. Specializes in creating secure logistics software for some very unpleasant people—cartel brokers, traffickers, smuggling syndicates. Lives completely off-grid somewhere in the desert, near the New Mexico border.”

Jiwoo whistles under her breath. “Is this the guy who ghosted an entire CIA comms network last year?”

Reina nods. “Same signature. This one’s a ghost. Doesn’t trust anyone. Doesn’t surface. Doesn’t stay in one place long. Even the locals are afraid of him.”

You set your coffee down and cross your arms. “And the bounty?”

“Twelve mil, dead or alive,” Reina replies without looking up. “But dead is preferred. No one wants this guy alive long enough to talk.”

Hyerim leans forward with a smirk. “Which means we’re not the only ones going after him, are we?”

Reina confirms it with a simple nod. “Intel shows chatter from at least one competing agency. Possibly more. First come, first kill.”

You stare at the flickering map overlay. It’s red, dry, dotted with heat zones and blinking movement pings. A fortress of heat sensors, drone tripwires, and scrambled signals. The man built a paranoid compound.

“So infiltration’s out,” you murmur. “He’s not gonna fall for anything face-to-face. Too smart. Too cautious.”

Samira rolls her eyes, perched as always on the edge of the table like a cat. “So you’re not going to slap on one of your lingerie sets and waltz into his trailer like you did in Tokyo?”

You smirk. “Not unless his type is women with RPGs.”

That earns a chorus of laughs until Bora says, “Alright then, Gwisin. What’s the play?”

You narrow your eyes at the monitor. The team’s teasing you with your code name again—Gwisin—equal parts fondness and awe. It started as a joke after your first kill with the company, but it stuck. Probably because it makes you sound like some legend to be feared in the dark.

Perhaps that's exactly what you are.

“He’s got a self-sufficient power grid, solar backup, and an underground comms relay. The place is a bunker.” You pause, then point at the screen. “We can’t get close, not without setting off every countermeasure he’s got. We’re going to have to take him from a distance. High-precision rifle. Possibly drone strike.”

“I’ll start prepping satellite positioning and recon angles,” Reina says, already moving.

“We’ll need at least a week,” you add. “Maybe more. I’ll go in. Do the groundwork myself.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Hyerim raises a brow. “You sure your doting husband will survive a week without you? I thought he was going to implode the last time you were gone more than three days.”

You chuckle softly. “He’ll manage. He knows I work long hours.”

“Yeah, but does he know what kind of hours?” Jiwoo quips.

You smirk and grab your coat. “That’s classified.”

But as you leave the war room, your smile fades. You’re already spinning the lie in your mind. New York. That’s what you’ll tell him. Complex corporate case. High stakes. All-consuming.

It should work. It always does.

The house smells of braised soy and garlic by the time Seungcheol walks through the door.

You’re at the stove with your sleeves rolled up, watching the rich brown sauce bubble around glistening short ribs, carrots, and daikon. The scent of galbijjim fills the kitchen like comfort.

You hear his steps before you see him—soft, unhurried—and then the creak of the door closing.

“You’re home early,” you say, not looking back yet.

“I missed your cooking,” he says as he walks up behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, warm and solid. Presses a kiss to the curve of your neck.

You stir the pot gently. “I thought you hated galbijjim,”

“I hate the bones,” he murmurs. “Not the flavour. And definitely not the cook.”

You smile faintly. But it’s automatic.

You eat together at the table like always. Warm light. Matching bowls. A small side dish of kimchi between you. The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s aware of itself.

Halfway through the meal, you speak.

“I have to leave again,” you say softly. “New York this time. High-profile merger. Might be gone for more than a week.”

You watch him, the way he doesn’t tense. Just nods, as if he already knows.

“Actually,” he says, pausing to set down his spoon, “I just got word from one of my old clients. A hospitality group in Dubai. They want me to fly in—finally starting construction on that coastal resort. I’ll be gone about the same time.”

You blink. Smile. “Really? What are the odds?”

He chuckles. “We’re always in sync.”

You clink your glass of water to his. “Power couple.”

But your hand doesn’t feel as steady as it should.

The New Mexico desert doesn’t breathe.

It bakes. It stretches. It waits.

It’s the kind of place where everything is wide open and still somehow claustrophobic. The silence stretches too long between radio pings. The air is dry enough to crack skin and make your lips peel.

For the last three days, you’ve been waiting.

You’re perched inside the creaking shell of a forgotten farm shed, abandoned sometime before the world got smart. Its rusted bones groan with every gust of wind, but it provides the cover you need. You call it the crow’s nest—high enough, shielded enough, just barely out of reach from Jackal’s tech-laced scanners. You’ve checked the thermals. Twice. Then again, for good measure.

Your rifle rests steadily against your shoulder, nestled into a carefully constructed groove in the shed wall. You’ve adjusted the bipod angle a hundred times. Calculated wind, dust, temperature, and solar position. At this distance, everything matters.

You don’t miss.

Not unless someone else gets in the way.

Back at the safehouse—hidden in the skeletal outline of a closed-down auto shop on the edge of town—Reina and Jiwoo are monitoring everything. Screens line the makeshift desk they’ve rigged up with cooling fans and portable comms. Reina’s fingers fly across the keyboard while Jiwoo tracks movement through satellite pings.

The girls are locked in, just like you.

“Jackal’s gone quiet,” Reina says through your earpiece, her voice a hushed echo of static. “Minimal movement. Looks like he’s gone full mole mode. Bastard hasn’t left his house once today.”

“He’s prepping,” you murmur, eyes still on the house through your scope. “He knows the deal is risky.”

“And get this,” Jiwoo cuts in. “We finally confirmed the client: Ricardo Delgado.”

Your pulse flickers.

Ricardo Delgado.

A trafficker so brutal, entire border towns whisper his name like a curse. If Jackal’s about to sign with him, he’s moving up in the world—from data mercenary to kingmaker. The kind of connection that could make him untouchable.

Or a bigger target than ever.

“Delgado wants to meet in person,” Reina adds. “We think he’ll show today. Still waiting on final satellite confirmation.”

“Jackal never meets face-to-face,” Jiwoo says, sceptical.

“Money changes minds,” you answer, low and steady. “Everyone has a price.”

You settle further into your nest, pulling your scarf higher to block the sun. The scope is aligned. The distance marked. The wind is calm. You wait, like the predator you are.

And then—

“Convoy incoming,” Reina says. “We’ve got eyes on three black Suburbans coming in from the north ridge.”

You squint through your scope and spot them—kicking up dust as they make their way toward Jackal’s compound. The sun glints off their armoured bodies like black beetles crawling across sand. You hold your breath.

One car. Two. Three.

They come to a slow, calculated stop.

Doors open.

Men get out—Delgado’s men, judging by their posture and the high-end weapons. Then comes the man himself. Dark suit. Sunglasses. And that aura of arrogant menace, even from this distance.

You don’t need to hear the words to know this man smells blood in everything he touches.

Then finally—

Jackal emerges.

He’s cautious. Almost jumpy. Wearing a hooded vest, shoulders hunched. You’ve studied him for days, memorized his gait. He walks like someone used to moving through walls, not around them.

Jiwoo’s voice crackles softly in your ear. “That’s him. Target confirmed.”

“You’ve got one window,” Reina says. “If you miss, we’ll lose him again.”

You don’t answer. You watch.

Jackal steps forward. The two men approach one another, wary but curious. You feel the moment stretch, breath caught at the edge of your ribs.

This is it.

The wind is perfect.

You steady your finger on the trigger.

But then—

Flash.

A glare of light. Just a second. Just long enough for your trained eyes to catch it.

You shift your scope instinctively—away from Jackal, toward the rocky ridgeline to your far right.

There. Tucked into the edge of the hillside. Another perch.

Another sniper.

“Reina,” you bark. “Talk to me. Someone else is here. Right ridge, northwest. I saw a scope glint. Can you confirm?”

Reina curses under her breath. “Give me five seconds. I’m shifting the satellite angle.”

You realign your sight, but it’s too late.

The other sniper fires.

The sound is distant—muffled by distance—but you see it. The bullet rips through the air and grazes Jackal’s arm. He stumbles backwards with a shout.

Chaos erupts.

Delgado’s men react instantly, almost too fast. A bag goes over Jackal’s head. They drag him to the second car. Tires scream, kicking up clouds of red dust as the convoy peels away.

You swear loudly. “Dammit! Dammit, dammit!”

“They’re on the move!” Jiwoo says. “Southbound highway, but we don’t have eyes beyond the ridge.”

You leap from your perch, adrenaline boiling. “Reina, track that shooter. Now.”

“Already on it,” she mutters. “Give me a minute to isolate heat signatures.”

You throw your rifle into its case and strap it to your back, jumping onto the quad you hid behind a brush wall earlier. The engine growls to life beneath you as you tear across the dirt, heading toward the opposite ridge where the mystery sniper took their shot.

The trail is faint, but you see it. Flattened brush. Dust still settling. Tire marks. Another quad. But no shooter in sight.

You dismount and crouch low in the sniper’s nest. Still warm. Still fresh.

“Empty,” you hiss into the comms. “He’s gone. Left no trace.”

“Still scanning the sat feed,” Reina says.

You grit your teeth. The kill was stolen. Jackal is gone. And someone else is playing this game far too close to your level.

The hum of electricity is the only sound in the room. You stand over Reina and Jiwoo as they re-run the satellite footage frame by frame.

Every flicker of motion. Every shadow. Every heat signature is pulled apart under your scrutiny.

“He’s good,” Jiwoo mutters. “He knew how to avoid camera angles. Hid his face the entire time. Tactical blackout gear. This isn’t some merc-for-hire.”

“Freeze it,” you say suddenly.

Reina does.

There—on the edge of the screen—the sniper climbs onto a quad and turns away from the camera. But the wind catches the back of his shirt.

A flicker of skin. A mark.

“Go back. Zoom in,” you say, heart hammering.

The image sharpens.

A tattoo.

Just below the neck. Barely there. A tree. Roots. Branches.

You don’t breathe.

“What the hell is that?” Jiwoo says.

You say nothing.

You reach for your phone with numb fingers and swipe through your albums until you find it. A photo from a summer in Bali. Seungcheol in the pool, his back to you, laughing. You zoom in.

Same tattoo. Same ink. Same impossible detail.

You connect your phone to the screen. The photos are side by side now—one from the desert, one from the pool.

Reina is the first to speak, her voice nearly a whisper.

“That’s your husband.”

You’ve only been back in Seoul for four hours.

The sky outside is the colour of ash, stuck between dusk and full night. Traffic hums below the windows of Lim & Associates, but up here, above the city’s glittering noise, the office is thrumming with something far more chaotic: curiosity.

The second you stepped through the biometric doors, you felt it. The shift in energy.

The subtle glances. The way conversations stopped half a beat too long. Even the silence tasted like blood in your mouth.

By the time you make it to the war room, it’s no longer a rumour—it’s evidence.

Reina’s pulled every image from the last five years of your marriage.

Honeymoon photos. Anniversary dinners. A weekend in Jeju where he made you coffee with cinnamon and called it your signature. Your wedding—Seungcheol’s hands on your waist, your smile so real you remember feeling it in your ribs.

Jiwoo has financials pulled up on another screen. “His offshore account matches the timeline of that Riyadh hit we missed last spring,” she says aloud. “Same week, we got beat to the contract.”

“That wasn’t luck,” Hyerim mutters, dragging a file onto the main screen. “The Novgorod job, too. S.Coups took it from under our noses. We assumed it was Black Wing Agency. It was him.”

You’re standing still, arms folded, lips tight, eyes dark.

But inside, everything is shattering.

You don’t speak. Not really. Just nod when asked something directly. Your voice feels caught in the hollow space between rage and disbelief. You know they’re not trying to be cruel. They’re doing what this job requires: gathering intel. Building profiles. Pattern recognition.

But it’s your life they’re peeling back.

Your marriage. Your memories.

“Gwisin,” Samira says gently, using your codename with an edge of caution. “Did you know?”

You shake your head. “No.” Voice clear. Controlled. Flat.

And it’s the truth.

You had no idea that the man who held you at night, who kissed your neck before work, who made you laugh when your hands wouldn’t stop shaking after a job—was the same person beating you to every high-level target for the last five years.

Seungcheol—S.Coups.

The most elegant chaos you’ve ever encountered in the field. A ghost of his own making.

Second only to you.

Your colleagues believe you. They can see it—your silence, your withdrawal, the shell of who you usually are. They’ve seen you after bad missions, messy kills, intel gone sideways. But not like this.

This isn’t mission failure. This is betrayal.

Still, Reina says it out loud, her voice quiet but not unkind. “Do you think there’s a possibility he might’ve known?” She glances at Jiwoo, who replies softly. “It’s possible. He’s good. Maybe better at long-game infiltration than we realized.”

“You know what they say,” Bora adds, not meeting your eyes. “Keep your friends close…”

“But your enemies closer...” Samira finishes.

The words hit harder than you expect. You swallow, but your throat is dry.

You stare at the wedding photo still up on the screen. Your hand in his. Your laugh caught mid-movement. His eyes on you like you’re something rare.

Was it a ploy? Was any of it real?

Did he kiss you because he loved you—or because he wanted to know your pulse?

You drift through the rest of the night in the war room like a ghost.

They keep talking. Listing hits. Mapping overlaps. Everything you lost—every target you missed, every mission that slipped through your fingers—lined up beside S.Coups’ confirmed contracts.

And there it is: the pattern.

You’ve still got more kills. More high-level hits. More precision.

But he’s your closest competitor.

You’ve been unknowingly locked in a rivalry with your own husband for five years.

Five years.

Five years of brushing your teeth beside your biggest threat.

Of sleeping with your enemy.

Of loving him.

Hours pass. One by one, they begin to gather their things.

It’s almost midnight. No one’s gone home yet. Not with the storm you dropped into their hands. But they don’t press you any more. Not tonight.

Jiwoo lingers last, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “We believe you,” she says. “But we need to know you’re not compromised.”

You finally look up, your voice low and controlled. “Don’t worry.”

“You sure you’re okay?” she asks, softer.

You manage a smile so convincing it hurts. “I know what I need to do.”

You sleep in one of the auxiliary offices—a cold couch and a folded blanket left by some junior operative who probably thinks sleeping here makes her look ambitious. The overhead lights stay off, and you don’t bother changing. You just curl in silence, arm under your head, eyes wide open.

You think about the way he held you. The softness no one else got to see. The long showers. The bruises left on your hips. The secret glances in public places. The night he said, I could kill for you.

You thought he meant it metaphorically.

Now you wonder if he was warning you.

At 3:45 AM, your phone buzzes on the table. You reach for it, heart already hollow.

The message reads:

Target: S.Coups

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen glows against your face.

You don’t move. You don’t sleep.

You’re a ghost.

But tonight, you’re not sure who you’re haunting.

Seungcheol’s office doesn’t look like much from the outside.

It’s nestled between a dental clinic and an architectural firm in a sleek high-rise in Mapo, hidden in plain sight. Floor twenty-one. Clean lines. Frosted doors. A minimalist logo stamped in bronze: ARGOS CONSTRUCTION & DESIGN

Officially, it's a boutique firm known for luxury hotels and high-end corporate real estate. Beautiful portfolios. Flawless branding. Seungcheol’s name is listed as Senior Project Lead. Clients think he spends most of his time in Dubai or Busan, consulting on zoning permits or high-rise scaffolding.

But once you pass the biometric scan and elevator override, everything changes.

The real heart of the operation lies beneath the surface. Literally. Two floors below ground. A bunker of blinking servers, reinforced steel, and silence so absolute it hums in your bones.

It’s here that Choi Seungcheol—known across the world’s most elite kill networks as S.Coups—stumbles back into reality.

The mission was a failure.

Jackal is gone.

And he missed his shot.

He never misses.

He walks into the main debriefing floor around 1:45 PM, still dusty from New Mexico, carrying tension in his shoulders like a weight welded to his spine. His eyes are bloodshot. His jaw is locked. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s waiting for someone to hit him.

They don’t.

Instead, his team is already there. Mingyu, Woozi, Wonwoo, Joshua—all gathered around the central command table, every screen alive with footage. Satellite captures, thermals, drone loops, and stills pulled from the perimeter cameras. Joshua looks up first.

And he doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t smile. Just says one word:

“Hyung...”

Seungcheol freezes. His hand twitches slightly at his side.

Mingyu turns the main monitor toward him with a grim expression. “We found out who the other sniper was.”

Woozi, who rarely shows emotion unless someone’s bleeding out, actually exhales before adding: “You’re not gonna like it.”

Seungcheol steps forward.

And there you are.

Frozen in time, high-res satellite shot, sunlight catching your jaw and cheekbone as you shift just enough to reveal your face through your scope. Your hair is tied back. Your eyes deadly calm. Your rifle perfectly aligned.

“No,” Seungcheol breathes.

“That’s her,” Mingyu confirms. “Codename: Gwisin.”

Another screen pops up. Kill logs. Confirmed contracts. Locations.

Dozens of missions—some he knew about. Others he’d missed because of you. Targets that disappeared just before he reached them. Jobs he thought were rerouted or reassigned.

It was you.

The person who’s been beating him, matching him, trailing him and haunting him for years... Was you.

His wife.

The silence breaks all at once.

“Hyung, what the fuck—”

“Did you know? You had to know, right?”

“There’s no way she got this close without—”

“What kind of long game is she playing? Five years married? That’s next-level infiltration.”

“She’s better than we thought. Shit—she’s better than almost anyone.”

Seungcheol doesn’t speak. He stares at the image like it’s going to shift. Like it’s a glitch.

But it doesn’t. It’s you.

His mind races, grabbing for anything—a mistake, a sign, a moment—but the truth settles in slow and cruel:

He had no idea.

Not once did you slip. Not once did you flinch. Not once did you let the mask fall.

Not even with him.

And then the grief rises. Ugly. Raw. Red.

He slams his fist into the wall.

The first time, it cracks.

The second time, it bleeds.

The third time, the others rush to pull him back.

“Hyung, stop!” Joshua grabs him from behind, dragging him away from the dented panel, blood dripping from his knuckles.

Seungcheol breathes like a man drowning, shoulders heaving, chest too tight. He sits down hard in the nearest chair. Joshua hands him a bottle of whiskey without a word.

He takes it. Unscrews the cap. Drinks.

The warmth hits his throat, but it doesn’t settle. Nothing does.

He leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The memories start to rush him. And he hates that he can’t shut them out.

Their wedding day. Your laugh echoing off the high ceilings of your home. Your hand in his on long walks. Your moans in the dark. Your head on his chest after a stormy night. The time you surprised him with a bottle of bourbon after his mother died.

Five years. Of everything. Of you.

And now he can’t tell if any of it was real. Or if he was just a mark—another mission. A long-term assignment you handled better than anyone ever has. What if you married him to stay close? What if the way you touched him was all a lie?

He doesn’t want to believe it. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.

“You think she knew?” he asks the room, voice raw.

Wonwoo answers quietly. “She had to. No way she didn’t. Not with your record. You’ve crossed paths too many times.”

“She married me,” Seungcheol whispers. “She married me while stealing jobs out from under me.”

“Maybe it was about dominance,” Woozi mutters. “Take down your rival and smile at him over breakfast.”

“Or maybe...” Mingyu says hesitantly, “She didn’t know either.”

“No,” Seungcheol snaps, suddenly venomous. “She knew. No one’s that good without knowing.”

He stands and drinks again. And again.

The others leave around 2 AM, after enough whiskey has numbed most of his edges. Mingyu throws him a look that says call if you need me, and Woozi doesn’t bother hiding the sympathy in his eyes.

Seungcheol stays.

Alone in the office, he sits at the edge of his desk, tie loosened, shirt rumpled. One hand bandaged and bloodied, the other gripping the bottle. He doesn’t turn off the lights. Doesn’t turn off the feed.

Because he can’t stop watching.

Watching you.

The way you moved behind that scope. The way you tracked your shot. The way your lips moved when you muttered commands to your team.

The way you looked like a stranger in skin he’s touched a hundred times.

3:45 AM.

His phone buzzes once. The tone is different. Urgent. Priority.

He blinks the alcohol-induced haze from his eyes, swiping across the screen.

New Contract Uploaded

Target: Gwisin

Status: Active

Payout: $1.7 million

Confirmed kill required.

The screen burns.

His fingers curl around the phone. His chest aches like something inside him has cracked clean open. There’s blood on his knuckles, whiskey in his veins, and your name on the hit list.

And for the first time in years, Seungcheol feels truly, utterly lost.

Because no matter what the file says—

he loves you.

You wake before the lights do.

The room is dim and cold, your body curled up uncomfortably on the worn leather couch in one of the smaller offices. Your neck aches. Your back is stiff. The blanket you used is halfway to the floor.

You didn’t sleep. Not really. You drifted in and out of hazy dreams, caught between the heat of memories and the frost of betrayal. His voice haunted the edges of your mind. His laugh. The scent of his cologne on your pillow. The feel of his lips at the nape of your neck, from a lifetime that feels like yesterday.

The first sound that drags you fully awake is the faint click of heels and muffled voices outside. Your colleagues are arriving.

You sit up slowly, blinking through the grey light.

Get up.

You push off the couch, shake the sleep from your limbs, and make your way to the restroom down the hall. The mirror is merciless. Your hair is tangled, your eyes shadowed. You turn on the faucet, splash cold water against your face, and force yourself to breathe. One. Two. Three.

Then, you meet your own eyes in the mirror.

You stare too long. You don’t recognize yourself.

You crack your neck once, wipe your face, and tie your hair back. When you emerge again into the hallway, your mask is in place. Crisp. Composed. Not a crack in sight.

The war room is quieter than usual.

Your girls are already gathered—Reina, Jiwoo, Samira, Bora, and Hyerim—all doing a masterclass in pretending not to be watching you.

“Morning,” you say as you walk in, voice smooth, calm.

“Morning, Gwisin,” Jiwoo replies gently, the nickname laced with caution today.

You nod. Set your coffee down. No one mentions the message from last night. But it’s there. Humming in the air like static. You feel it on your skin.

Then, your tablet buzzes.

You glance down.

Message from LIM HQ: Report to Executive Level – 9:15 AM

You check the time.

9:14.

Your breath stills. You lift your gaze and meet Reina’s eyes briefly. She nods once, understanding everything without needing a word.

You straighten your jacket. The floor falls silent behind you as you head to the elevator.

You rarely go to the executive level. Most assassins don’t. The higher-ups keep themselves wrapped in glass and shadows, their voices drifting down through encrypted comms and one-way messages. So when you’re summoned, it means something irreversible is about to happen.

The elevator doors open onto a floor that doesn’t look like any other in the building. It’s brighter here. Sleek. Clinical. Too clean.

The door to the boardroom is already open when you arrive.

Three of them sit behind the curved obsidian table: Madame Lim herself in the center, flanked by Director Oh and Mr. Kwon, both stone-faced and unreadable.

You step inside, your spine tall and your heels precise.

You greet them. They waste no time.

“Gwisin,” Madame Lim begins, “you understand why you’re here.”

You nod once. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Your judgment is not under question. Not yet,” Director Oh adds. “But the situation has become... delicate. Dangerous.”

“S.Coups has proven himself a formidable asset,” Mr. Kwon continues. “Which makes him an even more formidable threat. Not just to you, but to this organization as a whole.”

You say nothing.

“We do not take betrayal lightly,” Madame Lim says. “We understand his appeal. Handsome. Charismatic. Intelligent. But even the sharpest agents sometimes fall for the wrong weapon.”

You clench your jaw, but your face does not change.

“We don’t care about your marriage,” Director Oh says coldly. “What we care about is the information he may have extracted from you.”

“Knowingly or not,” Mr. Kwon adds.

“This is your one chance,” Madame Lim finishes, voice cutting like glass. “Your marriage was a mistake. But you have the opportunity to clean it up. Efficiently. Permanently.”

They watch you.

You inhale. Hold it. Then:

“Understood.”

“Do you have any objections?” Director Oh asks.

You shake your head. “I know what’s expected of me.”

A pause.

Then Madame Lim nods. “You are dismissed.”

Back in the war room, your girls are waiting.

Not subtly.

They look up the moment you enter, expressions shifting between concern and restraint.

“So... what did they say?” Samira asks finally, carefully.

You’re just about to answer when your desk phone rings.

Jiwoo, sitting closest, picks it up with practised ease. “Mrs. Choi’s office. This is her assistant Jiwoo speaking.” Her eyes narrow. “Who may I ask is calling?”

Her expression changes. Freezes. Her breath catches.

She puts the phone on mute.

“It’s your husband,” she says, barely a whisper.

Everything in you goes still.

You stare at her.

If your cover was still intact, he wouldn’t know you were back.

He knows.

You lift the receiver slowly, your voice light as air. “Honey,” you say, the smile on your lips a perfect weapon, “you know you’re not supposed to call me at work.”

There’s a silence on the other end. Then—

“I wasn’t expecting you to be back in town already,” Seungcheol replies calmly. Measured. Unreadable.

Your pulse ticks up, but you breathe through it. “Contract fell through,” you say sweetly. “Competing firm swooped in. Happens.”

He hums. “That’s a shame.”

You flip the script. “I thought you were still in Dubai?”

A beat.

Then his reply: “Had a little... ghost from a past job show up. Complicated things. Now I’ve got a mess to clean.”

Your stomach turns.

Still, your voice doesn’t flinch. “Will you be home for dinner? Since we’re both in town.”

A pause. Then: “Yeah. Seven, right?”

“Seven.”

“I’ll bring wine.”

“See you then, babe.”

You hang up.

The room is dead quiet.

You look up. Your mask drops—just a little—and you meet their eyes.

“It’s official,” you say.

You leave the office the second the line goes dead.

You don’t wait to explain. You don’t give your girls more than a look. They don’t follow, but they don’t stop you either. They saw your face. They heard the call. The game has changed.

You drive like a woman possessed—silent, laser-focused, heart pounding beneath the illusion of calm. The city blurs around you, neon and shadows slipping past the windshield. When you pull into the driveway of the house you built with him, the sun is beginning to dip below the skyline.

Your house is quiet. Still.

Too still.

You park in the back, kill the engine, and enter silently through the side door. Every footstep is light. Calculated. You’ve walked these floors a thousand times before. In heels. In silk robes. In nothing but a towel and a glass of wine.

You sweep the house. First the kitchen, then the hallway, the garage, the basement. Your breathing is low and controlled. When you reach the second floor, you head straight for the master bedroom and pull the closet door open.

Inside, your armoury waits—hidden in secret compartments behind shoes, false panels, inside the lining of old garment bags.

He never knew.

You pull out three weapons: a Glock, a semi-automatic Sig Sauer, and a compact shotgun that fits snugly under your arm. You load them quickly, efficiently, your hands as steady as your heart is wrecked.

Ammo in your waistband. Glock in your thigh holster. Sig against your back.

You wait.

And when you hear the click of the backdoor handle—fifteen minutes later—your breath catches in your throat.

He’s here.

He moves quietly.

No keys. No footsteps. Just the low shift of floorboards under careful weight.

You can hear him moving through the kitchen, then toward the hallway. His pace is slower than usual—like a man searching a house he already knows is dangerous.

You’re perched on the second-floor landing, crouched behind the hallway mirror, shotgun firm in your grip. And then—you see it.

His reflection.

Tall. Broad. Dark eyes scanning every corner. A gun in his hand.

He sees you, too. His eyes flick up. You fire.

The bullet punches through the wall and splinters the wood frame, but he dives behind the doorframe just in time.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” his voice calls.

You don’t respond. Your answer is the clink of a new shell being slammed into place.

The house erupts.

He fires up from the stairwell. You dart down the hall, ducking into the guest room as bullets tear through drywall behind you. You spin around the corner and return fire. You graze his shoulder as he rolls across the dining room floor and smashes into the wine rack.

“This what marriage looks like to you?!” you yell as you move, switching the shotgun for the Glock.

“I should ask you that,” he barks back. “What was the plan, huh? Marry me so you could win every job?”

You scream as you fire again. “I didn’t know who the hell you were!”

He grits his teeth, vaulting over the coffee table, firing as he moves. The hallway mirror shatters beside you.

You fall back into the living room, ducking behind the couch. Your shoulder’s bleeding. You don’t even know from what. You reload with a snarl.

“Liar!” he roars from the hallway. “You think I didn’t recognise the pattern? Gwisin always beat me by a step. You were right there. In our goddamn bed.”

“You think I knew I was married to S.Coups?” you shout back. “You think I’d sleep next to you every night if I did?”

You both burst into the living room at the same time—guns drawn, bodies moving too fast—and collide.

Your weapons hit the floor with a twin clang as your fists meet flesh.

You throw the first punch. He blocks. He shoves you back into the coffee table, and it shatters under your hip. You swing a silver vase at his face. He ducks and kicks you square in the ribs.

The wind rushes out of you.

You collapse but sweep his legs out with yours, dragging him down. You scramble, blood running from your lip, hand catching a glass tumbler and smashing it against his shoulder.

He grabs you by the waist and slams you against the wall.

“Was it real?” he growls into your face. “Any of it?”

You spit out blood. “You want the truth? I don’t know anymore.”

You break his grip, duck under his arm, roll across the carpet, and reach for your Glock under the couch.

You stand—gun in hand, and you turn.

But he’s already there. He’s holding the semi-auto.

Both of you freeze.

Guns pointed. Breathing ragged.

Your finger trembles just once.

He doesn’t shoot. Instead—he lowers his weapon. Slowly.

Eyes locked on you. He looks at your face—bloodied, cut, lips split; something inside him snaps.

“Do it,” he says.

You blink. Confused.

He steps forward, just one step.

“You want the bounty,” he says, softer this time. “Take the shot. Isn’t that what this is?”

Tears blur your vision. Your hand tightens around the grip as your jaw clenches shut.

“Come on,” you scream. “Fucking do it! Shoot me! Come on!”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t raise his hands. He just… stands there.

No defence. No deflection.

Just him. Standing still. Silent surrender.

“Shoot me,” you whisper, voice shaking now. “Just fucking shoot me.”

He shakes his head. Slowly.

He lets the gun fall.

A soft clatter as it lands on the floor.

The Glock in your hand trembles.

You can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

The air is thick—hot with adrenaline, grief, and rage. The scent of smoke and gunpowder still clings to your skin.

“I love you,” Seungcheol says, and it’s not a whisper. It’s a confession dragged out from deep inside, full of wreckage and devastation, the sound of a man who’s lost something he never thought he could.

You stare at him. For a long moment, nothing moves. Not the wind outside. Not your finger on the trigger. Not your fractured heart.

And then—he makes the choice for you.

He moves faster than your breath can catch. A sharp flick of his wrist sends the Glock clattering from your grip, skidding across the wood floor. You don’t react in time—not with a punch or a step back or a scream. Because before you can, his hands are on your face.

And then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like a man possessed, like he’s been choking and you’re the pull of oxygen back into his lungs. It’s messy, bruising, desperate. You gasp into it, shocked and enraged—but that flame turns into something else, something hot, and your hands grasp his shirt, pulling him closer.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

This is years of love and fury and betrayal colliding between your teeth.

Your back slams into the nearest wall with a muffled thud, and the sound you make is halfway between a gasp and a groan. You want to scream at him, hit him, hurt him for what he’s done—but instead, your nails dig into his shoulders, and your mouth crashes into his again.

His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping your hips like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You pull at his shirt, fists curled in the fabric, and when you feel the buttons tear loose beneath your hands, the sound only fuels you both.

“You think this changes anything?” you hiss against his lips.

“No,” he breathes, dragging your shirt over your head. “It changes everything.”

The wall digs into your spine as he kisses down your neck, your chest, his hands frantic. Your bra is unhooked and discarded in seconds. You’re half-naked, heaving, trembling—not from fear, but from everything else you’ve buried for five long years suddenly clawing to the surface.

You shove him hard, dragging him through the wreckage of your once-pristine home, stepping over shattered glass and kicked-over furniture. Neither of you cares. The cuts on your face sting. His knuckles are split open and bleeding. It doesn’t matter.

He backs you into the kitchen. It’s the only part of the house not completely wrecked.

You end up pressed against the island, his mouth claiming yours again, slower now, deeper. His touch is still rough but laced with something gentler beneath it, something like regret.

“Say it,” you whisper between kisses, voice shaking. “Say it wasn’t fake.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes.

“It wasn’t.” His voice is hoarse. Honest. “Not for a second.”

Your breath catches, and then he’s lowering himself to his knees.

You blink, watching him.

“What are you doing—”

He doesn’t answer. Just kisses the skin of your belly, trailing lower.

You grab onto the counter’s edge as he slides your pants down with a roughness that feels like an apology and a plea in one. He leaves kisses across your thighs as you kick them away. Then his hands go to your underwear.

He looks up. Eyes locked on yours. And you’re staring back, equal parts hunger and hesitation, rage and need. And then—he tears them.

The lace snaps, cool air rushes over the glistening skin of your cunt, and you don’t have time to say a word before he picks you up and places you on the counter. His mouth descends on you, lips wrapping around your pulsing clit.

You cry out at the sensation, hand shooting into his hair, anchoring yourself to him and gripping him tightly as his tongue moves with the kind of precision only a devoted lover could master. Every flick, every slow lick of his tongue between your folds has you gasping, trembling, moaning his name like it’s been carved into your body all along.

Your head tips back, mouth parted as you suck in sharp, broken breaths. You feel his hands steadying your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your hips, grounding you but also not letting you move away from his onslaught.

“Cheol—Fuck.” you gasp, the name caught somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

One of his hands leaves your hip, and then two of his fingers slide inside your core—slow, deliberate, coaxing. The sensation is too much and not enough, and when he curls them just right, hitting that spot deep inside you only he seems to find, you nearly sob from the relief of it. Seungcheol can’t help but groan out in pleasure himself, your walls gripping his digits like a vice.

“I’m close,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut.

But then—he stops. His fingers don’t stop curling inside of you, but his mouth leaves your core.

Your eyes fly open. “What—” You stumble out.

“Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gravelly and low, broken in all the right ways. “I want your eyes on me when you come.”

You try. You really do.

It takes everything in you to lift your head and find his gaze. But when you do, the sight undoes you. His mouth glistening with your arousal, his hair a mess, pupils blown wide. And those eyes—God, those eyes.

You nod, unable to speak.

And then he lowers his mouth again.

You keep your eyes open—barely—as his mouth and fingers bring you over the edge, your body tensing, breath catching. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, the sensation crashing through you like a tidal wave breaking all the walls you’d built.

“Seungcheol—Yes. God—Fuck.”

And he guides you through it. But he doesn’t stop.

Even when you’re gasping, trembling, barely able to breathe, he keeps going—his tongue soft, slow, patient. It’s too much. You’re too raw.

You whimper, hand pushing at his head weakly. “Cheol—stop, please—too much.”

Only then does he lift his head, lips swollen, chin wet, gaze still locked on yours.

He doesn’t speak. But that smirk? It says everything.

You don’t give yourself even a second to recover before you’re dragging him up by his neck, crashing your mouth into his again, tasting your release on his tongue.

The kiss between you hasn’t stopped—it’s just changed. Slower, deeper, heavier. You’re breathing into each other’s mouths like the air outside of this is too thin, too sharp, too cold.

But something shifts.

This time, you take control.

You slide off the counter, legs trembling slightly beneath you, but your hands never leave him. You tilt your chin, deepen the kiss, and spin the two of you with a firm grunt, forcing his back to the kitchen island.

He lets you. His chest heaves and you feel the way his breath hitches in surprise. But the moment you reach for his belt, he groans—low and guttural.

“Baby...” he rasps, his voice raw and strained as your fingers work his buckle, undo his button and slide the zipper down.

You hum against his lips, tugging the fabric down just enough to feel the heat of his hard member pressing against the fabric, your touch brushing over him as he throbs beneath your fingers.

“Let me,” you whisper, beginning to lower yourself.

But his hands catch your arms—firm, trembling.

“No,” he breathes, eyes burning. “Not tonight. I need to be inside you. I need—” His voice catches. “I need all of you.”

You don’t argue. The desperation in his voice floors you.

He shucks off the rest of his pants and boxers in one motion, and his mouth is back on yours before you can draw another breath. Your fingers claw at his shoulders, his back, dragging him closer.

Together, you stumble toward the floor.

There’s broken glass everywhere. Bits of plaster and wood from shattered frames. Ruined furniture lying in jagged silhouettes around you. But neither of you cares. Not really.

You fall together, skin against skin, your bare back hitting the floor.

You hiss.

“Ow,” you wince, a sharp piece digging into your shoulder.

“Shit—” he tries to shift, to help you up, but you shake your head with a breathless laugh, hand catching the back of his neck.

“I’m fine,” you whisper through a smile. “Don’t be soft on me now, Cheol.”

He looks at you for a beat—bruised and bloodied and smiling beneath him—and his heart clenches painfully.

“God, I love you,” he says before his mouth crashes on yours again like he’s never going to get the chance to say it twice.

And then he’s lining himself up between your thighs, his tip probing your entrance.

His hips press forward, one steady thrust, and your gasp gets lost in the curve of his throat as he fills you. You both cry out at the stretch, the relief, and the way everything that’s broken suddenly makes a kind of violent, perfect sense.

“Jesus, baby...” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck.”

Your fingers dig into his shoulders, your back arching to meet him. “Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.” And he doesn’t.

He finds a rhythm quickly—urgent, deep, relentless. His cock slams into you with force, but every thrust is layered with something else—anger, heartbreak, love so twisted it feels like it could split you open.

You cling to him. Your nails scratch down his back as he pants against your mouth, your name escaping him like a curse and a prayer.

“Cheol—harder,” you whimper, breath catching.

He groans at your voice, his hand curling into your hair, tugging just a little too sharply.

You yelp, then slap him. A clean, fast smack across his cheek.

He freezes, stunned, blinking at you. But you’re grinning—feral and breathless. He lets out a broken laugh. “You’re insane.”

“You married me,” you fire back, grabbing him by the face and dragging him down for another kiss.

The sounds in the room are frantic—moans, gasps, skin slapping against skin, the scratching of glass shards against hardwood floors under your movements. Every kiss is frantic. Every bite leaves a mark.

Your body tightens around him, trembling. He feels it.

“You close?” he asks, voice ragged, lips at your ear.

You nod, helpless. “So close—don’t stop—please, Cheol—”

His hand snakes between you, finding your clit easily, rubbing fast, tight circles.

“Come for me, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Let go.”

And you do.

You fall apart beneath him with a sob, your whole body convulsing as the orgasm crashes over you like a wave you never saw coming. He watches you, eyes wide, lips parted, whispering your name like it’s salvation.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Good girl. Just like that.”

You barely register his thrusts speeding up, his breath stuttering.

He groans into your neck—long, low, desperate—as his cum spills inside you, hips jerking once, twice more before he collapses against your chest, spent.

The only sound for a long while is your breathing—shaky, uneven, tangled together.

His weight is heavy, but comforting. His hand slides to your side, his thumb gently stroking your ribcage, careful not to touch the bruises blooming your skin. His breath fans over your neck.

You run your fingers through his damp hair and the back of his shoulder blades.

And when you finally find your voice again, it comes out as a whisper—barely a sound. “I love you.”

He stills. You think maybe he didn’t hear it.

But then he lifts his head slowly, eyes locking with yours, and you see it there—the emotion breaking over his face like ice shattering on a frozen lake.

He doesn’t say it back. He doesn't have to.

You wake up in the aftermath.

The sun is already high in the sky, soft gold spilling in through the cracked blinds and dust-speckled windows. It touches the edges of your ruined home—highlighting the bullet holes in the walls, the debris scattered across the floor, the stillness that follows chaos.

You’re wearing one of Seungcheol’s shirts.

It’s oversized, hanging off your shoulder, barely buttoned. The collar is stretched, and there’s a streak of dried blood near the cuff—yours, probably. Your hair is a mess, and when you reach up to scratch your scalp, your fingers brush against something soft.

A pillow feather.

You snort. Of course.

After last night’s explosion of violence and desire, you somehow made it upstairs to what was left of your bed. It was mostly frame, broken slats, and torn linen—but you made do.

Now, your bare feet pad carefully down the stairs. You avoid the glass fragments and splinters with the expertise of someone who has navigated minefields—literal and metaphorical. The floor creaks beneath your steps, and for the first time in days, it doesn’t sound like a warning.

Seungcheol is already in the kitchen.

He’s standing in front of the open fridge—barely hanging on its hinges—wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey pyjama pants. His hair is wild, sticking up in tufts, and his back is covered in faint scratches and bruises—yours. His fingers move slowly through the wreckage of what used to be a well-stocked refrigerator.

You watch him for a second before stepping in.

“Any luck?” you ask, voice soft.

He glances over his shoulder, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “We’ve got orange juice... one slightly bruised apple... and what I think might be cereal.”

“Luxury,” you murmur, joining him, peeking inside the fridge beside him. “Any milk?”

He scoffs. “Glass bottle took a bullet. It was a clean kill.”

You both laugh, and it surprises you how natural it feels. How easy. Like this is just another morning, and your home doesn’t look like a war zone.

He reaches out, brushing a strand of your hair back—fingers grazing over the feather tangled there.

“You’ve got something,” he says, tugging it free with a chuckle.

You roll your eyes but lean in when he kisses you.

It’s slow. Unhurried. Familiar.

His hand cups the back of your head. Yours rests over his bare ribs. No weapons, no lies, no blood between you this time.

“You sore?” he asks, murmuring against your lips.

“Everywhere,” you smirk. “But especially my shoulder. Got stabbed by something sharp on the floor last night. Could’ve been you. Could’ve been a piece of a chair leg. Hard to tell.”

Seungcheol huffs a short laugh and grazes your shoulder with the backs of his fingers, eyes narrowing where the skin is slightly red. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the broken glass from the vase. That thing exploded like a grenade.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. “You shouldn’t have thrown me into it.”

He raises a brow. “You tackled me through the coffee table.”

You grin. “Fair.”

There’s an unspoken truce between your bodies now. Your muscles ache, your joints are sore, and you’re both peppered with bruises—some purple with impact, some half-faded fingerprints, others... not entirely from violence.

The two of you end up sitting side by side on the floor of the living room, backs against the only intact wall, legs stretched out over the wreckage of your home, your salvaged breakfast lying between you.

You pass the box to Seungcheol. He pours a handful into his palm and tosses it into his mouth like it’s nothing.

“So,” you start, still a little out of breath, “you were the Istanbul embassy hit?”

He turns to you, mouth still full. “2020? Yeah.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, laughing. “I almost took that one. Client offered me triple last minute, but someone reported the route was compromised.”

He raises a brow. “That was me. Took out one of the scouts on the perimeter. Probably spooked ‘em.”

You shake your head. “You know how many contracts I lost because of you? I thought I was cursed.”

“And I thought someone was copying my blueprints,” he admits, wiping juice from his chin with the back of his hand. “Every time I planned a clean hit, someone beat me to it by hours or days.”

You blink slowly, realization dawning.

“Oh my god. Jakarta. The oil exec.”

“I was on a rooftop two blocks away,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Had my sights lined up, trigger halfway pulled, and bam—he drops dead. Heart shot.”

You grin. “Silenced pistol. Through the crowd. Red scarf.”

He stares. “That was you?” You shrug.

You pass him the juice bottle. He swigs.

“Kuwait?” you ask. “Royal cousin, private airstrip, 2023.”

He squints. “Nope. Morocco that same week, though. Oil refinery director.”

You nod slowly. “Close... but still not the same contract.”

You lean into his shoulder, warm and bruised. For a while, you just sit in the silence. Sharing cereal. Trading names of cities like souvenirs. Comparing scars. You hold out your left arm, turning it over. “Costa Rica. Machete. Wasn’t even the target—just his cousin.”

He flexes his hand, then touches his ring finger and pinky, his wedding band still on, catching the light. “Vietnam. Lost feeling here in a blast. Pipe bomb rigged under a bar stool. I leaned in to light a cigarette, and the damn thing blew.”

You hiss. “How long to recover?”

“Ten weeks. Didn’t tell my team.”

“I went deaf in one ear,” you admit. “Turkey. Close-quarters detonation. I still sleep on my right side.” He tilts his head to look at you. “I know.” You glance at him. “You noticed?” He nods. “Always.” You breathe through that.

And then, you ask the one question that’s followed you your entire career.

“Do you ever have trouble sleeping? After?”

He doesn’t even pause.

“No,” he says simply.

You nod. “Yeah. Me neither.”

“You know,” you start, voice soft, “my first contract was in Singapore. Hotel hit. Clean. Nerve-wracking as hell, though. Didn’t sleep for three days after.”

Seungcheol, who had returned to the kitchen in search of a surviving bottle of water, turns slightly, raising his brows at you still sitting on the floor. “First?”

You nod, smiling faintly. “When I joined the game back in 2015. Back then, I had to smuggle the gear in a violin case like it was a goddamn spy movie. I was twenty-one, still using my real name. Green as hell.”

He laughs as he leans against the counter, unscrewing the cap of his newfound treasure before taking a sip. “You? Green? I don’t buy it.”

“Swear to God,” you grin. “Nearly botched it. Took me forty minutes to get into the suite. He walked in while I was setting up. I had to improvise with a steak knife from room service.”

He winces, impressed. “That poor bastard.”

“Nah,” you reply. “He was a war criminal. No one misses him.”

You’re about to ask Seungcheol about his first hit when something catches your eye through the living room window. A flash of movement. A shape walking past the hedge by the front walkway. A mail truck parked across the street.

Your brows draw together. You shift up slightly on your knees.

“Cheol?”

“Yeah?” he answers, still in the kitchen.

You squint. “Why the hell is the mailman out on a Sunday?”

There’s a beat of silence. And then he’s at your side in seconds.

He moves so fast that the bottle of water still in his hand clatters against the floor as he drops it mid-stride, crouching beside you and peering out the same window.

“Our mailman doesn’t work Sundays,” he mutters, voice instantly low and cold. You don’t move. “Then who the hell is that?”

Before he can answer, a clinking noise rattles from the front door. You both snap toward the sound at once. The mailbox slot creaks.

Something metallic drops through.

And in a split second—his body slams into yours.

“Flashbang!”

You’re dragged across the floor in one fluid motion just as a deafening pop erupts behind you. A white flash floods the room, followed by a shockwave that rattles what’s left of the walls.

Your ears ring. Your vision blurs. But you’re on your feet a second later, adrenaline surging through your blood like fire.

All warmth is gone. There’s no time to ask questions. You’re running.

“Garage!” he shouts. “Now!”

Bullets rip through the hallway drywall behind you as two armed men breach the front door, already firing. The wood splinters, glass explodes in a cascade from what’s left of the windowpanes.

You both sprint, ducking low, weaving through the wreckage of your own home as if it’s muscle memory. He covers you with a hand against your back as you reach the inner garage door.

It slams shut behind you.

He locks it. Not that it’ll hold for long.

“Which car?” you gasp, spinning toward the two luxury vehicles parked beneath the hanging light.

He points. “Mine has ammo inside.”

“Mine’s faster.”

“Mine’s armored.”

“Fine,” you mutter, already rounding toward the matte black Audi Q8. “But I’m picking the music.”

“Like hell you are.”

You reach the passenger side and yank open the door, only to pause.

“Where’s the—” you begin, gesturing.

He slides into the driver’s seat, reaching under the dash with a practised hand and flips a latch under the steering column. A panel in the centre console pops open with a mechanical click.

“There,” Seungcheol mutters. “Top tray. Guns and extra clips. Take your pick.”

You reach in and grab both handguns without hesitation. Toss one to him.

“You could’ve told me we had an armoury in the car,” you snap.

“You married me. I thought you knew I was full of surprises.”

The garage door starts opening with a mechanical groan as he slams the car into reverse. The moment the path is clear, he floors it. Tyres scream against the concrete as you rocket backwards, then spin into a clean arc down the driveway beside your home.

Bullets fly as the gunmen breach through the garage door. The back window shatters.

“They’re following!” you shout, twisting to return fire through the shattered rear glass.

You hit one of the attackers in the leg. he falls down, but the other keeps up the pursuit on foot.

Seungcheol veers around a corner, nearly clipping a fire hydrant and barrels down a side street.

It takes thirty minutes to ensure nobody is following you—twisting through the city, cutting through narrow alleys, blasting through tunnels, jumping red lights with seconds to spare.

You finally pull up to a rusted building tucked between two loading docks on the edge of the port. It looks condemned. Empty. But the moment you step out of the vehicle and scan the perimeter, you know this place isn’t what it seems.

“Where the hell are we?” you ask, sweeping your gun up automatically.

Seungcheol rounds the car, guiding you toward the side of the building. “Safe house. Belongs to a friend.”

You eye him. “Define friend.”

“You’ll see.”

You follow him to a rusted steel door that looks like it hasn’t been opened in a decade. He raises his fist and knocks—four beats, short-long-short-short.

You wait.

Footsteps.

The door creaks open—and standing there, in a robe, dishevelled, and holding a toothbrush in one hand—is none other than Mingyu.

Your eyes widen. “You?”

He blinks at you. Looks from you to Seungcheol, then down at your bare legs, the blood stains on Seungcheol’s naked chest, the pistol still in your hand, the way you’re both still in your morning clothes.

Then he mutters, “Jesus. What the hell happened to you two?”

Seungcheol shoulders past him with a mutter, “You tell me.”

You trail behind, brushing past Mingyu, who still looks completely stunned. He glances around before slamming the door shut and locking it with three bolts, then follows you both into the industrial-style kitchen.

You drop your gun on the counter, exhaling heavily.

Mingyu plants his toothbrush in a mug.

“You bring your wife to work often?” he asks dryly.

“You and Mingyu work together?” you turn to Seungcheol, the words half an accusation.

He doesn’t blink. “Yes.”

You let out a breath through your nose and tilt your head, arms folding tightly over your chest. “So that whole speech at our wedding about how you and Mingyu ‘went to college together and grew apart’ was just another lie?”

Seungcheol doesn’t miss a beat. “You had eleven aliases on our wedding registry. I think we’re even.”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath as you step away. “Unbelievable.”

“Is this really the time for an argument?” he snaps, rubbing his temple with one hand.

You’re about to fire back when Mingyu sighs dramatically behind you, arms crossed as he leans against the counter.

“Alright, alright,” he drawls, tone lazy but eyes sharp. “You two wanna pause the little lovers’ quarrel for a sec? Because you are, in fact, in deep shit.”

Seungcheol turns toward him, exasperated. “No shit. They shot at my wife and my damn car. I’m aware.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes like an exasperated sibling. “No, you’re not. Hold on.”

He’s back a moment later, laptop in hand. He tosses it onto the counter and opens it, the screen’s glow casting sharp light across his face. With a few taps, he spins the laptop around to show you both.

“Argos posted a bounty on your head,” he says, eyes flicking to Seungcheol. “It’s live. International boards. Deep channels. They’ve basically lit a beacon over your body for every hired gun from Moscow to Macau.”

Seungcheol stares at the screen, silent.

His hand shoots out, dragging the laptop closer. He scrolls down with a twitch in his jaw, reading every line, every bounty detail. Finally, he speaks, voice tight:

“What?”

Mingyu’s voice stays calm, but beneath it is a warning. “All of our contracts were terminated this morning. No explanation, no reassignment. Nothing. They gave you—what—twelve hours? Maybe less. They expected proof of your kill. When they didn’t get it, this was their answer.”

You blink, reeling. “But... Cheol’s their top asset. Why the hell would they—”

“Because,” Mingyu cuts in, “he didn’t pull the trigger. That’s all the proof they needed that he’s compromised. He failed to kill you. That makes him a liability.”

You feel your pulse in your teeth. “Okay... but why cut the rest of you loose?”

Mingyu shrugs, only half-joking. “I’m just waiting for my bounty to go live any day now.”

You raise your brows.

“Seriously,” he says, tone turning grim. “They know we’re loyal to Cheol. Everyone on his team is. Argos knows if they kept us around, we’d try to protect him. Help him go underground. So... clean sweep.”

Seungcheol is still staring at the screen, jaw clenched, eyes burning. His voice is low when he finally speaks:

“That explains me... but why were they shooting at my wife?” He glances at you, eyes hard. “You weren’t part of this. Yet you were a target, too.”

Mingyu sighs, rubbing his face. “I don’t know. I only have their side of the board. For all I know, someone jumped the gun. Or they wanted to ensure you didn’t get a second chance to prove loyalty.”

You frown, folding your arms as you turn toward him. “Is this thing encrypted?”

He gives you a long look. “I’m the tech lead, Gwisin. What do you think?”

You roll your eyes and pull the laptop toward you. Seungcheol grins softly at the familiar exchange. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, typing in a series of commands only a seasoned ghost like you would know.

After a few seconds, an encrypted video line blinks to life on screen.

Two rings.

Reina’s face appears.

“What—” she starts, then her expression twists into visible relief and panic at once when she sees your face. “Holy shit. You’re alive.” Her voice is louder than expected. “We thought—God, I saw the bounty hit, and then everything went dark and—”

“Reina,” you say firmly. “Slow down.”

She exhales sharply, calming just enough to speak. “Lim & Associates has gone dark. Completely shut down. Doors are locked. HQ’s offline. We think the top brass has scattered. No comms. No trace. And about twenty minutes after you were supposed to confirm the kill—” she gestures, “a bounty for your head goes live.”

“Sounds familiar,” Mingyu says, leaning in.

Reina’s gaze shifts to him—and darkens.

Her voice flattens. “You.”

Mingyu grins, dimples showing. “Hi, Sweetheart. You look good.”

“Don’t.”

Seungcheol watches, confused. You, however, know exactly what this is. And so does Mingyu.

“Reina,” you warn, amusement tugging your lips. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” she bites, eyes not leaving Mingyu. “I’m just surprised he’s still breathing. I figured karma would’ve taken care of that by now.”

“Now honey,” Mingyu says, pretending not to be amused. “you know how much it turns me on when you're mad at me.”

Seungcheol blinks.

You sigh. “Long story. Don’t ask.”

“Gyu,” Reina snaps, crossing her arms. “Can you please, for the love of God, not think with your dick for two seconds?”

“You’re right,” Mingyu says, pulling the laptop toward him. “Let’s table our unresolved sexual tension and uncover corporate conspiracy instead.”

You and Seungcheol exchange an exhausted look as both techs begin furiously typing—throwing jargon and protocols across the feed faster than either of you can keep up.

“Did they just start flirting mid-catastrophe?” he murmurs.

“Apparently,” you reply, massaging your stiff neck.

Minutes pass in tense silence, the sound of keys clacking rapidly. Your pulse ticks higher.

Finally, both Reina and Mingyu stop. Mingyu stares at the screen.

Then, softly: “Oh my god.”

You and Seungcheol lean in instantly. “What?” you ask, sharp and focused. Reina’s voice is brittle. Controlled.

“Lim and Argos have been playing under the same table.” You go cold. “What?”

“They’ve been bidding against each other for years—driving up contract values, undercutting competition to steal clients, making the freelance market a bloodbath... all for mutual profit. Every ‘coincidence’? Every ‘competing company’? All engineered.”

“The hit on both of you...” Mingyu continues, voice low now, “was pre-planned. They marked you as a threat years ago, even before you married each other. Too skilled. Too independent. Too close.”

Reina nods. “They wanted to burn it all down. Kill the evidence. Clear the board. They weren’t expecting you two to survive.”

You feel like the floor’s been ripped out beneath you.

“Thank you, Rei,” you say, fingers hovering just over the laptop’s keyboard. “Truly. I mean it.”

On the other end of the call, Reina’s features soften.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she replies. “I’ll rally the others. We’ll get you everything we can. You say the word, we’ll move. You know we’ve got your back. Always.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll end this. I swear it.”

Reina holds your eyes for a beat longer, then the line cuts off.

The screen goes black.

You close the laptop slowly, and when you look up, Seungcheol is already watching Mingyu. The younger man is still frozen in place, arms folded tightly across his chest, a storm building just behind his eyes.

“What is it?” Seungcheol asks him, voice level but taut. “You’ve been quiet since she hung up. What are you thinking?”

Mingyu exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Hyung... look. I hate to be the one to say this... .” he starts, then hesitates. Finally, he does. “But if you two separate, you have a shot at survival. Not a good one. But a shot.”

You feel Seungcheol tense beside you, the words like acid between them.

“If you stay together,” Mingyu continues, “you’re dead. They’ll find you. You’ll be too busy trying to keep each other alive to do it properly. You know I’m right.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, about to snap something back, but you cut him off before he can.

“He’s right.” The words fall out before you even realize you’re saying them. And the moment they’re spoken, the air in the room changes.

Seungcheol turns to you, disbelief and anger flickering through his eyes. “So, what...” he says, quieter now. “You want me to leave you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because you don’t want that—not at all—but you also know it might be the only thing that buys you time.

The silence between you stretches until it’s taut. Until it’s unbearable.

He stares at you. You stare back. And in your shared look, there’s more said than either of you can articulate aloud. Fear. Anger. Love. Frustration. That goddamn sense of duty that’s somehow stronger than either of your instincts.

Mingyu’s voice cuts the silence with a well-placed sigh.

“You’re safe here tonight,” he says, voice intentionally casual. “Reina will loop us in with the rest of her team tomorrow. You can figure it out then.”

Seungcheol doesn’t respond.

Mingyu pushes away from the counter, walks to a cabinet and tosses a fresh towel onto the table. “Bathroom’s down the hall. There’s a closet full of old gear and clothes—should fit.”

You nod silently.

“I’ve got some rice, eggs, and canned soup. It’s not five-star, but it’ll feed you.”

Seungcheol glances at him. “You going somewhere?”

Mingyu shrugs, heading for the door. “Yeah. Wonwoo’s. Now that I’m harbouring the two biggest walking bounties in the world, I figured I should be... I don’t know—armed to the teeth.”

You raise a brow. “Wonwoo, the quiet, lanky guy with the glasses from our wedding?”

“Yup. My best friend and Argos’s designated weapons guy. His safe house is basically a missile silo. I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before either of you can say anything else.

Later, after showers, dressing your wounds and forcing yourselves to eat what little you can keep down, you’re both lying side by side on a stiff mattress in one of the spare rooms. The sheets smell like old laundry detergent and sea salt. The room is dark except for a sliver of streetlight coming through the high window.

Neither of you is asleep. You’re staring at the ceiling. So is he.

You can feel the weight of the last two days in every inch of your body.

The silence is unbearable, so you speak.

“My default plan,” you say softly, “was always the Alps.”

Seungcheol turns his head toward you slightly. You don’t meet his eyes.

“Cabin in the Swiss mountains. Remote. Disconnected. Wood-burning stove, solar panels. Buried communication line. I have everything I need stashed there—documents, money, identity resets. It’s quiet.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Then—

“Mine’s a fishing boat.” His voice is hoarse. “Docked off an island near the border of Venezuela and Trinidad. Nobody ever asks questions there. Just sun, salt, fish, and radio silence.”

You nod. Let the silence stretch again.

Then you speak again, even quieter than before.

“We could leave tomorrow.” You feel his head turn toward you more fully now. “Leave it all this shit behind. Run. Disappear. You go south. I go east. No one finds us.”

His voice is so low you barely catch it. “Is that what you want?”

You close your eyes. The answer aches in your throat. “It’s not about what I want,” you whisper. “It’s about what keeps us safe. What keeps our teams safe. What keeps you safe.”

Another pause.

You feel him shifting beside you, his muscles tense.

“Cheol,” you say gently. “Please say something.”

And finally—he does.

“You run now,” he says, staring up at the ceiling, “and you’ll never stop running. You’ll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Cabin or boat, it doesn’t matter. There’s no cave on this planet that can keep us hidden forever. They’ll find you. They’ll find me.”

You look at him then; his profile is drawn tight, jaw clenched.

“I’m not running,” he says. “I’m fighting.”

His hand finds yours in the darkness, rough fingers curling around your palm until they reach the ring on your finger. His thumb brushes over it slowly.

“I made a promise,” he says. “I said, ‘Till death do us part.’ I’m not abandoning that. Not now.”

You close your eyes and exhale—long, slow, exhausted. But your fingers close around his hand.

A/N: Soooo, this happened? For those who know me well, know that Cheol is my second ultimate bias, so I couldn't not write for him at one point. What was intended as a short piece turned into whatever the hell this is. Hope y'all enjoy! 💟 PS: I have plenty of ideas for a second part, so if anyone is interested, let me know! (Maybe even a separate story featuring Mingyu? 👀)

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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