#Knife's Aftermath

[mariocki]

Funny Games (1997)

"Why are you doing this to us?"

"Why not?"

[collegeoflore]

beneath the cut is a xarrai/astarion wip i’ll probably never finish but still stands alone as a nice little piece. please enjoy :)

His heart beats in his dreams. It always has, as long as he can remember dreaming - as long as his reverie has been stripped from him, the whole breadth of his unlife. He hardly notices it, the thrum of life beneath his skin, this aberration born of a mind that still aches for life centuries after its end. His heart beats and beats and beats until he opens his eyes and finds it stopped. When he wakes from nightmares like the one he’s had tonight, a twisting mess of shrill voices and red eyes and collapsing stone, the sudden stillness still sends icy panic down his spine. For a moment he lies motionless, unbreathing, until the dream recedes and the last orange embers of the firelight burn through his eyelids and, slowly, he lets the cool mountain air fill his dead lungs.

“Bad dreams?”

Astarion nearly jumps out of his skin at the unexpected voice. He sits up, and there Xarrai is: perched high on a rock, cutting an unusually graceful silhouette against the star-drenched sky. He manages to compose himself, pushing his curls back out of his face and mustering his best indignant huff. “What makes you think that?”

The near-dead fire casts just enough light that his vision can’t properly adjust, and so Xarrai is more phantom than man sitting above him, one knee pulled up to their chest, the other leg dangling off the rock next to their swaying tail. “The thrashing was the first clue.” He doesn’t have to see their expression to know the smug tilt of their lips. “And you look dreadful.”

“I do not!” He reflectively snaps. He starts to turn away, but then they laugh and his eyes are dragged back toward them of their own accord. Even this far apart, the perfume of their skin is overwhelming, all salt and wood and dark vanilla, tempered by the earthy smoke that clings to their hair and the sharp metallic tang of blood. His first, his senses remind him again and again, his first.

“No, I’m just fucking with you,” they lilt. “Come sit a while, if you’re not going back to sleep.”

A glance at the state of his bedroll, with its twisted covers and crumpled pillow, tells him they are not, in fact, “just fucking with him.” He scowls. “You’re just lying to make me feel better,” he sniffs, but it doesn’t stop him from clambering up the stone to sit beside them in the moonlight. The valley below opens up impossibly wide, washed blue by the night air. He kicks a pebble and watches it bounce and roll until it finds the lip of the vast maw and disappears into the blue night.

“Of course I’m lying,” Xarrai says, flicking open the little black and gold case sitting on the stone and retrieving a cigarette rolled in black paper. “But it’s bold to assume I’m doing it for your benefit, sweetheart.” Astarion watches perhaps more closely than he should as they clamp the thing between their lips and light it with a lick of blue arcane flame from their hand. They meet his eyes with a knowing smile. “Maybe I’m just incapable of telling the truth.”

“Oh, that’s not in question, '' mutters Astarion, tearing his eyes from the scar across their cheek, silver in the moonlight. The memory of his heartbeat still buzzes in his chest, and he tries in vain to rub a little warmth into his frozen fingers. Despite the summer heat in the lowlands, the night air is cool and crisp this high into the mountains. “What are you doing up this late, darling?”

“You want one?” They nudge the gilded box toward him and glide past his question. “These ones are only tobacco, I’m afraid, but it’s better than nothing.”

The game the two of them play, this endless dance of deception and seduction, demands Astarion press them for an answer. It demands he chase the lie and pretend it is the truth. And perhaps he would if the sun were up, if his empty chest didn’t ache, if he weren’t so godsdamned cold, if there wasn’t a tadpole in his head and the smoldering ruins of a monastery filled with charred corpses behind him, if, if, if.

He takes the last cigarette without a word. They conjure another arcane flame to light it, leaning in close and resting their other hand on the back of his neck. In the blue light, he sees nothing but dark circles under bright eyes and a dusting of freckles across scarred skin.

This is more honest, anyway.

[caroline-nighthunter]

It's past midnight and I gotta be up early tomorrow but my mind just cannot rest about this conversation prompt about Necromancer Wizard and a Cyrus and the whole Malistair fiasco (Context of the dynamic is basically the whole thing became a taboo subject and the Young Wiz and Cyrus take what happened in Dragonspyre to their grave which was prob their least prefferred way to be knitted together in such a personal way):

"I thought it was easy. Death didn't scare me. Killing didn't either. It had to be done. But... Cyrus, the catch is.... I think I was wrong. The thought of death didn't scare me. The thought of killing neither. Nobody could have ever prepared me for the actual thing. Not a hundred... thousand... rehearsals."

b y e

[midnightwind]

the true question for Clipped Wings is do I just slap the summons home from Viago as the next chapter or try to squeeze in some more general exploration of the Crossroad and/or jobs in Minrathous and/or Two Crows Being Dudes before tossing that one into the canon timeline

[houseofaegon]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write jealous bob reynolds

Too Fucking Close ✩ Void!Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Void!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. use of y/n, fem!reader, dubious consent (void's possession), rough sex, dominance, power play, bob aware during void's control, jealous!void, jealous!bob, possessivenes, emotional aftermath, guilt, dark themes, slight fluff at the end.

Summary: The press tour was hell. Cameras, fans, and a predatory interviewer who got far too handsy—all under the watchful, simmering gaze of Bob Reynolds. You played the part. You smiled. But someone else was watching, someone darker. Void had been caged inside Bob for too long, feeding off his jealousy, his longing, his failure to act. But tonight, he took control—and he wasn’t gentle. He claimed you with feral need, fueled by everything Bob had denied himself. When Bob returned—shaking, terrified of what Void had done—you grounded him. You reminded him it wasn’t just Void you wanted. It was him. All of him.

Author's Note: i need void. need him biblically to destroy me physically, mentally, emotionally, all of the above. he's so he's so he's so arrrrggghhhh smash. double smash. completely sober. take me. take me. oblitaterate me!!!!!!! thank you for the ask!! I'm actually so overwhelmed with the love and support my last bob fics have been receiving and the amount of requests I'm getting, I promise I will be getting to them and writing them as soon as possible!! I've got more fics coming up from your requests and some other's I've been drafting <3 I hope yall like this. feel free to scream in the comments or tags! <3

The press tour had been a whirlwind and fucking exhausting—bright flashing lights, high tensions, shouts from fans, and the sharp bite of too many eyes on you. You'd done this dance before. You'd gotten good at it by now, but something about this one was off. Maybe it was the number of cameras and eyes on all of you. Or the nerves. Maybe it was the interviewer—slick smile, too much cologne, handsy in a way that wasn’t subtle.

His jokes were lame. His touch, constant. Always hovering close. His hand kept brushing your knee, his smile widening every time you tried to politely shift away. Cameras were rolling. You had to keep it together. You couldn’t risk a scene—not with Valentina’s knife-edge patience and a multi-million-dollar PR contract on the line. "I've spent a lot of money on all of you. Do. Not. Fuck this up. Okay? Now, big smiles, everyone. Big smiles," she'd say with a huge grin on her face and her eyes twitching with anxiety.

Fucking bullshit.

But you just smiled through it. Laughed when he flirted, because the cameras were watching. All eyes on you. You knew how to play the game. You couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk having a public meltdown. Couldn't risk Valentina's wrath unleashing on you after spending a goddamned fortune on forcing you, and the rest of the team, to take some PR training.

So you played your part, sat pretty and smiled like the good girl you were. The good soldier. The charming teammate. You laughed. Smiled. Let him touch you without cracking his ribs. But inside?

Your blood was boiling.

One more touch. Just one, and you'd have buried a pen through his eye socket.

But you weren’t the only one at the edge.

Bob sat beside you, deathly still. Not speaking. Barely blinking. His entire focus fixed—not on the cameras, not on the fans—but on him. On the man touching you. Every time the interviewer leaned in, Bob’s knuckles whitened on the mic. His leg bounced with barely contained fury. His eyes? Scorching.

After the panel, the team scattered back to the hotel, and the tension of the day finally started to lift.

"God, this was awful," you groaned, walking down the hotel hallway with Yelena.

Yelena snorted. "Awful? Please. I've had dental appointments more enjoyable than that."

You chuckled, grateful for her presence. "Seriously, though. That interviewer was a creep."

Yelena raised an eyebrow. "You mean Mr. 'Let me invade your personal space'?"

"Exactly," you said, shuddering at the memory.

Yelena smirked. "I was this close to 'accidentally' spilling my drink on him. Or shove a chair leg up his ass. Diplomatically, of course."

You snorted. "Would've paid to see that."

Yelena bumped your shoulder. “You were perfect though. Valentina’s favorite little asset. Good smile, no bloodshed.”

“Barely.”

“You coming to bed or plotting a revenge arc?”

“Bed. Barely.”

As you reached your room, Yelena gave you a quick hug. "Get some rest, babe. Tomorrow's another day of fun and games."

"Can't wait," you replied sarcastically, opening the door. "Good night, blondie."

"'Night, rage princess. I'm down the hallway. Scream if you get murdered. Or text. Whatever works," she blew a kiss and walked away.

You laughed, shaking your head as you entered your hotel room.

The lights were off, but the moonlight painted a pale silver across the carpet. At first, it felt normal—quiet, still. But then your body tensed. Your skin prickled. That deep, primal knowing.

You weren't alone.

Something was wrong.

Your body tensed, a flush of adrenaline rushing hot and fast through your veins. You reached blindly for the lamp on the side table, gripping the base like a weapon, heart pounding. But as your eyes adjusted, you saw it—a figure standing motionless in the far corner. Just beyond the reach of the light.

And then—movement.

A figure stepped from the corner shadows. Tall. Broad. Familiar.

"Bob?" you asked, heart in your throat. "Jesus fucking Christ—you almost gave me a heart attack."

You lowered the lamp slowly, setting it on the side table. Your breath came fast. "What—what are you doing in here? Are you okay?"

Silence.

No movement. Just that same heavy presence. You swallowed hard.

"This a bit, or are you trying to give me an actual heart attack? Because I gotta say, the serial killer act isn't really your usual vibe…"

Then he laughed.

But it wasn't Bob's laugh.

It was rough. Deep. Feral. It rumbled through the room like thunder. You froze.

He stepped forward slowly, each movement deliberate, predatory.

His silhouette was familiar, but not his. The shoulders were too squared. The stance too confident. That glint in his eye—hungry. Possessive.

“Bob—” you whispered, voice trembling.

“No, baby.” He stepped into the light, shadows clinging to his frame like a second skin. “Not Bob.”

Your heart dropped.

He was in black from head to toe. Energy pulsing off him in waves. The shadows moved with him, like they were part of him.

“Void,” you whispered.

He smiled. A slow, dangerous curve of lips. “Correct.”

“Fucking finally,” he muttered, stalking toward you. “I’ve been inside that coward long enough. Watching him drool over you like a kicked dog. Too afraid to touch. Too afraid to speak. He's been wanting to do this for so long. Bob. That pathetic little coward. He dreams about you. Whispers your name when he jerks off in the shower. But he can't say a word. Can't even look at you the way he wants to.

He stopped inches from you. Close enough to feel the heat of his body. “But I’m not afraid.”

Your knees wobbled. He radiated heat, danger, want.

“You think I didn’t see him?” he snarled. “That little fuck with the mic? His hands on you. His fucking eyes. You smiled at him. Laughed. While I sat there, tasting Bob’s rage. Feeling his need. His jealousy.”

Void leaned in, brushing your cheek with his lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How many nights he’s touched himself thinking about you while whispering your name.”

Your breath hitched.

“But now?” he growled. “Now I’ve got you. All to myself. And I’m going to make sure every inch of you remembers me.”

He didn't touch you. Not yet.

Void just stood there, too close, the shadows pulsing off his body like black heatwaves. The air was thick with him—his presence, his power, that deep, vibrating tension that curled your toes and locked your knees.

���You’re scared,” he said softly, almost amused. “But not enough.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His voice wrapped around you like velvet, smooth but cutting. “You should be running. Screaming. Calling for help.”

You swallowed, hard. “Why aren’t you stopping me?”

He tilted his head, smile widening. “Because you don’t want to leave, don't you, baby?”

The room darkened—not just metaphorically. The shadows shifted, swallowing the corners of the suite, making the world smaller, pressing in. His power curled through the space like smoke, thick and electric, and it wrapped around you like a lover’s arms.

“I felt it,” he murmured. “Every little flinch. Every time you wanted to slap his hand away. Every time you bit your tongue. You wanted to lose control.”

He leaned closer. Close enough that your lips almost brushed. “You wanted someone to see. And, baby, I saw. Everything. It made me want to rip that fucker's eyes out."

Your hand moved before you could think, pressing against his chest to push him back. But it was like shoving a wall. Solid. Unyielding. Void caught your wrist gently, slowly. His fingers closed around it, strong, possessive.

“And what does the good girl do?” he asked softly, stepping between your legs. “Smiles. Sits still. Takes it. But I see the truth. I feel it. You’re sick of holding it in.”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You want to be taken.”

You gasped. And that was all he needed.

He snapped.

Void slammed you against the wall in a blur, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he devoured your mouth in a bruising kiss. Tongue, teeth, claiming. His hands were everywhere—rough, demanding—gripping your hips, sliding under your shirt, pushing it up.

Your back arched against him, mouth open, moaning into him as he dragged your clothes off piece by piece. His voice never stopped, never softened.

“Say it,” he growled against your throat, licking over your pulse. “Say you want me to break you.”

You whimpered. “I want—fuck, I want—”

“Say it.”

His growl was feral.

He carried you to the bed and threw you down, following instantly, his weight pinning you to the mattress. His cock, heavy and thick, pressed hard against your thigh. You reached for him, but he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Mine,” he snarled. “No one else gets to look at you like that. No one else gets to touch you. I’ll burn this entire fucking planet before I let someone else have you.”

And then—he was inside.

Deep. Hard. All of him.

You screamed.

He didn’t give you time to adjust, hips snapping into yours with brutal precision. Every thrust hit that perfect, devastating spot, your body writhing beneath him, crying out as your wrists twisted under his hold.

“Fucking perfect,” he hissed. “So fucking tight. You were made for me.”

You were already close—your body strung so tight from the tension, the fear, the want—and when he growled, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you come undone."

Your orgasm hit like a bomb, ripping through you, leaving you breathless, limp, trembling.

But Void didn’t stop. He fucked you through it. Harder. Faster. Pushing you to the edge again with every punishing thrust.

“You’re not done, baby,” he growled. “Not until I say.”

You sobbed, pleasure bordering on pain, mind white-hot.

And when he finally came—deep, pulsing inside you—he bit your shoulder, marking you, growling your name like a promise.

He finally collapsed over you, breathless. You were his now. And you loved it. Every single second of it.

And then the world came back slowly. The shadows retreated. The heat lingered. Your skin still trembled, slick with sweat, muscles twitching from the wreckage he’d left behind. The room was quiet now—no growling, no ragged threats, no snapping hips. Just breath. Slowed. Softened. Almost… human.

Then his body stilled completely.

“...Y/N?”

It was barely a whisper. The voice was fragile. Barely a whisper. So unlike what had just devoured you whole. He lifted his head—slowly, like he wasn’t sure what he’d see. Not black, not fire. Blue. Soft. Frightened. Aching Bob.

And he looked like he was about to break.

“Shit,” he rasped, his throat dry, lips parted. “I—fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Your heart cracked. He looked wrecked. Pale. Shaking. You didn’t hesitate—your hand rose to his face, gently brushing your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw.

“Hey,” you whispered. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He blinked rapidly. His body was still buried deep inside you, and now he was aware—completely and entirely. You saw the realization hit him like a freight train. Shame. Fear.

He didn’t relax. If anything, his panic deepened.

His gaze darted down between you—where his body was still inside yours. His breath hitched, like the very fact was too much to comprehend. Like the guilt physically hurt. He was panicking.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Y/N—did… did he hurt you?”

“No, Bob,” you said quickly, shaking your head.

His hands were shaking as he pulled back just slightly, enough to cup your hips like you were made of glass, to look. His eyes scanned your body frantically—your thighs, your neck, your wrists where Void had pinned you down. His fingers skimmed a bruise forming low on your ribcage and he flinched like he felt the pain.

“I didn’t—he—fuck, I tried to stop him. I swear, I tried to stop him—”

“Bob.”

“I heard everything. Everything, Y/N. And I couldn’t move. I couldn’t make him stop touching you—I couldn't protect you.”

“Bob,” you said more firmly, reaching for his face again, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Look at me.”

“I wanted it,” you said softly.

He froze.

“I wanted him. I wanted you. Both of you. I knew it wasn’t just you, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to stop.”

His jaw trembled.

You stroked your thumb over his cheek, grounding him. “I’ve always wanted you, Bob. Even with Void. Especially with Void. Because he is you. Just the loud, angry part that says the things you won’t.”

Bob let out a choked sound, half laugh, half sob, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m still sorry,” he murmured. “For not stopping him. For… liking it. For needing you so fucking much I couldn’t push him away. For letting him take over."

You smiled, small and real. “I liked it, too. Every single second. And I like all of you. Even the growling, bitey, wall-slamming part.”

He laughed, broken but warm. His thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“But you’ve got me,” you said, brushing your lips over his. “Now what are you gonna do about it?”

He kissed you—slow and reverent this time. Soft. Grateful.

When he pulled back, his brows furrowed. “He was right, you know.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

His throat bobbed. “About… how long I’ve wanted you. About what I think about when I… when I’m alone.”

You felt your pulse thrum.

Bob kept going, quiet and intense. “About how jealous I was. Of that guy. Of anyone who got to touch you, talk to you, be near you. I felt like I was going to lose it out there. I did lose it. Void just… finished what I couldn’t start.”

You smiled, slow and teasing. “Well then.”

He blinked, wary.

You arched a brow. “I might have to make you jealous more often.”

Bob groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. “Please don’t.”

“No promises,” you whispered into his hair.

And for the first time that night—he laughed.

For real.

And then he held you. Finally whole. Finally yours.

    ⊹             ⊹            ⊹             ⊹            ⊹          ⊹             ⊹             ⊹

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe (if you want to be tagged in my future bob/lewis works lmk!<3)

[moonlight-blue-rose]

Summary: Favorite story/Journal & “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest”:

He could have never escaped from his ‘Fate’, he thought as he gazed at Yoo Joonghyuk’s twisted face, the dried blood flaking at his scrunched eyebrows, at the creases of his mouth.

It’s fine not to, he thought as the thrum in his chest finally spilled over and pulled at his lips, stretching them wide.

(Thirteen years of love danced to the rhythm of his heart.)

[navybrat817]

I'll Be Okay

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: When Bucky accidentally harms you, he questions whether or not he's worthy of you and your love.

Word Count: Over 3.7k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, accidental injury (small cut), mention of blood, mention of past injuries (not reader's), slight canon divergence (aftermath of torture, PTSD), self-loathing, angst, insecurities, feels, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: This idea hit me and here we are! The quote is a partial lyric change from "I'll Be OK" by Nothing More. Thanks to @yenzys-lucky-charm and @starlightcrystalline for their help. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky had an established routine before he went to bed each night. Screen time stopped an hour before he went to sleep so his mind and body could start to wind down. He changed into his pajamas, washed his face, and brushed his teeth. He read for fifteen minutes, nothing too intense or emotional since heavy topics would make his mind start to race again. The last thing he did were deep breathing exercises, imagining relaxing scenes as he inhaled, exhaled, and released the tension in his body.

Relaxing into the mattress, he smiled to himself. It took him some time to get accustomed to it, but he was glad he gave it a chance since he was determined to make his bedroom a safe haven. It took time and effort, but it worked. The atmosphere was relaxing and soothing. The blackout curtains helped him embrace the darkness since it was darkness of his choice. He hadn’t slept on the floor in months. He felt a sense of peace.

“Night,” you yawned.

It was difficult to see you in the pitch-black room, but he smiled more when he heard your heartbeat. The perfume you wore earlier today still lingered on your skin. Your hand touched his and he felt that sense of peace all over again.

The two of you started dating almost a year ago, short enough that it still felt new but also long enough that he felt comfortable. He didn't feel the need to hide his thoughts or feelings from you and you understood when he had his bad days. You were so patient, so caring. You were everything he wanted and nothing he deserved.

You didn't start spending the night until you hit the six-month mark. It worried him the first night because even sex didn’t disrupt his routine, and he didn’t want that to bother you. Just like you supported him in everything else, you were more than happy to support his evening habits. You even took a page from his book and started cutting out your screen time early so it wouldn’t disturb him. You were thoughtful like that, and he considered himself a lucky guy to have someone like you.

Especially when it came to his nightmares.

You were gentle and calm whenever he woke up from a nightmare, never trying to wake him abruptly and risk causing further distress. Respecting boundaries was something you both cultivated, so you never forced or pushed him to talk about his experiences or what he dreamed about. When he did, you listened without judgement and didn't dismiss his concerns or fears. No matter what, you were quick to offer comfort and help him get back to sleep or stay awake with him.

For all his crimes, he somehow ended up with a wonderful and understanding partner.

“Night,” he whispered into the darkness, pressing a kiss to your temple.

It didn’t take you long to fall asleep, your breathing steady. Closing his eyes, he slid his hand under his pillow and instinctively closed his hand around the small knife handle. His eyes opened immediately, his next breath caught in his throat. Why did he have his knife there?

Sleeping with a knife had been a coping mechanism and he typically did so on missions, but he tried to let it go at home once you started sleeping over. Tightening his grip, he remembered he had it there the night before because you had to sleep at your apartment. He swore he moved it to the nightstand before you came over. Did he… Shit, did he mean to do that and forget about it?

As much as his memory improved, he still had moments of forgetfulness. A likely permanent side effect thanks to the years of torture. It was one of the reasons why he liked having a routine. It helped him cope as well as improved his memory thanks to the repeated steps. Making lists helped, too.

“I’m safe. She’s safe,” he whispered.

The debate of having weapons in the bedroom was a tough choice since it was meant to be a safe space. He wanted to have weapons nearby for protection, but also wanted them far away in case something triggered him. He convinced himself that one knife was okay. One knife wouldn't hurt him.

But after his last nightmare, he didn’t think it was a good idea to have a knife under the pillow.

It had been a rough night, one of the roughest he could recall in ages. Surrounded by his demons and sins, he felt utterly alone. It was better that way. No one else should ever hear the agony or see the twisted horrors in his head. It was for an audience of one. But, still, he fought. He tried.

And his hand moved.

Bucky had been on autopilot, wanting desperately to fully wake himself up. His body tried to protect him while his mind continued to cling to his neverending nightmare. He just needed to open his eyes and be free for one more day.

He had sat up with a gasp, this haze in his mind finally lifting. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I go by Bucky,” he panted to remind himself that he wasn’t dreaming. “I was born on March 17th, 1917. I’m in my bed, and I’m holding a knife.”

He had been holding a knife.

And he sliced through the sheet where you would’ve been laying.

He barely made it to the toilet before he wretched. He had nightmares of you being tortured, your screams driving him to the brink of insanity when he wanted so desperately to save you. There were nightmares, too, where outside forces made him inflict pain on you. He swore he’d never harm you. If you had been asleep beside him… It made him sick all over again.

Which was why he tried not to sleep with a knife in bed anymore.

Carefully slipping his hand out from under the pillow, he kept an ear out for you. He didn’t want to risk waking or jolting you. He just had to put the knife away so he could cuddle with you and get some much needed rest.

But some higher being or life itself enjoyed messing with Bucky Barnes.

You rolled from your back to your side the second his hand moved through the air. He was fast, should’ve been faster, but it didn’t stop the blade from slicing your skin before he could pull his hand back. He knew the second you woke up, a startled and pained cry escaping. No… no.

He dropped the knife on the nightstand with a shaky hand and turned on the light. The first thing he saw was your face scrunched in pain as you sat up in bed and examined your arm. The crimson drew his attention next because he knew your body better than he knew his own and there shouldn't be a cut there… or blood. There shouldn't be pain etched on your beautiful face.

For a split second, Bucky thought he was having a nightmare. He wanted it to be a nightmare, didn't want it to be real, but the cry he heard wasn't in his head. It wasn't a dream.

It was a living nightmare.

“What did I do?” His voice shook. Tears stung his eyes.

God, what did he do?

Your lips moved, but he felt like he was hearing the words underwater. “Bucky? Did you have a nightmare? Are you okay?”

You were asking if he was okay?

“Oh, my God.” he whispered in horror, his eyes wide. “I…” He cut you. He hurt you. Something he vowed to never do. “I’m sorry. Fuck. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you tried to assure him, clutching your arm closer like you were trying not to get blood on the sheets. “It was an accident.”

“It’s not okay!” he said, trying not to raise his voice. Frightening you was the last thing he wanted to do. “Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry,” he said, carefully rounding the bed and making sure he kept himself in your line of sight. “I-I didn't mean to. I was trying to move it to the nightstand. I thought I put it back.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you assured him, showing him the small wound. “But I need your help.”

He tried not to panic, but his heart wouldn't stop racing and his next breath felt ragged. “I…”

How could you possibly want his help? He was no longer the Winter Soldier, yet he was still a weapon who destroyed everything he touched. He fooled himself into believing that you were the exception, but look what he did? Your beautiful skin might have a scar now because of him, a constant reminder that he brought nothing but pain and destruction.

“Bucky, please,” you whispered, slowly lifting your hand. You let it hover near his cheek, silently asking for permission, the way you always did after he had a bad dream. He allowed himself to lean in, selfishly accepting it and taking from you the way he always took from you. “Help me.”

He dared to look in your eyes with the hope of centering himself and prayed he wouldn't see fear or disgust. There was none, only trust and love when you looked back at him. It was enough to push the panic away. He could be upset later. Right now he had to take care of you and fix his mistake.

“Okay,” he breathed.

He took your arm with infinite tenderness to examine it and blinked away the mist in his eyes. The cut, thankfully, didn’t look jagged or deep. It was a clean cut. In fact, it looked superficial compared to the damage it could've done. It still had to hurt since a sharp blade sliced your skin and there was still blood.

A wounded sound left Bucky’s lips when his gaze flickered up and he spotted a tear slide down your cheek. As if he had any right to make a sound like that when he caused you pain. The angel that you were, you offered him a soft smile. Any other night your voice and smile would’ve soothed him, but he didn't deserve that tonight. He didn't deserve comfort. He was unworthy of it, unworthy of any of your kindness or care.

“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he said, his voice rough. He wasn't a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, but he certainly experienced enough of his own cuts and stitched up enough wounds to know. “Can I carry you to the bathroom?”

Logically, he knew you were capable of walking there on your own, but he wanted to hold you. Make himself useful. You must've sensed it since you nodded without hesitation. “Of course.”

Picking you up in his arms, he felt numb as he carried you. Why couldn’t he have accidentally cut himself instead? He experienced plenty of wounds, and had plenty of scars. What was one more?

He took a second to breathe in your scent before he set you on the edge of the tub, worried he might not smell it again if you decided to leave for the rest of the night. “I need to apply pressure to it,” he said, saying the steps out loud for both of you as he washed his hands and grabbed the first aid kit. “Once the bleeding stops, I can clean it.”

You nodded, keeping your arm elevated. “Okay,” you said, your gaze going to his shaking hands. “Deep breath, Bucky.”

Breathing in slowly and releasing it, he willed himself to stop shaking. He didn’t realize the metal arm could shake, but it made sense since it was an extension of himself. Avoiding your gaze as he pressed the gauze to your wound, his teeth snapped together when he heard the wince you tried not to let out. As if he didn’t hate himself enough for the damage he’d done, you were trying to be brave and strong for him.

Once the bleeding stopped, he turned the water on. The sight of the red on the gauze made his stomach turn since it was your blood. “Soap and water next.”

You offered him a small smile again while he cleaned it, but he couldn’t smile back. “The cut doesn't look bad at all. Barely a scratch,” you mused once he finished and grabbed the tweezers. “What are those for?”

“It was a small blade,” he said, swallowing hard. “I know it isn’t a deep cut, but I’m just making sure there isn’t anything in it. We don’t want it to get infected.” Both of you kept the bedroom clean and he also took great care of his knives, but that didn’t mean dust or something else didn’t seep its way in.

You nodded again, letting him do what he needed to before he applied petroleum jelly. “That helps with the healing, right?”

His heart turned over. You were keeping him talking and not allowing his mind to slip into a dark place. “That’s right. I know you’re not a big fan of the word ‘moist’, but, well, keeping it moist helps,” he said, putting the bandage on. You wrinkled your nose, something he usually found adorable. Seeing you do it now, he wanted to cry. “I think that should do it. Do you… need anything for the pain?”

“You did a great job,” you smiled gently, which only made his heart ache more. “I don't need anything, but thank you for asking.”

“You sure you aren't being stubborn?” he tried to tease.

Cuts and bruises, he could handle those. Things like aspirin didn't do anything for him anyway thanks to the serum. What about you? What if your arm ached?

You laughed a little. “If I do need something, you'll be the first to know.”

You looked past your arm into the tub. He looked, too, watching the last trace of blood go down the drain. Or maybe he imagined it. The last time he came back from a bad mission, you helped him wash his hair and wipe away the remaining blood and dirt. You made him feel clean again as every speck disappeared. And what had he given you in return?

What good was he?

“Are you okay?” he barely whispered. God, he wanted you to be okay.

“I am,” you answered without hesitation, turning his face toward you. “Seriously, Bucky. It’s just a scratch, and it was an accident.”

“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place,” he said, pulling away from your touch. He feared he’d taint you if you kept touching him. “And you shouldn’t have to put up with me.”

You inhaled so sharply he thought you’d choke on your breath. “I don’t put up with you. I love you.”

How could your love break his heart?

Emotions whirled inside him as he sank to the cold floor. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared off with vacant eyes. Faces of the people he harmed and killed over the years passed in his mind. Blaming him. Telling him he didn't deserve you.

He didn't, did he?

He didn’t see you move to the floor beside him, but he felt your presence. It was his job to comfort you, make you feel better. Instead he began to shut down. He didn’t want to. Why was he allowing himself to go under?

“Bucky?” you asked after a few minutes passed.

His good and his bad days, you always stayed beside him. But you had to be afraid of him now, right? He wouldn’t blame you if you were. He also wouldn’t blame you if you never trusted him again.

“One of the happiest days of my life was when you and I started dating. Luck was finally on my side,” he said, remembering the smile on your face when he asked you to go out with him. He was on cloud nine when you said yes. “And then you eventually started sleeping over and I thought my luck was continuing to turn around.” He laughed a watery laugh. “I was going to ask you to move in with me soon.”

You placed your hand over his, not wanting to interrupt, but wanting him to know that you were listening and taking in every word.

“But I lied to you. I said I’d never hurt you and I did,” he said, biting his lip to the point where he almost drew blood. “You were the one person I was supposed to protect and take care of and…” He whimpered, doing his damnedest not to sob. “I can’t even protect you from myself.”

He couldn't even blame a nightmare for what he did because it was all him.

“You do protect and take care of me. You do it every single day,” you said. If he could see himself through your eyes, he’d believe it. “You're my hero.”

He finally looked at you and he didn't stop you from holding his face in your hands. How could he be your hero when felt like a villain? “Take care of you? Look what I did to your arm.” Tonight was a small cut and an accident, truly, but would if one day he did something worse? He still feared the day something triggered him and he went after the ones he loved the most.

You barely gave your arm a glance, like it didn't bother you at all. “That wasn't done on purpose. I would never hold something like that over your head and you wouldn't do it to me if the roles were reversed.”

The lump in his throat made it hard to speak. “But I’m supposed to be faster.”

Bucky faced his share of punishments when he wasn't the perfect machine. He wasn't supposed to feel. Only follow orders. It was hard to accept some days that he was truly free, that he was allowed to make mistakes. Being with you reminded him that he wasn't a machine, but that he was a human being.

And human beings weren't perfect no matter how hard they tried to be.

“You’re still fast. Still strong,” you said, your voice steady and firm, urging him to believe you. “But, Bucky, at the end of the day, accidents happen and we can't always protect each other from pain. That’s just not possible.”

He wanted to argue that he should keep you safe from pain, but he knew in his heart that you were right. “So we help and comfort each other?” he asked.

“Exactly. And I promise you I’m okay.”

“You’re really okay?” he whispered.

“I’m really okay,” you whispered back.

His shoulders dropped and tears spilled over before he could stop them. You weren't going to let him shoulder the blame no matter how hard he tried. “If you want to leave…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, but he’d get it if you wanted to go back to your place instead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said, giving him renewed strength and relief. “Especially since you were going to ask me to move in. What kind of partner would I be if I just left?”

“You’re the best,” he swore. The best person, partner, everything. “And I’m sorry.”

He had to say it once more and he wasn't sure how he’d make it up to you, but he’d find a way.

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” you whispered, brushing the softest of kisses against his lips as you wiped his tears away. “But if you really feel like you have to say it, then I forgive you.”

He couldn't believe some days how forgiving you were, how deep your love for him ran. “You still love me? Because I love you so much.”

“Always,” you promised.

Your answer allowed him to cry harder. In the safe space of his home with the woman he loved holding him and not running away, he didn't have to suppress his emotions. He could embrace it, the bad and the good, the ugly and the beautiful.

“Thank you,” he whispered once his crying slowed. Tears fell from your eyes, too. He tasted them when he kissed your cheeks. “It really was an accident.”

“I know,” you softly smiled. “How about we add checking the bed for knives and anything else to your bedtime routine?”

“That’s a good idea,” he said. It would be easy to add that to his nightly list. “I don’t…”

He looked toward the door, not wanting to say he couldn’t sleep in the bed tonight. At least not until he changed the sheets, even if there wasn’t a drop of blood on them. Even then he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep at all.

“Maybe we can curl up on the floor together with some blankets and pillows?” you offered, letting him make the choice.

There you went again being the understanding and patient partner, willing to curl up on an uncomfortable floor to make him feel better. “I’d like that.”

“Are you going to be okay?” you asked before he pressed a kiss to your lips.

It was a question you asked after every nightmare, every bad day.

He considered his answer before he uttered, “I will be.”

The truth was, he believed he had wounds that would never fully heal no matter how hard he tried. Something would come along out of nowhere and tear them open. If he were a better man, he’d let you go so you could find someone not so damaged. Instead he chained you to his side and dragged you down with him. But he remembered something you once said to him.

“We can learn to forgive and be forgiven by learning to heal with our hearts wide open.”

He opened his heart to you, and you accepted his love and gave it back tenfold. You took as much of his pain away as you could and made his days brighter. He was still learning how to be forgiven, but you helped him get better every day.

And both of you were going to be okay.

Oh, he deserves a hug and more. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[aveloka-draws]

Wait…..I just realized something.

In the cotltober “eyes” post….WAS IT SUPPOSED TO BE THE AFTERMATH OF THE “you are what you eat” DRAWING?!?! CUZ LAMB IS LITERALLY HOLDING THE SAME FORK AND KNIFE IN BOTH DRAWINGS

[angelltheninth]

Do I know anything about the predator series? Not in the slightest. But god after watching killer of killers, Monsterfucker me came out and started rubbing her hands like a fly and thought what would it be like to a predator boyfriend (ya know if we’re lucky to be a mate to a predator) sooo may I request that? Obviously there’s hunting involved but with a twist hehe

I've always loved the Yautja, they're one of my favorite alien species. Especially loved them in Killer of Killers.

Pairing: Male!Yautja x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, predator/prey dynamic, hunting, alien sex, size difference, mating, human!Reader

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: My theory is that if they were real they would be too scared to visit us because we're too horny for them.

Your Yautja!boyfriend was hard before he even started hunting you down, the very idea of you being his willing prey and prize enough to excite him so much that you didn't know if it would be a problem for him to chase you

Before you started running your Yautja!boyfriend made it clear that he won't hold back, he will hunt you like means it

You ran from your Yautja!boyfriend like your life depended on it not because you were scared of him but because you wanted to give him a real challenge, not some easy trophy

Every time he got close you felt yourself growing wetter and you knew your Yautja!boyfriend knew it too, that he was just as horny as you were if not more because of his urge to capture and breed you

As you hide you try to get your heartbeat and breathing under control but every time you hear your Yautja!boyfriend getting closer you can't help but touching your pussy, being deliberately loud as you moan out and hear him make a deep growling noise in return

He doesn't appreciate you teasing him like this so your Yautja!boyfriend gets you running again by cornering you against a tree first and getting right in your face, his huge hands spreading your legs open, almost chuckling when you whine because he's not doing anything else right now, so you push him, or try to, and run once more

When your Yautja!boyfriend corners you again you fight back in his grip, you struggle, you punch and scratch and even stab him with a hunting knife only to have him pin you down, his cock twitching and leaking more and more with every attempt at your retaliation

Since he's so much bigger than you your Yautja!boyfriend wants you to be at least somewhat comfortable when taking his huge cock

Despite your Yautja!boyfriend trying his best to be careful you angle yourself above his cock, grinning as your pussy drips and coats it with your slick and urging him to inch his cock into your pussy, the structured girth stretching you to your limit

Knowing that he could handle you however he wanted, use you however you wanted, use your whenever you wanted, fuck you however he wanted fueled your love for your Yautja!boyfriend and how caring he actually was

Even in the thorns of his mating cycle your Yatuja!boyfriend kept your pleasure on the forefront of his mind, keeping you so tightly pressed against his body that with each one of his thrusts made your clit throb against his abs

Can't possibly get his whole cock inside you no matter how hard he batters at your wet pussyhole and it makes your Yautja!boyfriend frustrated

Won't warn you when he's about to come because your Yautja!boyfriend wants to surprise you with how much seed he's able to pump into your womb at once

Insistent on pushing his seed as deep into your pussy and having it stay there your Yautja!boyfriend fucks you through your orgasm, leaving you a shaking, almost limp, mess in his arms

Purring was about the only way to describe the noise coming from your Yautja!boyfriend in the aftermath of your mating

Dividers by: @/cafekitsune

[em1i2a3]

At The Beach, In Every Life

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Rogue Inspired!Fem!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of you and Bob’s argument, you make a rash decision that changes everything. (Conclusion of Sailor Song, and Fable!)

Warnings: Angst…A lot of it once again…What can I say, I love the sadness 😩

Author’s Note: Well, this is the final part of this series, I hope y’all enjoy! I loved writing this a lot, it was a bit sad, but very therapeutic, and I hope it does the series justice. Also SURPRISE WITH THE DOUBLE UPDATE heheheh

Word Count: 5,621

A few weeks later, the dreams of you had stopped completely.

There were no more golden fields. No more glimpses of you half-turned with sunlight caught in your lashes. No more moments where your name left Bob’s lips and you smiled. No more touching. No more holding. There was only darkness now. Cold, still, and absolute.

It was a silence that didn’t just exist in his sleep anymore–it followed him like a shadow. Bob hadn’t said anything about it to anyone, but the emotional shift was unmistakable. He stopped showing up to breakfast, and began skipping team meetings without any explanation. He limited his conversations, and when he did choose to speak, it was barely a whisper–low and distant, like his voice has to travel through walls just to reach the people he was communicating to. His hands began trembling again, and he started sitting on them to try and numb the tingling that worked through the nerves, but nothing seemed to solve the issue.

Everyone had noticed, and for those that didn’t, it became apparent to them really quickly when you left the compound out of nowhere.

It had been exactly one week since the retreat–since the night on the porch, when you left him with words that shattered him like glass.

The morning in question had started quiet. You hadn’t shown up for your usual session in the training room. The logs were untouched, and your comm was shut off.

At first, no one panicked. You were a private person, and oftentimes you disappeared for a few hours, whether it was for a walk in the park, or to window shop because you couldn’t stand the thought of going into crowded stores. The team knew you sometimes craved some alone time, and they respected it.

But by noon, Yelena felt it in her bones that something was wrong.

There was no movement on the hall cams, and no heat signatures coming from your room–last time she had checked it had been fourteen hours since the last reading. She told herself you were asleep, or reading, or hiding from everyone like you sometimes did after a stressful night–but something in her chest had already gone tight.

And then she remembered.

Two nights before you had gone radio silent, you’d found her in the kitchen just before midnight. You didn’t say much–just leaned against the counter in your pyjamas and gloves, and sipped from a mug of tea, watching as she cut an apple. There was something restless in your eyes that night, something stormy, like you had been mulling over a thought that was bigger than your entire being. You asked her a question–a stupid, hypothetical one, she thought at the time.

”If you were in my shoes…Would you want to get rid of the power? Would you want to be normal?” Yelena had paused, her knife stilling over the cutting board. She had looked at you with a concerned look plastered on her face, and her eyes were already grilling you.

”What kind of question is that?” She asked, noticing the way you shrugged. She was trying to gauge your body language, attempting to somehow read your mind.

”I’m just curious,” You said quietly, “Would you get rid of the power or not?” Yelena gulped, looking back down at the apple she was slicing, chewing on the question for a moment. She knew she had to be careful with how she answered, because it was easy to misinterpret her words, so she cleared her throat, and looked back up at you.

”No…I’d want something better…Something that makes sense. Something that keeps me, exactly the way I am.” She responded. You didn’t say anything back, you just broke eye contact and glanced down at your steaming cup of tea, but Yelena had gone on, trying to shrug the question off like it was just a late-night talk between friends.

”There has to be something that gives you both…That lets you keep what’s yours without it being a danger towards everyone else around you…I think you shouldn’t throw away part of yourself because it’s hard, you should figure out how to live with it, hell maybe there’s research that you haven’t looked into yet.” You nodded slowly, and told her she was right before ending the conversation.

Now, when she was standing in your doorway the day you had gone missing in action, Yelena’s stomach turned.

Drawers were yanked from their tracks. Clothes were scattered. Your closet was cracked open like a wound, and your bed was rumpled, with the blanket hanging off the edge. A hoodie was bunched up on the floor, like it had been dropped mid-thought, and a glass of water was knocked over on your desk, which had slowly soaked into a folder of mission reports.

Your car keys were missing, and your go-bag–the one you said was for emergencies only–was gone.

There was no note, no message, not even a scribbled post-it on the fridge, there was just absence.

When Yelena and the rest of the team made the discovery Bob hadn’t been far. He was slouched on the couch in the living room staring at the same page of a book he hadn’t turned in hours. Bucky had rushed down the hall to find him, but he said nothing–he just looked at him with eyes that already held grief–and Bob followed, silent and pale, like he already knew something dire happened.

When he reached your room, he stopped mid-step in the doorway and didn’t breathe for almost a minute. He didn’t speak, nor did he blink. He just stared at the spot where your boots used to sit–lined up perfectly, always tucked against the wall. They were gone. Just like you.

The physical absence of you was worse than anything Bob could have imagined, because it didn’t just feel like you were gone–it felt like the world had been cracked open and left gaping. Like something that was sacred to him had been plucked out of the air and now everything around him was too loud and too quiet all at the same time. The light didn’t fall the same way through the windows, and the hallways felt longer…Even the sky looked wrong to him.

He began to spiral.

Not all at once. Not in a way anyone could fix. But in slow, shattering increments that no one could stop.

He started locking his door.

Stopped replying to messages unless it was mission-critical.

He wouldn’t eat unless someone left something at his door and walked away without speaking. He barely slept. And when he did, he didn’t dream. Not anymore. The golden fields were gone. So was the version of you who smiled and reached for him.

Now there was only blackness. Still. Silent.

And Bob cried when he thought no one could hear. He curled up on the floor of his bathroom or curled into the corner of his bed with his face pressed to the hoodie you left behind in your room. He had held it like it might still carry the shape of you if he clung hard enough. But the sweet scent of you had already begun to fade. Then on top of all that, that’s when the dreams ceased to exist.

He kept trying to stay busy. He organized his books, then destroyed the order and started again. He wrote down a list of things he wanted to say to you if he ever saw you again, then tore the page to pieces before he finished the last line. He tried to bake a cake, but he burned it. Then dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor and sobbed so hard Bucky had to pull him away from the smoke and extinguish the flames.

Nobody knew what to do, not even Alexei.

Walker offered to spar with him–Bob declined without meeting his eyes.

Ava left a stack of research papers on alternative power-dampening tech outside his door, and he didn’t open them.

Bucky was able to sit with him in silence but that didn’t help.

And Yelena kept checking gate logs, just in case you showed up, but nothing came. There were no messages, no information, and no you.

That was until one night, four weeks after your disappearance.

It was just past midnight when Yelena’s phone rang. She was in the kitchen, again, this time she was going through security footage of the 24 hours before and after you went missing.

The number that flashed across her screen was unrecognizable–no name, no contact photo. Just a block of jumbled numbers. It was the kind of number you didn’t reply to unless you were expecting to receive bad news. She almost let it go to voicemail…But something in her gut twisted, like her instincts were screaming for her to do the complete opposite of what a normal person would do.

So she answered.

”Hello?” There was silence on the other end for a beat or two, and then that’s when she heard it.

“Yelena…Please don’t hang up.” You said quietly. Yelena’s whole body locked up instantly. She didn’t say your name, she was too shocked to. For a second, she thought she was dreaming–hallucinating maybe. She had been losing sleep over your whereabouts, and she assumed that maybe it had finally splintered into pure delusion…But she knew your voice well enough, and she knew that wasn’t the case.

”Where the fuck are you?” She asked, voice low and trembling with rage. She tried to keep quiet, not wanting to garner attention from the other teammates, knowing that there was a possibility you would hang up if you heard anyone else’s voice apart from hers.

”I can’t tell you that,” You said softly, “I’m…I’m not trying to make this worse. I just needed to hear a voice that was familiar.” Yelena closed her eyes, and gripped the counter so tightly her knuckles went white.

”You left. You ran off. You didn’t leave a note, and you didn’t say goodbye…And now you call acting like you didn’t do anything wrong. How could you be so stupid Y/N?” There was silence on the other end for a moment, before she heard a sigh.

”I know what I did was wrong…And I’m sorry Lena…” There was a rustling sound, like you were outside. Wind moved through the line, maybe it was the shaking of trees or it was gravel crunching under your foot. It was distant, and soft, but it certainly wasn’t local, Yelena could tell.

“I found something,” You started, “A group out east. They call it ‘Second Light'.’ It’s this…Rehabilitation program for powered individuals with high-level threat classifications. It’s off the grid in upstate Maine, near Camden, hidden in the woods…” Yelena didn’t say anything, she just sat in silence.

”They don’t promise to fix you…They just promise to help you understand yourself. I don’t even know what I’m hoping for…I just–I wanted to be somewhere I couldn’t hurt anyone.” You added, and Yelena could feel the venom rising in her throat.

”Well it’s too late for that Y/N.”

“I know.” You responded.

”You should’ve told us…You should’ve told him.” There was a pause, and then your breath shook.

“How is he?” Yelena nearly laughed. It was a sharp, dry sound with no humor behind it, and she stood up from her seat and began walking around the kitchen with her eyes closed.

”How do you think he’s doing? He’s not eating, he’s not sleeping. I don’t think he’s seen the sky in four fucking weeks Y/N. Does that give you an answer? Or do you want more details?” Yelena’s voice was sharp, cracking around the edges. Her fury wasn’t clean. It was jagged, wrapped in grief. And for a moment, all she could hear on the other end of the line was your breath–shallow, shaky, like you were trying not to fall apart.

And then came the sound. A sniffle, quick and broken.

”It’s not like I don’t miss him, Lena.” Your voice dropped to a whisper full of splinters, “I miss him with all my fucking heart. Every second. Every breath. Every time I try to fall asleep, I remember he’s not down the hall from me. But you don’t know what that’s like…You don’t understand what it’s like to be around someone that you have such intense feelings for and you can’t touch them. You can’t feel them…You can’t hold onto them. You’ll never understand what it’s like to not be able to hold the person you–“ You cut yourself off with a breath that shook so hard it cracked through the receiver, as you tried to compose yourself with a shaky breath.

”I’m doing this because I want to live a normal fucking life with him one day…I want to wake up next to him and not worry that I’ll kill him if I roll the wrong way. I want to be able to hold his hand…To kiss him…Without thinking or being cautious.” Yelena’s back hit the fridge, and she slid down it, the cool metal biting her skin.

”Then why didn’t you tell him any of this?” She hissed, “Why didn’t you give him a chance to understand? Why did you push him away when we were at the cabin?” You exhaled so softly, it barely registered over the line. When you finally spoke, your voice was wrecked.

”Because he would’ve given himself up to be with me…He would’ve let go of who he was, and he would’ve tried to let the Sentry take over completely–just so he could be close to me. He would’ve burned himself to glow brighter, and I couldn’t ask that of him, I wouldn’t survive knowing I let him sacrifice the parts of himself that were still healing just to feel my skin.” Yelena’s breath hitched, but she didn’t interrupt. She didn’t need to. You were unraveling now, bleeding truth down the phone line, the confession clattering like shattered glass between you both.

“Bob is…Fragile. Not weak, but fragile, Lena. He’s been holding himself together with trembling hands since the day we took him in, and I saw it in his eyes…That night on the porch–I felt it. He would’ve said yes to anything. He would’ve given up being Bob just to be mine.” You swallowed, hard. Your voice thinned into a whisper, “And I want him…God, I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But not at the cost of who he is.” Yelena leaned forward, elbows digging into her knees, fist pressed against her mouth as her heart broke in slow motion.

“You think he’s better off now?” She asked, “You think he’s safe because you’re gone? He’s not. He’s broken and he’s slipping, and we are all struggling to catch him right now.”

“I know,” You whispered, “I know I made it worse, but I’m trying to be strong for him in the only way I can…I’m doing this so that when I come back I can give to him all the things I’ve been starving to give…” Your voice cracked again, the final words hitting like a stone dropped into water. Yelena clutched the phone tighter, her voice finally softening–but not with forgiveness. Just with desperation.

“Can you at least talk to him, Y/N?” She whispered. “Can you give him anything to pull him out of the hole he’s in? Please.”

The word landed like a bruise–please–because Yelena didn’t beg. She didn’t plead. And now here she was, curled against the refrigerator, voice raw and trembling with the effort of trying to hold up what little was left of you both. There was a pause on your end. Long. Heavy. The only sound was wind brushing across the mic and the faint static of distance. You swallowed so quietly Yelena could hear it through the line.

“…You can give him this number,” You said finally. “Tell him he doesn’t have to call. He doesn’t owe me that. But if he ever wants to…If he ever needs to…” Your voice broke, but you pushed through it anyway. “…I’ll answer. No matter what time it is. No matter where I am. I’ll pick up.”

Yelena pressed her eyes shut, nodding even though you couldn’t see it. Her throat tightened.

“I’ll tell him,” She said.

“Thank you,” You murmured. “And Lena?”

“Yeah?”

“…Just…Stay near him. Please. I know he won’t ask for help, but–don’t let him drown.” Yelena bit her lip so hard she drew blood, holding back the swell in her chest.

“I’m trying,” She said quietly. “But he needs you, not me.”

A breath caught in your throat, and before you could say anything Yelena hung up. She sat still for a long moment, with the phone cradled against her chest. Her eyes stung, and her heart ached in places she had not known could ache like that.

She sat at the kitchen table, lit only by the dim under-cabinet lights, scribbling your number onto the back of a takeout menu–then rewriting it again, neatly this time, onto the inside of a folded notepad page. She stared at it for a while. Ran her fingers over the ink like she could steady herself with the pressure of its presence. Then she stood.

Bob’s door was cracked open when she got there.

Not locked like it had been for days. Just…Barely open, as if he didn’t have the energy to close it anymore.

She knocked once, soft.

He didn’t respond.

“Bob?” she said gently, peeking in.

The room was dim and still. Bob sat at the foot of his bed in a sweatshirt that hung loose on his frame, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers twisted together like they were trying to keep him tethered. He looked up slowly, bleary-eyed and distant. Like the world was a radio station he couldn’t quite tune into.

Yelena stepped inside and crouched down in front of him. She didn’t sit. Didn’t linger. Just held out the piece of paper.

He looked at it like it was something sacred. Something terrifying.

“She called,” Yelena said quietly.

His eyes snapped to hers.

“She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s in some place called Second Light. It’s in Maine–rehab for powered individuals, off-grid.” Her voice stayed level, but it cracked once around the edges. He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His chest was rising fast and shallow, like breathing had suddenly become difficult.

“She didn’t ask me to convince you of anything,” Yelena added, pressing the paper into his hand. “But she said…If you ever wanted to talk. She’d pick up. No matter what.”

Bob took the paper like it might fall apart if he held it too tight. His thumb smudged the edge. He stared at the numbers. Silent. Pale.

Yelena didn’t wait for his decision.

She just reached out, squeezed his shoulder once, and stood.

“Whatever you do,” She said softly, “Do it for you. Not for anyone else.”

Then she walked out and closed the door behind her.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bob sat frozen for a moment. Then, with shaking fingers, he reached for his phone, and typed in the number. His thumb hovered over the call button for a split second, before he pressed it and brought the speaker to his ear.

The line rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then–

“Hello?” Your voice broke like dawn through fog–quiet, breath-warmed, and raw with the kind of vulnerability that only comes when you’re bracing for impact.

Bob froze.

Not just his hands, or his breath–but in his soul…Something inside him went utterly still. It wasn’t peace, not quite. But it was close. Like that first inhale after you’ve been drowning, the way your lungs tremble under the relief.

“Y/N?” His voice cracked so hard on your name it didn’t even sound like him. The syllables were hoarse, wrecked, like they’d been caught in his throat for weeks–because they had.

There was a pause on the line. One breath. Two.

Then–

“Bob…” Your voice softened into something that sounded like disbelief. Breathless and aching. His name came out of your mouth like a secret you’d been holding too long. Like a prayer you weren’t sure would ever be answered. His eyes shut tightly. A tremor ran through his shoulders.

“I didn’t know if you’d call,” You whispered. He could hear the wind behind you, faint but constant, like you were standing just outside somewhere. Alone.

“I didn’t know if you’d pick up,” Bob said. You both went quiet again. Not the kind of silence that hurts, but the kind that trembles between two people who have too much to say and no idea where to start.

“I…” Bob swallowed, and it was audible through the line. “A-Are you okay?” The words slipped out fast, heavy with concern.

“I’m okay…I promise. I’m not in any danger…I…I just couldn’t keep hurting you by staying.”

“Y-You weren’t hurting me,” Bob said quietly. “But…You hurt me when you left.” There was a crackle of static across the line, but neither of you moved to fill it. It stretched for several heartbeats–full of words unsaid, grief unspoken.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, and it nearly crushed him. “I should’ve told you I was leaving. I should’ve said goodbye. But I knew if I looked at you… I wouldn’t be able to go.”

Bob closed his eyes. His free hand trembled in his lap, clutching the paper Yelena had given him so tightly it had begun to wrinkle. He pressed the phone harder to his ear, as if doing so could make you physically closer.

“Why didn’t you let me help you?”

“Because you already carry too much,” You breathed. “Because I’ve seen what happens when people ask you to bear more than you should. And I couldn’t be the thing that pushed you over the edge. I couldn’t be the reason the Sentry came back.”

“You wouldn’t have been,” He said immediately, desperate. “And you never will be. The only time I ever felt like I could hold myself together was when I was near you.” You let out a shaky breath.

”Bob…”

”Please tell me you’ll come home…” He interrupted before you could continue. There was a pause and he swore he could hear your heartbeat through the speaker.

”I don’t have a date yet,” You said, quiet and trembling, “But when I do…I promise I’ll tell you first.” Bob pressed a hand to his chest, like he could soothe the ache under his ribs with sheer pressure.

“O-Okay…” There was a pause, and Bob heard another gust of wind blow by the speaker/

“I miss you…” He added, voice small. You didn’t answer right away. But when you did, he could hear the sorrow behind your words.

“I miss you too, Bob. I think about you all the time. You’re…Everywhere. In the little things. I can’t even make tea without hearing your voice in my head asking if I want honey in it.” You laughed under your breath, but it broke halfway through. “God, I missed your voice so much…” He dropped his head, let his eyes squeeze shut.

“I haven’t dreamed of you since you left.”

There was a long pause.

“Not once?” You asked, and the tremble in your voice fractured him. He shook his head even though you couldn’t see it.

“No more fields. No more sunlight. Not even your name. Just…Nothing. It’s like you got pulled out of the part of me that knew how to dream.”You were silent for a long time. When you spoke again, it sounded like you were holding back tears.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered. “That’s not what I wanted. That’s not what this was supposed to feel like. I thought I was protecting you.”

“I know,” He replied softly. “And maybe you were. But it still feels like someone carved the color out of the world.” You let out a breath that caught halfway up your chest.

“I still see you, Bob. In my sleep. Every night. You’re always there. Reading. Smiling. Saying my name like it means something.”

“It does mean something,” He said, sudden and sure. “It means everything to me.” You both fell quiet again, but the line didn’t feel empty–it felt like it was being held between you, like a thread stretched across distance.

“I should let you sleep,” You said eventually. “It’s late.”

“I don’t really sleep,” He admitted. “Not lately.”

“Still…I’ll be here tomorrow.” Bob nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Okay. I’ll call.”

“I’ll pick up.”

There was a pause. A heartbeat. A thousand things unsaid in the silence.

“Goodnight, Bob.”

His voice broke on the answer. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

The line went dead, but he didn’t move for a long time. Just sat there on the edge of the bed with the paper still in his hand, and the phone pressed to his chest–like he could keep the warmth of your voice inside him a little longer. Like maybe if he held still enough, he could start dreaming again.

———Three Months Later———

The sun was sinking low on the horizon as you pulled into the backlot of the compound.

It had been ninety-one days, and every single one was spent counting down to this.

You had put in the work, you had done every single activity Second Light gave to you. They helped unravel the mental block that was inhibiting you from containing your powers properly, they gave you techniques on how to control everything, and own it rather than have it own you. It took a lot of time, but when you were finally able to get the courage to touch one of the counselors without fear of hurting them, you cried for hours.

The tires crunched over the gravel, and your hands–steady, and sure–tightened around the wheel as you brought the car to a stop in your old spot. Your heart pounded so loud it echoed in your ears. You hadn’t told anyone else the exact time you’d be arriving. Just Bob. And when you looked up toward the main doors–there he was.

Bob stood perfectly still at the top of the steps, hands clutched at his sides like he didn’t trust them not to tremble. His eyes were wide, too-bright in the low golden light, and his mouth was slightly open, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. His sweatshirt looked too big on him again, sleeves bunched at the wrists, and his hair was messy like he’d been pacing with his hands dragging through it all day. He hadn’t moved an inch. Not until you flung the door open.

You slammed it behind you and ran.

Hard, fast, and unthinking–like you had been holding yourself back for too long and couldn’t wait one more second. The sound of your boots echoed over the concrete of the backlot, and Bob descended the steps just as you reached them. Your arms collided first, wrapping around his shoulders, and his hands caught your waist so firmly it made your knees buckle. The impact knocked a breath out of both of you.

“Bob,” You gasped against his neck.

“God–” His voice cracked as his arms crushed you closer, one hand at your lower back, the other gripping the back of your jacket like if he let go, the ground might fall out from under him. “I-I missed you–I missed you so bad.”

You buried your face into his shoulder, and his chest was warm and alive beneath your cheek. No gloves. No hesitation. Just contact–real, and grounded, aching with every second lost and every second recovered.

When you finally pulled back–just enough to see him–your hands slid up his chest, slow and reverent. You cradled his face between your palms, thumbs brushing the smooth apples of his cheeks, and he leaned into the touch with a breathless noise that tore straight from his chest. His stubble was warm and soft beneath your fingers, the bone beneath solid and familiar.

“You feel…” You whispered, eyes searching his face like a map you’d only ever been allowed to look at from a distance. “God, you feel real.”

Bob’s eyes shimmered. He lifted one trembling hand to wrap gently around your wrist, and with aching care, he turned your palm inward and pressed a kiss to it.

His lips lingered there. Like he didn’t just want to kiss you–he wanted to memorize the pulse beneath your skin. His breath hitched as he pulled away just enough to whisper against your fingers:

“I-I’ve been looking forward to this…For ninety-one d-days…” You swallowed hard, feeling the limp in your throat.

“I kept dreaming about what it would feel like to touch you. And when I realized I could–I knew the first person I ever wanted to hold like this again…Was you.” You whispered.

He looked at you like you hung constellations in his chest.

And then he leaned in.

It was slow at first, but when your eyes fluttered shut, and your breath ghosted over his lips, he immediately closed the gap and kissed you.

It was soft. So soft it nearly broke you.

Mouths brushing, lips catching, breath mingling between one shared heartbeat. His hand slid up to cup your jaw as yours clutched the front of his sweatshirt, and the kiss deepened with a quiet, desperate sound from his chest. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. But it was everything you had both been waiting for.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and your breaths came in tandem–shaky, trembling, full of something holy.

You stayed wrapped in that shared breath, forehead to forehead, the weight of absence melting between your bodies. His thumb brushed along your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t realize had fallen. You laughed softly under your breath–shaky and overwhelmed–as your hands slid into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck just to feel more of him.

Bob pulled back a few inches, just enough to look at you.

And he looked. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of your face, like you might disappear if he blinked. His lips were parted, breath still coming in short little exhales, and his eyes looked like they were drowning in stars.

“I need to kiss you again,” He said, voice low, like a prayer barely surviving in his throat. “Please.”

You nodded and this time he didn’t hesitate.

This kiss was different.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t soft.

It was everything.

He kissed you like you were the gravity keeping him on the ground, like he had been dreaming of your mouth every single night and was now trying to make up for every one he had woken from aching. It was unsteady, raw, and filled with three months worth of longing that was unspoken through trembling phone calls and sleepless nights.

You whimpered into it, gripping his sweatshirt like a rope as he backed you up toward the concrete wall until your spine met the coolness of it. His hand slid up the side of your body, careful, reverent, his palm finally resting over your heart.

And when he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hitched–then stilled.

“I–I love you,” He said.

It broke like thunder between you, cracking the silence with truth too big to hold back any longer. “I love you,” He repeated, as if saying it once couldn’t possibly be enough.

“I love you, and I never stopped. Not for a single second. I didn’t know how to say it before you left, but I said it every time I closed my eyes. Every time I picked up the phone. I was afraid it would hurt you to hear it–but not saying it hurt more.”

Tears welled again, catching the glow of the fading sun, and you cupped his face tighter, your thumbs brushing the wet beneath his lashes.

“You just said it perfectly,” You whispered. “You said everything.”

And then your voice broke–just a little. Because this time, it wasn’t from pain. It was from something fuller. Heavier. Brighter.

“I love you too, Bob. I think I’ve loved you from the start–I just didn’t know what to do with something that big. But I’m not afraid of it anymore. I’m not afraid of touching you. I’m not afraid of myself. Not if it means I get to have you.”

His breath caught, and he leaned in again–gentler this time. His lips brushed yours in a kiss that felt more like a vow. Slow. Sure. Infinite.

Around you, the backlot was quiet. The last of the sun slipped below the skyline, casting everything in a golden afterglow that made the world feel suspended–like time itself had paused just to bear witness. And when Bob pulled back again, smiling for the first time in what felt like years, he whispered,

“W-Welcome home..”

You smiled back, radiant through your tears, and took his hand.

“Take me inside,” You said. “I want to start over. Right here. With you.”

And together, under the weight of everything that had brought you back, you walked into the compound hand in hand.

Like nothing had ever broken.

Like everything had always led to this.

——LE FIN——

[nyc-tophile]

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 | Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier x fem!reader

It was supposed to be a quick and easy mission—break in, grab the files, and get out. Simple. Or so you thought. But here you were, going toe-to-toe with the one person you were told to avoid at all costs: the Winter Soldier.

Warnings - nsfw [18+], sexual content, explicit smut, dub-con, weapon use, dom!Winter Soldier, degradation, overstimulation, rough sex, choking, hair pulling, wall sex, size kink, possessiveness/obsession, mild somnophilia, aftercare absence, mild objectification, slight trauma aftermath / emotional fallout

Author's Note: Originally, this was meant to be a one-shot titled The Winter Soldier, with no plans for a continuation. But as I started writing, I started liking the storyline, so now it's becoming When Winter Comes, and yes, there will be a part two!

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐

Panic surged through you as you threw desperate punches, backpedaling with each strike. You’d told yourself this would be easy, clean, and quick. But deep down, you should’ve known. Missions like this never stay simple for long.

A sharp pain flared in your side as his punch landed hard against your ribs. You groaned, gritting your teeth through it. Fighting back, you kicked at his legs, knocking him to his knees. Taking the moment, you slammed a punch into his face while he was down.

But he recovered fast. In a blur, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around your waist and slamming you backward. Your spine hit the cold edge of a metal table, the force knocking the air from your lungs.

“Fuck,” you gasped, pain shooting through your back.

You’d had enough. Your hand grabbed onto the knife strapped to your thigh. With a sharp pull, you drove the blade into his shoulder and kneed him in the chest as hard as possible. He staggered, and with all the strength you had left, you shoved him off you.

He hit the floor with a thud. Without looking back to see if he stayed on the floor, you ran out of the now-wrecked room, breathing heavily.

“I’ve got the flash drive — I’m on my way out of the base now!” you shouted into your radio, your voice echoing through the long, dark corridors of the Hydra compound.

The thought of finishing the mission vanished as quickly as it came. A sudden impact slammed you into the nearby door, throwing you into the next room. Your ears rang, your vision blurred, and a groan escaped your lips as you hit the floor, clutching your ribs. Dazed, you looked up.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me...” you groaned, trying to stand — but you barely got halfway up before your legs were yanked out from under you, dragging you forward.

“Give it to me,” the Winter Soldier said, now standing over you, his legs planted on either side of your body.

“I’d rather die,” you muttered, reaching for the spare knife hidden in your pants. But before you could move, he dropped onto you, pinning you down with his full weight. His hand clamped around your wrists, slamming them above your head.

“Last chance. Give it to me,” he growled, leaning in, the threat sharp in his voice.

As he hovered over you, you finally got a proper look at him — the way his piercing blue eyes scanned your face, how strands of long brown hair slipped from behind his ears, brushing your skin and tickling the side of your face.

Breathing heavily, your grip tightened around the flash drive. “Piss the fuck off,” you spat.

Before you could register what was happening, his hand struck your cheek with a sharp slap, then wrapped around your throat.

“You just like being a hard-ass, don’t you?” the Soldier muttered, his grip tightening around your neck.

You hummed. “When I need to.” You shifted, trying to free yourself from beneath him, but his legs tightened around you, cutting off any chance of escape.

“How about you just let me go and we pretend none of this ever happened?” you offered, voice light but edged with defiance.

“Then I’d be a dead man,” he replied quietly.

His eyes lingered on you for a long moment. The grip around your neck loosened slightly — not enough to move, but just enough to breathe. His metal hand still held your wrists firmly in place.

You watched as he leaned in, his mask brushing against your nose. His eyes softened — just slightly — though the cold edge never fully left them.

Before you could think twice, you leaned up and pressed your lips to the spot where his mouth would be, right against his mask.

You felt his body relax, just slightly. His legs loosened around your waist before he pulled back.

“What? Didn’t like that, pretty boy?” you teased, a sly grin tugging at your lips.

His eyes were wide, and for a second, you caught the faintest flush of pink across his cheeks.

The hand still at your throat tightened — not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who was still in control. Then something shifted in him. His metal hand released your wrists and moved to his mask. Without a word, he pulled it off, revealing his face.

You took him in, shamelessly letting your eyes trace the scars and lines scattered across his face. He didn’t look away.

The moment didn’t last long. Before you could say anything, his lips were on yours.

They were softer than you expected — cracked, rough in places, but still careful. His right hand never left your throat. You hummed softly, your hands sliding up to his face, fingers brushing along his jaw. His metal hand settled on your waist, firm and steady, giving a slow, deliberate squeeze.

Without thinking, your hands slid from his face to his chest. Pulling back slightly, you searched his expression.

“Can I?” you asked, your eyes flicking down to the straps that crossed his shirt.

He nodded quickly, then leaned back in, his lips finding yours again. His hands moved with intention now, gripping your waist before sliding under your shirt, his fingers skimming across your skin.

As you worked to unbuckle the straps, a sharp gasp escaped you — the cold metal of his hand now pressed directly against your bare side.

You moved quickly, freeing the last of the straps and tossing them aside with a metallic clatter as they hit the floor. His kiss grew more desperate, and your fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his torso.

He broke the kiss just long enough to pull his hands from under your shirt and strip his own off in one swift motion, tossing them aside. Before you could properly take him in, his metal hand gripped your shirt — and with a single, rough pull, he tore it from your body.

“C’mon, I needed that,” you groaned, glaring at the shredded fabric.

“Shut up,” he snapped, voice low and stern, before standing and pulling you up with him.

He pinned you to the wall, leaning in to kiss you again. His knee slid between your thighs, pressing firmly against your core. You let out a soft moan, fingers tangling in his hair as you gave it a gentle tug. His hands roamed your body, mapping every inch like he needed to memorize it.

Grinding down into his thigh to get some kind of relief, another breathless sound slipping from your lips.

His fingers toyed with the button of your pants before popping it open, sliding them down, and kicking them aside. He broke the kiss and stepped back, eyes sweeping over you — lace bra, black underwear, flushed skin.

“Perfect,” he muttered, voice rough with desire, before undoing his pants and pushing them down.

Before this mission, there was one thing you knew for sure about the Winter Soldier: he’d taken the super soldier serum. You’d studied that serum like the back of your hand — you knew exactly what it did. It enhanced everything.

Your gaze dropped, trailing along every sharp line and hard curve of his body — solid, sculpted, built to perfection. As your eyes traveled lower, the sheer size of him hit you, and you swallowed hard.

He noticed. “What?” he said with a low chuckle, stepping toward you. “Cat got your tongue?”

Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly and set you down on the nearby table, stepping between your legs like he belonged there.

His hands found your neck, applying the slightest pressure as his lips met yours. The kiss was urgent, like he needed it to survive. Your hands wandered across his body, exploring every dip, every curve, every scar, committing each one to memory.

“Please…” you breathed, your moan muffled against his mouth.

“Please, what?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“I need you,” you whispered, barely able to speak.

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest as his hands slid to the waistband of his underwear. “Ask, and you shall receive,” he muttered, pulling them down and tossing them aside.

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked at him.  “T-That’s not going to fit…” You whispered, anxiety lacing your voice.

He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “I’ll make it fit,” he said, his voice calm.

His metal hand slipped down, a single finger hooking around the waistband of your panties. With a sharp tug, the fabric tore in his grasp.

“Look at you… Already so wet for me,” he hummed with a low chuckle.

His fingers traced slowly over your slick folds, teasing you. Then, without warning, his middle finger slid into you. You gasped, the cool touch of metal rubbing against your walls sending a jolt through your core. His gaze fixed on your face, studying each reaction like he was memorizing them.

As his finger began to move faster, your moans grew louder, your hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in and leaving crescent-shaped marks.

“Oh, you little slut,” he chuckled darkly, mocking. “Just one finger in, and you already sound like a desperate whore.” 

Watching you squirm, a tight smile curled on his lips before he slipped his ring finger inside you. "Such a good girl, taking my fingers so well," he murmured with a smirk, pressing a kiss to your lips as he curled his fingers upward.

A loud moan escaped you, your fingers digging into him, legs tightening around his waist.

"Aww, looks like I found your spot," he said, the amusement in his voice almost sounding like laughter.

"Please, I need you..." you begged.

He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. "Since you asked so nicely," he hummed, slowly pulling his fingers out from your core. Bringing them to his mouth, he sucked your taste from his fingers with deliberate care.

"Perfect," he mumbled, his hand moving down to grip the base of his cock. Loosening your legs around him, he guided himself to your core, the tip rubbing slowly against your clit.

“Fuck,” you moaned quietly, your arms wrapping around his neck as he pushed the tip into your cunt.

A soft groan slipped from your lips as you bit down on your lip.

“Shh... you can take it. Just relax,” he whispered, his right hand settling on your hip, squeezing gently before pushing deeper.

The stretch felt unbearable, every inch of him sinking further into you. A low groan rumbled from the soldier’s chest, his grip on your waist tightening—you already knew that would leave a bruise later.

“Look at you, taking me so well, like the good girl you are,” he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure as your walls tightened around him.

He bottomed out with a deep thrust, pausing for a few seconds. Then he pulled back slowly, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming his hips forward again. You moaned loudly, your head falling back against the wall.

Sliding his arms under your thighs, he lifted your legs, adjusting the angle, driving himself deeper with each thrust.

Squeezing your eyes shut, your fingers dug into his skin, scratching deep and leaving red, swollen trails.

“No, no—look at me, doll,” he muttered, his hand moving to deliver soft but firm taps against your cheek. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

His grip tightened around your face, fingers pressing into your cheek with a firm squeeze.

Your eyes fluttered open, gaze dropping slightly as he pounded into you with unrelenting force.

His hand never left your face as he thrust harder into you, your orgasm building with every deep stroke. Your walls clenched around him, drawing a ragged breath from his lips, but his rhythm barely faltered.

“So fucking tight for me,” he growled, his eyes locked on yours, nothing but hunger burning in them.

Your body trembled beneath him, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter—until it snapped. Pleasure crashing over you, your moans spilling into the heated space between you.

But he didn’t stop. Not when you felt like heaven wrapped around him.

He knew this was wrong—knew he was putting all of Hydra at risk—but none of that mattered. All he needed right now was you and only you.

His hand slid back to your waist, gripping you firmly, possessively. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving it red and burning.

He glanced down, watching the way your cunt stretched around him, slick pooling beneath you. He could’ve come just from the sight alone, but he didn’t. He wanted to watch you squirm beneath him, fucked-out and overstimulated.

“Such a good fucking girl for me,” he growled, slamming into you with each word, punctuating every syllable with a thrust.

Feeling his stomach tighten, he thrust into you harder, your moans echoing through the empty room. Your hands gripped his biceps, fingers digging in as you watched him fuck you—his hair disheveled, his body gleaming with a thin layer of sweat.

His breath grew ragged, each exhale brushing hot against your cheek as he leaned closer, hips snapping with unrelenting rhythm.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he growled, voice low and ragged. You gasped, your nails raking down his arms as your legs trembled beneath the weight of pleasure.

He was close—hips relentless, rhythm brutal. His mouth found your neck, teeth sinking into your skin as he left his mark. His grip around you tightened, possessive and desperate.

“F-fuck!” He slammed his hips flush against yours, burying himself deep, and before you could process the wave building inside you, you felt his hot cum flood your cunt.

You moaned at the sensation, the warmth of him filling you, only pushing you further.

His body shuddered through release, as he kept moving, chasing the aftershocks. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, your bodies covered in sweat.

The two of you stayed there, breathing heavily, bodies tangled together, hearts still racing as you both came down from the high.

“You need to go… they’ll start searching the building soon,” he muttered, voice hoarse as he stepped back.

You let out a soft moan when his cock slipped from your still-sensitive walls, the sudden emptiness making you shiver.

When you looked up, he was already pulling his pants back on, his expression unreadable, jaw tight.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet on unsteady legs. You reached for your clothes, pulling on your pants with a wince, the ache between your thighs a sharp reminder of what had just happened. Your ripped panties lay forgotten on the ground.

“My shirt…” You murmured, frowning at the torn fabric in your hands.

He glanced over, then wordlessly peeled off his shirt and handed it to you.

You hesitated, looking at him—shirtless now, bruised, and marked by your nails. The scent of sex still lingered in the air between you.

“Thanks,” you said, pulling the shirt over your head. It was too big, hanging off one shoulder, still warm from his body.

He nodded but didn’t speak. Instead, he stepped toward the door, pausing to glance back at you.

“I’ll find you,” he said quietly. “When this is over.”

Something in his voice—half promise, half plea—made your throat tighten.

You gave a small nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you alone in the aftermath, heart pounding, already aching for more

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #19 死

† infiltration †

"When you ask about Sylvia, you are poking at wounds that run deeper than any knife Jeon's ever taken to the chest."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: the infiltration mission begins with motorcycle rides and pine-scented tension, jeon's impromptu marriage lie creates dangerous dynamics, seduction division training put to deadly use against fervio and kaleido, comm line conversations revealing painful histories, successful bug planting while y/n plays the most dangerous game of flirtation, and one name that changes everything

☠ author's note ☠

THE INFILTRATION MISSION IS FINALLY HERE!!! Can I just say how absolutely FERAL I am about this chapter?? Because holy SHIT did this turn out more intense than I planned. Originally this was going to be a straightforward "get in, plant bug, get out" situation but then my brain said "hey what if we make this psychologically devastating instead?" and here we are!

First off, let's talk about Jeon on that motorcycle because DEAR GOD. Writing him all leather-clad and dangerous while being simultaneously protective and calculating? *chef's kiss* The man really said "let me create the perfect storm of sexual tension and strategic brilliance" and then had the AUDACITY to pull that husband stunt. Like sir, who gave you permission to be that smooth under pressure? The way he reads Kaleido's predatory nature and immediately adapts the cover story? That's not just tactical genius, that's emotional intelligence wrapped in a bulletproof vest and it's SO fucking attractive.

But can we also discuss the absolute NIGHTMARE that is Fervio? Writing that character genuinely made my skin crawl. I spent SO much time researching the psychology of sadistic personalities to make him authentically terrifying without glorifying anything. The yellow contacts, the theatrical cruelty, the way he gets off on psychological manipulation—every detail was chosen to make readers feel the same visceral discomfort that Y/N experiences. And Y/N having to flirt with that monster while maintaining her cover? That girl deserves a medal for not throwing up or committing murder on the spot.

The comm line dynamics absolutely DESTROYED me to write. Having AD and Jeon's fractured relationship play out in real-time while Jeon's navigating enemy territory? The guilt, the anger, the way old wounds keep reopening? And then that slip about Sylvia—OOPS. Y/N hearing that name and filing it away for later? The way Jeon's walls SLAM back up the second she asks about it? I'm obsessed with how trauma shapes every interaction between these characters, how the past keeps bleeding into the present no matter how hard they try to compartmentalize.

Speaking of compartmentalizing—Y/N's performance in this chapter showcases exactly why she belongs in Seduction Division. The way she reads the room, adapts to Jeon's improvisation, keeps both psychopaths distracted while processing the horror of their situation? That's not just survival, that's mastery. She's not some damsel being protected; she's a professional doing her job under the worst possible circumstances. The balance between vulnerability and competence, between genuine fear and trained composure—that's what makes her such a compelling character.

The ending though? Jeon retreating back into his shell the moment Y/N shows curiosity about his past? PAIN. Pure, unadulterated emotional pain. He's so desperate to maintain distance, to keep his trauma locked away, but Y/N's already under his skin. She's asking the right questions and it terrifies him. Because letting someone see your wounds means risking them poking at them, and Jeon's been hurt enough for several lifetimes.

Next chapter is going to be... *evil laughter* ...let's just say the aftermath of this mission is going to hit DIFFERENT. Hope you're ready for some serious emotional excavation because these two aren't done processing what just happened. Not by a long shot.

Edit: Also, yeah. The coins was a post-editing addition because I’ve been watching the John Wick movies and I loved the coin system so I adapted it heheheheh. 🤭

— read on

read on ao3

read on wattpad

tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Pine is all you can smell right now.

It's annoying, really, how the air outside the night air hits different outside the castle. It's crisp—almost sharp against your skin.

And of course, because the universe loves to fuck with you, it's saturated with that distinct scent of pine and wood that follows Jeon everywhere.

You check your phone. 22:00. Perfect timing.

The moon's doing that thing where it makes everything look like a noir film, all dramatic shadows and silver light washing over the castle grounds. It's actually kind of pretty, in a moody sort of way.

Jeon's walking ahead of you, and god—even his walk is intimidating.

The air around him swirls slightly, tinged with static. Like a thunderstorm incoming.

You're starting to think his whole 'I must look badass 24/7' thing is just his default setting.

The gravel crunches under his boots as he approaches his bike. It's this sleek, black monster of a machine that somehow manages to look both elegant and menacing.

Just like its owner, you think, watching him move with that fluid grace that comes from years of... well, probably things you'd rather not think about.

He opens a compartment on the bike, pulling out leather gloves with an ease that makes it look like he's done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably has. The way he slides them on is almost hypnotic—not that you're staring or anything.

(d̶e̶f̶i̶n̶i̶t̶e̶l̶y̶ maybe staring.)

Then he's got two helmets in his hands, checking them over like he's inspecting weapons.

Everything's a tactical operation with this man, isn't it?

He puts his on first, and suddenly Chief Jeon of Tactical Assassinations is fully activated. The transformation would be impressive if it wasn't so intense.

The second helmet comes flying at you without warning.

Your hands scramble to catch it—which you do, thankfully, because dropping it would be mortifying. But then comes the real challenge: actually putting the damn thing on.

The straps are being particularly bitchy tonight. They keep slipping through your fingers like they're coated in butter or something. You're probably making this look way harder than it needs to be, but whatever.

You catch Jeon watching you, and there's this tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. It's barely there, but you've learned to spot these micro-expressions of his. The fact that you can read him at all is probably something you should worry about later.

"You always manage to make the simplest tasks look like a battle," he says, voice slightly muffled by his helmet.

The words should sting, but there's this undercurrent of... something else. Something almost playful, if you didn't know better.

He steps closer, and fuck—the wind hits you full force.

It's like being caught in the eye of a storm, where everything's calm but you know there's chaos just inches away.

His gloved hands reach for the straps, and despite the leather barrier, his touch is weirdly gentle.

Clinical, sure, but gentle.

"There," he says, and it's just one word but it feels loaded.

You make the mistake of looking up at his eyes—those dark, intense eyes that make you feel like you're being dissected and devoured all at once.

"Thanks," you manage to say, keeping your voice steady because you refuse to let him see how much he affects you. "I guess I'm still not used to all this."

He takes a step back, and you can breathe again. His expression is back to that unreadable mask he wears so well.

"You're still fairly new, you've got time to learn. Everyone does, eventually."

Silence. Words hovering between you, carried by the night breeze.

If you were s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ optimistic enough, you might think his voice had softened just a bit. But you know better.

You've learned better.

"We should get going," he says, breaking whatever moment was building. "We have a long night ahead of us."

Yeah, you think. A long night of pretending this tension doesn't exist.

Jeon swings his leg over the bike with this fluid grace that's honestly unfair, engine purring beneath him like some mechanical beast waiting to be unleashed.

You climb on after him, trying (and probably failing) to look half as graceful. The leather seat is cool against your thighs, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you need to be.

Fuck it.

You wrap your arms around his torso, hands splaying across his abdomen. Even through his jacket, you can feel how solid he is—all muscle, all heat, like a human furnace.

The proximity makes your skin tingle where you're pressed against him.

He goes completely still for a moment. You feel his breath catch, just slightly. Then he relaxes, and you could swear the air shifts, becoming less stormy, more like a breeze.

The engine growls louder as he revs it.

"Hold on tight," he says, and you know that tone. That's his 'I'm-about-to-be-a-little-shit' voice. "Don't let go."

You barely have time to process the warning before he twists the throttle.

The bike lurches forward and—holy shit—you slam back against him, the sudden acceleration catching you completely off guard. A very u̶n̶d̶i̶g̶n̶i̶f̶i̶e̶d̶ surprised yelp escapes you as he immediately cuts the speed, leaving you pressed firmly against his back.

The bastard chuckles. You can feel it rumble through his chest where you're plastered against him.

"Gotta hold on tighter than that, sunshine," he taunts, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Don't want you flying off the back now."

You smack his shoulder, hard enough to mean business but not enough to actually hurt.

Not that you could probably hurt him anyway. He's like a fucking brick wall.

"You're such a dick," you mutter, but you're fighting back a smile he can't see.

You can practically feel his shit-eating grin and you're starting to think this whole helmet struggle earlier was just an excuse to mess with you.

"Maybe I should drive," you say, matching his teasing tone. "Since you clearly can't be trusted to act like a proper adult."

"In your dreams, sunshine." The pet name rolls off his tongue like honey-coated poison. "Now hold on properly, unless you want another demonstration."

You tighten your grip around him—maybe a bit more forcefully than necessary. Your chest presses flush against his back, and you swear you feel his breath hitch again.

"Just drive the damn bike, Jeon," you say, trying to sound annoyed but probably failing miserably.

"Yes ma'am," he drawls, and this time when he revs the engine, the acceleration is smooth as silk as you both glide into the darkness.

The bike thunders beneath you, eating up the empty backroads leading away from the castle.

You catch glimpses of city lights in the distance, little pinpricks of civilization breaking through the darkness.

Jeon handles the bike like it's an extension of himself, without exaggeration.

His back is solid against your chest, and you're definitely n̶o̶t̶ totally noticing how the leather jacket stretches across his shoulders with each turn. One gloved hand stays steady on the throttle while the other grips the handlebar confidently.

The road then straightens out, and Jeon takes full advantage.

The engine roars as he opens up the throttle, and you instinctively press closer. Your thighs tighten around the bike, and you swear you feel him tense for a split second before relaxing again.

After that, your world becomes a blur of shadows and occasional bursts of neon. Each mile brings you closer to the city, that concrete jungle where your target is hiding.

The buildings start growing taller, streets getting busier, and Jeon weaves through traffic with this contained impatience that you feel in your bones. Every block brings you deeper into enemy territory, and you can't help but think about what's waiting at the end of this ride.

God, you think, this is actually happening.

The bike slows as Jeon turns down an alley, the engine's growl echoing off brick walls before he kills it.

You've stopped beside this completely unremarkable door that somehow manages to look threatening anyway.

Because you know what's behind it.

Who's behind it.

Jeon pulls off his helmet, and those dark eyes find yours.

They're intense, focused—the kind of look that makes your stomach do this weird flip thing you're choosing to ignore.

"We're here," he says, voice low and serious.

You resist the urge to say 'no shit.'

Barely.

Jeon slides off the bike and you follow, yanking off the helmet and running fingers through your hair to fix whatever mess the wind made of it.

The alley you're in is sketchy as fuck—all grimy walls and creepy shadows.

And to add onto that—a siren wails somewhere in the distance before dying out, and you can't help but think how perfectly ominous that is.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your shit together.

The mission brief keeps playing in your head like some twisted PowerPoint presentation: get in, play nice with the bad guys, wait for the lights to go out.

Easy peasy.

Right.

No pressure or anything—just the tiny matter of infiltrating a rival gang's hideout.

Then, Jeon is moving—towards the grimy door.

Wind cuts through the clothing that shields you from the force of nature he is.

You follow close behind, channeling every ounce of that Seduction Division training into looking like you absolutely belong here. Time to put on the mask, become whoever these assholes need you to be.

Jeon knocks on the door—two quick taps, one long, two quick. The sound bounces off the alley walls before getting swallowed by the night.

For a moment, there's nothing but silence and your heartbeat doing this annoying thing where it won't slow the fuck down.

Then comes the click of locks, and the door swings open to reveal this absolute unit of a guy. His face is mostly shadow, but his suspicion? That's crystal clear.

He gives you both this once-over that practically screams 'I don't trust you,' but steps aside anyway.

Jeon walks in first, and you follow his lead, channeling your inner bad bitch because that's what's gonna keep you alive tonight.

The inside is like every seedy underground bar in every crime movie ever, except the smell is worse. It's this nasty cocktail of booze and something sickeningly sweet that makes your nose want to revolt. You force yourself not to react, keeping your face neutral even though your lungs are screaming.

You weave through the crowd behind Jeon, feeling eyes tracking your movement. Some look curious, others suspicious, but most are too wasted or high to give a shit. You keep your head high, shoulders back, playing the role of someone who's seen it all and isn't impressed.

Jeon posts up at the bar like he's been coming here his whole life. When the bartender comes over, Jeon pulls this smile that's all teeth and zero warmth. It's kind of terrifying how good he is at this.

"We're here to see Kaleido," he says, smooth as silk. "Tell him the traders he's been expecting have arrived."

The bartender's got a sour face on. "I don't know any Kaleido," he says, flat and cold.

But Jeon? He doesn't even blink. Just does this thing where he bites the inside of his cheek—which is not distracting at all—and pulls out two golden coins, sliding them across the counter like he's dealing cards.

"We're the new faces in town," he says, casual as fuck. "Kaleido is expecting us."

You resist the urge to smirk. Because damn, he's good at this.

The bartender snatches up the coins like they personally offended him. His eyes flick between the metal and your faces, doing that thing where he's trying real hard to catch you in a lie. You keep your face neutral even though your stomach's doing gymnastics.

After what feels like fucking forever, he gives this tiny nod that probably killed him inside and slides the coins in his pocket.

"Wait here," he grunts, disappearing through a door that's seen better days.

You fight the urge to bounce your leg or fidget with your clothes or do any of the thousand nervous tells that would blow your cover right now.

The wait is excruciating. You're about to lose your mind when the bartender finally emerges with this dude looks like he bench presses cars for fun, with a face that's all hard angles and zero emotion. He doesn't say a word, just jerks his head toward the back like you're supposed to know what that means.

Jeon pushes off the bar, and the way he straightens up is somehow both lazy and intimidating. He tilts his head slightly—your cue to follow. Your heart's going absolutely feral in your chest, but you've got your game face locked down tight.

No backing out now.

You follow Jeon and Mr. Mountain through the crowd.

The place is exactly what you'd expect from a seedy underground bar—sketchy people having sketchy conversations over even sketchier drinks.

The hallway they lead you down is grimy as fuck, and you can hear music thumping through the walls from somewhere nearby.

Muscles McGee opens a door to what has to be the most depressing room you've ever seen—dim, small, and probably hasn't seen a cleaning crew since the 90s.

"Kaleido will be with you shortly," he rumbles, and his voice matches his appearance perfectly—like gravel in a blender.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone with Jeon.

His eyes find yours in the low light, and there's this whole conversation happening without words.

You both know what's at stake here.

One wrong move and you're both d̶e̶a̶d̶ screwed.

The door swings open again, and in walks this guy who looks like he raided a rapper's closet. His suit probably costs more than your yearly salary, and he's wearing enough gold to fund a small country.

He gives you this dismissive once-over that makes your blood boil before turning to Jeon with barely concealed suspicion.

"Was told to expect the woman," he drawls, sounding bored out of his mind. "Didn't mention anything about a man crashing our little party."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Men.

Jeon's eyes narrow just a fraction, but you jump in before he can say something that'll probably piss everyone off.

"I'm the one you're here to meet," you say, keeping your voice smooth and professional. "My associate is—"

"Her husband," Jeon cuts in, voice like silk over steel.

The word rolls off his tongue like he's been saying it his whole life instead of pulling it out of his ass two seconds ago.

You shoot him a look that could curdle milk.

Husband? Really?

But Jeon's locked onto Kaleido like a sniper on his target, completely ignoring your death glare. His jaw is set in that way that means he's about to be a stubborn ass about something.

Kaleido's laugh is sharp and mocking, the kind that makes you want to punch teeth.

"Her husband?" He looks between you both like this is the funniest shit he's seen all week. "What, she needs a big scary guard dog to hold her hand during business deals?"

You watch Jeon's jaw clench, the muscle jumping under his skin. But his voice stays steady, dangerous in its calmness.

"More like insurance."

You clear your throat, loud enough to make a point.

"As I was saying"—and you put just enough emphasis on that word to let Jeon know you'll be having words about this later—"my associate and I have some opportunities that might interest you. The kind that makes serious money."

Kaleido finally tears his eyes away from Jeon to look at you, and something in his gaze makes your skin recoil.

"Well then," he drawls, dropping into his chair like a king on his throne, "let's talk business."

His eyes rake over you both, lingering a bit too long for comfort.

"Impress me."

You meet his stare head-on because fuck that—you're not some rookie who's gonna get intimidated by his wannabe mob boss act.

Time to put all that Seduction Division training to work.

You've got a whole script of lies ready to roll off your tongue, each one crafted to hook this smug bastard right where you want him.

Game fucking on.

You start laying out the deal, watching Kaleido's face shift from bored rich boy to actually interested businessman. But part of your brain is still stuck on Jeon's little improvisation. Because Jeon doesn't do random—every move is calculated, every word chosen for maximum effect.

He saw something in Kaleido that made him change the plan.

And whatever it was, it was bad enough to make him go full protective mode.

"So these new routes we've set up?" You tap the documents as you slide them across the table, keeping your voice casual but confident. "They'll keep the good shit flowing steady. Premium grade only—none of that watered-down crap."

Kaleido snatches up the papers like they're made of gold, those calculating eyes scanning every detail. His perfectly manicured finger stops at something, and his face does this thing where he's trying to look unimpressed but you can tell he's interested.

"End of next week? With customs breathing down everyone's neck lately?" He clicks his tongue. "That's a bold claim."

His eyes lock onto yours, and it feels like being dissected. You can feel the cold breeze intensify beside you, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

But you've got this. This is what you were trained for.

"Yeah, customs is a bitch lately," you say with a knowing smirk, leaning forward slightly. "Good thing we've got someone on the inside who's very invested in looking the other way."

You tap the timeline sheet with one perfectly manicured nail.

"See this? Already factored in their... cooperation. We might work outside the law, but we're not stupid about it."

Kaleido stares at the paper for what feels like forever, then his eyes snap back to you. His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and suddenly he's grinning like you just told him his favorite candy is back in store. He claps once, the sound sharp and jarring in the small room.

"Well, fuck me," he says, sounding genuinely impressed. "You actually know what you're talking about."

He stands up, straightening his ridiculous designer suit.

"There's someone else who needs to hear this. Come on."

He gestures toward a door at the back of the room like some fancy maître d' inviting you to the VIP section.

You catch Jeon's eye for a split second—just long enough to see the tension in his jaw.

Something's off about this whole thing, but you're in too deep to back out now.

You follow Kaleido down this sketchy-ass hallway.

The subvocal mic hidden in your collar is tiny but feels like it weighs a ton as you activate it.

"What the fuck was that husband shit about?" you whisper, making sure your lips barely move. "Because I know you didn't just pull that out of your ass for fun."

Jeon's voice comes through your earpiece, quiet but crystal clear.

"Guys like him?" There's a edge to his voice that makes your skin prickle. "They see single women as prey. Trust me on this one."

Oh. Well, shit.

You throw a glance over your shoulder, brows furrowed because what the actual fuck is going on in that tactical brain of his. But Jeon's already explaining through the subvocals, his voice low and steady in your ear.

"These types get off on finding weak spots they can dig their fingers into," he murmurs, and something in his tone makes your skin prickle. "A couple? That's like serving them weakness on a silver fucking platter."

You have to fight to keep your voice down. "So you just painted a giant fucking target on our backs for fun?"

"Think of it as controlled bait," he says, and you can practically hear that annoying smirk in his voice. "They see what looks like an obvious pressure point, but they also see two people who won't let the other out of their sight. Can't divide what won't separate."

Kaleido throws this look over his shoulder that's trying way too hard to be casual. You flash him your best trophy-wife smile before turning back to your hushed conversation.

"I don't like playing from behind," you breathe into the mic. "If this blows up in our faces—"

"It won't." The certainty in his voice would be irritating if you didn't know how that big brain of his works. "Guys like Kaleido? They're like snakes. They won't strike without knowing exactly where to sink their fangs. Marriage looks like an easy weak spot to exploit, but it also means they have to be real careful about how they play it. Nobody wants to poke a bear and its mate."

You chew on your bottom lip as you follow Kaleido through another door into what looks like some bougie conference room from hell.

"So what you're saying is," you whisper, working it out, "we look like an easy mark, but we're actually too much of a pain in the ass to fuck with directly?"

The tiny nod he gives is barely perceptible. "Bingo. It's all about the balance—make him think he's got leverage, but make him second-guess using it."

You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. The pieces are starting to click into place.

"Okay, yeah. I get what you're doing here."

It's actually kind of brilliant, in a fucked-up way. Present a tempting target that's also too risky to take a shot at.

Classic Jeon strategy—making someone think they've got the upper hand while he's actually ten steps ahead.

You just hope his read on Kaleido is as accurate as he thinks it is.

The new room is bigger, fancier, trying way too hard to look impressive.

But what catches your attention isn't the tacky decor—it's the guy sprawled in this throne-like chair (what's with these people and thrones?). His hair's this violent shade of red, styled up in a mohawk that screams 'look at me, I'm dangerous.'

But it's his eyes that make your stomach drop.

Yellow contacts that make him look like some kind of Boomslang sizing up its next meal.

You feel Jeon go completely still beside you, every muscle in his body coiled tight. The air around him sharpens into something deadly, and you just know this situation just went from bad to absolutely fucked.

"Where the fuck are you going?" AD's voice cuts through your earpiece, sharp and irritated.

You tilt your head slightly, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. "Kaleido brought us to meet someone else. Apparently, they're very interested in our deal."

"Who?" The way AD snaps the word makes your skin prickle.

"Red mohawk. Yellow contacts. Looks like he raided some goth's closet," you murmur, trying to keep the tension out of your voice.

There's this pause that feels heavy enough to crush your lungs.

Then AD's voice comes back, cold as ice: "That's Fervio."

"Motherfucker," Jeon mutters under his breath, and the fact that he's breaking radio silence to curse tells you everything you need to know about how deeply shit you are.

You glance between Mohawk Guy—Fervio—and Jeon, trying to piece together why everyone's suddenly acting like you're standing in front of Death himself.

Your confusion must show somehow through the comms because AD starts talking again, his voice tight with barely contained urgency.

"Listen carefully. Fervio's not just another MDF thug. He's their fucking torture specialist." There's a rustling sound, like AD's leaning closer to his mic. "We're talking serious psychological damage. The kind of shit that keeps other psychopaths up at night. Makes V look like a boy scout."

"Hey!" V's voice cuts in, sounding actually offended. "I have standards, okay? And do you know how hard it is to get blood out of designer suits?"

"Both of you, shut up," RM's voice slices through the chatter, cold and commanding. "Get out. Now. Before he decides you look interesting."

You watch Fervio rise from his chair with this fluid grace that makes your skin crawl, yellow eyes locking onto you both like a snake spotting mice.

"We can't," you breathe into the comm, keeping your face neutral even though your heart's trying to punch through your ribs. "Backing out now would be suspicious as fuck."

Great, you think. Just great.

Of all the psychos in MDF, you had to run into their resident Hannibal Lecter.

Before AD can continue with his rant, J-Hope's voice cuts in, sharp and deadly serious.

"Listen here, you little shit," he hisses, and you've never heard him sound this intense before. "That psycho in front of you? I've had to put his victims back together. Multiple fucking times. And let me tell you something—there usually isn't enough left to work with. The things he does to people? That's not normal torture. That's not even human. He's a fucking monster wearing people skin for fun."

Your stomach does this violent flip thing, but you keep your face perfectly blank. Years of Flower's training kicking in as Fervio stalks toward you.

Those yellow contacts make him look like something that crawled out of a horror movie, and that smile—fuck, that smile is all kinds of wrong.

Next to you, Jeon's whole soul has turned deadly, like the kind of storm that levels entire cities. His body is coiled so tight you can practically hear his muscles screaming, ready to launch at Fervio's throat at the smallest wrong move.

"We need to find another way," you breathe into the comm, barely moving your lips. "But if we bolt now, this place turns into a fucking slaughterhouse. We stick to the plan."

AD starts cursing in your ear, and J-Hope's protests get even more colorful, but you tune them out.

Time to put on the performance of your life.

You stretch your lips into what you hope is a convincing smile and extend your hand to Fervio.

"Pleasure to meet you," you say, voice steady despite your heart trying to punch through your ribcage. "Kaleido mentioned you might be interested in what we're offering."

Your skin crawls when Fervio takes your hand. His grip is too tight, too deliberate, and he holds on way longer than necessary as he brings your knuckles to his lips in this theatrical gesture that makes you want to g̶a̶g̶ grimace. Those yellow eyes never leave yours, gleaming with something that looks too much like hunger.

"A pleasure indeed," he practically purrs, and the way he says it makes you feel like you need a shower.

You force yourself to stay still, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into keeping your expression pleasant and engaged.

"The pleasure's mine. Your reputation precedes you."

Please, you think, let us get through this without anyone getting skinned alive.

Those creepy yellow contacts slide over to Jeon, and you watch Fervio size him up. "And who's the strong, silent type?"

"Her husband," Kaleido cuts in before either of you can speak, his smirk dripping with smug satisfaction. "Though he doesn't seem too keen on... friendly conversation."

Fervio's laugh is sharp and ugly, like broken glass scraping metal. "Oh, I get it. The big scary guard dog act, right? All growl, no real bite. What, they keep you on a leash, make sure no one gets too handsy with the missus?"

You feel Jeon's hurricane darken dangerously, but his voice stays deadly calm.

"Trust me, she doesn't need protection. She's perfectly capable of handling herself."

Your hand shoots out to grip his bicep—partly to stop him from doing something stupid, partly to ground yourself. When he glances at you, his tongue flicks out to play with his lip ring.

"I'm sure my husband"—and god, that word feels weird in your mouth—"would appreciate it if we skipped the implications and got down to business."

You can feel Jeon practically vibrating with tension under your grip, so you squeeze his arm just a bit harder.

Don't, you try to telegraph through the touch. He's testing us. Don't give him what he wants.

Fervio's eyes dart between you and Jeon, calculating and hungry, before settling back on you.

"Of course, my sincerest apologies," he says, in a tone that suggests he's about as sorry as a cat in a canary shop. "Let's discuss this fascinating deal of yours."

He sinks back into his chair with a loud thud, and you take the seat across from him whilst Jeon drops into the chair beside you. His presence is both comforting and terrifying—like having a loaded gun pressed against your back. Protection and danger all wrapped up in one p̶r̶e̶t̶t̶y̶ lethal package.

Fervio leans back, threading his fingers together like some b̶u̶l̶l̶s̶h̶i̶t̶ wannabe movie villain. The smile playing around his lips makes your skin crawl. It's the kind of smile that says he knows exactly how much power he holds in this room, and he can't wait to use it.

"So," Fervio drawls, and his voice makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "Partnership's a delicate thing, isn't it? All about that... give and take."

You nod, studying his face like you're trying to read a book written in blood.

"That's right. We're always looking for deals that work out for everyone involved."

He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Everyone involved? Now that's interesting. I've always enjoyed... expanding my circle. Trying new things. Meeting new friends."

You force yourself to stay still. "Well, they do say variety keeps life interesting."

Jeon clears his throat, this tiny sound that somehow manages to carry a death threat.

Fervio's attention snaps to him like a rubber band, and fuck—those yellow eyes are practically glowing now.

"What about you, tough guy?" Fervio's words drip with mock sweetness. "You like getting your hands dirty, or do you just stand there looking pretty while the missus handles business?"

You feel Jeon's muscles coil under your touch. His jaw clenches so hard you can practically hear his teeth grinding.

"I do whatever needs doing," he says, voice cold enough to freeze hell. "And I never just stand there."

"Ooh, feisty," Fervio actually fucking giggles, and it's the most unsettling sound you've ever heard. "I like that in a man."

Your brain is going a mile a minute, mapping every possible way this could go sideways.

The clock on the wall reads 22:45.

Fifteen minutes.

Just fifteen fucking minutes until the power goes out and you can stop playing nice with this psycho.

You lean in, like you're actually interested in whatever sick shit he's suggesting.

"So what exactly did you have in mind for this partnership?"

Fervio's mouth opens, probably to say something horrifying, but you cut him off with a perfectly timed cough.

"Of course," you add quickly, matching his suggestive tone, "we'd need to explore all the possibilities first. Make sure everyone's needs are met."

"Oh, I like you," he purrs, and his smile is all teeth and zero warmth. "I have so many... creative ideas we could try. I've gotten quite good at finding that sweet spot between pleasure and screaming."

You feel Jeon tense beside you, practically vibrating with the need to put a bullet between Fervio's eyes. Your fingers dig into his arm, silently begging him to keep it together.

"We're always eager to learn new methods," you say, keeping your voice light. "As long as they get results."

His laugh sounds like gravel in a blender. "Trust me, sweetheart. My methods always get results. I've turned it into an art form."

22:50.

You maintain your flirty smile even though you want nothing more than to dump bleach on your brain to wash away this entire conversation.

Ten more minutes, you think. Just ten more minutes of not punching this creep in his stupid face.

You force yourself to lean forward, all casual interest like you're not sitting across from a literal psychopath.

"Maybe we should talk specifics first. You know—terms, guarantees, all that boring but necessary shit."

"Of course, of course." Fervio's smile promises pain. "Always good to handle business before... other matters."

He starts laying out some proposal, but you're only half listening. Your eyes keep darting to the clock while trying to look like they're not. Jeon's still beside you, watching Fervio like he's mentally cataloging all the ways he could end him.

22:55. Five more minutes of this psychological torture session.

You can practically feel AD's planned blackout humming in the air—or maybe that's just your nerves making shit up.

You keep nodding, throwing out questions designed to keep Fervio talking. The more he talks, the more he reveals just how fucked in the head he is. But you're careful—dancing on the edge of interest without actually promising anything.

"That's an... interesting approach," you say, watching his yellow eyes light up at your apparent engagement. "Very creative."

Kaleido shifts in his seat, and you catch this tiny frown crossing his face. Someone's starting to smell something fishy.

But then it happens.

23:00 hits, and everything goes black.

The darkness feels like a goddamn blessing after staring at those creepy yellow contacts.

You let out this little laugh, playing it cool. "Well, this is getting atmospheric."

"Indeed it is," Fervio practically purrs, and fuck—his voice has dropped into something that makes your skin want to crawl right off your body. "The darkness has a way of... bringing out our true natures."

You can feel Kaleido's tension from here. He's not buying this convenient timing, but Fervio's too caught up in his own twisted fantasy to notice.

"They do say the best deals happen in the dark," you drawl, channeling every ounce of Seduction Division training into your voice. "When you can't see the fine print."

Come on, you think. Just keep them distracted for a few more minutes.

The darkness is so thick you could probably drown in it, and somewhere in it, Fervio is getting way too excited about this whole situation. But you've got bigger problems than his murder boner—like making sure Kaleido doesn't put two and two together before you can complete the mission.

You feel Jeon slip away like a ghost, silent and deadly in the darkness.

Kaleido's head snaps toward the movement—fuck, he's sharp.

Time to do what you do best: be really fucking distracting.

Your hand finds Kaleido's arm, touch light enough to seem inviting rather than desperate.

"Hey now," you purr. "Don't get distracted. We were just getting to the fun part, weren't we? There's enough entertainment to keep everyone happy."

You hear Kaleido's breath hitch—gotcha. "Is that right?" His voice has that edge of interest that tells you he's taking the bait.

Hook, line, and s̶u̶c̶k̶e̶r̶ sinker.

But then Fervio's voice cuts through, a bit irritated. "Fun is an art form. It's not about how many players are in the game. It's about how thoroughly you can explore each possibility."

Something touches your hand—Fervio's fingers, cold and invasive. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, but you hold steady. Years of training kick in, and you force yourself to lean into the touch instead of breaking his fucking fingers.

"Couldn't agree more," you say, making your voice all honey and smoke. "Quality over quantity, right? Though sometimes..." You let the words hang there, suggestive. "A little variety can make things interesting."

Fervio's laugh makes your skin want to crawl right off your body and run for the hills.

"Let's keep our friend out of this particular equation," he says, and there's steel under that fake playfulness. "I prefer my entertainment more concentrated. Just us three."

You paint on a smile he can't see in the dark, grateful for small mercies.

"Whatever you say," you reply, like you're actually disappointed. "Your house, your rules."

The minutes drag by like years. Your heart's going so hard you're amazed they can't hear it, but you keep talking, keep flirting, keep Kaleido's suspicions buried under layers of innuendo and suggestion.

Every time Fervio opens his mouth, something more twisted comes out, but you dance around his sick fantasies like you're actually interested.

Come on, Jeon, you think. Hurry the fuck up.

You remind yourself that every creepy comment, every time Fervio's hand 'accidentally' brushes yours, every moment you have to pretend his psycho ass is fascinating—it's all getting you closer to bringing these bastards down.

This is what you trained for. This is what you're good at.

And when those lights come back on, you'll walk out of here without a scratch, leaving these fuckers none the wiser.

Because that's what you do. That's who you are.

You're not just some pretty distraction.

You're a goddamn professional.

This fucking hideout is a maze—that's all Jungkook can think as he tries to move through silently.

The mission weighs on his shoulders, made heavier by AD's voice crackling through his earpiece—sharp, cold, and deliberately sparse with information.

"Left. Next intersection."

His eyes scan the dim corridor, searching for any sign of the server room. Or worse—company.

The lack of proper directions makes his jaw clench. AD's being difficult on purpose, and they both know it.

A soft shuffle of footsteps echoes from around the corner. His body moves on instinct, melting into a shadowed alcove. The wall is cold against his back as some MDF grunt walks past, completely oblivious to the death that could have been waiting for them.

"Almost got made," he mutters into the comm, keeping his voice low. "Your directions are fucking useless."

The silence that follows is loaded.

"Oh no, what a tragedy that would be. What would we do without our perfect Captain America?"

The words hit exactly where AD means them to—right in that raw spot that never quite heals.

But Jungkook swallows it down, like he always does. Like he deserves to.

"Just focus on the fucking mission."

"Whatever you say." AD's voice drips acid. "Next right, straight down. Try not to die—the paperwork's a bitch, and I'd hate to waste my time processing your replacement."

His teeth grind together so hard his jaw aches. The guilt sits heavy in his chest, a constant companion these days. AD never lets him forget what happened with Sylvia, never misses a chance to twist the knife.

But that's fine. He deserves that too.

The mission is what matters. Everything else—the guilt, AD's hatred, the constant reminder of his failures—that's just background noise. He's gotten good at drowning it out.

Focus on the objective, he thinks. Nothing else matters.

(But god, some days the weight of it all feels like it might finally break him.)

"Thanks for the fucking concern," Jungkook mutters, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Not that he expects anything else from AD these days.

"Don't flatter yourself." AD's voice crackles with venom through the comm. "I'm here for the mission. You're just the unfortunate means to an end."

Each step feels heavier than the last, weighted down by years of AD's cultivated hatred.

But the mission is what matters.

That's what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

Has to keep telling himself.

The LED lights overhead cast these long, twisted shadows that remind him too much of things he'd rather forget.

Of Sylvia. Of choices he can't take back. Of the way everything went so spectacularly wrong.

"Left door," AD says, clipped and cold. "Try not to fuck this up too."

Jungkook's hand pauses over the doorknob, metal cool against his palm. He presses his ear to the door, listening for movement, for breath, for anything that might mean trouble. Nothing but silence answers back.

"You know," he breathes, slipping into the room like a ghost, "with how much you hate me, you'd think I killed her myself."

The laugh that comes through his earpiece is ugly. "Didn't you? Might as well have handed her the gun yourself."

He's right, of course. Jungkook deserves every bit of venom AD spits at him.

He simply exhales. Ignores the guilt that threatens to choke him.

"Moving on," he says quietly, both an update and a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Yeah, better hurry," AD sneers. "Clock's ticking, and we both know how good you are at getting people killed when you're running out of time."

"Crystal fucking clear," Jungkook grits out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

But pain is familiar territory these days. Almost comforting, in a twisted way.

"Door on your left, five meters." AD's voice is clinical now, professional.

Sometimes that's worse than the open hostility.

At least hatred is honest.

"Could you at least pretend not to want me dead?" Jungkook mutters.

"Maybe if you hadn't gotten Sylvia killed, I would."

It hits him like a bullet between the ribs, the name.

Sylvia.

It always comes back to her, doesn't it?

That night haunts every interaction with AD, turning what used to be friendship into this twisted thing full of barbs and old wounds.

"I know."

It's all he can say. All he's allowed to say, really. Some apologies are just fucking pointless.

The server room is exactly what he expected—all blinking lights and humming machines. Perfect place to hide a bug.

His hands move on autopilot while his mind keeps circling back to AD's words like picking at a scab.

"Focus, Jeon." AD's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Get the job done and get out."

Jungkook crouches down, finding a spot that'll give them good coverage. The familiar motions of planting surveillance gear almost feel like penance. Almost. His fingers work quickly, efficiently, working with the kind of precision his father drilled into him.

The comm line goes quiet. AD's probably stewing in his anger, replaying old memories like a fucked-up highlight reel.

Jungkook knows because he does the same thing.

"Bug's planted," he whispers, straightening up. "Moving out."

There's this pause—longer than usual. Like AD's wrestling with something.

When he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. "Watch your back."

It's not forgiveness. Not even close. But it's... something.

A tiny crack in the wall of hatred AD's built between them.

Maybe it's just muscle memory from their old friendship, or maybe AD's just too tired to maintain the rage.

Either way, it doesn't change anything.

Some mistakes can't be undone, some bridges stay burned.

And dead people always stay dead.

Jungkook heads back the way he came, knowing he needs to hurry. He can't afford any mistakes, not now—not ever again, really. Time's running out, and he can't afford to fuck this up too.

"Move your ass, Jeon. You got less than a minute."

AD's voice has faded to white noise in his ear, like a storm that's finally burned itself out.

But the urgency remains, thrumming under his skin like a fucking hornets' nest.

And his mind isn't helpful—keeps circling back to everything riding on this—the mission, the intel, the fact that you're still in that room with those psychos.

A drop of sweat slides down his temple, and he forces himself to focus.

No room for distractions. Not now.

He's almost at the final corner, freedom just fucking there, when he catches the low rumble of voices. His body reacts before his brain, pressing flat against the wall in a shadowed spot. His breath comes shallow and quiet as footsteps approach.

The seconds crawl by like years. Each heartbeat feels too loud, each breath a risk. The guards' voices drift closer, then past, then fade into nothing.

The moment the footsteps disappear, Jungkook moves.

Those last few meters might as well be a mile, but he covers them in seconds. The lights could come back any moment, and if he's not in that room when they do—

He slides into his seat beside you, forcing his breathing to stay steady even though his heart's trying to punch through his ribs.

The power surges back on immediately. The sudden brightness makes his eyes burn, but there's no time to adjust.

You turn toward him, probably to ask if he got it done, but the room's already buzzing with conversation again like nothing happened. Like he didn't just plant a bug that could bring this whole operation crashing down. Like there aren't two psychopaths sitting across from you both, one of them already suspicious.

His eyes meet yours for a split second. There's relief there, yeah, but also the weight of knowing this is just the beginning.

"Looking forward to our... partnership," Fervio then purrs, those creepy yellow contacts flicking between you and Jeon. "I'm veryinterested to see what you bring to the table."

You catch Jeon giving you this look from the corner of your eye—all confusion and barely concealed questions.

Of course he's lost, poor bastard missed the whole song and dance while he was playing spy. His dark eyes are practically screaming for some kind of explanation, any hint about what kind of mess he just walked back into.

You meet his gaze for a split second, trying to pack a whole conversation into one look.

Later, you try to telegraph. When we're not surrounded by psychos who want to wear our skin as party hats.

After a few more minutes, everyone starts getting up, chairs scraping against the floor.

Kaleido's already at the door, and you and Jeon fall in line behind him like good little lambs to the s̶l̶a̶u̶g̶h̶t̶e̶r̶ meeting.

The hallway feels weirdly normal after that pressure cooker of a room. Just the click of shoes on fancy floors and the distant mumble of voices that could almost make you forget you're in the heart of enemy territory.

Jeon slides into step beside you, and it's kind of impressive how he manages to look completely chill while also being wound tight enough to snap. His shoulders are relaxed but his eyes keep scanning everything, cataloging exits and threats like the walking weapon he is.

Your brain's working overtime, trying to figure out how to explain everything that went down while he was gone. How do you even begin to summarize that clusterfuck of a conversation?

'Hey, so while you were planting bugs, I had to flirt with two different flavors of psychopath to keep us alive. Fun times!'

He's counting on you to be his eyes and ears in there, to help him navigate whatever landmines you just agreed to. And fuck if you're going to let him down now.

God; you are in so far over your heads. But hey, at least you're drowning together.

The walk back through MDF's territory feels like it takes forever.

Kaleido leads you through this maze of hallways that all look the same—probably designed that way on purpose, the paranoid bastards.

You've got questions burning holes in your tongue, and you can tell from the way Jeon keeps glancing at you that he's got plenty of his own.

Finally, finally, you push through the exit doors and the night air hits your face like freedom.

Jeon practically deflates next to you, all that coiled tension leaving his body in one long exhale.

You get it. Being in there felt like having a knife pressed against your throat for hours.

It's weird how normal everything looks when you just spent the evening playing nice with actual monsters.

You reach up and pull out your earpiece, watching Jeon do the same.

No more voices in your head—just the ambient noise of Seoul at night and about a million questions that need answers.

The bike's waiting right where you left it, looking like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen because it means you can get the fuck out of here.

Jeon moves toward it, probably ready to bolt, but something's been nagging at you since those comms went live.

"Who's Sylvia?"

The words slip out before you can stop them.

It's probably not the best timing, but if Seduction has taught you anything is that information is power.

And right now you feel pretty fucking powerless.

You watch Jeon's shoulders lock up again, his whole body going still like you just pulled a gun on him instead of asking a simple question.

Fuck. He forgot about the comms.

In the rush to get back before the lights came on, Jungkook completely forgot the line was still open.

That you heard everything—including that name.

Sylvia.

The word sits like poison in his mind, dragging up memories he's spent years trying to bury.

His heart slams against his ribs, and it has nothing to do with almost getting caught back there.

Your question hangs in the air between you, and suddenly he can't breathe right. Can't think straight.

Because you weren't supposed to know about this. About her.

He turns to look at you, trying to read your expression in the dim light. Trying to figure out how much you heard, how much you understood.

But your face gives nothing away—you've gotten too good at that. The Seduction Division taught you well.

His features lock down on instinct, years of practice kicking in like muscle memory.

It's easier this way. Safer. Put up the walls, shut everything down, become the cold, untouchable Chief everyone expects him to be.

"Nobody you should be concerned about." His voice comes out flat, empty. The kind of tone that usually makes people back off real quick.

He watches something flicker across your face—curiosity maybe, or concern. But you don't push. Don't demand answers.

You just say "Alright" in this careful, neutral way that somehow makes everything worse.

Because you're giving him space he doesn't deserve.

Understanding he hasn't earned.

Jungkook turns back to the bike, jamming the key in with more force than necessary.

The engine roars to life, and he focuses on that sound instead of the chaos in his head. Instead of the weight of all these secrets pressing down on his chest.

You climb on behind him, and the warmth of your body against his back feels wrong.

Too close. Too real.

Too much like something he can't afford to want.

"Let's get out of here," he says, keeping his voice empty.

The city starts to blur as he accelerates, but his mind stays stuck on that name. On memories he can't outrun.

Distance, he reminds himself. Distance is survival.

goal: 550 notes !!

if you've enjoyed this chapter please consider buying me a coffee!! ☕️ ♥´∀｀♥

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @redcherrykook @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @rpwprpwprpwprw @jimineepaboya @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @vialattea00 @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @mimi1097 @jeontae @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear @bettytta

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[vermililion]

bruce wayne 'the batman' fic recs!

˚　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

continuing to update | last updated 25/05

─── ✧ DRABBLES/BLURBS

i cant sleep unless someone’s with me | @stargirlfics

sick bruce | @lovelettersforthedamned

drabble continuing something in the way | @mypoisonedvine

─── ✧ ONE SHOTS

something in the way | @/mypoisonedvine

you know your best friend well enough to know that he's keeping a secret from you, you just can't figure out what— or why. but you're about to learn a lot of new things about him that you never could've imagined.

everything to me | @barnesafterglow

being bruce wayne's best friend comes with some unexpected surprises.

family tree | @ichorai

bruce didn't think he'd find family in you, of all people.

into the abyss | @atlaese

Bruce should've known that nothing in Gotham City ever is smooth sailing. But when the one person in his life who means most to him gets kidnapped, he feels the darkness descending on him.

in the absence of light | @/atlaese

you find a partner in Bruce when you need it most.

i want you to love me | @imaginedisish

You and Bruce get into your biggest fight yet, which leads you to find something you shouldn’t have seen. 

see you in the darkest visions | @heli0s-writes

It’s stupid how forbidden names can be. He’s given you his secrets—his bedroom, his body, his trust, yet the final arbitrary threshold is just a few letters. Precisely five.

my love is vengeance | @charnelhouse

They were waltzing around the sex talk. They kissed - they made out like fucking teenagers after they had spent a night fighting down the knife-edge of the city.

i wont drown, batman | @twinklelilstarkey

After a hard and tiring day, Bruce finds you taking a relaxing bath.

a world alone | @vigilvntes

Bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side.

the way down | @whats-rambled-rambled

Those hospital scenes in the movie? Yeah, the plot here drops you right between them and takes it from there.

pieces | @/whats-rambled-rambled

you decided to stay with Bruce to help him deal with the aftermath of the flood.

─── ✧ SERIES

always been you part ii part iii | @letaliabane

sort of like how bruce and selina met at the club, but the reader and him had a previous fling when bruce was a teenager.

after hours | @goldingwrites

the nights in Gotham are always unforgiving, you, you strip for money, to feed your son and to forget some of your troubles. it's easy, it's simple until Vengeance appears in your night.

where two are joined, relentlessly | @devilfic

gotham city’s bound to discover it’s got a prized bachelor on its hands. selina kyle got it, you got it, and you’d quite like if it stopped there, thanks.

surely, you'd burn the same | @jangofctts

sex pollen and it goes from there...

promised haven | @whirlybirbs

you move into selena kyle's old apartment. bruce has taken to watching you.

middle of the night | @hollandorks

y/n’s life changes immensely, starting with the Batman falling out of the sky right in front of her and ending with a promising new job at Wayne Manor. As her life intertwines with that of both Batman and Bruce Wayne, she begins to figure out that there’s more to both than meets the eye.

fateful beginnings | @ellesthots

when you find yourself needing a topic for a journalism final, you seek out an interview from Gotham’s elusive vigilante: Batman. this proves even more difficult than it already sounds, and tensions rise when you discover an intimate secret—just as Bruce Wayne realizes his own.

mask & seek part ii | @har-rison-s

Battinson x SpiderWoman!Reader fic where she's from the MCU but then she ends up in Battinson's universe and meets him? Maybe he doesn't trust her at first but once she saves him from something, he relents then begins to trust her and maybe then a relationship ensues??

convenience | @imaginingmarvelandeverything

After his oldest friend loses everything, Bruce suggests a marriage of convenience that will benefit them both.

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

[4linos]

the letter pt. 3

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & misunderstanding, second chances, exes to ??.

wc: 12,385

[part 1, part 2]

It was early. Too early.

The shrill buzzing of the doorbell drilled into Jisung’s skull like a hammer, and he groaned in discomfort, rolling over to bury his face in his pillow. His head pounded from a night spent drowning memories in whiskey, a futile attempt to forget you, so carefree with another man.

It had only been hours since he saw you walking away with him, the way you smiled, your hand cradling your belly. The sharp sting in his chest wasn’t from the whiskey, but from the way you had left him in the dust. You had moved on, and now, a new life had started without him.

Another round of doorbell buzzing shook him from his thoughts. “Who the hell...” he muttered as he squinted at the time on his phone. It was barely 6:30 AM. He had barely slept.

The buzzing came again, followed by a loud, insistent bang on the door that echoed throughout the apartment. His headache flared, and he cursed under his breath. Who was it this early? His eyes were still half-shut, barely managing to process anything as he stumbled out of bed, legs heavy, his body aching from too much alcohol.

The shirt he grabbed was wrinkled and tossed, probably something he’d left on the floor the night before. He barely remembered the events of the previous evening. All he could recall were images of you, images of him, the man you were with. The one holding you close, smiling, while you smiled back, glowing with happiness.

When he reached the door, he paused for a second, running his fingers through his messy hair. There was a moment of silence on the other side. Then it came again,

buzz. Buzz. Bang. Bang.

Jisung opened the door cautiously. He didn’t even know what to expect. But he certainly didn’t expect Lana.

Lana stood there, her usual stern expression plastered on her face, her arms crossed. She gave him a stiff smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Without waiting for him to say anything, she pushed past him into the apartment. Jisung frowned, still groggy from his hangover.

She didn’t even greet him or ask if he was okay. No small talk. Just that look, the one she always wore when she was frustrated or worried.

“You reek,” she said bluntly, glancing at him as she walked further into the apartment, her nose scrunching up in mild disgust. “And you look like shit.”

Jisung rolled his eyes, too tired and hungover to care much about her bluntness. “Nice to see you too, Lana,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “What are you doing here so early? It’s barely morning.”

Lana didn’t answer at first. She was already busy scanning the room, shuffling through a few papers on the coffee table and glancing through the empty space where your old things had once been.

“Looking for something,” she finally answered, but it didn’t take long for Jisung to realize what she was doing. He hadn’t seen any of your things in months, not since you’d left.

“Everything of hers is gone,” he said quietly, crossing his arms. The words felt heavier than he thought they would. The truth was, it still felt like a knife every time he spoke about you. “It’s been gone for a while now. The only things left are stuff I gave her.”

Lana shot him a look, almost like pity, but didn’t say anything. She moved around, scanning the apartment like it might hold some magical clue that was going to fix everything. Jisung watched her, arms still folded tightly, not sure if he should care, not sure if he even could.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, Lana turned to face him, her eyes serious.

“Did you ever read the letter she gave you?” she asked, her voice softer now but full of an underlying concern. There was something there, an edge of frustration, maybe even sadness, as if she knew this was the breaking point.

Jisung froze.

The letter.

His breath caught in his chest as memories flooded back. The image of the torn-up letter, his drunken hands, the whiskey-soaked paper, the way he’d thrown it aside as if it meant nothing. He could still feel the bitterness on his tongue, the sharp sting of rejection, the moment he decided to rip it all away because he couldn’t handle the pain. He didn’t even know what was in it, he never gave himself the chance to read it.

Lana was watching him closely now. Her eyes tracked his every movement. And then, when he didn’t answer right away, her gaze followed the direction of his eyes.

He’d left the letter on his desk, half-shredded, forgotten.

She scoffed, her voice rising with irritation. “You didn’t read it, did you? That’s really great, Jisung. You didn’t even give her the courtesy of reading the one thing she gave you, her words. Her truth.”

The words hit him hard. His stomach churned. A wave of shame washed over him. But he stayed silent, not knowing how to respond, not knowing how to apologize for his stupidity. How could he? How could he make up for all the time he wasted being angry, being selfish, and not facing what needed to be faced?

“Can you blame me?” he finally said, his voice rough with frustration. His anger bubbled up again, and he couldn’t help it. He just couldn’t. “She moved on. She’s pregnant with someone else’s kid. I saw them, Lana. I saw it with my own eyes. She’s with him. She’s living the life I couldn’t give her.”

Lana’s eyes narrowed. She took a deep breath, but she didn’t let him off the hook. “I get that you’re angry. But you’re being a damn fool.” She took a step forward, her eyes locking onto his with fierce intensity. “She’s not with him. Not in the way you think she is.”

Jisung’s heart dropped. What the hell was she talking about?

“She’s carrying your kid, Jisung,” Lana said, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. “You think she moved on? No. She’s pregnant. With your baby.”

Jisung blinked, his thoughts spinning in a thousand directions. It felt like the ground was falling out from under him, his breath catching in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t process what she had just said. His mind refused to understand.

“What? What are you talking about? How—?”

Lana threw her hands up in the air. “She didn’t move on. She’s carrying your child, Jisung. She found out six months ago. Six months ago! She didn’t want to burden you with it, didn’t want to force you into anything you didn’t want. She let you go. But you didn’t give her a chance. You didn’t even read the damn letter she wrote you. And now look at what’s happening.”

Jisung stood frozen, the words echoing in his mind, each syllable a hammer to his heart. He could feel his chest tightening, his head swimming with confusion, guilt, and panic. Six months.

Six months ago, everything could have been different.

He never gave her a chance. He hadn’t been there for her. He hadn’t even been willing to try to understand what was going on with her.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” Jisung’s voice cracked, his hands gripping the back of the couch like it was the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

“She didn’t want to trap you. She didn’t want to force you into a life you weren’t ready for,” Lana said, her voice softening just slightly. “But you left. You left without giving her any hope. You chose to shut down, to drink away your feelings instead of listening to her, instead of hearing her out. She wanted you, Jisung. She wanted you to be there, but you didn’t give her that chance.”

Jisung’s knees felt weak. The weight of everything was crushing him, the silence between him and Lana stretching longer and longer, suffocating him with the realization that he had destroyed something he would never get back.

“I didn’t... I didn’t know,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “She never told me. She never gave me the chance.”

Lana stared at him, her face hardening again. “She did, Jisung. She gave you the chance. But you ripped it apart.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “And now she’s doing it on her own. She’s carrying your baby, and you’re sitting here wallowing in your guilt and anger instead of fighting for her. You didn’t fight. You just let her go.”

His throat was tight. His chest ached as if he couldn’t breathe. Every part of him screamed to go to her, to fix it, but he didn’t even know how.

“I—” He couldn’t finish. The words stuck in his throat, caught by the overwhelming weight of what he had done.

“Figure it out, Jisung,” Lana said with a final, cutting look. “Before it’s too late.”

She turned and left the apartment, her footsteps heavy on the floor, leaving Jisung to face the wreckage he’d made.

The moment the door slammed shut behind Lana, Jisung stood there for half a second, his mind in chaos, his heart thundering painfully against his ribs. The seconds stretched painfully long, his body frozen in place, until suddenly it hit him all at once, he couldn’t just stand there.

Without thinking, without weighing his options, he threw on the first shoes he could find, mismatched even, one a worn sneaker and the other a battered slip-on and sprinted out of the apartment. The door clattered against the frame behind him, left swinging half-open.

His head was pounding from the hangover, but he barely felt it anymore. He didn’t care about the dull ache behind his eyes, didn’t care that his shirt was wrinkled and his breath probably still reeked of whiskey. The only thing that mattered was catching Lana before she disappeared.

He found her a few steps away, still waiting for the elevator, her arms crossed, looking tired and resigned.

“Lana!” he called out breathlessly, skidding slightly as he slowed down near her. She turned, brows raised in a mixture of impatience and exhaustion.

“What do you want, Jisung?” she asked, voice clipped.

He inhaled sharply, tried to catch his breath. “Your address,” he said, almost desperate. “I mean—her address. Please. I need to see her.”

For a moment, Lana simply looked at him, studied him. She must have seen the way his chest heaved, the panic, the devastation, the regret clinging to him like a second skin.

Without a word, she nodded once, curtly. “Come on. I’ll drop you off,” she said.

He blinked, stunned at how quickly she agreed, and mumbled a grateful, “Thank you.”

The ride down in the elevator was silent. Uncomfortable. The buzz of fluorescent lights above them filled the stillness as Jisung stared at the closed doors, every second crawling by slower than the last. His mind raced ahead of him, playing out every possible scenario of seeing you again.

Would you even want to see him? Would you slam the door in his face? Would you cry? Would you tell him to leave and never come back?

His chest hurt at the possibilities.

When they finally reached the parking lot, Lana headed straight to her car, Jisung a few steps behind, heart hammering as he climbed into the passenger seat.

The drive was just as silent.

Jisung fidgeted anxiously with the hem of his shirt, tapping his foot against the floor of the car. He hated how quiet it was. He hated the way Lana seemed so still, almost robotic, her face an emotionless mask.

He needed to say something. Anything.

After a few moments of agonizing silence, he turned slightly toward her and asked, almost in a whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

He hadn’t expected to speak at all, but the words fell out before he could stop them.
“Why are you helping me?”

Lana’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. For a moment, he thought she was going to ignore him, let the silence suffocate him like it had been since they left his apartment.

But just as he was about to backpedal, tell her it didn’t matter, she spoke.

“You know...” she began slowly, her voice low, almost hesitant. “She told me and Jia about yesterday. About running into you.”

Jisung stiffened, shame curling deep in his stomach.

Lana let out a slow breath, her eyes still trained on the road ahead. “She was upset. Scared, even. She didn’t say it like that, not directly. But I could tell.”

Jisung pressed his hand against his knee, his nails digging into the denim of his jeans to ground himself. He hated thinking that he had scared you. Hated it more than anything else.

“And when she told me what happened... how you looked at her, how you walked toward her like—like you hated her, I guess...” Lana paused, her voice tightening. “I felt bad. For her. But... also for you.”

He blinked, stunned, confused. “For me?”

Lana gave a humorless, bitter little laugh. “Yeah. For you. You were so angry. So broken. And you didn’t even know the truth.” She shook her head. “You didn’t even give yourself a chance to know it. You just assumed the worst because it was easier than facing your own guilt.”

Jisung swallowed thickly, throat dry, the lump forming there impossible to speak around.

“I realized... you’re not a villain, Jisung. You’re just a dumbass,” she said, and despite the ache gnawing at his insides, he almost smiled at that. “You’re scared. You always have been.”

The weight of her words pressed down on him heavily. He couldn’t deny it.
He had been scared. He had run from the idea of a future that terrified him, the idea of a family, responsibility, a life bigger than himself. And because of that fear, he had lost you.

He looked out the window, blinking rapidly against the sting behind his eyes.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice cracking slightly.
“For what?” Lana asked, glancing at him briefly.

“For... not giving up on me. For helping me even when I don’t deserve it.”

Lana scoffed lightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “You still have to face her.”

Jisung nodded, setting his jaw, determination slowly taking the place of fear.
He didn’t know how you would react.
He didn’t know if you would even listen to him.

But he had to try.

For you.
For the baby.
For the future he realized, way too late that he wanted more than anything.

He had to try.

He owed you that much.

It was early, really for anything other than sleep. But as Jisung stood in the dim light of the morning, standing outside the apartment complex, he couldn’t ignore the churning inside him. His breath fogged in the cool air, his mind racing, his body still fighting the remnants of the whiskey hangover from the night before. His thoughts felt scattered, jumbled in the haze of last night’s decisions. He hadn’t expected to find himself standing here, on your doorstep, hoping for something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Lana’s car had pulled up earlier, and she had given him your apartment number without much ceremony. She told him she wouldn’t come with him. That it would be better if he faced you alone. Her eyes had been unreadable when she said it, but when she spoke, it wasn’t with the usual sass or sharpness. It was more... resigned, like she understood just how badly he had messed things up. She even reminded him sternly, almost motherly, not to say anything about the confrontation with you, or the way he had torn up your letter.

“You go in there, you don’t mention anything about the letter,” she had said, the warning clear in her voice. “This is between you and her. And I’m not involved.”

Jisung had nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His head was still spinning, his chest aching as he stood here. How was he supposed to fix this? How could he even begin to make things right after everything he had done?

The sound of the car’s engine fading as Lana pulled away was the final push for him. There was no turning back now. He was standing outside your door, and it felt like the whole world was waiting.

His feet carried him, almost mechanically, toward the door. Each step felt like it was taking him further into a storm he wasn’t sure he could weather. The thought of waking you up of disturbing the fragile peace you’d probably built without him made his chest tighten. Would you even want to see him?

He reached your door, his hand trembling as he lifted it to knock. The sound of his fist against the wood felt unnaturally loud in the silence of the hallway. He waited, every second stretching on and on, until finally, he heard your voice.

“I’m coming,” you said, your tone cool, though he couldn’t help but feel the underlying tension in it.

The door creaked open.

And there you were.

For a moment, Jisung couldn’t speak. His breath hitched in his throat. You were standing in front of him, looking so… so beautiful, like nothing had changed. Your hair was messy, your eyes still half-lidded with sleep, but the moment you looked at him, he felt like everything stopped. He missed you more than he could have possibly imagined. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to feel you close again, but he knew that wasn’t what you wanted. Not now.

You blinked a few times, taking him in. His disheveled appearance, the tiredness in his eyes, the slight frown that had etched itself into his features, it was clear that he had come here not just out of guilt, but desperation. He had so many things to say, but when he opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat.

Finally, your voice broke through the silence.

“Why are you here?” Your voice was colder than he had ever heard it, and Jisung felt the weight of it hit him like a freight train. There was no warmth in your tone. There was no softness, no kindness. Just distance.

He took a step back, swallowing hard.

“I… I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking, raw with emotion. “I know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I had to come. I needed to tell you how sorry I am.”

You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing as you took him in. “Why? After everything you said… after everything you did, why are you here now, Jisung?” Your voice was quieter, but the pain behind it cut deeper than anything else he had heard.

He could feel the weight of his past mistakes hanging between you both. How could he have been so blind? How could he have assumed the worst when you were just trying to do what was best for both of you? He didn’t deserve this chance, he didn’t deserve to stand in front of you, asking for forgiveness. But he couldn’t stand the thought of you doing this alone, especially not after everything.

“I know what I said before,” Jisung started, his voice barely above a whisper. “I said I couldn’t be a part of a family, that I wasn’t ready. I… I was selfish. I was angry, and I wasn’t thinking about what you needed.” His hand reached for his pocket, pulling out the crumpled remains of the letter you had left for him, but he stopped himself before he could do anything. The sight of it made his stomach churn.

“I didn’t read the letter,” he confessed, his eyes dropping to the floor, unable to meet yours. “I was just... so angry and upset. I didn’t even give you the chance to explain.”

There was a long silence. The seconds felt like hours as Jisung stood there, waiting for you to say something, anything. He could feel the tension building in the space between you, the unresolved feelings thickening the air around him. He opened his mouth again, desperate to make things right.

“I know I’ve hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance, but… I want to be here. I want to be here for you, for the baby. I don’t want to miss this. I don’t want to miss us anymore. Please, let me help. Let me be a part of this. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your arms still crossed, eyes unreadable. He couldn’t read you, not like he used to. The walls were up, and he had no idea how to break them down.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to let you in, Jisung,” you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know if I can trust you again. After everything…”

Jisung’s heart sank at your words. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He knew that asking for your forgiveness would be the hardest thing he had ever done. But he couldn’t give up. He couldn’t let you walk away without trying, without showing you that he was willing to change.

“I understand,” he said softly, his voice shaking with the weight of the words. “But if you’ll let me, I want to try. I’m not asking for everything right now, but just… just a chance. Please.”

For a moment, the silence between you was heavy, suffocating. Then, slowly, you nodded, but it was tentative, hesitant.

“I’m not 100% ready to let you in,” you said, your voice small, “but… I’m willing to try. I’m willing to take things slow. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Jisung felt like the air had been knocked out of him. It wasn’t everything he had hoped for, but it was enough. It was the beginning of something, the beginning of the possibility of redemption.

“Thank you,” he whispered, stepping forward, though he didn’t want to push you. He just wanted to be near you, even if that meant just standing in your doorway.

You looked at him for a moment, your eyes softening just a little.

“I can’t promise it’ll be easy,” you said, voice still trembling, but there was a hint of something maybe hope? in your tone. “But I’m willing to try. For the baby, for us... maybe it’ll work.”

Jisung smiled softly, the first genuine smile he had worn in months. It wasn’t a perfect answer, but it was a start.

And in that moment, that was all he needed.

Jisung stood there, completely caught off guard by the way you looked at him, a mixture of disbelief and amusement flashing across your face. His eyes widened for a brief moment before he quickly realized the disheveled state he was in mismatched shoes, a wrinkled shirt, his hair wild from the night he had spent tossing and turning in regret. The haze of the alcohol still clung to him like a bad memory, the scent of whiskey faint but noticeable. His heart sank when he realized just how much he must have looked like a mess standing there in front of you.

Before he could say anything, you gave a short laugh, your eyes twinkling, almost in disbelief. "You really reek of alcohol," you pointed out, your voice sharp but not unkind. You took in his appearance, your gaze lingering on the mismatched shoes, the wrinkled shirt, and then, finally, the way he was standing there, eyes wide with a mixture of regret and guilt.

Jisung's face flushed, and he immediately looked down at himself, noticing the mismatched shoes and the way his shirt had crumpled in all the wrong places. He had rushed out of the house, not thinking about how he appeared, only about getting to you, about fixing everything he had ruined. The realization made him feel even worse. He had come to you like this, looking like he had just crawled out of bed after a long night of self-pity and alcohol. How could he expect you to take him seriously when he looked like this?

But before he could spiral into another fit of self-loathing, he heard you laugh. It was soft, almost nervous, but it was there. The sound of your laughter was like a balm to his nerves, even though he knew it wasn’t coming from a place of warmth or affection. You were laughing, but there was a certain softness in your eyes when they met his.

His lips curled into a reluctant smile, the tension between you starting to melt just a little bit. "Yeah, I guess I do," he said, his voice hoarse, his throat dry from the alcohol he had consumed the night before. His attempt at humor didn’t exactly work, but it was the only thing he could offer. He couldn't believe he had shown up at your door looking like this, of all things.

You continued to look him up and down, your gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary. There was no judgment in your expression, but Jisung could see the traces of concern in your eyes, the way you were trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of this strange encounter. His chest tightened as you glanced down at his shoes, then back at his face. For a second, he thought you might close the door on him and tell him to get his life together before even attempting a conversation.

But then you did something that surprised him even more: you laughed again, the sound a little louder this time. The way you shook your head as you did so made his heart clench. It wasn’t mocking. It was more like you were acknowledging the absurdity of the whole situation, the way everything had spiraled into chaos.

"You're a mess," you said, the words lighter now, almost fond in a strange way. The sharpness in your tone from before was gone, replaced by something a little more... tender, maybe even forgiving.

Jisung stood there, unsure of what to do with that. He wanted to apologize again, but the laughter, your laughter made it feel like there was still a chance for him to explain himself. He could tell you had softened, if only just a little bit. Maybe you weren’t as angry as before, maybe you were starting to see him not as the person who had hurt you, but as someone who was truly remorseful.

His gaze shifted, following your movements as you instinctively placed a hand over your belly. You hadn’t even realized you were doing it, but the way your fingers hovered protectively over your growing stomach told him everything he needed to know. You were already thinking about the baby, about protecting what mattered most now. The thought made something warm and soft stir in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself to experience in so long. His mind was clouded with regrets about the past, but in that moment, seeing you like this, seeing how much you had grown, both in body and it hit him hard.

"You're pregnant," he said softly, the realization hitting him like a wave. It wasn’t just the fact that you were carrying his child; it was the way you seemed so much more settled now, so much stronger. The woman standing in front of him wasn’t the same person he had left behind. She was someone who had grown in ways he couldn’t even begin to imagine. The confidence in your posture, the way you held your belly like it was the most precious thing in the world, he couldn’t deny that.

You nodded, but there was a slight hesitation in your eyes, as if you were trying to gauge whether he had truly understood what that meant.

"Yeah," you replied softly, your voice steady but tinged with something Jisung couldn’t quite place. "I’m pregnant." Your eyes softened for a moment, the edges of your lips twitching into a small, almost imperceptible smile. But the smile didn’t reach your eyes completely, and Jisung could see the weight of the situation in your gaze. It wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about the future.

He took a step closer, suddenly aware of how much he wanted to bridge the distance between you two. But he didn’t want to overstep; he didn’t want to make the same mistakes again. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable, to push you away when all he wanted was to make things right.

"How have you been?" His question was simple, but it was the first thing that came to his mind. He needed to know how you were, how you were holding up, especially now that he had messed everything up. His heart ached just thinking about it.

You gave him a small shrug, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes, something softer. "I’m doing alright," you said, your voice more honest now. "I’ve been getting by. It’s not easy, but I’m managing."

Jisung could feel the weight of your words. He had no idea what you’d been through, what you were still going through. He had left you behind when things got tough, when you needed him the most. And now, he couldn’t help but feel like he had lost any chance of making things right.

But as he stood there, watching you, feeling the fragile atmosphere between you two, he knew he couldn’t give up. Not when it was so clear that he had so much to make up for. He needed to make things right for you, for the baby, for everything he had taken for granted.

And so, without thinking about it too much, he spoke from his heart.

"I'm sorry," he said again, his voice breaking. "I know I've messed up. But I’ll do whatever it takes. Whatever you need, I’ll be there. I can’t undo the past, but I’m here now. Please, let me try to make this right. I want to be a part of this. I want to help."

For a brief moment, there was only silence. Jisung watched you, desperate for any sign of what you were thinking. Your gaze flickered down to your belly again, as if you were thinking about how much had changed since you last saw him. The pregnancy, the baby, the future everything had shifted, and he couldn’t help but wonder if there was any room for him in it anymore.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you sighed softly and looked back at him. "I’m not sure, Jisung," you said, the words hesitant. "I’m not sure I’m ready to let you back in after everything. But…"

Jisung’s heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear what was coming next, but he knew he had to.

"But I’m willing to try," you continued, your voice soft but steady. "For the baby. For us. I can’t promise everything will be easy, but I’m willing to give it a chance."

Jisung exhaled deeply, relief flooding through him. It wasn’t the answer he had hoped for, but it was enough. It was a chance. A fragile, delicate chance to rebuild everything he had lost.

"Thank you," he whispered, his eyes shining with gratitude. "I won’t mess this up. I swear."

You nodded slowly, a quiet understanding passing between you two. Neither of you knew exactly what the future held, but for the first time in a long while, Jisung felt like there was hope.

The air between you and Jisung was heavy with unspoken words, and for a moment, it felt like time had stopped altogether. Neither of you moved, each of you waiting for the other to say something, but it seemed like the silence was doing its job for now. It wasn’t awkward, not really, just... filled with the weight of everything that had happened.

Then, as if a quiet realization settled in, you spoke, breaking the tension with a soft offer. “Would you like to come in?”

Jisung blinked, caught off guard by your calm tone. For a moment, he simply stood there, his feet planted on the floor, almost as if he wasn’t sure what you were implying. The request wasn’t what he’d expected. He had come here thinking this would be another painful confrontation, something that might make the gap between you two even wider. Instead, you were inviting him in offering a space where you could both breathe.

After a beat of hesitation, Jisung nodded. It wasn’t the grand gesture he’d imagined, but it was enough. It was the first step.

"Yeah," he said softly, almost to himself, as if the invitation was something he had been hoping for without realizing it. "I’d like that."

You stepped aside, holding the door open just enough for him to pass. His eyes lingered on you for a second longer than necessary before he moved past you into the apartment. It felt surreal, the sudden shift from anger and hurt to a fragile kind of calm that seemed to hang in the air like fog, both of you treading carefully through it.

The inside of your apartment was cozy, nothing too extravagant, but it had a quiet, homey warmth to it. The light streaming in from the window made everything feel softer, gentler. As you moved into the kitchen to start preparing your tea, Jisung took a seat in the small dining area. His eyes wandered over the room, his gaze catching on something unexpected: two ultrasound pictures stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

It was like a punch to the gut.

The realization hit him before he could process it fully: the baby, his baby, was real. The ultrasound images, two of them, one from earlier in your pregnancy and the other more recent were right there in front of him, displayed so casually, as though it wasn’t the kind of thing that would completely change everything in his life.

He stared at them for a few moments, his breath catching in his throat. His mind spiraled again, and for a second, he almost forgot where he was. The weight of it all settled on his chest: the baby that was growing inside of you, the future that was unfolding whether he was ready for it or not.

You noticed where his attention had gone, and without turning around, you spoke. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been keeping them there to remind me that it’s real,” you said, your voice low. “It still feels surreal sometimes, even with everything going on.”

Jisung didn’t know what to say to that. His mind was still working through the images on the fridge, but there was something about the way you said it, something so matter-of-fact that made him want to be there. To be a part of that reality. But as quickly as that thought came, the flood of guilt followed it. He wasn’t sure he even deserved a place in that future, but the idea of walking away from it again seemed impossible.

“I never wanted to leave,” Jisung said suddenly, his voice cracking just a little. You could hear the sincerity in his words, the rawness of it. His eyes were on the ultrasound pictures, but you knew he wasn’t just talking about the baby now. He was talking about everything. About you.

He was sorry. You could hear it in his voice.

You took a slow breath and, without thinking, began to gather the tea bags and cups. You could feel the weight of his words, but the tension in the air was still too thick to address it fully. You needed to give it some space before you let everything out.

Jisung followed your lead, though, moving to the kitchen to help you. He was tentative at first, like he was worried that being too close would make things worse. But his eyes didn’t leave you as you began preparing the tea, the soft clink of the ceramic cups filling the space between your words. You looked up at him as you set the kettle down and asked, “Do you want sugar or anything?”

Jisung paused for a second, considering the question, before shaking his head. “No, just straight. Thanks,” he said quietly. He watched you as you made the tea, your movements fluid and familiar, and in that moment, something about it made his chest tighten. Everything about you felt so... settled now, so different than the chaos of the past.

When you handed him the steaming cup, he took it gratefully, his fingers brushing yours in the process. The contact was small, but it felt significant, like a small thread of connection that hadn’t been completely severed.

You both moved to the small living area after that, sitting across from each other at the table. For a while, you sipped your tea in silence, the sound of the quiet ticking clock in the background the only thing breaking the stillness.

Finally, you set your cup down and looked at him, really looked at him. The expression on your face was softer than before, but there was still a guardedness there. It wasn’t anger anymore, not like it had been the last time you saw each other, but there was an undeniable caution. The sting of everything you had been through still hung between you two.

“Jisung,” you began slowly, your voice almost too calm for what was about to come next. “I didn’t... I didn’t want any of this to happen.” You paused, collecting your thoughts before continuing. “I didn’t want to push you away, but I also couldn’t keep holding on to something that wasn’t... real anymore. I wanted to make this work with you, more than anything, but I needed to know that I was enough, that I wasn’t just waiting around for something to fall apart.”

He nodded, his throat tight. He could feel the sincerity in your words, but it was difficult to take it all in without feeling the weight of his own mistakes. He had let his fear, his pride, get in the way of something that could have worked. Could have meant something more.

“I get it,” Jisung said, his voice barely a whisper. “I wasn’t there when you needed me to be. I let my own bullshit cloud everything, and I—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard. He needed to get this out. “I didn’t want to be a father, but I never stopped wanting you. I just... I didn’t know how to fix everything I broke.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were full of regret, but there was something else there too: determination. Like he was willing to do whatever it took to make it right, even if it meant starting from scratch.

“I’m not perfect either,” you said softly. “I made mistakes too. I wasn’t honest with you about how scared I was. I didn’t let you in. I didn’t... I didn’t let you be part of this because I thought I could do it all on my own.” You let out a small, bitter laugh. “Turns out I can’t.”

Jisung’s eyes softened at that. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, his voice steady now. “I’m not asking for everything to be fixed in one day. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

You looked down at your cup, swirling it absentmindedly before meeting his gaze again. “I don’t know if I’m ready to let you back in,” you said, your voice quiet, almost apologetic. “But... I’m willing to try.“

Jisung didn’t speak right away, but the quiet relief in his eyes was unmistakable. You weren’t saying you were ready to forgive him completely, but you were willing to take the first step, the most important one. He could work with that. He’d take whatever you were willing to give.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I swear, I won’t mess this up.”

You nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You weren’t sure what the future would look like, but at least, for now, you were both willing to find out.

As the door clicked shut behind Jisung, you stood there for a moment, your hand still resting on the doorframe. The quietness of your apartment felt almost too loud after everything that had happened. You took a slow, deep breath, feeling the tension leave your body in waves. It was as if the moment he stepped out, a weight you hadn’t even realized you were carrying was finally lifted off your shoulders.

For the first time in months, you felt something that resembled peace, something you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever. The tightness in your chest that had been there ever since everything fell apart had started to ease, just a little. The storm inside of you, the one that had raged every time you thought about him, about what could have been seemed quieter now. You hadn’t expected it, but the feeling of calm that washed over you was almost surprising.

You walked slowly back to the couch, each step lighter than the last, and gingerly sat down. The soft hum of the city outside your window mixed with the calmness inside, a strange but comforting contrast. You rubbed your belly absently, still feeling the warmth from the conversation you’d had with Jisung. It hadn’t been perfect, it never could be, but it was the first real conversation the two of you had in months. It felt like a small start, an opening to something that could, maybe, be better.

As you leaned back into the cushions, your mind replayed moments from the conversation. Jisung’s sincerity, the way his eyes softened when he spoke about wanting to be there for you and the baby, even when he had no idea how to fix the mess he’d made. It had been raw, real, and full of regret, but also hope. He wasn’t expecting things to be fine overnight, and neither were you. But that first step? The one where he admitted that he had been wrong, and that he wanted to try? That was everything. It meant more than the words themselves, more than the mistakes he had made. It was a promise. A promise that he would try to make it right, no matter how long it took.

You pressed your palm to your belly and let out a soft exhale. That feeling of warmth and comfort began to spread through you, almost like the little kicks that had become more frequent lately. You closed your eyes, focusing on the movement inside you, each little nudge a reminder of the life you were creating. It was as though the baby inside of you could sense that something had shifted, that you were making the decision to move forward in a way that felt right, not just for you, but for them, too.

The tiny movements against your hand felt almost like reassurance, like a little voice whispering in your heart: It’s okay. You’re doing the right thing. You’re not alone. The idea that Jisung might really try this time, that he might actually want to be there for both you and the baby, settled in your chest like a comforting embrace. You weren’t sure if you were ready to let him all the way in yet, there was still so much hurt, so many walls to tear down, but the thought that you might finally have the chance to build something together, something stable, was enough for now.

A second chance. That’s what you had just given him. A second chance to prove that he could do what he had promised. And a second chance for you, too. A chance to heal. To open yourself up to the possibility of something different. Something real.

It wasn’t going to be easy. There would still be hurdles, and there was still so much to sort through. But in that quiet moment, with the subtle rhythm of your baby’s movements underneath your hand, you allowed yourself to believe that things could get better. You could try to make them better.

You let your hand rest on your belly, smiling softly. It wasn’t perfect, and it was far from where you wanted things to be, but it was a start. And sometimes, that’s all you needed: the belief that you could make it work, one step at a time.

The tiny kicks continued, like a reassurance, a little reminder that you were doing the right thing. You weren’t alone. You had made your decision, and now, no matter what happened, you could move forward. You could allow yourself to heal. And, maybe, just maybe you could allow yourself to hope again.

It was the beginning of something new. A second chance. For you. For Jisung. And for the baby who was growing stronger inside of you every day.

After sitting there for a little while longer, soaking in the quiet and letting yourself feel everything relief, nervousness, hope you finally got up from the couch. You made yourself another cup of tea, needing something warm to hold, something grounding.

The day outside had started to brighten, golden sunlight peeking through your curtains, casting a soft glow across your apartment. It made everything feel even more surreal, like the heavy fog that had been hanging over you for months was finally starting to lift.

You weren't naïve. You knew things wouldn’t magically fall into place because of one conversation. You knew trust didn’t rebuild itself overnight. But still, you had to start somewhere. And you had chosen to start here.

Meanwhile, across the city, Jisung sat alone in his apartment, the overwhelming aftermath of the morning sinking in. He was finally sober now, feeling the full weight of his mistakes. He replayed everything, your guarded but soft voice, the look in your eyes when you told him you were willing to try. It was a second chance he hadn’t deserved but one he swore he would never take for granted again.

For the first time in months, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in work, distractions, or alcohol. Instead, he felt determined. He needed to get his act together, for real this time. He needed to show you, not just tell you, that he could be the man you and the baby needed him to be.

The first thing he did was clean his apartment really clean it, not just a lazy sweep. He threw out the alcohol bottles, aired out the rooms, and opened the windows to let fresh air in. It was a small, physical act of change, but to him, it felt important. A symbol of letting go of the past he’d been clinging to.

The next few days were careful, tentative. Jisung texted you, not overbearing, just small check-ins: “Good morning, hope you’re feeling okay today.” or “Let me know if you need anything, I’ll be around.” Simple, unobtrusive. He was careful not to pressure you, to give you the space you needed to adjust, but he wanted you to know he was there.

And surprisingly, you found yourself responding. Short answers at first, but they warmed up quickly, especially when he’d send you cheesy jokes or tell you random little things about his day, just trying to make you laugh. There were still walls between you, but you could feel them starting to thin out, piece by piece.

You were moving slowly, and that was exactly what you needed.

Then, one afternoon, a week later, Jisung asked if he could come by no pressure, no expectations just to drop off something. You hesitated but said yes.

When you opened the door, he was standing there with a small, awkwardly wrapped package in his hands. It was a simple thing, a tiny onesie, soft and pastel, with a silly little duck on the front. He handed it to you with a sheepish look, scratching the back of his neck.

“I saw it and thought...you know, maybe you could use it later.”

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t a perfect apology. But it was effort. It was real.

And in that moment, you realized...maybe things could really change. Maybe it was okay to hope for something better after all.

So you smiled, small but genuine, and you invited him inside again.

It was a beginning. Your beginning.
Slow, fragile, but real.

-

It happened more naturally than you would have ever expected.

You hadn’t spoken to Jisung much in the past week, not because either of you was upset or because something had gone wrong, but simply because life got busy. He had warned you ahead of time that he would be caught up with work, that there were long studio nights coming, meetings, deadlines. You’d appreciated the honesty; it had been a small, early test of communication between the two of you, and he’d passed. Still, the silence had been a little strange not painful like before, but noticeable. You found yourself missing his casual updates, his small jokes, even just the way he asked how you were feeling every day.

That morning, you had been going through the list of things you still needed for the baby the hospital bag essentials, a stroller, bottles, a few more newborn clothes, blankets and the weight of it felt heavier when you realized how close your due date actually was. Your first instinct had been to call Jia or Lana, but somewhere deep inside you, an impulse stirred.
You pulled out your phone, hesitated, but finally typed out a message to Jisung:

"Would you want to go baby shopping with me today? If you’re free."

You didn’t expect a fast reply. Maybe you even prepared yourself for him to say no, he was busy, after all, and you didn’t want to be disappointed.
But barely a minute later, your phone lit up.

"Of course. I’ll come pick you up. What time?"

No hesitation. No excuses.
Your heart thudded heavily, emotions a little tangled nervous, happy, scared. But above all, hopeful.

An hour later, you stood by the window of your apartment, watching the street below. Jisung’s familiar car pulled up, and you grabbed your bag quickly, giving yourself one last glance in the mirror. You smoothed your hands over your dress, instinctively resting a palm against your belly as you took a deep breath and headed out the door.

When you slid into the passenger seat, you found him smiling nervously at you.
“You look great,” he said, and there was something so genuine about it, not just an empty compliment.
You thanked him quietly, your cheeks warming, and the two of you set off.

At first, the drive was a little quiet. Not uncomfortable, but tentative. Jisung asked about how you were feeling lately, about the baby’s kicks, about if you were sleeping okay. You answered honestly, and then you found yourself asking about his work, about how he’d been managing everything. The conversation picked up from there, flowing more easily the longer you talked.

By the time you reached the baby store, some of the tension had melted away completely.

Inside, everything felt overwhelming at first. So many options, so many tiny clothes, gadgets, things you didn’t even know existed. You stared at a wall of strollers, feeling a little helpless, until Jisung bumped your shoulder playfully.
“Looks like we’re going to need a map for this place,” he joked.
You laughed, the sound breaking the last bit of awkwardness lingering between you.

The two of you wandered the aisles together, picking out onesies, swaddles, a diaper bag. He was attentive, reading labels, asking questions, genuinely interested. Not rushing through it, not treating it like a chore.

At one point, you found a tiny beanie, soft and knitted, and you held it up to show him. Without thinking, he leaned down, brushing his fingers over the fabric and then so carefully over the curve of your belly.
“They’re gonna look so cute in that,” he murmured, almost to himself.
You swallowed hard, trying to fight the sudden sting in your eyes.

That moment, so small and simple was when you truly let him in. Not because of anything grand or dramatic, but because he was just there, with you, in a way that he hadn’t been before.

You smiled at him, and he smiled back, something soft and vulnerable in his expression.

Later, when you loaded the bags into the trunk of his car, Jisung surprised you again by suggesting you both grab dinner, no pressure, he said, just something casual. And for the first time in a long time, you said yes easily.

It was still early evening by the time you and Jisung finally pulled into the parking garage of your apartment complex, the car packed full of bags, far more than you had originally intended to buy.
It had been... easy with him today, far easier than you would have thought a few weeks ago. You were tired now, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from a full, good day, not the emotional kind that usually dragged you down.

You unlocked your front door, letting Jisung in first as he carried several bags over his arms, insisting you shouldn’t be lifting too much. You laughed under your breath but didn’t fight him on it, your back was aching slightly anyway, and truthfully it was nice having someone there to help.
Once inside, you both got to work unpacking everything, laying it out over your couch and coffee table. Tiny onesies, a mountain of soft baby blankets, bottles, pacifiers, diapers, little pairs of socks so small they barely fit in the palm of your hand.

You sat back against the couch for a moment, letting out a small sigh of contentment. Jisung settled next to you, holding up a pale yellow onesie you had picked out, his lips curving into the softest smile you had seen on him in a long, long time.
"Look at this," he said, voice full of wonder. "It’s so tiny... I still can’t believe we’re going to have a tiny human wearing this."

You chuckled lightly, resting your hand on your belly instinctively as you leaned over to look at it with him.
"I know," you murmured, a little awe in your own voice.
Without thinking, you both leaned your heads together, admiring the onesie like it was the most precious thing in the world. It was such a warm, natural moment that your heart squeezed painfully in your chest, not in a bad way, but in the way that happens when you feel something real settling inside of you.

But then

BEEP BEEP, the code to your door punched in.
The door swung open with a loud bang as three very familiar faces burst through: Jia, Chan, and Lana.

You and Jisung both jerked upright, startled, the onesie slipping out of Jisung's hands and landing softly on the couch.
For a long second, none of you moved.

Jia’s eyes widened almost comically, her mouth opening slightly but no words coming out. She glanced between you and Jisung like she couldn't quite piece it together fast enough.
Chan’s brows lifted, but unlike Jia, he didn't look angry or shocked, more curious, even a little relieved.
Lana... Lana just stood there, her arms crossed loosely, looking more amused than anything else, like she had expected this and was just waiting to see how it would unfold.

The air was thick with tension and awkward silence.
You were the first to move, standing up slowly, brushing your hands down your sides in a nervous gesture.
"Uh… hi," you said, your voice a little too high-pitched.

Jisung stood too, glancing at you uncertainly, waiting for your lead.

Jia finally managed to say something, although it came out more like a strangled squeak.
"We, uh… we just came to check on you! Not, uh, not to—interrupt?" she said, her eyes darting to Jisung again.

You could feel your cheeks burn, but you forced yourself to speak calmly.
"I was going to tell you guys..." you began, feeling a little defensive but mostly just embarrassed. "I just… wasn't ready yet."

Chan gave you a small, understanding smile.
"You don’t owe us an explanation," he said gently. "As long as you're okay."
His words and the genuine way he said them, made some of the tension in your shoulders ease.

Lana, meanwhile, just lifted a brow and muttered, "Well, I’m glad someone finally stepped up," earning her a sharp nudge from Jia.

You glanced at Jisung, who gave you a tentative but encouraging nod, silently telling you he was here for whatever you needed to say.
You inhaled deeply and looked back at your friends.

"Jisung and I... we’re trying," you said, the words tasting strange but right in your mouth. "We’re not rushing into anything. We’re just… trying to figure it out together."

Jia still looked a little wary, like she wanted to protect you but was biting her tongue.
Chan gave Jisung a small, respectful nod, and you could see the slight relief on Jisung’s face like maybe he had been expecting Chan to punch him or something.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start.

Slowly, your friends trickled further inside. Lana picked up a few of the baby things, making little comments about how adorable everything was. Jia offered to help organize, and Chan drifted over to the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone.

Jisung stayed close to you, not too close, but enough that you could feel his presence solid and steady by your side.
When you caught him looking at you that soft, unguarded look again, you realized something.

You weren’t alone anymore.

Not in the way you had been, not even when you had your friends around.
This was different.
This was the beginning of something healing, something real, something that could one day, if you both worked hard enough, be a family.

And maybe, just maybe, you were finally ready to let that happen.

-

The evening settled into a kind of chaotic comfort, the kind that only happens when you're surrounded by people who feel like home.

Jia and Chan were bickering loudly over the TV remote, their voices rising in playful (but intense) competitiveness.
"You picked the last movie!" Jia accused, trying to yank the remote from Chan's hand.
"You didn't even watch it! You fell asleep twenty minutes in!" Chan shot back, holding the remote high above her head.

Lana, sitting cross-legged on the rug, sighed dramatically and tried to mediate, though she clearly wasn’t really trying that hard.
"Just give it to Jia," Lana said, her tone half-annoyed, half-amused. "You're just making it worse, Chan."

You sat on the couch, a little farther away from the chaos, with Jisung beside you.
There was a little pile of tiny onesies and newborn clothes between you both, freshly laundered and soft to the touch. You were showing him how you liked to fold them, smoothing the tiny sleeves inward, then folding up the bottom half carefully.

"Like this," you said, demonstrating slowly, smiling a little to yourself at the concentration on Jisung's face as he tried to mimic you. His brows furrowed, his tongue poking out slightly in focus as he carefully mirrored your actions.

You couldn't help but giggle quietly, nudging his elbow when he finally got it right.
"There you go," you praised, and he looked so absurdly proud that it made your heart twist in your chest.

The noise from Jia and Chan faded into the background as you and Jisung worked together, folding onesie after onesie, your hands brushing once in a while.
It was easy, surprisingly easy. And even though you were still cautious, still hesitant deep down, you couldn’t deny the way you felt lighter around him.

At one point, after folding a particularly small pair of socks, Jisung shifted closer to you slightly, setting the socks down neatly before speaking.
His voice was low, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should break the comfortable quiet between you.

"I'm really... thankful," he said, glancing over at you, his eyes earnest and soft. "That you have them. Jia, Lana... even Chan. It’s clear they care about you so much."

You smiled, following his gaze to where your friends were still tangled in a ridiculous argument about movie choices.
"Yeah," you said softly, your heart swelling a little. "They’ve been here for me... when I didn’t even know how much I needed someone."

Jisung nodded slowly, his fingers playing with the hem of a tiny shirt.
"And... I’m thankful," he continued, voice a little rough now, "that they didn’t treat me like... like I didn’t belong here. They didn’t make me feel like I wasn’t welcome. Even after everything I did wrong."

Your breath caught a little in your chest. You looked at him then, really looked at him. His eyes were open, vulnerable, no walls left.
He wasn’t perfect, you both weren’t. You had hurt each other. But he was trying. He was here.

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing lightly over his knuckles where his hand rested on his knee.
"They know I wouldn’t have let you in if I didn’t want to try," you said gently. "And they trust me."

Jisung’s lips curved into the smallest, most grateful smile you’d ever seen.

For a long moment, you both just sat there, your friends’ laughter and squabbling a warm, distant hum around you.
You realized you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time not fully, not truly.

Hope.

It wasn’t going to be easy.
You still had to rebuild trust.
You still had so much healing to do, separately and together.

But maybe, just maybe, it was possible.

You and Jisung finished folding the last of the baby clothes, placing them carefully in a basket you’d set aside.
And when Jia finally wrestled the remote away from Chan and put on some random cheesy movie, and everyone settled down to watch, Jisung stayed close.
Not too close, not pushing any boundaries, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, steady and solid beside you.

It was a start.
And for the first time in a long time, a small, genuine smile tugged at your lips, not out of obligation, not out of politeness.
Out of real, tentative happiness.

Because maybe you weren’t alone anymore.
Maybe you hadn’t been for a while.
Maybe... you were finally ready to believe that you could build something new, something better not just for you, but for the tiny life growing inside of you too.

The next few months passed like a series of soft, tentative steps forward. Nothing was rushed, nothing was forced, it all unfolded in the kind of natural way that only happens when two people are really trying, when the effort itself means something.

As your due date crept closer and closer, the atmosphere around you changed too, like a gentle hum in the background of your everyday life. Things weren’t perfect, there were still tough days, moments of uncertainty where you questioned whether you were doing the right thing by letting him back into your life, but they were outweighed, slowly but surely, by the good days.
And Jisung, he made sure you had more of those good days.

He became part of your group almost seamlessly, something you never would’ve expected when you first opened your door that early morning and saw him standing there, a mess of mismatched shoes and regret.
It was awkward at first, of course it was.
Especially with Chan.

At first, there was a lingering tension between them whenever they were in the same room. Jisung was polite, if a little stiff. Chan was friendly, but you could tell he was holding back a little too, unsure of where the boundaries were supposed to lie.
There was a certain unspoken protectiveness that Chan carried when it came to you, and even though you had never given him any reason to think you wanted anything more than friendship, you could understand why Jisung might have felt a little... threatened.

But one afternoon, after you had gone into the kitchen to grab some snacks during a movie night at your apartment, you overheard them talking.
You paused, just out of sight, feeling a little guilty for eavesdropping but too curious to stop yourself.

“She’s lucky to have you,” Jisung had said, voice low but sincere.
Chan chuckled, a little awkwardly. “Nah, man. She’s strong all on her own. Always has been. I’m just glad she has more people looking out for her now.”

There was a brief pause, the kind that spoke volumes.
Then Chan added, “I’m not gonna pretend it wasn’t weird at first. But if you’re serious about being there for her and the baby... that’s what matters.”

And from then on, things got easier between them.

They bonded, slowly, mostly over music at first, it was neutral ground.
Chan had experience producing a few tracks for friends back in Australia, and Jisung, passionate and hardworking as always, immediately lit up whenever they talked shop.
You’d catch them having full conversations about studio software, instrumentals, and beat progressions, both completely oblivious to the fact that the initial awkwardness had faded.

Jia and Lana were relieved.
They had been watching everything unfold with eagle eyes, ready to swoop in if needed.
You knew they were still protective of you, but their relief showed in their softer smiles and in the way they treated Jisung more like he was one of them now, no longer an outsider trying to claw his way back in, but someone they were cautiously welcoming back for your sake... and maybe for his own too.

It meant the world to you.
Because it wasn’t just about your relationship with Jisung anymore, it was about your world, your community, your support system.
You needed them all to mesh, to get along, to coexist in a way that didn’t leave you feeling like you had to pick sides.

And Jisung, he tried.
He was there for every little thing he could be.

If you had a doctor’s appointment, he’d move mountains to be there, even if it meant showing up straight from work in slightly wrinkled clothes, with tired eyes but a bright, excited smile.
He read every book you mentioned offhandedly, studied every article about pregnancy and baby care until he could quote things you didn’t even know.
He was there when you were too tired to get up from the couch, cooking you simple meals (even if sometimes he had to call Lana for help halfway through).
He was there when you needed a hand up from a chair, when you dropped something you couldn’t bend down to pick up anymore, when the loneliness crept in during the nights and you didn’t know how to tell anyone somehow, he just knew.

There were late-night calls that turned into sleepy conversations where he told you about his day and asked you about yours, moments where you’d accidentally fall asleep on the phone and wake up to a simple "goodnight" text he’d left after hanging up.

There were moments when you’d catch him staring at your belly with this look of wonder like he couldn’t believe this was real, that he had almost thrown it all away.
He’d ask to feel the baby kick, and every time he felt the tiny flutter of life beneath your skin, his entire face would light up like the sun had decided to live inside of him.
It was healing, in its own slow, imperfect way.

You still weren’t naive about it.
You still had your guard up sometimes, and he never pushed you past what you were comfortable with.
You both knew there were still conversations that needed to happen, still trust that needed to be rebuilt fully.

But you were getting there.
Step by step.
Moment by moment.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel like a scary, lonely thing anymore.
It felt like something you could walk into together bruised but stronger, fractured but healing, cautious but hopeful.

It felt like maybe, just maybe you could have the tiny family you always dreamed of.
Even if it looked a little different than you had originally imagined.
Even if it took a long, winding road to get there.

You weren't alone anymore.
And neither was he.

Your baby boy arrived exactly on your due date, and somehow, despite the chaos and the endless scheduling, Jisung had managed to be there. He had told you countless times that he would make it work, that no matter how busy his schedule was, no matter what meetings or recording sessions he had, he would be there for you. And true to his word, when you felt the first rush of contractions that morning, he dropped everything and rushed to your side.

It was a long and exhausting labor, but with each breath, each push, you felt a sense of clarity. There was no going back from this moment. You weren’t doing this alone. The presence of Jisung, his hand in yours, his voice murmuring words of encouragement through gritted teeth, made all the pain and uncertainty fade into the background.

And when the cries of your baby boy filled the room, it felt like the world had shifted, like everything you had fought for, everything you had hoped for was standing in front of you, in his tiny, wriggling form.

Jisung had been there the entire time, right by your side, holding your hand through the hardest moments and softly kissing your forehead when you could barely hold your head up. But it was in the quiet moments after, when the rush of the birth had settled and you both were left with your son in your arms, that you truly saw the difference in him.

You’d been watching him quietly for a while now. Jisung was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, your baby boy cradled in his arms. His face was a soft picture of awe, his gaze fixed on the little bundle of joy in his arms like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He was so careful, so gentle with the baby, like he was afraid to breathe too loudly in case he’d break him. He rocked him slowly, softly, his eyes never leaving your son’s little face as he tried to wrap his head around everything that was happening. It was such a beautiful, surreal moment that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh when you watched him. The sight was almost too perfect to be true. You had expected him to be nervous, to fumble a little. But no, he was doing this so naturally.

And then, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, you broke the silence with a teasing comment. “So, this is the baby you didn’t want, huh?”

Jisung’s head snapped up, his eyebrows furrowing as he gave you a playful glare. He shifted the baby gently in his arms, like he was preparing for an argument, but you could see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Really?” he said, his voice still thick with the emotion of the moment, but his teasing tone clear. “That’s the first thing you’re going to say after I just helped bring this little guy into the world?”

You let out a light laugh, the sound a little breathless from the exhaustion of labor, but your heart was lighter than it had been in months. “I mean,” you said with a smirk, “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about what you said, you know? You weren’t exactly enthusiastic about having a baby back then.”

His eyes softened at the reminder, and you could see the shift in him, the genuine remorse that still lingered from the moment he realized he’d almost lost you, almost lost the chance to be a father to his child.

He leaned closer, his voice quieter now, as though speaking only for you and your son to hear. “I know I wasn’t ready back then, but... I’m here now. I’m here for both of you.”

You studied him for a moment, your heart swelling. Jisung wasn’t just holding your baby, he was holding your family in his arms. And there was no question in your mind now: He was ready, more ready than you had ever imagined.

You softened, smiling up at him. “It’s too early for jokes like that, huh?”

He nodded, a knowing, teasing smile finally reaching his lips. “A little too soon. He’s only a few hours old, give him a break.”

The moment settled between you, warm and quiet, as you both let your eyes linger on your son. You couldn’t stop the tear that escaped down your cheek. It wasn’t from sadness, though. It was joy, pure, overwhelming joy.

You reached out and gently touched the little hand that Jisung had been holding so carefully. “I’m really happy you’re here, Jisung. And that you want to be here for him.”

He squeezed your hand back, looking at you with sincerity. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work, for him, for you... for us.”

The gravity of his words sank in, and for a moment, there was nothing else in the world but the three of you, together. Everything that had been so uncertain between you two, all the hurt, the doubts, the tension seemed so distant now, so irrelevant. This was where you were supposed to be.
This was your family.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

[taglist: @kenqki @mbioooo0000 @bearseuming @alisonyus @justjxnniie @chungdol @captainchrisstan @stilesks @banana-bread-thread @linosgrape @chaosandcandies @energyjuice4life @st4rv3lly @hanniebunch @nchhuhi @changbin-wife @felixleftchickennugget @psychobitchsthings @puppymsworld @silly250 @uyyoyyu @beppybeesnuggets @413ktz @emilyywhyy @betda @anastasiiiiaaaaa @vixensss @ready2readnwrite @hansmic @sunnysidesins @m-325 @b2ngch2n @zelianlop..]

[misswynters]

A Stark’s Fury

Cregan Stark x targ!wife! reader

[warning: blood, you getting cut in the arm

[synopsis: You are the wife of Cregan and younger sister of rhaenyra. You get cut in the arm and your son, Eddard, also gets hurt. Which makes cregan furious.

[note | here’s a lil something while i write the final chapter for winters embrace, just a short drabble :) also instead of rhae getting cut it’s you.

[requested: by anon

The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting an amber glow across Driftmark. Laena Velaryon’s funeral was a somber affair, filled with the mournful silence of the assembled nobles and the soft lapping of waves against the shore. Among the gathered were you, the younger sister of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, your husband Cregan Stark, and your son Eddard, who clung to your skirts, his wide eyes taking in the solemnity of the occasion.

Your silver hair flowed down your back, and your violet eyes glistened with unshed tears as you stood beside Cregan. His strong arm encircled your waist, offering silent support. Despite the warmth of the setting sun, a chill hung in the air, a reflection of the grief that weighed heavily on your hearts.

As the ceremony proceeded, you noticed the tension simmering among the children. Your son, Eddard, stood with Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, trying to comfort them in their shared sorrow. Your heart ached for them, especially for Rhaena, who had just lost her mother.

When the time came for the family to pay their final respects, you and Cregan approached the bier. You whispered a prayer for Laena’s soul, your voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. Cregan squeezed your hand gently, his presence a solid rock amidst the turbulent sea of emotions.

After the funeral, you found yourself in the grand hall, where the tension between the Blacks and the Greens was palpable. You kept a watchful eye on Eddard, who was playing with the other children. However, the peace was shattered when a scuffle broke out between Aemond and Jace. The sight of Aemond taunting Jace, and the resulting fight, sent a shockwave through the hall.

Eddard tried to intervene, but in the chaos, he was struck and fell to the ground, crying out in pain. You rushed to his side, your heart pounding with fear and anger. Cregan was by your side in an instant, his protective instincts flaring as he assessed the situation.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice a low growl.

“Aemond taunted Jace, and then the fight started,” you explained, your voice trembling with emotion as you cradled Eddard.

Cregan’s eyes darkened with anger. “This has gone too far.”

The confrontation escalated when Alicent Hightower, her face twisted with rage, advanced on Rhaenyra, who was defending her sons. You stepped between them, trying to defuse the situation, but Alicent’s fury was uncontrollable. She drew a knife, lunging at Rhaenyra, but you intercepted the blow.

The blade sliced across your arm, and you cried out in pain, clutching the wound. Cregan’s roar of fury echoed through the hall as he moved to shield you. He grabbed the knife from Alicent’s hand, his face a mask of rage.

“Enough!” he bellowed. “This madness ends now!”

King Viserys, looking frail and distressed, tried to intervene. “Peace! There must be peace!”

Cregan turned on the king, his eyes blazing. “Peace? Look at what your family has done! My wife is injured, my son is hurt, and for what? Petty squabbles and insults?”

Rhaenyra, tears streaming down her face, reached for you. “Sister, I’m so sorry.”

You managed a weak smile, despite the pain. “It’s not your fault, Rhaenyra. But something must change.”

As the maesters attended to your wound, Cregan kept a protective arm around you. He glared at the Greens, making it clear that any further aggression would not be tolerated. The hall was filled with a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken threats and unresolved grievances.

In the aftermath, Cregan insisted on returning to Winterfell with you and Eddard. “We’ll be safer there,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I won’t risk your lives any longer.”

You nodded, grateful for his unwavering support. “Thank you, Cregan.”

He kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your cool skin. “I love you. I will always protect you.”

As you prepared to leave Driftmark, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness for the family you were leaving behind. You took a moment to say your farewells to Rhaenyra and her children.

“Please, take care of yourselves,” you whispered to Rhaenyra, holding her hands tightly. “We’ll be in touch, I promise.”

Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes filled with worry. “Be safe, sister.”

With a final embrace, you and Cregan gathered Eddard and boarded your ship, setting sail for Winterfell. The journey was long, but Cregan’s presence and Eddard’s innocent chatter kept your spirits high.

Winterfell welcomed you with open arms. The cold, crisp air and the familiar sights brought a sense of comfort. As you settled back into your home, the events at Driftmark seemed like a distant nightmare.

Cregan, ever the doting husband, ensured you had everything you needed to recover from your injury. He personally oversaw the maesters’ treatments, and his protective nature brought you solace.

A few hours later, as you sat by the fire, Cregan wrapped a warm blanket around your shoulders and handed you a cup of hot tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern etched on his face.

“Better,” you replied, taking a sip. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled, sitting beside you. “I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.”

You leaned against him, finding comfort in his strength. “I know. And I’m grateful.”

Life in Winterfell slowly returned to normal. Eddard resumed his lessons and playtime with the other children, while you and Cregan focused on the responsibilities of ruling the North. Despite the distance from Driftmark, the shadow of that day lingered.

Later that night, as you lay in bed, you turned to Cregan. “Do you think things will ever be right again between the Blacks and the Greens?”

Cregan sighed, his brow furrowing in thought. “It’s hard to say. The wounds run deep. But we must try, for the sake of our family.”

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. “I want Eddard to grow up in a world where he doesn’t have to choose sides.”

Cregan’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll do everything in our power to make that happen.”

Many moons have passed, and your wound healed, leaving only a faint scar as a reminder of the confrontation. The bond between you and Cregan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity. Winterfell thrived under your joint leadership, a beacon of stability and strength. In the morning, as the first snow of the season blanketed the ground, you stood on the battlements with Cregan, watching Eddard play with the other children.

“He’s so happy here,” you remarked, smiling at the sight of your son’s laughter.

Cregan wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Of course he is, this is our home. He’s meant to be here.”

You nodded silently, feeling a deep sense of peace. Your eyes went to the scar on your arm, being reminded of what happened. You looked at your husband, with sadness in your eyes.

“I hope my family will stop this infighting, i wish for all of this today end” Your thoughts began to wonder of all the possible outcomes this conflict can end with. This could very well mean that death will linger in your family. Something no one will ever be prepared for, war costs everything.

The quietness of Winterfell enveloped you as you drifted into a fitful sleep beside Cregan. The room was cold, and the memory of the somber events—the funeral of Lady Laena Velaryon, the sharp sting of your wound—still weighed heavily on you.

In your dream, the landscape was bleak and foreboding. A storm raged over a desolate battlefield, its fury tearing at the very fabric of the sky. You wandered through the chaos, a spectral figure in the storm’s heart. Amidst the destruction, you saw a vision of a great dragon, its scales a dim and faded silver, bound by chains of ice that slowly constricted around its body. The dragon’s eyes were filled with a profound sorrow, as if it sensed the end drawing near.

A shadowy figure emerged from the storm—a man cloaked in shadows, his face obscured but his presence undeniably menacing. His voice cut through the tempest, speaking directly to your mind, “The chains of fate are not easily broken. A great loss is coming to your house.”

As you reached out to free the dragon, a dark prophecy formed in your mind, clear as day. “Cregan will face a treacherous choice,” you heard yourself say in the dream. “A betrayal will come from within. Death will follow.”

You awoke with a start, the remnants of the dream lingering like a cold shiver down your spine. Your breathing was rapid and uneven, and a profound fear gripped you. You turned to Cregan, who was lying beside you, his face furrowed in concern.

The sudden movement and your distressed state had startled him. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep as he reached out to steady you. His hand found yours, his grip warm and reassuring against your icy fingers.

“My dream,” you managed to stammer, your voice trembling. “I saw... I saw something terrible. A dragon in chains, and a warning about you—”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed with concern, but he quickly sat up, his arm wrapping protectively around you. “What did you see? Tell me everything,” he urged, his voice steady despite the worry etched on his face.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I don’t know all the details, but it felt so real. I fear that something dark is coming, and it will bring pain to us and our house.”

Cregan nodded, his expression resolute despite the alarm in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he said softly, pulling you closer to his body. “For now, try to rest. You need it” He cradled your body as you leaned towards him, the warmth of his body bringing you comfort.

As you lay back down, you could feel the storm of fear inside you slowly ebbing, but the weight of the dream’s prophecy remained heavy in your heart.

taglist: @benjicotblckwood @travelingmypassion @shoxji @thornsandtulips @spn-obession @giovanna-hyt @r-3dlips

banners: @cafekitsune

[springismss]

ᱬ⛧ jealousy, jealousy ~ i. midoriya

sum: just some jealous! izuku thoughts

pairing: villain! izuku midoriya x girlfriend! reader

content: 18+ - mdni. jealousy p in v, language, dirty talk, possessive talk, implied/suggested multiple rounds, slight quirk use, marking, reader gets called doll/princess/baby/good girl, general NSFW content.

a/n: another request from my wattpad days that came from insta. fresh look and feels so much better, not feeling this but I've been unwell so i'll take the hit. feels like this may turn into a series soon. as always likes, comments and re-blogs are deeply appreciated!

word count: 1.7k

links: bnha/mha masterlist | jealousy, jealousy masterlist | masterlist

jealous! izuku who would look at the person trying their hardest to swoon you and wish he had a quirk that would kill them right on the spot. who wishes he could make anyone who would so much as dare breathe in your direction be six feet under.

jealous! izuku who taps his foot in annoyance when the person reaches forward to touch you, much to your disgust. who pushes himself off the wall and makes his way over to where you stood, how dare they touch his sweetheart?

jealous! izuku who reaches you just in time to hear the lowlife say something to you. "why don't you leave that pathetic wannabe, join a real villain like me?".

jealous! izuku who was close to pulling out a hidden knife and letting loose on this idiot until he heard you laugh, retorting back a quick "you're joking right? you're missing a brain cell or two". who smirked widely at your words - that's his good girl.

jealous! izuku who's had enough as the man still tried to convince you with words of "i can show you a good time" and "he's just a little boy, not a real villain". who watches as he moves closer to you, hand brushing your cheek as he tries to force a kiss on your lips.

jealous! izuku who's always been a quick mover, that you didn't have time to register what happened until it was too late. who savours the sound of heavy thudding on the concrete before turning to face you.

jealous! izuku who watches the way your eyes widen as you take in his blood-soaked state, his chest heaving as he calms himself down. who turns his whole body around when you mutter out a quick "izu", watching you press your legs together.

jealous! izuku who knows for a fact you're not only scared of what he's just done but painfully turned on. who, as disgusting as it sounds, loves fucking you in the aftermath of his brutality.

jealous! izuku who walks forward slowly, eyes dragging over you as he laughs. who makes sure there's blood on his hands as he reaches you, muttering out "be quiet for a moment, princess". who pins you against the wall as he cages you between his arms.

jealous! izuku who attaches his lips to your neck, tugging on the flesh as you gasp. who presses himself against you, loving the way you push yourself further against him. who finds himself losing his sanity at the way you moan out his name.

jealous! izuku who pulls away from your neck, dragging his eyes over your state as he mutters out a quick "i think i need to remind you of who you belong to". who runs his hands down your sides and grips your hips, hoisting you up as lips crash in a hungry kiss.

jealous! izuku who frees not only his cock from its confines but your cunt from yours. who wastes no time lining up his mushroom tip before sheathing himself fully inside you. who moans out at the feeling of your walls pulsating around him as he enjoys that tightness, the way you try to suck him in closer.

jealous! izuku who loves that moan of both pain and pleasure that sounds from your throat. who snaps his hips striking up a fast rythem that has you bouncing roughly against the wall, jaggered pieces no doubt digging in and leaving marks. "you feel so good around my cock baby girl" and "like it was made just for me" are just some of the things that fall from his lips.

jealous! izuku who drags you down on his cock at inhume speed. who loves the way you claw at his arms and shoulders in a bid to get him to slow down, the way your legs struggle to wrap around his waist.

jealous! izuku who groans out loudly as he thusts hard a few more times before he cums, painting your insides white. who laughs as he feels your walls pulsate around him but your beautiful euphoria never coming for you. "you're wrong if you think this is over, princess".

jealous! izuku who may or may not have learnt a thing or two from jealous! dabi when it comes to you. who pulls out of you and fixes himself up before bending down, throwing you over his shoulder. who likes to play with your dripping cunt as he walks back to his hideout, threating anyone who looks at or tries to help you.

jealous! izuku who's grip tightens when you giggle, fingers digging into the flesh on your side. "did i say you could laugh doll?". who pushes his fingers though your already sopping cunt, fingers curling up to press against that one spot that has you seeing metaphorical stars when you dare utter back "do i fucking care?".

jealous! izuku who tells you to "watch your mouth", for you to retort back "make me midoriya". who presses his thumb against your clit as he rubs it in circles, smirking at the way you grip onto his shirt.

jealous! izuku who, once he steps foot back in his hideout, takes you to the bedroom and throws you onto the bed. who quickly removes every single item of clothing from you both, he didn't need any more barriers. "you won't be able to walk after this".

jealous! izuku who wastes no time in flipping you over, one hand pushing your head into the mattress as the other gripped your hip. who leans over and places soft kisses on your shoulder before pushing into you hard, stretching you open once more.

jealous! izuku who groans at the way your walls clench around him again, who loves to drag the most sinful noises out of your throat as he uses his quirk to strengthen his thrusts. who hits against that spongy spot deep inside easier than before, thanks to the new angle.

jealous! izuku who feels his cock practically kissing your cervix, smirking as he moves a hand to your throat and picks you up, pinning you against his chest. who chuckles at your gasps as he threads his fingers into your hair and pulls, forcing you to look up at the ceiling as he restricts your movements, much to your delight.

jealous! izuku who moves the hand from your side to between your legs, pad of his thumb swiping against your clit as his fingers sink into your already full cunt. who moves his fingers in the opposite direction of his cock, never letting you catch a break as he circles your clit more. who can feel your walls pulsate around him, your body begging him to let you feel that beautiful high.

jealous! izuku who, after a few more thrusts, hears his name falling from your lips in a broken cry, walls trying desperately to milk him closer to his own high. who gives you no time to rest as he quickly pulls out of you, laying down as he encourages you to sit on top of him. who groans out when you sink yourself down onto his cock again, legs shaking as you pant. who thrusts up into you before you have a chance to move.

jealous! izuku who uses his quirk again, this time using blackwhip to restrain your arms behind your back, pulling you into a beautiful arch. who chuckles darkly as you try to move without being able to steady yourself. "oh sweetheart, you know better than to let another man look at you, let alone touch you".

jealous! izuku who leans up and warps an arm around your waist, hips thrusting harshly against you once more. who can feel that you're close to your euphoria once more. who places rough kisses and bites over your glistening skin, being sure to mark you for everyone to see. "i'm going to make you forget about everyone who ever came before me".

jealous! izuku who, after a few more moments, pulls your head closer to him, who crashes his lips onto yours in a messy and desperate kiss. whose breath fans against your swollen appendages as he mutters out to you. "come undone for me doll, i want to feel you soak my cock before i fill you up".

jealous! izuku who likes to help you along by offering words of "that's my good girl", "that pretty pussy was made just for me", "i'm going to stuff you so full of my cum, everyone will see it drip and know who you belong to".

jealous! izuku who moans out as he feels you clamp around him, the squelching noises growing in loudness before you cry out again. who feels small droplets as you squirt on his thighs. who throws his head back with a groan as he cums hard, shooting out thicker ropes of his seed deep within you.

jealous! izuku who only needs a moment to recover before he changes what he likes to pin you beneath him on, going as far as to use every surface he can find to his advantage, even ones you wouldn't think would be good. who makes sure to fuck you until you can't feel your legs, struggling to stand without falling down.

jealous! izuku who promises to do this every time you dare make him jealous. sure he likes to fuck you, take his time with you on most days but on the days when things like earlier happened, you'll not be able to walk for a good day or two, if you did manage to walk, you would be with with a slight limp.

jealous! izuku who touches you at every opportunity, glares at anyone who dares look your way. he doesn't like to share at the best of times. who'll always make sure you know who holds your heart.

jealous! izuku who is really insecure! izuku. who knows that there are better guys out there for you, guys who would be able to give you a life of ease, not a life of having to hide in the shadows.

insecure! izuku who slowly accepts that regardless of his status, you'll love him regardless. it wasn't who he was in society you fell in love with, but who he was deep inside - that same timid boy who stole your heart years ago.

© springismss 2025 - don’t repost, copy, translate, steal or modify.