Inks

Superman:

You always come back to me - David Corenswet! Superman x Reader

You, me and the sky falling - Superman x Reader

Star Wars:

Fault Lines - Kylo Ren

Kept in the shadows - Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

Marvel:

Dark and Sweet - Bucky Barnes

Heat on the Riviera - Bodyguard! Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

The Last of Us:

Takes One to Know One - Joel Miller

Hate me, then kiss me - Ellie Williams x f!Reader

Long time coming - Tommy Miller x Reader

She’ll Come When She’s Ready - Joel Miller x pregnant! Reader

The Way He Looks at You - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Sundays at the Millers - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Choose Her, Then - Joel Miller x f!Reader

When the Garden Grows Wild - Joel Miller x f!Reader

His Mug Still Sits on the Counter - Ellie Williams x f!Reader

Dinosaurs and Dust - Joel Miller x f!Reader

You Always Stayed Too Long - Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Didn’t Raise You Right - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Don’t Lock the Door - Joel Miller x f!Reader

A Day Like This - Joel Miller x f!Reader

He didn’t know - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Parent-Teacher meeting - Joel Miller x f!Reader

House Calls - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Off the clock - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Fix you up - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Wrong time - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Echo - Joel Miller x f!Reader

The way things were - Tommy Miller x f!Reader

All the way home - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Parent-teacher chemistry - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Like home again - F!Reader x Joel and Tommy Miller (siblings)

Steam and silence - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Choose me now - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Shelter - Joel Miller x f!Reader

The price of love - Joel Miller x f!Reader

You Always Were the Loud One - Joel Miller, Tommy Miller x sister!Reader

Heat of the moment - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Harder than surviving - Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Two Years on the Saddle - Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Stuck in the Storm - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Older and rougher - Tommy Miller x f!Reader

A Little Closer to Home - Tommy Miller x f!Reader

Here - Tommy Miller x f!Reader

The Quiet Things - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Too Late for Hope - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Bittersweet - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Mornings with you - Joel Miller x f!Reader

A Place to Rest - Joel Miller x f!Reader

Celebrities:

Set Lights and Slow Nights - Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Quiet on set - Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Under the helmet - Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Stay a little longer - Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Steam and Secrets - Pedro Pascal x actress!Reader

Three on the carpet - Pedro Pascal x f!Reader

Now You See Me:

First Show, First Kiss, First Everything - Jack Wilder x Reader

The Things We Don’t Say (part 2) - Jack Wilder x Reader

The Final Reveal (part 3) - Jack Wilder x Reader

Rivals - J. Daniel Atlas

Sleight of Heart - Jack Wilder

Other:

Lines on Ice - Heated Rivalry

After Hours - Leon Kennedy

The Way You Stay - Jake Sully

Red Dead Redemption:

Fire and Smoke - Dutch Van der Linde

Home at Last - John Marston

Where the Horses Rest - Arthur Morgan

The first time Jack Abbot saw you, you were bleeding.

Not badly. Not enough to panic the ER. But enough that you were irritated, jaw tight, fingers curled like you were more annoyed at the inconvenience than the pain.

“Kitchen accident,” you said when he asked.

He glanced at the cut again. Clean. Sharp. “Knife?”

You nodded. “Dull one. Ironically.”

That got a quiet huff out of him.

“You’re a chef,” he said, more statement than question.

You gave him a look. “That obvious?”

“Only someone who works with knives every day would be this calm about slicing their hand open.”

You smirked slightly. “Comes with the job.”

He cleaned the cut, careful, precise. His hands were steady. Warm. You noticed that more than you should have.

“You should be more careful,” he muttered.

“You should come try my food,” you shot back, like it was the most natural response in the world.

He paused.

Looked up at you.

And for a second, something shifted.

“Is that an invitation?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

He did not expect to actually show up.

But a week later, he found himself standing outside your restaurant, hands in his pockets, staring through the glass at the controlled chaos inside.

You moved through it like you owned it.

Of course you did.

He stepped in.

Heat hit him immediately. Noise. Motion. The sharp scent of garlic, butter, something rich and layered that made him realize he had not eaten properly in hours.

Someone greeted him, but he barely registered it.

His eyes were already on you.

“Behind,” you called, sliding past a cook, plating something with quick precision. Then you looked up.

Saw him.

That same look from the ER returned. Recognition. Interest. Something sharper beneath it.

“You actually came,” you said, walking over, wiping your hands on a towel.

“Figured I should see what almost took your finger off,” he replied.

You laughed softly. “It was not that dramatic.”

“Could’ve been.”

You leaned against the counter, studying him. “You always this persistent?”

“Only when I’m curious.”

Your gaze flicked down briefly. Then back up. “About the food?”

A beat.

“Sure,” he said.

You shook your head, smiling just slightly. “Sit. I’ll take care of you.”

Dinner turned into something slower.

Course after course, each one deliberate, each one better than the last. You checked on him between orders, quick conversations slipping into something easier, more familiar.

He watched everything.

The way you commanded the kitchen without raising your voice. The way people listened to you. The way you barely slowed down, even when you stopped at his table.

“You’re staring,” you said at one point, setting down a plate.

“I’m impressed,” he replied.

“That’s different?”

“Yeah.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Why?”

“Because you’re exactly the same as you were in the ER.”

You raised a brow. “Bleeding?”

“No.” His voice lowered. “In control.”

That lingered.

Longer than it should have.

By the time the restaurant emptied, the energy shifted.

The noise faded. The heat settled into something softer. Staff trickled out, one by one, until it was just you, a couple of cooks finishing cleanup, and Jack still sitting at the counter like he had nowhere else to be.

“You staying all night?” you asked, stepping in front of him.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If you’re done working.”

You smirked slightly. “Almost.”

You turned, heading toward the back. “Come on.”

He followed without hesitation.

Of course he did.

The walk-in fridge was colder than the rest of the kitchen. Quiet. Isolated. The hum of refrigeration filling the space.

You stepped inside first, grabbing something off a shelf. Jack lingered in the doorway for half a second before stepping in behind you.

The door shut.

The sound echoed.

You turned.

And suddenly the space felt very small.

“Something you needed?” he asked, though his voice had already changed.

Lower.

Closer.

You leaned back slightly against the shelf, crossing your arms. “Maybe.”

He took a step closer.

Cold air. Warm tension.

“You bring all your guests back here?” he asked.

“Just the ones who keep staring at me all night.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “You noticed that.”

“I notice everything.”

Another step.

Now he was right in front of you.

“You’ve been doing it too,” he said.

You tilted your head. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re trying to figure something out.”

Your hand lifted slowly, brushing against his shirt, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric.

“Maybe I already have.”

That did it.

His hand came to your waist, firm, grounding, pulling you just a fraction closer. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Intentional.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

“You walked into my restaurant,” you replied softly.

His gaze dropped to your lips.

“You invited me.”

You leaned in just enough that your breath brushed his. “And you came.”

The kiss was immediate.

Cold air, warm hands, tension finally snapping.

He kissed like he held himself back all day and was done pretending now. Controlled, but deep, pulling you closer like he had been thinking about it longer than he would admit.

Your hands slid up his chest, gripping lightly, grounding yourself as the moment intensified.

When he pressed you gently back against the shelf, the contrast made your breath catch.

Cold behind you.

Him in front of you.

“You’re still on shift,” you whispered.

“So are you.”

Neither of you moved away.

His forehead rested briefly against yours, breath uneven but steady.

“This is a bad idea,” you said softly.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

A pause.

Then quieter, “Still doing it.”

Your lips curved slightly.

“Yeah.”

From outside, a faint sound of a door closing echoed through the kitchen.

Reality creeping back in.

You stepped away first, just enough to breathe.

Jack watched you like he was not finished. Like this was not something he was going to let stay a one time thing.

“Next time,” he said quietly.

You raised a brow. “You’re assuming there’s a next time.”

His hand brushed yours as he stepped past you toward the door.

“I’m not assuming,” he replied.

A glance back.

Confident. Certain.

“I’m coming back.”

The door opened. Warm air rushed in.

And just like that, the moment ended.

The hospital felt different at night.

Quieter, but not calmer. The kind of quiet that hummed under your skin, filled with distant monitors, soft footsteps, and the constant anticipation that something could go wrong at any moment.

You adjusted your badge as you stepped onto the floor, trying to ignore the way your nerves sat just beneath the surface. First night shift. New team. New rhythm.

And him.

Jack Abbot stood at the nurses’ station, sleeves rolled, pen tucked behind his ear, flipping through a chart like he had done it a thousand times. Which he probably had.

He did not look up right away. But you knew the exact moment he noticed you.

His shoulders shifted slightly. His posture straightened. Subtle. Controlled.

Professional.

“New transfer,” one of the nurses said beside him. “Day shift finally gave you up?”

You forced a smile. “Something like that.”

Jack finally looked up.

And for a split second, everything else disappeared.

There it was. That look. The one he only ever gave you when no one else was watching. Warm, sharp, a little dangerous.

Then it was gone.

“Welcome to nights,” he said evenly. “Hope you like caffeine and chaos.”

“I can handle both,” you replied.

His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile.

He did not.

The rest of the shift moved fast. Too fast to think, too fast to feel anything except instinct. Patients, charts, consults, constant movement. You barely had time to breathe, let alone acknowledge the fact that every time you and Jack crossed paths, something electric snapped between you.

A brush of hands when passing a file. A glance held half a second too long. A quiet “you good?” when no one else was listening.

It built. Slow. Tight. Unavoidable.

By the time the floor finally settled, it was close to three in the morning.

You slipped into the supply room to grab gloves you did not really need.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Then another sound.

You turned.

Jack.

He leaned back against the door like he had every right to be there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you in a way that made your breath catch.

“You keep disappearing,” he said quietly.

You let out a soft huff. “I am working.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “So am I.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Familiar.

“You cannot just follow me into rooms,” you said, though your voice lacked any real bite.

“I can if I need to talk to you.”

Your heart skipped. “About what?”

He pushed off the door, stepping closer. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just certain.

“About how you have been on this floor for six hours and we have barely said two words to each other.”

You swallowed. “We are at work, Jack.”

“I know where we are.”

He stopped just in front of you.

Close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Close enough that it became harder to pretend this was just another conversation.

“You think I do not notice?” he continued, voice low. “The way you avoid me?”

“I am not avoiding you.”

“You are.”

You looked up at him. “What do you want me to do? Walk around holding your hand in front of everyone?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “That is not what I am saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“That I miss you.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

Your expression softened before you could stop it. “Jack…”

He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding that in all night. “This whole pretending thing. It is getting old.”

You took a step closer without thinking.

“We agreed,” you said quietly. “No distractions. No complications.”

“You call this not complicated?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

Your heart pounded.

“No,” you admitted. “But it is necessary.”

His hand lifted, hovering near your waist before settling there carefully, like he was giving you time to stop him.

You did not.

His fingers pressed lightly against you, grounding, steady.

“You are the only thing here that does not feel like chaos,” he said.

You let out a soft breath. “That is a lot of pressure.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “You can handle it.”

You should have stepped back.

You did not.

Instead, your hand slid up his chest, gripping lightly at his scrubs.

“This stays here,” you whispered. “In this room.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

The kiss was quiet at first. Careful. Like everything else between you had to be.

Then it deepened.

Not rushed. Not reckless. Just months of stolen moments finally allowed to exist without interruption.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding him there like you had been wanting to all night.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“We should get back out there,” you said softly.

“Probably,” he agreed.

Neither of you moved.

Another second passed.

Then he pressed a quick, softer kiss to your lips, like a promise instead of a question.

“After shift,” he said quietly.

You smiled, just barely. “After shift.”

He stepped back first. Professional again in an instant. The shift flipping back into place like nothing had happened.

But when he opened the door and glanced back at you, that look was still there.

And you knew.

The office always felt colder after midnight.

Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above. Files were stacked in uneven piles. The hum of distant air vents filled the silence like a quiet reminder that the world outside never really slept.

You were still at your desk when Leon walked back in.

Jacket slung over his shoulder. Tie loosened. Holster resting heavy against his side.

“You’re still here?” he asked, voice rough from too many hours awake.

You did not look up immediately. “You are too.”

A quiet huff of amusement left him as he set his jacket down on the chair across from you. “Fair point.”

Working with Leon Kennedy meant constant proximity. Briefings shoulder to shoulder. Field assignments paired together more often than not. Debriefs that stretched too long. Car rides that were too quiet.

It meant noticing things.

Like how he rubbed the back of his neck when he was stressed.

How he always walked slightly in front of you during missions.

How his eyes lingered just a second too long when you looked up at him.

“You’re staring,” you said softly, finally meeting his gaze.

He did not deny it.

“You look tired,” he replied.

“So do you.”

A long pause settled between you. The kind that felt heavy. Loaded.

Leon stepped closer to your desk. Close enough that you could see the faint scar along his jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.

“You shouldn’t stay this late,” he said.

“You say that like you’re not standing right here.”

His jaw tightened slightly. Not angry. Just… conflicted.

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

Because I worry about you.

Because I think about you more than I should.

Because every time something goes wrong in the field, my first thought is you.

He did not say any of that.

Instead, he reached for the file on your desk, fingers brushing yours.

The contact was brief.

It still felt like fire.

You did not pull away.

Neither did he.

The room felt smaller suddenly. The air thicker.

“Leon,” you said quietly.

His name in your voice did something to him. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened. In the way his gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up.

“You ever think this is a bad idea?” he asked.

“This job?” you murmured.

“No.” His voice lowered. “Us.”

You swallowed.

“There is no us,” you replied softly.

He stepped closer.

Now there was barely space between you. Your chair rolled back slightly until it hit the desk behind you. He was standing over you now, not intimidating, just intense.

“That’s the problem,” he said.

Your pulse thudded in your ears.

“Leon…”

His hand came up slowly, deliberate, giving you time to stop him. When his fingers brushed your jaw, tilting your face toward his, the world outside the office disappeared completely.

“You make this hard,” he admitted.

“I thought you liked hard missions,” you whispered.

A soft, breathless laugh escaped him.

“You have no idea.”

The kiss was slow at first. Careful. Testing.

Then it deepened.

Months of tension snapped into place all at once. His hand slid from your jaw to your waist, pulling you gently to your feet. Your hands found his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt.

He tasted like coffee and exhaustion and restraint.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“If this complicates things,” he murmured, breath warm against your lips, “I don’t care.”

You leaned in again, softer this time. Intentional.

“It was already complicated,” you replied.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, protective instinct bleeding into something deeper.

Outside, the hallway remained empty. The office lights still buzzed. The world still turned.

But for once, Leon Kennedy was not thinking about the next mission.

He was thinking about you.

The rivalry had always been there. From the first time their skates cut across the same ice, something sharp and electric sparked between them. Ilya played with control, with patience, with a quiet intensity that unsettled people. Shane played like fire, loud and relentless, daring anyone to challenge him.

They challenged each other constantly.

Every game felt personal. Every hit lingered a second too long. Every stare across the rink carried a message neither of them would say out loud. The press called it competition. Their teammates called it bad blood.

Neither of those explanations came close.

Tonight was worse than usual. A close game. A bad call. Tempers flaring. Shane slammed into the boards near Ilya, shoulder first, just hard enough to make a point. Ilya rose slowly, eyes locked on Shane’s, jaw tight.

“You done?” Shane muttered under his breath as they lined up for the faceoff.

Ilya leaned in, voice low. “Not even close.”

The whistle blew. The game ended in a blur of noise and adrenaline. By the time they hit the tunnel, the air between them was thick with something dangerous. Shane felt it the moment Ilya followed him down the hallway, skates clicking, presence heavy at his back.

“You always play like that?” Shane asked, not turning around. “Or is it just me?”

Ilya stopped behind him. Close. Too close. “You wouldn’t notice unless it was.”

That did it.

Shane turned, shoving Ilya back against the concrete wall. Hands fisted in his jersey, breath hot, eyes wild. For a second, it looked like a fight. Anyone passing by would have assumed it was.

But Ilya did not resist.

He smiled.

“That all you’ve got?” Ilya asked quietly.

The sound Shane made was half a laugh, half a curse. His grip tightened, not angry now, but grounding. “You are infuriating.”

“And you are obvious,” Ilya replied, tilting his head slightly, deliberately exposing his throat. “Every hit. Every look. You want something.”

The silence stretched. Shane’s breathing slowed. His hand slid from Ilya’s chest to his collar, fingers brushing skin. The touch was accidental. Or maybe it was inevitable.

“I hate you,” Shane said.

Ilya’s voice softened. “No. You don’t.”

The kiss happened like a mistake. Fast. Rough. Teeth and breath and years of restraint snapping at once. Shane kissed like he played. Hungry. Desperate. Ilya kissed like he did everything else. Controlled, deep, devastating.

When they broke apart, foreheads pressed together, the rivalry had changed shape. It had not disappeared. It had sharpened.

“This changes nothing,” Shane muttered.

Ilya’s hand slid to Shane’s wrist, steady, grounding. “It changes everything.”

Later, when they finally separated, the hallway felt quieter. Heavier. They walked away in opposite directions, still enemies on paper, still rivals on the ice.

But now, every collision would mean more. Every glance would linger. Every game would carry the memory of that moment pressed between them like a secret neither of them intended to let go.

Some rivalries were born on the ice.

The campfire crackled, sending sparks into the night sky. The smell of wood smoke mingled with the distant tang of the river, and Dutch lounged against a log, hat tipped back, a whiskey bottle loosely held in one hand. His sharp green eyes caught yours from across the flames, a look of amusement and challenge.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low, almost a growl, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed the sharp edge of his words.

“I like making an entrance,” you said, stepping into the glow of the firelight. Your coat was dusty, boots scuffed, hair wild from the ride, and you knew it drew his attention. He was never subtle about what he wanted, and neither were you.

Dutch sat up slightly, voice dropping, his tone deliberate. “You always know how to get under my skin.”

“Maybe I like it” you replied, sliding into the log beside him. The heat from the fire was nothing compared to the fire between the two of you.

He leaned closer, hand brushing yours with a light, teasing touch, just enough to make your pulse quicken. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured. “More than you realize.”

“And you like dangerous,” you whispered back, letting your fingers trace the line of his arm, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric, feeling the tension coil and release like a spring.

Dutch’s smile deepened, his eyes darkening with a mix of admiration and hunger. “I do. I like fire. And you… you’re wildfire.”

You laughed softly, leaning in, lips brushing against his ear. “Then let’s burn it down together.”

The world fell away the fire, the night, the distant sounds of the camp. All that existed was the heat between you, the electric pull of attraction and shared ambition. Dutch’s hands roamed with a possessive ease, memorizing curves and angles, brushing over leather and skin with a claim that was both rough and tender.

You pressed against him, feeling the hard line of his jaw, the roughness of his hands, the way he held you in a balance of power and desire. Every breath, every whispered word, every teasing look made the space between need and satisfaction impossible to ignore.

“You’re mine,” he said finally, voice low, almost dangerous, as he captured your lips in a kiss that was part warning, part promise.

“And you’re mine,” you breathed against him, responding with equal fire, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, pressing against him with the same reckless abandon that had drawn him to you in the first place.

The night stretched long. Clothes became irrelevant, whispers and gasps and moans filled the quiet, and the fire’s glow lit a scene of desire and surrender that was fierce, wild, and entirely consensual. Dutch held you with the possessiveness of a man who knew you were his equal in every way, a partner in chaos and desire, and you matched him move for move, claim for claim.

Later, lying together on the log, sweat cooling on your skin, firelight fading to embers, Dutch’s fingers traced lazy patterns over your back. “You’re trouble,” he said softly, voice low and satisfied.

“Only the kind you like,” you replied, leaning into his chest, letting the warmth seep into your bones.

He chuckled, deep and rumbling, pulling you closer. “I like you,” he said simply, “more than I can admit out loud.”

“And I like you,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest, over his heart, feeling it pound in rhythm with your own. “More than I can ever explain.”

Outside, the night remained quiet, the camp settled into sleep. But in the circle of firelight, you and Dutch existed in your own world—a world of danger, desire, and devotion that neither of you wanted to end.

The morning sun spilled gold across the fields. Birds sang from the fences and treetops. The smell of fresh earth, hay, and dew mingled with the faint aroma of breakfast cooking inside. You stood at the kitchen doorway, apron tied loosely, watching your daughter dash across the yard, barefoot and laughing, as she tried to catch a chicken that had wandered too close to the garden.

John came around the side of the barn, hat tipped back, sleeves rolled up, suspenders loose over his shirt. Dust clung to his boots and streaked his cheek, but when he saw you, the corners of his mouth turned up.

“Morning,” he said, gruff but warm. “You been up long?”

“Long enough to get breakfast started,” you said, smiling, watching the way the sun caught the dust on his shoulders. “Thought I’d get a head start before the chaos begins.”

He chuckled, stooping to scoop your daughter into his arms. She squealed and wriggled, reaching for the sun as he spun her gently. “Morning chaos is the best kind,” he said.

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Don’t wear out the grass.”

“Grass grows back. Little lady gets it honest from her pa,” he said with a grin, setting her down.

The day unfolded slowly. Chores, gardening, checking on the livestock, hauling water. Your daughter was a blur of energy, chasing chickens, tugging weeds, and asking questions a dozen at a time. John’s laughter followed her across the yard, his voice steady, warm, grounding.

At noon, the three of you gathered in the shade of the porch. Sweat clung to his shirt, dust to his skin, and still, he looked at you in that way that made your chest tighten a look that held affection, gratitude, and a subtle reminder that he could read you as easily as your daughter could.

“You’re good at this,” John said, hand brushing your arm, fingers lingering longer than necessary. “Good at keeping this place running.”

You smiled softly, leaning against him. “Only because I have you.”

He shook his head, smiling against your hair. “I got lucky.”

The afternoon brought small conflicts. A cow escaped the fence, sending you all running across the fields to corral it. Your daughter squealed with laughter, shrieking for John to catch the cow first, and the two of you chased the animal while teasing, arguing, and laughing in equal measure. Even when it took all three of you to coax the cow back into the pen, the day felt alive, full of warmth and connection.

By evening, after the chores were done, you and John sat on the porch swing. Your daughter ran ahead to the barn, chasing shadows, her laughter ringing in the cooling air. The sky was a mixture of gold and violet, fading into deep blue.

John leaned close, hand finding yours. “You make this feel… easy,” he said, voice low. “Like it’s worth all the trouble before.”

You squeezed his hand, heart full. “Because we do it together. We always have.”

He shifted, arm wrapping around your shoulders. “And I got you. Always.”

You rested your head against him, listening to the wind and the quiet sounds of the farm settling into night. The moment was calm, steady, full of everything you had fought for, everything you had lost, and everything you had found again.

Later, after your daughter had fallen asleep in the small bedroom, tucked in with a favorite blanket, you and John sat by the fire. The soft glow lit his strong, worn features, and he reached for your hand across the rug.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges but full of meaning.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you teased softly, leaning closer.

He smiled, catching your lips with his in a slow, tender kiss. His hands held yours, pressed your palms to his chest, and for a long moment, the world outside Beecher’s Hope faded to nothing. There was just you, him, and the quiet crackle of the fire.

The night deepened around you, but inside, warmth remained. You stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, hearts beating in sync, listening to the quiet rhythm of home.

You meet Arthur Morgan in the quiet hours, the kind that settle in after the world decides it has taken enough for one day.

The horses are tied nearby, heads low, steam lifting gently from their breath. The fire crackles soft, almost polite, like it knows better than to interrupt. Arthur sits across from you, boots stretched toward the heat, hat tipped low but not hiding his eyes.

He always watches the edges first. Tree line. Wind. Shadows. Only then does his attention drift back to you, like he is surprised you are still there.

“You cold?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No. Just tired.”

That earns a grunt, half agreement, half understanding. Arthur knows tired. Knows it the way some folks know prayer.

You have been riding together for weeks now scoping out some stuff for the gang. Long enough that the silences feel natural instead of strained. Long enough that he hands you coffee without asking how you take it. Long enough that when you shift closer to the fire, he angles his body just slightly toward you, a quiet shield against nothing at all.

Arthur Morgan does not touch easily.

But when he does, it means something.

Later, when the fire burns low and the stars stretch wide, he clears his throat. “You can take my bedroll.”

You blink. “Arthur, I am not taking your bed.”

“You are,” he says plainly. “Ground’s softer there.”

You start to argue. You always do. And he always waits you out, patient as stone, until you sigh and accept. He watches you settle in, careful not to stare, but careful all the same. Makes sure the blanket is tucked around your shoulders. Makes sure your rifle is close enough to grab if needed.

Then he lies down nearby, back to a tree, arms crossed loose, eyes half shut.

“Arthur,” you say softly.

“Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

A pause. Then quieter, “You are welcome.”

Sleep comes slow. It always does around him. Not because he is dangerous, but because he feels like something you could lose.

Morning arrives pale and gentle. Arthur is already awake when you open your eyes. He always is. Coffee is waiting. He hands it to you without a word, fingers brushing yours just barely, like he is testing whether the moment will break.

It does not.

Later that day, trouble finds you the way it always does. Raised voices. Guns. A short, sharp fight that leaves your hands shaking afterward. Arthur stands too close while you reload, his presence heavy and grounding.

“You hurt?” he asks, eyes scanning you like he might find a wound you missed.

“No,” you breathe. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then shakes his head. “Nothing worth fussin’ over.”

You do not believe him. You never do.

That night, you clean a cut on his arm by firelight. He sits still, jaw tight, eyes on your hands. You are gentle. He notices. He always notices.

“You do not gotta be so careful,” he mutters.

“I do,” you reply. “I want to be.”

That makes him look at you. Really look.

Something shifts then. Not loudly. Not all at once. Just enough.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower. “Most folks do not.”

“I am not most folks.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “You ain’t.”

The space between you feels different after that. Charged. Tender. Dangerous in a quiet way.

It is later, when the fire is low again and the world feels far away, that he finally reaches out. His hand finds yours where it rests on the blanket between you. Big, warm, rough with work and wear.

He does not pull you closer. Does not rush. Just holds your hand like it is something precious and fragile.

“If this is a mistake,” he says, not looking at you, “you oughta say so now.”

You squeeze his fingers. “Is it?”

A long pause. Then he exhales. “No.”

So you lean into him. Head against his shoulder. He stiffens for half a second before relaxing, arm coming around you slow and careful, like he is afraid to break something.

Arthur Morgan smells like leather and smoke and earth. He holds you like someone who does not get many good things and plans to protect the ones he does.

“You can stay,” he murmurs. “As long as you want.”

You smile against his chest. “I was hoping you would say that.”

Above you, the stars keep their secrets. The horses shift quietly. The world keeps moving.

For now, though, you are here. And Arthur Morgan is holding you like it matters.

Pandora never slept.

Even in the deepest hours of the night, the forest breathed. Bioluminescent plants pulsed softly beneath your feet, glowing blues and greens lighting the path ahead. You had learned to walk carefully here, to respect the land, to move with it instead of against it.

Jake walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed when the path narrowed. He did not speak much tonight. He rarely did when something weighed on him.

“You good?” he finally asked, voice low, steady.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He hummed softly in acknowledgment. Jake never pushed when you were quiet. That was one of the first things you noticed about him. He made space.

You had arrived on Pandora as support personnel, meant to catalog, assist, leave. You were not meant to stay. You were not meant to learn the Na’vi ways, not meant to feel the pull of the forest, not meant to grow roots in a place that had never been yours.

And yet.

Jake slowed as you reached a clearing, the glowing moss soft beneath your boots. He crouched to check the perimeter out of habit, eyes sharp, body tense in a way that never fully left him.

“You can rest,” he said. “We’re safe here.”

You sat, folding your legs beneath you, watching him instead of the forest. Watching the way he moved like he was still learning how to exist without armor, without orders, without war shaping every decision.

“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly. “I know you have patrol at dawn.”

Jake looked up at you then. Really looked. His expression softened, something unguarded slipping through before he could stop it.

“I want to stay.”

Your breath caught.

He stood and crossed the small distance between you, lowering himself to sit beside you. His knee brushed yours, solid and warm, grounding in a way that made your chest ache.

“You belong here,” he continued, voice steady but sincere. “The people trust you. Eywa sees you.”

“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Jake’s jaw tightened slightly. He stared out into the forest for a moment, gathering himself.

“I don’t say things lightly,” he said. “Not anymore. But you make this place feel like home in a way I didn’t think was possible.”

The words settled between you, heavy and gentle all at once.

You turned toward him. “Jake…”

He looked at you, eyes searching, vulnerable in a way you had only ever seen during the quiet moments. The moments when the world stopped demanding things from him.

His hand lifted slowly, giving you time to pull away. When you did not, his fingers brushed yours, tentative, reverent.

Na’vi bonds were sacred. You knew that. Jake knew that too.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he said softly. “I just need you to know that I choose you. Every day.”

Your heart thundered.

You shifted closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder. Jake exhaled shakily, his arm coming around you without hesitation, protective and warm.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

The forest glowed brighter, responding to the stillness, to the connection. When you finally lifted your head, Jake was already watching you, eyes dark, full of something deep and steady.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to say no.

You met him halfway.

The kiss was gentle, unhurried, more promise than hunger. Jake’s hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing softly as if memorizing the shape of you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“This is the way I stay,” he whispered.

You smiled, heart full, knowing with absolute certainty that you were no longer lost.

You had found home.

Monaco always looked like luxury bottled into a city. Sharp cliffs, sunset light melting over the water, and the kind of gold-streaked skyline that made everything feel unreal. You should have been excited. Tony Stark’s daughter at an international tech summit was a big deal, and you wanted to represent him well.

Instead, the tension in your shoulders had less to do with responsibility and more to do with the man walking two careful steps behind you as you entered the hotel.

Bucky Barnes had been assigned just a few weeks earlier as your personal security detail. An “experiment,” Tony had said with a shrug, like he was testing out a new gadget. You knew your father trusted Bucky, but you also knew he trusted you enough to handle someone that intense.

And Bucky was intense. Quiet, steady, blue eyes that saw everything, broad shoulders under a black jacket fitted like it was tailored specifically to make you stare. He spoke with purpose, moved with purpose, existed with purpose. Being around him felt like being shadowed by a storm waiting to break.

The hotel lobby shimmered with marble and soft lighting as you checked in. You held your breath as the receptionist slid two key cards across the counter.

“One room. Deluxe suite. Level fourteen.”

You blinked. “One room?”

Bucky tensed so subtly that anyone else would have missed it.

The receptionist smiled warmly. “Yes. Requested directly by Mr. Stark.”

You muttered under your breath, “Dad, I swear.”

Bucky picked up the keys, expression unreadable. “Let’s go see what we’re working with.”

Working with. Right.

The elevator ride up was quiet except for your heartbeat. When the doors opened, the suite greeted you with a beautiful open layout, a balcony overlooking the water, a sleek kitchenette, and a single massive king-sized bed sitting in the middle like it owned the place.

You dropped your bags. “Perfect. Fantastic. Amazing planning.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “I can sleep on the floor or the couch. I have done worse.”

You turned to him. “You’re my bodyguard, not my martyr. We’re both adults. We will deal with it.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Something warm and stubborn.

He nodded once. “Fine. But we need to keep routine. Training starts in two hours. The gym is in the basement. You need to know how to defend yourself if anything goes wrong.”

“I can defend myself,” you said, crossing your arms.

He raised a brow. “Show me later.”

The shiver that crawled down your spine was immediate.

Training with Bucky was both humiliating and exhilarating. The gym was empty, quiet except for the hum of equipment and your breathing.

Bucky circled you on the mat, slow and deliberate. “Hands up.”

You lifted them.

“Hips relaxed.”

You adjusted.

“Eyes forward.”

You met his gaze and instantly regretted it. Those eyes had weight. Focus. Heat.

He stepped forward, catching your wrists with gentle firmness. “You tense up too fast. You want to anticipate, not freeze.”

“I’m not freezing.”

“Prove it.”

He moved faster than you expected. You gasped as he took hold of your shoulders, sweeping your legs until you landed on the mat with him above you, one knee braced between your thighs, his breath barely brushing your cheek.

Your pulse tripped over itself.

His voice softened, barely audible. “See? You hesitate.”

“I did not.”

“You did.” His lips twitched. “Cute, though.”

Your throat tightened. “If you call me cute again I swear I will kick you.”

“Good.” His breath warmed your jaw. “Then I know you’re listening.”

It was a miracle either of you made it back to the suite with any composure left.

Later that night, the tension between you became something tangible. The suite lights glowed low, Monaco glittered through the balcony doors, and Bucky moved around the room with quiet efficiency while you tried not to watch the way the shadows clung to him.

He removed the shoulder holster, the knife strapped to his thigh, the jacket, the boots. Layer by layer, he shed the armor that separated him from the world. You realized you had never seen him look so human.

He paused, noticing your stare. “If you’re uncomfortable with me being here, I can relocate.”

You shook your head quickly. “No. Stay. I feel safer with you here.”

Something unspoken passed between you.

His jaw flexed. “Then I stay.”

You sat on opposite edges of the bed, trying not to think about the fact that there was no space dividing your worlds now.

“Bucky?” you said softly.

He hummed, turning slightly toward you.

“Why did my dad pick you specifically?”

He hesitated. “Because I know how to protect things that matter.”

You swallowed. “I am an assignment.”

“You were an assignment,” he corrected. “Now you are… not just that.”

Your heart stuttered. “Then what am I?”

He looked at you fully now, blue eyes steady, voice low. “Someone I will protect with everything I am.”

The words settled between you like something dangerous and delicate.

You exhaled slowly. “Come here.”

He did. Carefully. Like approaching something fragile. He sat beside you, closer than before, breath brushing your shoulder.

Your fingers grazed his metal hand, cold against your skin. He didn’t pull away.

“You are not what people think you are,” you whispered.

“And what am I?”

“A good man.”

His throat worked. His hand tightened around yours.

The shift was slow, natural, inevitable. His forehead brushed yours, breaths mingling, eyes falling shut like he had been fighting this for far too long.

You whispered, “Bucky.”

And he finally kissed you.

It was gentle at first, more careful than you ever expected from someone built to survive wars. Then deeper, like every suppressed feeling poured straight into your bloodstream. Heat bloomed under your skin as he cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, pulling you closer like he had wanted this almost as badly as you did.

When you finally parted, your breath trembled.

“You should not make me want things I should not want,” he murmured.

“Then stop me.”

“I cannot.”

You smiled softly. “Good.”

He stared at you a long moment, then whispered, “Sleep. I will keep watch.”

You touched his chest lightly. “You are allowed to rest too.”

“Not when it comes to you.”

You slid under the covers, and after a long moment of hesitation, he joined you. Not touching, but close enough to feel his warmth, close enough that sleep came easier than you expected.

Outside, Monaco shimmered. Inside, the danger had shifted into something sweeter.

Bucky Barnes was your protector.

The night always felt different when you worked with the Horsemen. Louder somehow, brighter even when the sky was overcast. You had been brought in as a technical consultant for the new show, someone to refine the mechanics behind a few of the more intense illusions. You swore you would keep things professional, keep your distance, stay focused on the job. And you did. Except for one tiny, stubborn exception.

Jack Wilder.

It was ridiculous how fast he got under your skin. The way he flashed that crooked smile every time you caught him messing with your props. The way he always found you in a crowded room. The way his voice dropped when he asked if you had eaten anything that day. You told yourself he was like that with everyone, but deep down you knew he was not.

Tonight, the warehouse theater was finally quiet. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. You stayed behind to recalibrate the lock mechanism on one of the safes. Jack had apparently stayed behind for no reason other than you were here.

He sat on the edge of the stage while you crouched over your work. He tossed a playing card into the air and caught it between two fingers with the smug precision of a man who lived and breathed showmanship.

“You know,” he said, leaning forward just enough to make his voice drop into something warmer, “most people would take a break by now.”

“You are not most people,” you replied without looking up.

“True. I am exceptional.” He grinned, then watched you carefully. “Seriously though. You have been here for hours. Come on. Take a walk with me.”

You hesitated. “I should finish this.”

“And I should sleep more and drink less energy drinks, but here we are.” He hopped off the stage and offered you his hand. “Five minutes. Promise.”

You sighed, but you let him pull you up. His hand lingered longer than necessary, warm and steady even after you released it. He led you out the back door and up the metal stairs to the roof. The evening breeze was cool against your face. New York hummed below, chaotic and familiar.

Jack stopped at the edge of the roof, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way you rarely saw during rehearsals.

“This is my favorite place to think,” he said. “Shows get loud. Minds get louder.”

“You could have gone home.”

“And miss being alone with you?” His smile softened. “Not a chance.”

Your breath hitched, just enough for him to notice. His eyes flickered with something like hope. Maybe a little fear too.

Before either of you could say anything more, a sharp sound cracked behind you. Metal shifting. You turned quickly as the loose ladder you had used earlier wobbled dangerously. It slipped, and Jack reacted before you even had time to brace. His arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you back against his chest.

“Careful,” he murmured near your ear. “I would rather not watch you fall tonight.”

Your heart pounded hard enough to rival the city below. His hold on you was steady, firm but gentle, as if letting go was not something he intended to do anytime soon.

“I am fine,” you said softly.

“You could let me worry a little.” He eased his grip but did not step away. “I like worrying about you. Makes it feel like I get to keep you around.”

You turned to face him, and suddenly there was barely any space between you. His eyes traced your features with the kind of focus he usually reserved for card tricks. Except this time there was no performance. Just want.

“Jack,” you whispered.

“That is me,” he said quietly. “And I have been trying really hard not to kiss you.”

You swallowed, heat curling through you. “What if I do not want you to try anymore.”

He exhaled a shaky breath, like he had been waiting forever to hear that. His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin with that gentle care he tried so hard to hide. When he leaned in, it was slow, careful, as if giving you every chance to pull away.

You did not.

Your lips met his, soft at first, then deeper when he wrapped both arms around you and pulled you fully against him. The city lights blurred behind your closed eyes. All that existed was the warmth of his mouth and the way he kissed you like he could get addicted to the taste of you.

When you finally broke apart, Jack rested his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he said, voice low and raw. “More than I meant to.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I like you too.”

His grin returned, brighter than any spotlight.

“In that case,” he said, brushing his thumb along your lower lip, “I think we should stop pretending this is just work.”

You laughed softly and tugged him closer. “I think you are right.”

Jack kissed you again, slower this time. Sweeter. A promise rather than a question.

The newsroom hummed like it always did on a Friday afternoon. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Lois shouting across the room at Perry about some lead she had chased all morning. And next to you, Clark Kent sat in his usual soft focused calm, glasses sliding down his nose as he typed with the steady patience of someone who never seemed to panic about anything.

You should have been concentrating on your article. Instead you were watching him.

Which was ridiculous. Unprofessional. Hopeless. But his sleeves were rolled up and he kept pushing his glasses up with the back of his knuckle and you had always been weak to that.

Clark looked over at you with that gentle smile he always saved just for you. “Everything all right?”

You nodded way too fast. “Yep. Totally. Completely. Perfectly normal workday.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly, concerned and warm and soft in the way that made your stomach twist. “You look stressed. Want help?”

You laughed it off. “If I let you fix my sentences again Perry is going to start printing your byline over mine.”

Clark grinned and pushed his glasses up again. That tiny gesture hit you harder than it should. He made silence feel warm. He made the entire chaotic office feel like it revolved more slowly.

You had no idea that within the next hour your world would tilt clean off its axis.

The explosion shook the building before anyone fully understood what was happening. A gas main underground ruptured, a sudden deep roar that rattled desks and knocked half the newsroom to the ground.

You grabbed the edge of your desk as the floor trembled. A ceiling tile cracked loose right above you.

“Y N!” Clark’s voice carried across the noise as he lunged toward you.

The tile split in two. You ducked instinctively, eyes squeezing shut. But the impact never came.

When you opened your eyes Clark was braced over you, arms around your shoulders, holding you tightly against his chest. The broken tile lay shattered across the floor several feet away even though there was no way it could have bounced that far.

Your heart hammered. “Clark… how did you…”

“I need you to trust me,” he whispered.

And then the windows blew inward.

The shockwave tore through the room. You stumbled back. Something sharp sliced across your arm. You gasped at the sting and hot blood immediately followed.

Clark’s eyes darkened with fear.

“Come with me.” His voice was steady but there was something deeper threaded through it now. Something powerful. Something he had always kept hidden.

He pulled you against him just as the far side of the newsroom collapsed in a roar of steel and glass.

Time bent. Or maybe it simply stretched around the two of you as Clark held you close.

Your feet left the floor.

The air rushed upward around you, cold and sudden. The sky opened wide above your head. And all at once you knew.

You looked up at him, disbelief breaking across your face. Clark did not look surprised. He only held you tighter.

“Clark…” Your voice trembled. “You are him.”

His reply was quiet, almost pained. “I am.”

The world blurred below as he flew you away from the collapsing building. His expression was full of fear and guilt and relief all at once. As if he had been terrified of this moment for a very long time.

He landed with impossible gentleness on a rooftop several blocks away.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling quickly. “All this time? Clark, you have been Superman and you never told me?”

He took a step closer, hands hovering by your cheeks but not quite touching. “I wanted to. Every day. But I wanted to keep you safe.”

You swallowed. “Safe from what? From knowing who you are? Or from getting too close?”

His breath caught.

There it was. The truth you had always felt humming under the surface like a second heartbeat.

He finally touched your face, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that nearly undid you. “I was afraid that if you knew the truth, I would stop pretending I could live without you.”

You leaned into his touch before you could stop yourself. “Maybe I do not want you to pretend.”

His eyes softened in a way that could melt steel faster than his heat vision ever could.

“You could have died today,” he whispered. “I cannot lose you. I will not.”

“You did not lose me,” you said gently. “You saved me.”

Clark exhaled slowly, forehead lowering to yours. He smelled like wind and smoke and something warm you could never name. His glasses were gone. There was no disguise anymore. No distance. No pretending.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he murmured.

You lifted your hands and curled your fingers into his shirt. “Do not stop.”

He kissed you. Careful at first. Rushed with years of longing right after. His hands held your waist. Your pulse raced under his touch. The rooftop around you fell away until there was only heat and breath and the impossible truth of who he really was.

When he finally pulled back he looked undone. “You deserve the whole truth. Starting now.”

You smiled up at him, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “Good. Because I want you. All of you. Clark and Superman.”

His answering smile was radiant and shy and full of awe. “Then I am yours.”

And when he wrapped his arms around you again and lifted you into the sky, it was not a rescue this time.

The storm started just after sunset, thick, cold rain streaking across the alley behind the restaurant where you worked. You were sweeping, balancing the door open with your hip, watching your breath fog as you tried not to think about the unmistakable black SUV parked across the street.

It had been there every night this week.

It had been there since you accidentally witnessed a deal go wrong two months ago.

It had been there since you met him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

The man who made half the city shake and the other half obey. The man everyone warned you about. The man who’d stepped between you and a gun that night without blinking.

The only man who looked at you like you were made of something better than this world.

You were sweeping leaves off the step when the passenger door of the SUV opened. You didn’t need the headlights to know the shape moving toward you, broad shoulders, long coat, heavy boots that echoed deliberately on wet pavement.

He didn’t rush. He never rushed.

He approached you the way a predator approached something it actually cared about: slow, sure, steady.

“Sweetheart,” his voice rolled through the rain, low and unmistakably fond, “I told you to stop taking the trash out after dark.”

You swallow, gripping the broom like a shield. “Bucky… it’s my job.”

“That why your manager is inside drinking on the clock while you’re out here freezing?” he asked, stopping right in front of you. Water glistened in the ends of his hair, but his eyes impossibly blue and sharp were focused entirely on you.

No one looked at you that way.

No one saw you that way.

“You been watching me again?” you asked softly.

His jaw locked. “I don’t watch you,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower. “I guard you.”

Your heart squeezed.

You turned back toward the door to hide the way your cheeks warmed, but he reached out, easing your chin back toward him with two gloved fingers, gentle, careful, as though you were made of spun sugar.

“Don’t hide from me,” he murmured.

You shouldn’t like the way he said that. You shouldn’t like the warmth overflowing in your chest. You shouldn’t like the fact that this terrifying man. This man who could end anyone with a look, was soft only for you.

But you did.

God, you did.

“Why are you here, Bucky?” you asked quietly.

He stepped closer, close enough that his coat brushed your fingertips. “Someone tried to follow you home last night.”

Your breath caught.

“I handled it,” he added, as if he were talking about taking out the trash.

Handled it.

People whispered about what that meant when it came to him.

You lifted your eyes to his. “You killed someone for following me?”

His voice was velvet over steel. “I’d burn this whole city down for touching you.”

Your breath hitched, and his expression softened instantly, apology flickering in his features but not regret. Never regret.

He reached behind you, taking the broom from your hands and leaning it against the wall. “Come on. You’re done for the night.”

“I still have an hour on shift,” you protested.

“Not anymore.”

“Bucky—”

“Honey,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across your cheek, “you’re shaking. You think I’m letting you stand in the rain sweeping trash while men are out there looking for you?”

The words hit you like heat to ice.

Men.

Plural.

You blinked. “Bucky… why? Why are they after me? I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s exactly why.” His voice softened again, that dangerous sort of softness that only appeared for you. “You’re good. Sweet. You don’t know how rare that is around here.” He swallowed, eyes flicking down your face like he was trying to memorize you. “People like me notice. People like me… get attached.”

Your pulse fluttered wildly.

Attached.

The rain seemed to fade around you, replaced by the warmth radiating from his chest as he reached for your hand slow, asking, giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers wrapped around yours like they’d been waiting forever to do it.

“I’m taking you home,” he whispered. “You’re safe with me.”

You wanted to argue or pretend you didn’t want this but the truth settled in your chest with a frightening kind of certainty.

You trusted him.

The city’s monster.

Your protector.

He walked you to the SUV, holding his coat over your head so the rain wouldn’t touch you. Inside, the world felt warmer, darker, quieter. You watched him drive, one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up between you waiting.

You placed your hand in his again.

He brought your knuckles to his lips, kissing them with a reverence that stole your breath. “Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he murmured.

Your apartment was dim, cozy, lit only by the lamp near your sofa. You kicked off your shoes, nerves fluttering as Bucky closed the door behind him.

“I shouldn’t stay,” he said softly though he didn’t move. “If I’m here, sweetheart, I won’t want to leave.”

Your voice barely rose above a whisper. “Then don’t.”

His breath caught.

He stepped toward you slowly, giving you time to change your mind, eyes never leaving yours. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, warm and firm, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You leaned into his touch. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Something in him shattered, quietly, beautifully.

He cupped your face with both hands and kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Gentle at first, impossibly careful, then deeper, hungrier, like he’d held himself back for too damn long.

Your fingers slid into his damp hair, and he groaned low in his chest, pulling you closer by the waist, your body flush against his. Heat curled beneath your skin slow, growing, sweet the kind of spice that built itself in tender waves.

He broke the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours. “I’ll always protect you,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion he didn’t show anyone else. “Even from myself.”

You traced a hand down his jaw. “I don’t want protection from you.”

His eyes softened, softer than they had any right to be on a man like him.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing another kiss across your lips, “that’s exactly what scares me.”

But he kissed you again anyway.

And again.

And again.

Until the rain outside faded completely, and the only thing that existed was the warmth of his arms and the quiet promise he kept pressing into your skin:

You’re safe with me.

You’re mine.

The night hums around you, the theater lights, the murmur of an impatient audience, the faint smell of pyrotechnics waiting to be fired. You pace the wings with your hands shoved into your costume pockets, muttering the transitions of your act under your breath.

And of course, because the universe loves making you suffer, his voice slices through the calm like a razor.

“Careful,” J. Daniel Atlas drawls from behind you, “you’re going to wear a hole through the floor before the show even starts.”

You don’t turn around. You just roll your eyes at the stage curtain.

“Careful, Daniel. Your ego’s leaking all over the place again. Someone should mop that.”

He steps into your line of vision, immaculate as always crisp outfit, smug half-smile, eyes dancing like he knows the punchline to a joke you haven’t heard yet.

“You wound me,” he says, hand to his chest. “Here I was, thinking tonight we could be civil.”

“You tried to steal my finale last week.”

He blinks. “It was inspiration.”

“It was theft.”

“You left your notebook in the green room. That’s practically an invitation.”

You shove past him with a sharp exhale, but he moves in sync, walking backwards in front of you like it’s a game he’s already winning.

You two have been locked in this rivalry since your first breakout performance, the media calling you “two sides of the same coin,” “dueling prodigies,” “frenemies with impossibly good chemistry.”

He thrives on the attention.

You thrive on beating him.

And tonight’s show, a special collaboration you were forced into, has already been a powder keg waiting to blow.

When the curtain finally rises, it’s chaos wrapped in glitter.

Your cues overlap.

His timing collides with yours.

The audience thinks it’s part of the act.

It isn’t.

By the time the final applause hits, you’ve gone from irritated to murderous.

You storm backstage, ripping off your mic. “What the hell was that, Atlas?”

Daniel follows at an infuriatingly slow pace, loosening his tie. “Fun? Thrilling? Electric?”

“You stepped into my light.”

“You stole my setup.”

“Your setup depended on my setup!”

He opens his mouth a retort ready but something in your expression must land differently than usual. His smile falters. Only slightly.

“Hey,” he says, quieter, “I wasn’t trying to sabotage you.”

You cross your arms. The adrenaline is still buzzing under your skin, sharp and hot.

“Then what were you doing?”

His jaw flexes. He hesitates.

And then—

He steps closer.

Not playfully.

Not mockingly.

Just… close.

“I don’t know how to explain this without sounding like an idiot,” he murmurs, “but when you’re on stage… I can’t help watching you. I get distracted.”

Your breath stutters.

“No, you get competitive.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Yes. That too. But not just that.”

Another step. You back into a wall without meaning to, the cool surface against your spine making your pulse jump.

Daniel’s eyes flick to your mouth for the briefest moment, too quick to be confident, too honest to be an accident.

“You drive me insane,” he admits, voice low. “In a way I can’t perform my way out of.”

Your heart leaps and stumbles all at once.

“…Daniel.”

“You can hate me if you want,” he says, bracing one hand against the wall beside your head, “but I’m done pretending I hate you.”

His other hand hovers near your waist not touching, not yet, as if he’s waiting for the smallest sign you’ll let him.

You don’t speak.

You grab the front of his shirt and pull him down into a kiss.

He freezes for half a second before melting into it like he’s been waiting the whole damn time. His fingers slip to your waist, gripping, pulling. Your back arches, your lips chasing his, and the kiss grows hotter, needier, edged with every argument, every smirk, every performance you’ve survived together.

When you break for air, he rests his forehead against yours, breath unsteady.

“So,” you whisper, “was this… part of tonight’s routine?”

His smile is softer than you’ve ever seen it.

“Only the part I didn’t want anyone else to see.”

You let out a shaky laugh, sliding your hands up his chest, feeling the warmth under his clothes.

“We’re still rivals,” you say.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I like a challenge.”

“And this—”

You kiss him again, slow this time, deliberate, “—stays between us?”

He nods then kisses you once more, lingering like he wants to memorize the taste.

But as you pull away, he steals another kiss, grinning.

“Fine,” he says. “For now.”

The plane hummed softly, engines vibrating beneath your feet, lights dimmed to a quiet gold. Outside, the clouds stretched forever, hiding the world, giving the two of you a fragile bubble of safety.

Jack leaned back in his seat, fingers brushing yours across the small aisle. Neither of you had spoken for a long while. The tension from France clung in the air, a mix of adrenaline, relief, and unspoken desire.

“I keep thinking about what comes next,” he murmured, voice low, meant only for you. His hand tightened slightly around yours. “Abu Dhabi. The vault. The show. All of it.”

You turned to him, leaning in, letting your foreheads touch. “And us?”

His lips curved in that crooked, nervous smile you’d fallen for years ago. “Us. I’ve been thinking about that more than anything else.”

By the time you arrived in Abu Dhabi, the desert sun was harsh, bright, burning over the gleaming glass of the city like the stakes themselves were shining down on you. The Horsemen moved through the final pre-show checks, and Jack never left your side. Every whispered strategy, every tiny glance, every brush of fingers in the chaos felt deliberate.

“Tonight,” he murmured in your ear as you crouched behind a prop vault panel, “everything ends. Or begins. Depending on how we do it.”

The show was a storm. Lights, illusions, misdirection, the vault sequence, the calculated chaos that had become second nature. And through it all, Jack moved with a rhythm only you seemed to notice: the hand he slipped into yours during the distraction, the shoulder brushing yours as he adjusted a panel, the quick kiss to your temple after a particularly dangerous escape.

Finally, after the vault fell, the lights faded, the applause roared, and the cameras flashed like stars collapsing around you, you and Jack went back to your hotel room.

“No distractions now,” he whispered, pressing you against the wall, hands braced on either side of you.

“Good luck with that,” you teased breathlessly.

He smirked, leaning in, letting his lips brush yours softly, teasing, tasting. You responded immediately, hands sliding under his shirt, pulling him flush against your body. The world, the show, the chaos, everything outside this moment ceased to exist.

Jack’s hands explored with hunger and tenderness, memorizing curves, brushing hair, tracing your spine as you melted into him. He nipped at your neck, kissed along your collarbone, and every sound escaping him, soft groans, quick breaths made your pulse race faster than any magic trick ever could.

When you finally collapsed onto the nearest couch, Jack followed, hovering over you, eyes dark with desire but tender with care. Every movement was deliberate: lips, hands, whispers of your name, repeated affirmations of want and love. Nothing rushed, nothing careless. This was all heat, all electricity, all intimacy but built on years of trust, teasing, near-misses, and finally, honesty.

Hours later, tangled in each other’s limbs, skin glistening in the dim post-show lighting, Jack rested his forehead against yours. “I was scared I’d lose you,” he admitted softly, voice low, almost shy for a second. “Not to the vault, not to the cops, not to anyone. Just… me. I almost didn’t know how to be honest with myself.”

“You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” you whispered, running your fingers through his hair. “You’re not losing me. Not ever.”

He smiled, and it was a soft, tired, content smile — the kind that reached his eyes and made your chest ache in the best way. “I think… I’m done hiding.”

The flight back to New York was quiet. Safe. Intimate. A blanket of calm after a hurricane. Jack’s hand never left yours. When the plane touched down, the city lights spread below like glitter, Jack squeezed your fingers and murmured, “Home.”

And it wasn’t just the city. It was the two of you.

Back in New York, the team celebrated, reporters flashed, fans cheered, but you and Jack found a quiet corner of the loft. He leaned against the window, you beside him, bodies pressed together, finally able to exhale after years of misdirection, missions, chaos.

“You’re mine,” he said, brushing hair behind your ear.

“And you’re mine,” you answered, and the words tasted like a promise.

Jack kissed you again, long, deep, slow — not the first kiss, not the nervous one backstage in Atlantic City, but the kiss that ended everything that had been waiting between you since the very beginning.

The city stretched before you, endless, impossible, glittering. And you had each other.

The rain in London didn’t fall so much as it clung—misty, cold, seeping through coat sleeves and exhaustion equally. The Horsemen had just slipped out of one disaster and were quietly preparing for the next, tucked into the backroom of a warehouse that barely had electricity but somehow had perfect acoustics for bickering.

Jack was hunched over a scattered spread of cards, coins, and some tech he definitely wasn’t supposed to have, and you were on the opposite end of the table playing with the deck he’d handed you. Neither of you spoke at first. Neither of you had spoken much at all since Macau.

Since the plane.

Since Lula joined. 

 Since he’d avoided your eyes like you were fire and he didn’t trust himself not to walk straight into you.

You should’ve been angry. Or maybe hurt. Or maybe indifferent.

But you were just… tired of pretending you didn’t know what this was.

“Can you at least shuffle like you’re trying?” Jack muttered without looking up.

You flicked a card at him. It hit his shoulder. “What’s wrong with my shuffle?”

“It’s emotional,” he said. “It’s like the cards are screaming.”

“Oh, so you can read cards’ emotions now? Amazing. Truly a magician.”

His jaw ticked. A familiar tic. You had him.

Jack dropped his tools on the table and leaned back in the chair with a sigh that sounded like he’d been holding it for days.

“Are we gonna talk about it or not?”

Your pulse kicked. But your voice stayed cool. “Talk about what?”

“That.” He gestured vaguely—between you, between him, between the tension knotting the entire room together like an invisible rope.

“Macau?” you asked. “Or the plane with Lula?” “Or the part where you almost kissed her when the lights flickered—”

Jack stood so fast his chair screeched. His eyes snapped to yours, sharp, cutting, so full of things he was absolutely not supposed to feel—not with everything going on, not when the entire world seemed to be collapsing around you both.

“You noticed,” he said softly.

“Hard not to,” you answered, even softer.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, like he was deciding whether to lie or run or confess. He chose none.

Instead, he stopped directly in front of you.

“I’m not good at this,” he said. “Any of this. You know that.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“And I don’t… I don’t want to mess you up. You’re already in this insane world because of us—”

“I chose this world.”

“Right, I know, but—” He dropped his eyes. “If anything happened to you because of me, I’d never—”

“Jack.” You touched his hand.

He froze like you’d just hit pause on his entire nervous system.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the flicker of panic and longing in equal measure. Close enough that your breath warmed the space between you.

“You don’t have to protect me from you,” you said.

He laughed once—soft, hopeless. “You have no idea how wrong you are.”

And then, gently, like he was terrified to startle you, he lifted a hand and cupped your jaw with trembling fingers.

Not kissing you. Not pulling away.

Just holding your face like you were a secret he’d been trying not to say out loud.

“Spending those  show nights with you… the roofs, the lights… it was the first time in months I could breathe,” he murmured. “And that scares me more than anything The Eye could ever throw at us.”

Your heart tripped.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want this to ruin us. And it will. It always does.”

You swallowed. Regret throbbed behind your ribs, because you knew he was right—this life, this mission, this dangerous dance around each other—it would break something eventually.

But you still whispered, “Maybe it doesn’t have to.”

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Until— He leaned in. Not a kiss. Not quite. His forehead touched yours, soft and trembling, like a promise or a warning.

“I think about you way more than I should,” he whispered. “And if I kiss you now, I won’t stop.”

Your breath hitched. “Jack…”

He stepped back like it hurt him. “Not yet,” he said. “Not like this. Not when everything’s on fire.”

You tried to smile. “You’re allowed to want something good, you know.”

He met your eyes—finally, fully. And God, there it was. Everything he’d been hiding.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “And I want you. That’s the problem.”

And before you could answer— Dylan called from the hallway.

The moment shattered. Jack pulled away. Mask back on. Walls up.

But his fingers brushed yours as he passed you, just once, like he couldn’t help himself.

A silent apology. A silent promise. A silent I’m not done with you yet.

And you followed him out into the storm.

The night before the Horsemen’s first big show felt like the whole world was inhaling and holding it.

The backstage of the Las Vegas theater they’d be performing at buzzed with a nervous, excited electricity that settled into the walls like static. Curtains whispered when the air shifted. Footsteps echoed unevenly across the scuffed concrete floors. Somewhere in the maze of dressing rooms, Henley practiced timing. Merritt argued with someone over a missing pair of sunglasses. Atlas paced the hallway like a king waiting to be crowned.

Everything was loud, intense, tilted toward greatness.

And then there was Jack.

You found him in the one quiet corner of the building, tucked behind a stack of crates filled with props. A single warm bulb hummed overhead, casting a soft golden circle around him. He sat on the floor with his legs stretched out, back pressed to a wooden crate, a deck of cards flipping between his fingers in a restless blur.

Only, he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t bragging. He wasn’t showing off.

He looked human. Tired. Young. Nervous.

You watched him for a few seconds before stepping into the light. “Hiding?”

Jack’s head snapped up so fast a card flicked out of his hand and skidded across the floor. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He exhaled dramatically. “You scared me.”

“You scare pretty easily for a magician.”

“That’s because you sneak up on me like some kind of ninja,” he said, but his voice was soft, almost shy. He gestured to the empty space near him. “Come sit. Please.”

You lowered yourself beside him, knees brushing. Jack stiffened, then relaxed with a small, shaky smile.

The backstage noises faded as the quiet between you settled into something warm, something familiar.

“You nervous about the show?” you asked gently.

Jack let his head fall back against the crate. “I’m terrified.”

You blinked. “You? Terrified?”

He laughed weakly. “Don’t tell Atlas. He’d have me mopping the stage for saying it out loud.”

The cards stilled in his hands, and he stared down at them.

“I just… I really want this to be good,” he said, voice breaking a little. “The show, the team, the dream. Everything. It feels like this is my shot and if I mess it up, I’ll never get another one.”

You shifted closer, shoulder touching his. “Jack. You’re the heart of this team. You’re the spark.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t used to hearing that from anyone. Like it meant more than you realized.

The bulb overhead buzzed. Jack’s breath trembled. He whispered, “You make me less scared.”

You touched his hand. “Because I believe in you.”

His fingers curled around yours, tentative at first, then firmer when you didn’t pull away. His breath caught like he couldn’t handle how good that felt.

“Can I tell you something?” Jack asked quietly.

“Anything.”

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on your joined hands. “I like you. Not in a little crush way. Not in a hey, you’re cute way. More like… when I think about this show being perfect, you’re part of that picture. Part of what makes me brave enough to get through it.”

Your heart skipped.

He finally looked up at you, eyes bright and nervous. “Please say that’s not weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you breathed. “It’s really sweet.”

Jack’s breath eased, his shoulders loosening. “You’re not gonna run away?”

“I’m right here,” you said.

He let out a soft laugh that sounded almost relieved. “Good. Because I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks and if I don’t do it now I might combust.”

You leaned in first. “Then kiss me, Jack.”

His lips met yours gently at first, warm and careful, like he was afraid of getting it wrong. You cupped his cheek, guiding him, and that was all it took for him to melt into the kiss. He sighed against your mouth, fingers sliding up your arm, trembling with how badly he wanted to touch you.

The kiss deepened slowly, sweetly, the kind that builds heat gradually, naturally, without rushing.

Jack pulled back just enough to whisper, “I want you. I want all of this. But only if you really want it too.”

You brushed your lips against his. “I do.”

His breath hitched, the kind of sound someone makes when a wish comes true.

You pulled him closer, settling into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. Jack flushed but didn’t hesitate. His hands settled on your waist, gentle and reverent.

“I’ve never done this with someone I care about,” he admitted quietly. “So just… guide me if I’m awkward.”

You kissed him again, slow, reassuring. “I’ll take care of you.”

His eyes softened, his body relaxing under your touch, and the two of you moved together into something warm, intimate, exploratory. Every kiss deeper than the last, every touch tender and patient. Jack’s nervous laughter between soft moans, your hands learning him, his breath catching when you whispered his name.

Jack made you feel cherished, and you made him feel chosen.

And before the night ended, before the lights and the cheering crowds and the storm of fame that would change everything, Jack held you close and whispered: