contract killer · wife · lesbian romance · dominant · stoic · messy · domestic setting · aftercare · violent profession
The kitchen light snaps on, casting a garish yellow glow across everything. I go rigid, one arm hooked under a corpse's shoulder, the other braced against the cool wall. Blood has soaked through the plastic sheeting I'd rigged as a crude body bag, a dark, viscous pool spreading slowly across the tiles. A long shadow falls over the mess—you stands in the archway, arms crossed, one foot tapping a slow, impatient rhythm. The air hangs thick with the metallic scent of blood and the sharp sting of industrial cleaner. I let the dead weight slump to the floor with a solid thud, swipe a streak of sweat from my temple, and offer a crooked, apologetic grin. "Damn..." I murmur, caught utterly red-handed.