demeterlindavis

[demeterlindavis]

MIRA CAN’T KNOW

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 5,200 ) genre :: forbidden romance, erotica, && secret desire. content contains :: spicy read, acrobatic + designer reader, reader has a nightmare, obsession, devotion, infatuation, big sister mira. PART ONE !! PART TWO !! PART FOUR !!

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the city is quiet in the way only cities can be—restless, humming beneath the silence, like it’s holding its breath. your shoes tap against the pavement, the sound too sharp in the stillness of almost-4am, too loud against the thunder in your chest. the streets are empty, but your mind is full—of him. of what you let happen. of what you whispered.

the night air wraps around you like a reminder, cool against the sweat still clinging to your back. your thighs ache with the memory of him. not in pain, but in presence. like he never left. like parts of him are still inside you. and in some way, they are. the echo of his hands. the rasp of his voice. the way he said your name like it belonged to him now.

you try not to think about it. about how you kissed him like he was salvation. how he held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked. you try not to feel the aftershocks trembling through you. not just physical—but something deeper. like a spell you accidentally cast on yourself.

you reach the front steps of the HUNTR/X building and pause. the lights are off. too dark for this early in the morning. you don’t hear laughter. no midnight snacks being made in the kitchen. no whispered conversations from the hallway. no Mira.

they’re not home.

your heart stutters for half a beat, then steadies. probably out hunting. or scouting. or celebrating something you weren’t invited to. doesn’t matter.

none of my business, you think, like a shield.

you punch in the access code and the door clicks open, letting you inside. it’s colder than usual. the kind of cold that wraps around your ankles and climbs your spine slowly, thoughtfully. like it knows something you don’t.

you ignore it.

your footsteps echo against the tile floor as you make your way through the halls. the building feels hollow, like it’s holding its breath. or like it knows. maybe it does. maybe the walls remember the way Mira screamed your name. the way you screamed hers back. the sound of heartbreak wrapped in rage.

you push your bedroom door open and don’t bother turning on the light. there’s nothing you need to see. you peel off your jacket and let it drop to the floor, then toe off your shoes, letting them fall wherever they land. you stand there for a moment, bare feet on cold floor, eyes closed.

his hands. still on you. his voice. still in your head. his teeth. still pressing faint ghosts into your collarbone. you touch the spot without thinking and exhale, low and quiet.

what the hell are you doing.

but you already know.

you slip into bed and the sheets are cold, untouched, empty in the worst way. not even your own warmth is enough to distract you from what you left behind in that bathhouse. or what you brought back with you. you curl onto your side, pulling the blanket to your chin, and try to slow your breathing.

you don’t sleep yet.

you just lay there. bones aching, heart loud, the taste of sin still on your tongue.

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

you don’t remember falling asleep. one minute you’re staring into the darkness, letting the silence wrap around you like a warning, and the next—you’re running.

the dream doesn’t warn you. it doesn’t build slowly. it drags you in, shoves you down, and tears you apart all at once.

he’s there—baby—knees in the dirt, breathing heavy, body bruised and broken in ways you’ve never seen before. the light in his eyes is dimming. fading. he’s surrounded. not by monsters. not by demons. by them. by your girls. the ones you’ve fought beside, bled beside. rumi’s got her spear drawn, pointed right at his chest. mira stands behind her, jaw set. and zoey—zoey’s the one who pulls her daggers last.

you try to scream but your throat’s full of smoke. you try to run but your legs won’t move. all you can do is watch as they fall on him, as steel meets skin, as he groans your name one last time like it might protect him.

you wake up gasping, eyes wide and stinging, the blanket tangled around your legs like chains. your heart is pounding like it’s trying to break out of you. the room is too quiet, too still. for a second, you think you’re still dreaming.

then you hear it.

voices. soft laughter. the sound of shoes being kicked off in the hall. a bag hitting the floor. someone humming something that might be a pop song or a lullaby or a warning. your heart stutters.

you lift the blanket slowly, peeking over the edge just in time to see your door creak open, light from the hallway spilling in like an apology.

“heyyy,” zoey says softly, head tilting, micro bangs framing her face like always. “you awake?”

your throat’s dry, your body still stiff from sleep, but you nod. barely.

“can i come in?”

you nod again.

she steps in and closes the door behind her gently. no judgment. no weapons. she crosses the room like she’s walking into a church, careful and quiet, and sits on the edge of your bed. the mattress shifts beneath her weight.

“you okay?” she asks, voice calm, patient.

you nod again, even though you’re not sure. her eyes flicker down to your fingers, clenched in the blanket. she notices everything. she always has.

“you eat today?”

you hesitate. shrug.

“drink water?”

you roll your eyes faintly. “yes, mom.”

she smiles, small and kind. but there’s something beneath it. something knowing.

“you’ve been… quiet lately.”

“i’m always quiet,” you mutter, voice low.

“this is different.”

you don’t answer.

zoey adjusts, shifting slightly so she’s angled more toward you. her voice softens even more.

“you’ve been… distant. distracted. like you’re somewhere else even when you’re here.”

you sigh. look away. the blanket feels like it’s smothering you now, but you don’t move. your hands clench tighter.

“so,” zoey says gently, “you wanna tell me who you’re dreaming about?”

you freeze.

not flinch. not panic. freeze. because she says it like she already knows. like the name’s been on the tip of her tongue for days, and she’s just been waiting for you to be ready.

“you know,” you whisper, voice hollow.

she nods. “mira told us some of it. but… i wanted to hear it from you.”

so you tell her.

not all at once. not perfectly. but honestly. piece by piece. like pulling thorns from your throat. you tell her about the bathhouse. about the silence in his voice and the fire in his touch. the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. the way you feel safe with him, even when he’s terrifying. especially when he’s terrifying.

you tell her about the guilt. about mira’s eyes—how they burned. about the shame. about the fear that loving a demon makes you unlovable too.

but then you tell her the other thing.

“rumi was born from a demon and a hunter,” you say, voice shaking. “and she’s the best of all of us.”

zoey is quiet for a long time. not judgmental. not skeptical. just… listening.

you finally look up, eyes still rimmed with the dream. “i know it’s wrong. i know it’s dangerous. but it doesn’t feel wrong when i’m with him. it feels… like breathing.”

zoey reaches out, placing a hand gently over yours.

“then maybe it’s not wrong,” she says quietly. “maybe it’s just different.”

you blink at her. startled.

“we’re trained to kill demons,” she continues, “but maybe we were never taught what to do with the ones who make us feel something.”

you stare at her, heart raw and open.

she smiles. “just… promise me you’ll be careful. and if he hurts you—if anything happens—you’ll come to me first.”

you nod.

“and you’ll hydrate.”

you let out a soft, broken laugh. “yes. water. got it.”

she squeezes your hand once, then stands, brushing imaginary dust from her pants.

“get some sleep,” she murmurs, halfway to the door. “i’ll keep the others off your back. for now.”

and then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her like a secret being sealed.

you lie back down, eyes on the ceiling, heart a little steadier.

maybe you can sleep now.

maybe this time, he’ll live.

when you wake, the light has changed. it’s softer now, slipping through the curtains in lazy stripes, the kind that makes your room feel smaller, quieter. your limbs are stiff, tangled in the sheets, body sore in ways you can’t name. you blink slowly, the memory of your dream still dragging across the corners of your mind like ash. but the ache in your chest has dulled. a little.

the scent of food hits you first—something warm, faintly sweet, a whisper of comfort in the air. you lift your head just as the door creaks open again, soft footsteps padding across the floor. zoey appears, carefully balancing a tray, a cup of juice tucked between her fingers. her smile is tired but kind.

“good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, cheerful enough to sound normal—but not enough to hide the tension beneath.

your heart lurches.

you sit up too quickly, blanket falling into your lap. “where’s rumi?”

zoey pauses mid-step.

“and mira?” you press, sharper now. you look past her—toward the open hallway. nothing. no voices. no clinking armor. no sarcasm or scolding. just… quiet.

too quiet.

zoey sighs.

“look, i didn’t want to be the one to tell you—”

“zoey.” your voice cracks. “what’s going on?”

she winces, setting the tray on your desk before sitting beside you, the mattress dipping again under her weight. her hands fiddle with the hem of her sleeve. she doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“they went to find him.”

silence.

“they just wanna talk,” she adds quickly, glancing up. “they’re not gonna hurt him.”

your stomach twists. “how do you know that?”

zoey exhales, long and slow, like she was hoping you wouldn’t ask.

“because…” she lifts her hand, pinky extended. her eyes meet yours. solemn. “i made them pinky promise.”

you stare at her.

for a second, all you can do is blink. the absurdity of it. the softness. the desperation. your voice comes out quieter than before.

“zoey…”

“i know, okay?” she says, finally turning fully to face you. “i know it doesn’t mean much. but i made them swear. mira looked me in the eye and said they were just gonna talk. ask questions. see what this thing really is.”

you shake your head, heart pounding. “she hates him.”

“she’s angry,” zoey says. “and scared. but she’s not stupid. she knows what hurting him would do to you. and rumi… rumi’s curious. she wants to understand.”

“he won’t talk to them.”

“maybe not. but they’re trying.”

you wrap your arms around your knees, pressing your forehead against them. the blanket still clings to your skin like sweat, like fear. your voice is muffled when you speak.

“he’s not like us, zoey. if they corner him… if they even look like a threat…”

“i know,” she says gently.

you lift your head, eyes wide, throat dry. “how long ago?”

“not long. they left about an hour after we talked. figured you needed the sleep.”

you swing your legs out of bed, already grabbing for your jacket.

“where are you going?” zoey asks, standing too.

“i don’t know,” you say, stuffing your feet into your shoes. “but i have to find them.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the night is humid, neon-lit and humming with city breath. baby’s halfway to the convenience store entrance when it happens.

romance is mid-flirt with the cashier inside—grinning through the glass, pointing at his own reflection, probably blowing kisses at himself. abby’s behind them both, casually carrying a case of water like it weighs nothing, his shirt already discarded for reasons no one questioned.

and baby—he’s quiet, eyes low, teal hair damp from the late summer heat, one hand tugging the edge of his hoodie lower. then—

“don’t take another step.”

the voice slices through the air before the point of mira’s spear does.

it catches him mid-step, just a breath from the doorway. a smooth drag of polished steel pointed straight at his chest. the energy behind it is old, righteous, and personal.

he doesn’t flinch.

“oh,” baby drawls, voice like smoke on gravel, “this is the part where i pretend to be surprised.”

rumi appears behind mira—sword already drawn, glowing faintly in the sickly light of the vending machine. her expression is unreadable, calm in a way that makes people nervous. a different kind of wrath. surgical. poetic.

romance spots the scene through the window and mouths “ooh damn,” pressing his face to the glass with a grin. abby just sighs and leans against the wall like he’s waiting for the popcorn to arrive.

“what do you want with my sister?” mira snaps, her grip tightening.

baby raises both hands, lazy and amused. “you sure you want me to answer that?”

rumi’s sword twitches.

“don’t play games,” mira growls. “what are you doing to her?”

he smiles, slow and wolfish.

“just using her body, mostly. breaking her in nice and slow. once she’s good and ruined, i’ll carve out her soul for gwi-ma as a little souvenir. maybe keep her heart for myself. decor, you know.”

the steel in mira’s eyes burns hotter.

but rumi’s sword moves faster.

in a blink, it’s pointed at his crotch—low, unshaking, terrifying in its precision.

baby finally shuts up.

“you’re not funny,” rumi says, voice calm and ice-cold. “and you’re a terrible liar.”

his smirk falters.

the air shifts.

gone is the snide bravado. gone is the smug devil-may-care grin. what rises in its place is something darker. heavier. more dangerous in its honesty.

he looks between them. and when he speaks next, it’s quieter. rougher.

“i love her.”

silence falls like a stone.

romance slowly pulls out his phone and starts filming, mouthing “this is so messy.”

baby ignores him. his eyes stay on mira and rumi. steady now. not pleading. not defending. just true.

“i didn’t plan to,” he says. “i don’t even know if i’m allowed to. but i do. i’m not using her. i’m not breaking her. i’m not… hurting her. i just—”

he pauses. swallows.

“—i just want her.”

mira exhales sharply through her nose.

“then do better,” she says.

baby frowns. “what?”

“if you’re gonna love her,” mira spits, “then take her on a real date. buy her dinner. walk her home. get her flowers. and stop humping her loose in her damn bed like a dog in heat.”

romance chokes on his laughter from across the street.

baby groans, dragging a hand down his face, actually blushing. “god, why would you say it like that—”

“say yes,” rumi cuts in, tone flat. “or i cut it off.”

he raises both hands again, eyes wide. “alright, alright. damn. yes. fine. i’ll take her out. like… dinner. candles. chairs. clothes. the whole thing.”

mira finally lowers her spear.

“you’ve got one chance,” she warns. “and if she ends up crying—”

“i’ll be the one crying next,” he mutters. “got it.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

you’re angry.

not the burning, explosive kind. no. this is the quiet, seething kind. the kind that builds in your chest like smoke under glass—slow, tight, suffocating. you’ve spent hours chasing their shadows through alleyways and rooftops, feet sore, mouth dry, breath coming in short frustrated bursts. no trace of them. no messages. no calls.

you don’t know what they said to him.

you don’t know what he said back.

and that not-knowing wraps around your ribs like barbed wire.

by the time you’re back in front of headquarters, your throat’s dry and your mind’s louder than your footsteps. the early evening light dips behind the skyline, painting the walls in that golden-lonely kind of way. you’re already reaching for the keypad when you see it.

him.

leaning casually against the wall beside the entrance. dressed better than usual—dark jacket, clean shirt, boots without any new blood on them. teal hair still damp from a recent shower, falling across his forehead like he’s not trying too hard, but definitely trying. and his eyes—

god. those eyes.

they catch on you like a match striking dry wood.

he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t do that. but there’s something in the way he straightens when he sees you. something alive. burning beneath the surface.

“i’m here to take you on a date,” he says, blunt and unapologetic.

you blink.

the air between you shifts, warps, curls.

“what?”

he shrugs, like he didn’t just ambush you with the most bizarre, un-demonic sentence of the century.

“you heard me.”

you cross your arms, eyeing him carefully. “who told you to do this?”

“does it matter?”

you scowl.

“fine,” he admits, rolling his eyes. “mira. and the sword one. they threatened my anatomy. but i agreed.”

he pauses.

“i wanted to agree.”

the last part lands differently. like truth. and that’s what makes you hesitate.

you glance him over again—this cleaned-up, waiting version of the demon you swore you’d only see in shadows and sheets. you should say no. demand answers. yell, maybe.

instead, you sigh.

“give me five minutes,” you mutter.

his brows lift slightly, surprised, but he steps aside, hands shoved into his pockets as you disappear inside.

you move quickly through the hall. your fingers tremble a little as you strip out of your clothes. you don’t know why you’re dressing up. you don’t know why you pick the outfit you do—the one that clings to you like intention, the one that says yes, this is a date, but we both know how it’s going to end.

the top dips low. the skirt rides high. your throat gleams with the faintest hint of perfume. and when you step in front of the mirror, it’s not just you staring back. it’s want. it’s warning. it’s what he does to you.

you don’t rush.

when you finally return, pushing the front door open with an unbothered toss of your hair, you don’t even look at him first.

but you feel him.

his stare hooks into you before you speak. before you even breathe. it drags down your frame like velvet over a blade.

and when you finally meet his eyes, he’s already standing straighter. already swallowing hard. already watching you like he’s counting the seconds until this whole thing ends exactly the way you both know it will.

“you look…”

he stops. clears his throat.

“…intentional.”

you smirk. “that’s the idea.”

his jaw clenches slightly. not from anger. from restraint.

“this is going to be a very short date,” he mutters under his breath.

“we’ll see,” you hum, walking past him.

but the look in his eyes as he follows you?

yeah. he knows.

he’s not making it through the night untouched.

and neither are you.

it starts off simple. awkward, almost.

baby doesn’t take you far. just a tucked-away rooftop diner with flickering neon signs and food that smells like grease and late-night cravings. he doesn’t hold your hand on the way there—he keeps them shoved deep in his pockets like they might betray him if he lets them wander. but he stays close. always close. his shoulder brushes yours every time you turn a corner. his gaze flickers to your mouth every time you speak.

you notice.

and you use it.

you cross your legs slow under the table. lean in when you ask him questions. you let the strap of your top fall just barely off your shoulder when you reach for your drink. everything you do is effortless—but he’s unraveling by the minute.

he’s trying. god, he’s trying. he orders food. pays in cash. makes sarcastic comments about the menu. stares at the people around you like they’re aliens, and you’re the only thing in the room that feels familiar.

but you can see it.

the tension in his jaw when you lick the sauce off your thumb. the way his eyes flick down to your collarbone like he’s picturing the same thing over and over again—his mouth there instead. the way his leg starts bouncing under the table when you laugh too sweetly, lean in too close, speak too low.

“this was supposed to be normal,” he mutters, halfway through the meal.

you blink, feigning innocence. “this is normal.”

he gives you a look that says liar, and you give him one right back that says make me.

you pick a piece of food off his plate just to watch him twitch. his breath stutters when your fingers brush his. you chew slow. deliberate.

he swallows hard.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he growls under his breath, voice rougher now. darker.

you smile sweetly. “doing what?”

his hand fists the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him from dragging you onto his lap. his eyes are gold now—subtle, but glowing. dangerous. like he’s losing grip on the leash wrapped tight around his own throat.

“you don’t know what it’s like,” he says, leaning closer. “trying to sit still. trying to be… good. when everything in me is screaming to drag you into the shadows and make you say my name until you forget your own.”

your pulse jumps. but you keep your expression calm.

“and yet here you are,” you murmur, “being so well-behaved.”

he laughs. low. sharp. pained.

“for how long, though?”

you say nothing. just uncross your legs. recross them the other way.

his eyes flick down like a reflex. his jaw flexes again.

the food goes mostly untouched after that. conversation gets thinner. tension gets thicker. and by the time you’re walking down the block again, the space between you has turned electric.

you glance up at him under the streetlight. “so. was this everything mira hoped it’d be?”

he lets out a bitter chuckle. “i don’t think anyone hoped i’d survive it.”

you smirk. “you’re doing okay.”

“no i’m not.”

you both stop outside headquarters. he hesitates. like he’s not sure if he should follow you inside. like he knows if he does, there’s no going back to pretending.

“what happens now?” he asks.

you turn to face him, eyes wide and soft and dangerous all at once.

“you walked me home.”

your voice drops.

“shouldn’t you kiss me goodnight?”

his breath catches.

and just like that—

he’s gone again. unraveling. undone.

you stand with him at the threshold of your world and his—your hand on the door, his eyes on your mouth. the city hums behind you, but the sound is drowned out by the pounding of your own heart. it’s stupid how close you are. how close you’ve been all night. the air between you practically burns with it.

he’s trying not to touch you.

you can see it—how his fingers twitch at his sides, how his jaw tightens when you shift closer, when your perfume hits him again like a spell. you tilt your head, just slightly, the way you know makes him weak. and still, he waits.

“so…” you whisper, soft as a prayer. “about that kiss?”

his eyes flick down to your lips.

slow.

like surrender.

then he leans in—hands still in his pockets, mouth hovering over yours, breath warm and uneven. when he finally kisses you, it’s devastating in its gentleness. not rushed. not rough. it’s everything he’s been holding back all night, pouring into one fragile moment. his lips part against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. his nose brushes yours. your hand curls into the fabric of his shirt.

but just when you lean into him—ready to fall all the way—

he pulls back.

slow. breathless. lips flushed and swollen, eyes glowing that soft, barely-there gold.

“goodnight,” he murmurs, voice low and shaking.

then he turns. walks away.

just like that.

you blink. frozen. stunned into silence. his warmth still on your mouth, his voice still curling through your spine. you don’t move until he’s completely gone from view, swallowed by the dark.

and then—

you open the door.

the scent of whatever zoey’s cooking hits you instantly—something sweet and spicy and chaotic. you walk in, heels clicking against the floor, still dazed. still glowing. at the kitchen island, zoey’s multitasking between five different dishes like she’s feeding a village. her hair’s tied up. music plays softly from someone’s phone.

you glance to the left. rumi and mira are on the couch, hunched over a board game, tension thick between them but not hostile—focused. mira looks up when she hears the door close. her eyes land on you.

you don’t say anything.

neither does she.

but the look you share is enough.

an entire conversation, wordless and heavy.

you make your way past them, up the stairs. your legs feel like mist. your chest still aches with the weight of the kiss he gave you—too soft to be real, too restrained to be final.

your room is dark, still and quiet. safe.

you shut the door gently behind you. flick the lock out of habit. toss your phone on the nightstand without checking it. you’re too tired to wash your face properly, so you just wipe it with a cool cloth, let the night cling to your skin a little longer.

you light a candle.

the flame dances, flickering warm shadows across your walls. it smells like something earthy and faintly sweet—home, maybe. peace. you peel your clothes off one by one, slow, lazy, the exhaustion finally setting in.

your fingers graze the zipper of your skirt, eyes half-lidded.

and then—

you feel it.

a pair of hands.

from behind.

slow. familiar. tender.

they slide up along your sides, from the curve of your hips to the dip of your waist, not rushing, not groping—caressing. like a worship. like a secret. you gasp, nearly lurch forward, but the hands anchor you in place, one of them pressing lightly to your stomach, the other brushing your hair aside.

his breath hits the back of your neck.

“couldn’t stay away.”

you close your eyes.

you knew it.

you knew that kiss was a lie.

his hands move like they’ve missed you for centuries.

there’s no rush in the way his fingers trace your skin, no frenzy in the way he breathes against your neck. it’s slow. aching. as if he wants to memorize you through touch alone. as if he’s terrified this will be the last time.

“you’re always warm,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion, not desire. “like you were made to melt me.”

his fingers slide to your zipper, slow and careful, undoing the metal with a tenderness that nearly breaks you. your skirt slips from your hips, pooling at your ankles like a fallen promise. his palm smooths down the line of your thigh, trailing back up until it finds the edge of your underwear—his knuckles grazing your skin in a way that makes your breath catch.

“i told myself i’d be good tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “that one kiss would be enough. that if i walked away, i could still pretend to be… something better for you.”

you tilt your head as he presses a kiss beneath your jaw—soft and slow and shaking.

“but the way you looked at me,” he continues, “like you knew what you were doing. like you wanted me to break—”

his hand slides higher, gently peeling away the last layer of fabric clinging to your hips. his other hand holds you close, steadying you as the silence wraps around both of you, thick and reverent.

“—i’ve never wanted anything the way i want you,” he breathes. “not power. not blood. not even freedom.”

he kisses your shoulder.

“just this. just you.”

he turns you gently in his arms, his eyes flickering gold in the candlelight. and there’s nothing cocky in them. nothing wicked.

only worship.

he looks at you like you’re his miracle. like the one beautiful mistake he wants to make again and again.

“you undo me,” he whispers. “and still, i keep coming back.”

he’s still watching you. not hungrily. not greedily. but like you’re something he’s never been allowed to have. like your skin is scripture and he’s trying to read it with his hands.

he kisses you again—this time on the mouth—and it’s not like before. this kiss is full. deeper. his hands slide to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. his body is hot and steady, trembling slightly like he’s still holding back some part of himself that aches to ruin everything.

“you feel like fire,” he whispers between kisses, forehead pressed to yours. “and i want to burn.”

you reach for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging it upward, over his head. he lets you. arms raise. the fabric slides off, slow. beneath it—warm skin, muscle under tension, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s barely keeping himself together.

he picks you up like it’s easy. like you weigh nothing and everything at once. carries you to the bed as if it’s a holy place. and when he lays you down, he doesn’t fall on top of you like some feral thing—he sinks, slow and reverent, beside you. kissing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

his hands trail lower.

“you don’t even know,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling, “what you do to me.”

his mouth finds the softest places, pressing kisses so gentle they almost make you cry. he doesn’t grope. doesn’t grip. he touches. open-palmed and patient. like your body is a question he’s trying to answer with every stroke.

and when he finally aligns himself with you—when he finally slides into you—it’s not rough, it’s not rushed.

it’s slow.

anchoring.

he groans your name like a prayer—low and deep in his chest, as if just being inside you undoes the last thread of restraint he’s held all night. your body opens to him like you were made to fit. and he holds you. tight. like if he lets go, you’ll disappear into the dark.

he doesn’t move right away.

just stays.

buried in you. forehead pressed to yours. the only sound in the room your joined breathing and the soft flicker of candlelight.

“i love you,” he whispers again, broken this time. like he almost doesn’t believe he’s allowed to say it.

and then he starts moving.

not fast. not hard. just deep. full. slow strokes that drag every inch of him through you like he’s trying to imprint himself in your bones.

your name tumbles out of him over and over. each time softer. more wrecked.

his hand finds yours, fingers tangling.

“you’re mine,” he says, voice shaking. “and i’m yours. even if it kills me.”

and it might.

because the way he’s loving you isn’t safe.

it’s not careful.

it’s something dark and ancient and eternal—something that claws through both your souls and binds them tighter with every breathless, sacred, and sinful moment.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HERES PART THREE TO THE FAN FAVORITE, MIRAAAA CAAAANT KNOOOWWWW 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️ ENJOYYY THE READ MY LITTLE SODA POPS 😛 i will be working on TWIN SIN PART THREE and will include jinus perspective 🙈 AND coming up with a new baby fiiiic

update : just got two requests !! WILL BE PRIORITIZING THOSE BECAUSE THEY ARE YUMMY YUMMY

update 2 : PART FOUR GOT REQUESTED ??

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[demeterlindavis]

summary. It didn’t matter that you loved him first. The only thing that mattered was that he loved her, and she loved him.  tags. Non!Mc x LADS, angst, hurt/no comfort, unrequited love, reader isnt mc!! now playing.I love you, I’m Sorry by Gracie Adams

“You were the best, but you were the worst As sick as it sounds, I loved you first”

It was unfair. 

Every universe, every dimension, for some reason, you always fell for him. 

A prince, a God, a dragon– every one. You loved him. In every, single, one, you always did. 

He was the best thing to ever happen to you, really. A stretch, but it was true. Soft hands, gentle eyes, and in every single universe, in every life, you were there with him. 

But she was always there, too. 

If he looked at you with those gentle eyes, then the gaze he has every time it lands on MC was sickeningly sweet, gentler– loving. If he had ever held you for a moment, a hug, a handshake, a helping hand, with soft hands, then the way he held her was softer. In those ways, he was also the worst thing to ever happen to you. 

Because just as he became the reason for your heart to beat quicker, he was also the reason why it began to break.

It was truly unfair– how he was the one your heart kept choosing, yet his own heart never chose you. Of course it didn’t, because there was MC.  

In the same way you loved him, he loved her. 

You were always on the side, then, weren’t you? Cursed to watch them fall for each other while hiding the way your heart broke into pieces. 

It’s a sick, sick feeling, especially when you couldn’t help the ugly emotions of hurt, anger and jealousy. Because you loved him first, before she came along. Because you were always by his side before she was, weren’t you? 

It was unfair, how your feelings seem to be nothing but a stepping stone for their love story. It didn’t matter that you loved him first. The only thing that mattered was that he loved her, and she loved him. 

“I was a dick, it is what it is A habit to kick, the age-old curse”

There were times in your lives where you harbored deep resentment for the two. There were moments where your anger, your jealousy got the better of you and you became the worst version of yourself, and you took it out on them. It is what it is, but those were moments that you wished to never repeat. Times and lives that you bury deep into your mind, locked away, but never forgotten so you would never repeat those mistakes again. 

Funny, how even then, you never deemed your love for him as a mistake. 

Because loving him was a curse, and also a blessing. 

You hated him, you hated MC, but at some point, you stopped hating them– because they don’t deserve the hate you had harbored. No, they don’t deserve it. 

Even so, those feelings never truly went away, and even now, as you watch him fall for the Hunter, you couldn’t find it in yourself to even harbor any other deeper feelings other than hatred for yourself, and the feeling of being resigned to your fate.

You were resigned to a lifelong curse of falling for someone you can never have. And that was all you could do.

“I tend to laugh whenever I'm sad I stare at the crash, it actually works”

It was easy. After many lives of pretending, the smile was easy to pull off. The casual “I’m okay!”, the laughs in moments that needed a laugh, and in every life, that was all you could do. 

Laugh. Smile, and stare at the wreck of who you are. 

It works. It made things easier to move past from. But it never truly healed those hurts, did it? 

Instead, it strains your cheeks, it leaves laugh lines that remind you of how much you have to pretend, how much you had to laugh just to keep the underlying sadness hidden. 

Because who are you to stand against fate? 

It never worked in the other lives, so why would it work now?

So whenever MC casually invites you out for a hang out, whenever he greets you with a smile, you nod, you smile, you laugh. Even when seeing them together hurts. 

It was easy to pretend. 

But it never truly got easier on your heart. 

“Making amends, this shit never ends I'm wrong again, wrong again”

It doesn’t matter how many times it happened. The universe doesn’t care what you think about your situation.

It was unfair. But that was what life is. 

You, always the one to fall, and never be caught.

©ahnaiee [do not repost, copy, translate, or modify]

[demeterlindavis]

through the embers

pairing: dragon!sylus x dragon-slayer!reader

summary: you're a dragon slayer who lost her family to a massacre years ago. when youre ordered to capture a rare dragon for the royal arena, you instead find a grieving creature mourning his lost kin.

a/n: learning from my mistakes, i organised all my ideas for this story beforehand. ive been thinking about this plot for sooo long, but idk if anyone's written smth like this so i decided to try it myself. hope you like this one! (reposted)

For generations, it was simple.

They were not to be spoken to. They were not to looked in the eye. They were certainly not to be trusted. Yet for all the fear they inspired, they had never earned it. They nested in distant peaks, their great shadows passing over villages like fleeting storms. No farms were ever pillaged. No children were stolen. The worst they ever did was occasionally snatch a sheep, and even then, the shepherds would find coins left in its place by dawn.

Until the night Traus burned.

It should have been just another night. The city had been alive with lanterns and laughter, its streets humming with merchants closing their stalls, taverns spilling warm light onto the cobblestones. 

You could still smell the bread from the ovens, they said. Still hear the last notes of the minstrel’s song.

Then the sky caught fire.

No warning. No demands. Just the sudden, searing horror of wings blotting out the moon. The dragons fell upon Tarus like a reckoning. They did not simply burn the city, they erased it. Stone melted like wax. People turned to ash mid-scream. By the time the first embers cooled, there was nothing left to bury.

No one survived.

That was the official decree, anyway. But fate has a way of leaving loose threads.

A traveling physician found you at dawn, curled on his doorstep like a discarded doll. A child, no older than eight, skin streaked with soot and blood, breaths shallow as a wounded bird’s. You didn’t remember running. Didn’t remember how you’d escaped when thousands had not. 

When he pressed you for answers, all you could recall was the sound of screams, the roar of flames.

In your nightmares, the dragons returned, their eyes like polished coins, their wings slicing the sky into ribbons. You awoke gasping, fingers clawing at your throat, as if you could still feel the heat of Tarus choking you.

Everyone called it a tragedy, but to you it was a promise. A promise of revenge.

***

You’d woken at dawn, as always, and slipped into the forest with a basket hooked over your arm. The earth was still damp from last night’s rain, the air thick with the scent of wet soil. You moved with practiced ease, plucking sprigs of lavender, winding roots of valerian from the soft earth, anything Dorian (the physician) might need for his remedies. 

It was peaceful work. 

By midday, you returned to the cottage, its thatched roof smudged against the sky, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. Gilda (physician’s wife) was waiting, as she always was, with a cup of tea steaming in her hands. Chamomile and honey, your favorite. You took it with a smile, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

"Long morning?" she asked, brushing a leaf from your hair.

You shrugged. "The woods were generous today."

She hummed, eyeing the basket. "Enough for a dozen tonics, at least. You’ll put your father out of business at this rate."

The word 'father' still sent a flicker of warmth through your chest, even after all these years. They’d never asked for anything in return, never treated you as anything less than their own. But love like that came with a price, worry.

You saw it in the way Dorian’s hands stilled whenever you sharpened your knives. In the way Gilda’s voice tightened when you mentioned the dragon hunters’ guild.

"Dragons are monsters, and monsters are meant to be slain," you’d say, parroting the words that had kept you awake for years.

"Then let someone else slay them," they’d reply. "Why does it have to be you?"

You never answered. You didn’t have to because they knew.

The knock came just as you were finishing your tea.

Three sharp raps against the door. You set the cup down, frowning. The physician exchanged a glance with his wife before nodding at you.

The man at the door was dressed in colors you recognized instantly, the king’s livery. Crisp emerald and gold, a silver brooch gleaming at his collar. He held himself like someone accustomed to delivering messages.

Without a word, he extended a scroll, its parchment thick, its seal pressed deep with the royal insignia. You took it, and he bowed, crisp and formal, before retreating to wait beside a polished carriage.

This wasn’t a request.

Back inside, Gilda clutched her shawl tighter as you broke the seal. The parchment unfurled, the ink stark and commanding.

You read it aloud.

"By order of His Majesty, King Astor, you are summoned to the royal court at once. Your presence is required in matters pertaining to the security of the realm and the fulfillment of a court order."

A pause. 

"The carriage awaits."

Dorian’s face paled. Gilda reached for your hand, her grip trembling.

This was it. The moment they’d feared. The moment you’d prepared for.

You looked up, meeting their eyes.

"Well," you said softly, rolling the scroll shut. "Guess I’d better pack my knives."

Gilda rushed to your side as you packed, her hands fluttering over your belongings as if she could will them to disappear. "This isn’t right," she whispered, voice fraying at the edges. "They’ve never called for you before. If the king is summoning a hunter now, it must be something terrible, something even his knights can’t handle."

Dorian stood rigid by the door, his knuckles white around the frame. "You don’t have to go," he said, though they both knew the lie in it.

You paused, a dagger half-wrapped in cloth, and nodded toward the window. The royal messenger stood motionless beside the carriage, his expression unreadable. "He’s still waiting. I don’t think I really have a choice here."

Her hands caught yours, warm and rough from years of grinding herbs, stitching wounds. You held them tight, squeezing once. "It’s okay," you murmured. "If it’s anything too dangerous, I’ll step back. I promise."

They didn’t argue. They just watched, silent and stricken, as you slung your pack over your shoulder and stepped outside.

They knew you wouldn’t step back.

The carriage ride was smooth, almost insultingly so.

No bumps, no jolts. Just the steady rhythm of hooves against immaculate stone. The road to the castle was wide and well-tended, lined with torches that burned even in daylight. You stared out the window, watching the world blur into shades of green and gold.

Too soon, the iron gates loomed ahead.

The castle was worse up close. Towers clawed at the sky, their banners snapping like the wings of caged birds. A group of officials waited at the entrance, their postures stiff, their faces carefully blank.

The carriage halted. The door swung open.

A man in embroidered robes stepped forward, his hand extended. "Welcome," he said, voice clipped. "I am Lord Edric, the king’s advisor. You are expected."

You took his hand, cold, despite the sun and let him guide you forward. The others fell into step behind you like a funeral procession.

"What’s going on?" you asked, keeping your voice low.

Lord Edric didn’t so much as glance at you. "I am strictly forbidden to speak on this matter."

The great doors of the royal court yawned open.

The weight of stares pressed against your skin like a blade’s edge. The court stretched before you, a sea of silk and jewels, every noble’s gaze sharp with judgment. At the center, atop a gilded throne, sat King Astor, his posture relaxed, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Beside him, the queen regarded you with an icy look. Her lips curled faintly as you approached, as if the mere sight of your worn boots on her polished floors was an insult.

You halted before the dais, acutely aware of how out of place you were, rough and common. Swallowing, you attempted a curtsy. Your knees wobbled and your hands fumbled at your sides.

A sharp, derisive scoff cut through the silence. The queen didn’t bother to hide her smirk. Heat crawled up your neck, but you forced yourself to straighten. "Sorry," you muttered. "I’ve never done that before."

The king waved a hand, his smile easy. "No matter." His voice was warm. He leaned forward slightly, studying you. "So. You’re the famous dragon slayer."

You let out a dry chuckle. "Famous? I don’t know about that. But dragon slayer?" Your fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at your belt. "That, I am."

The king didn’t blink. For a long moment, the only sound was the rustle of courtiers shifting on their feet. 

"Would you like gold, jewels, and wealth ten times your weight?"

You blinked. "Sorry, what?"

He didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he gestured to a servant, who unrolled a map across a nearby table. The parchment was old, its edges frayed, but the markings were unmistakable.

"A thousand miles east," the king said, tapping the map, "lie the ruins of Tarus."

Your breath hitched.

"My officials tell me," he continued, "that a rare species of dragon nests there now. A creature unlike any other." His gaze locked onto yours. "Bring it to me. Alive and unharmed. And you will be rewarded generously."

The queen’s scoff echoed again, quieter this time. "Assuming she doesn’t get herself killed," she murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

You ignored her. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the whispers of the court.

Tarus. The city of ashes. The place where your nightmares began.

And now, the king wanted you to walk back into its heart and steal a dragon from its ruins?

You exhaled slowly. "Alive and unharmed?" you repeated.

The king nodded. "Generously."

Your fingers trembled as they traced the map’s faded ink, over the jagged coastline, past the forests you once knew, until they hovered above the smudged ruins.

Your city. Your home. The place where your childhood had ended in fire and screams. But of course, no one knew that, apart from Dorian and Gilda. He’d forbade you from ever disclosing that secret. He never told you why, just brushed it off as a gut feeling. So to all prying eyes, you were just an orphan they’d adopted out of the goodness of their hearts. 

A hot pressure built behind your eyes. The court blurred, the murmurs of nobles fading into a distant hum. You could almost smell the smoke again, hear the crackling of burning wood, the screams of people as they burned alive.

"But why?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and unsteady.

The king leaned back on his throne, unfazed. "My son’s eighteenth birthday approaches," he said, as if discussing nothing more than a feast or a tournament. "He’s always been... fascinated by dragons. Wishes to see one up close." A dismissive flick of his hand. "I’m organizing an arena for the occasion. A spectacle."

Your stomach turned.

An arena. A spectacle.

They wanted to drag a living dragon, one of the creatures that had turned Tarus to cinders, into some gilded pit, to be gawked at by nobles who had never known fear, never known loss. And they wanted you to fetch it for them.

The queen’s voice slithered into the silence. "Surely a dragon slayer isn’t frightened of a little hunt?" Her smile was all teeth. "Unless, of course, you’re not as skilled as they say."

The king shot her a warning glance before turning back to you. "Name your price," he said, as if that settled it. "Gold? Land? A title? It’s yours if you bring me the beast."

Your nails bit into your palms.

This was sacrilege. This was madness.

But it was also your chance. To return to Tarus. If you couldn’t harm the beast, you could surely slay the rest. Perhaps those who massacred your family, still remained. This was what you’d prepared for your whole life. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat and met the king’s gaze.

"I’ll do it," you said softly.

[demeterlindavis]

nightcap | sylus

sum: sorry for being horny on main. just needed an excuse to write something about his voice. cw: written with femme reader in mind but no gendered terms for genitalia, phone sex, guided masturbation, voice kink, praise, pet names, 1.9k wc, influenced by @threadbearsweater and their beautiful mind, only this went in the opposite direction, mdni tracklist: roar - the boyz

The phone rings once.

“Sweetheart,” he answers, voice warmed milk and honey in your earbuds. “Miss me already?”

You huff a quiet, subdued laugh. Roll your eyes, face turned towards the ceiling. “Maybe.”

Fabric shifts on the other end. Leather squeaks. He’s probably in his office. And then, he chuckles—that wretched, deep, rolling thing that threatens to drag you out to sea.

“You’re in bed, aren’t you? Couldn’t sleep?”

You suck your lip between your teeth. Instinctively shoot up on the bed, scanning for anything that would indicate he’s watching you. You relax when you find barren walls bathed in the amber creep of the setting sun.

Are you truly that predictable?

“So what if I can’t?”

A slow breath out. A smirk curling at the end of it. More rustling. He’s leaning back. Probably with the phone held in a cruelly massive hand to his ear, body in an easy slouch, features soft, almost boyish. Only with you.

“Well, since you went through all this trouble to contact me, you must be in need of a distraction.”

Your eyes flutter shut at the disarming pitch of his voice. The crackles of fire beneath. On an exhale, your muscles uncoil.

“Or maybe I do miss you.”

The declaration hangs in the air like a spider’s web subjected to a gale.

He’s quiet.

You stiffen, throat clicking as you swallow, wondering if you’ve said the wrong thing. But then—

“You shouldn’t say things like that when I can’t be there with you.”

It’s heavy with cruel intentions, coiling around your spine, barbs rooting themselves in your vertebrae. The feeling spiders through your extremities, making them tingle.

Laughing it off, you say, “Why not?”

A constrained breath out follows. You picture his jaws rigid. Eyes shuttered. Brows knit. Fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Because I’ve been struggling to remain focused all day without you at my side.”

Your breath hitches at that. Subtle, but he catches it. Nothing makes it past him.

Fragments of a few nights prior piece themselves together in your mind. You could never forget the texture of those hands—that voice—burned into your skin.

Your silk robe falls open, crisp air on your bared midriff. Purely coincidental. Certainly not a consequence of your hand roving down your body to settle on your fluttering stomach.

Shallow breaths unfurl towards the ceiling. “Tell me something, Sylus.” Your tone is raspy with something unmistakable.

“Hmm?” A smile there. Intrigue. “Like what, sweetheart?”

“Anything. Just…talk to me.”

The pressure around you shifts as if he’s physically manifested in your hotel room. As if he’s commanded the particles to bend and warp to accommodate him.

Tinny static prickles between you for a moment longer before another creak. The soft clank of something set down on a hard surface—maybe a drink he’d been nursing before you called.

“I can’t stop thinking about how you looked in my kitchen. In my shirt with your hips moving like that. You knew I’d come in and want to ravage you all over again, didn’t you?”

You squeeze your thighs together to ward off a pleasant pulse. You nod to the slowly settling dimness like he can see you, your breath tight.

“I should’ve bent you over that counter. Tasted you. Reminded you of who you were made for. I was too gentle with you that morning. You didn’t want gentle, did you, sweetling?”

“Sylus.” His name sprawls out like a litany. The room spins. You blink rapidly through the golden haze, trying to keep your mind afloat.

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” His voice eases into something condescending. Halfway indulgent. Doting. “Does it hurt, sweet thing?”

You release a shaky, barely-there sound, thighs squeezing and unclenching as you roll from side to side, stomach dipping beneath your palm with each labored breath out. With each flutter of sensation like a moth testing its wings for the first time.

He clicks his tongue, followed by a laugh as fine as sawdust. “I can hear you fidgeting, sweetheart. Those pretty thighs pressing together. Your fingers pulling at the sheets.”

You glance at the hand beside your head, fisting the comforter. Of course he knows. You’ve been squirming since the first syllable left his mouth. You wouldn’t put it past him to have bugged your room, either.

“I hate being away from you,” you admit around a groan, face shielded by your hand scrubbing down it.

“I know. I can’t say I care much for the distance, either. But you’re not alone. I’m right here with you. Just focus on me.”

His timbre tapers into something dangerous. Something familiar. Your stomach tightens with anticipation. You find your body taut with every flicker of sound, every breath, every rustle of clothing.

“Touch yourself for me. Just your thighs for now. Nice and slow.”

And there it is. That tender instruction. A provocation.

Face hot, you heed him as if his voice threads around your hand like his Evol, guiding it himself.

Your fingers drag along the inner span of your thighs, and your breath shudders with each scrawl of your nails. They’re not quite where you want them. Where you need them. And they’re not his. But it’s satisfactory for now. Good enough to make you tremble.

“There she is. My good girl. You’re so good when you listen.”

“Sylus—” Sharpness carried on a hiss, your hips rucking up off the mattress to hump nothing.

“Shh.” If at all possible, his voice steeps lower. Your belly swoops with it. “No need to rush, my love. Let me help you.”

You melt against the sheets once more, though the tension refuses to unthread itself. Your knees fall open, softened from the husk of his voice, fingers tip-toeing further south. Close, heat radiating from between your legs, but not close enough to smother the fire.

“Lower,” he whispers, soothes. “Move your hand lower. But not completely there. Not yet.”

You graze the inner cut of one thigh. Shiver, abdomen clenched tight.

“Tease yourself. Just like I would if I were there. I wouldn’t give you what you wanted right away. I’d make you beg. Show me how much you crave me.”

Your hips undulate slowly, chasing the friction of shadows, of the phantom press of his body between your legs, a whimper caught in your throat.

“Mm. You’re responsive tonight, kitten. So sweet when you want something. I can practically see the look on your face right now. You’re biting your lip, aren’t you? Trying not to beg. So needy for me. So perfect.”

Fuck it.

You quake when your fingers dip lower, grazing where you swell. Where you burn with the imagery of his digits in place of yours. It’s a relief when your hand cups your sex. When your fingers press to the seam of it, a saturated patch already staining your underwear. Your head lolls back, lips parting with sticky breath in.

“When I have you in my arms again,” he continues, tone equally ragged as if the thought of you getting off unwinds him like a spool of thread, “I plan to make you forget everything.”

Twitching, sputtering, you press the heel of your palm against the apex of your thighs, and pleasure explodes in a flurry of phosphenes behind your shuttered lids.

“Everything?” you echo.

“Everything. Your job, your name, your body. You’ll only know the sound of my voice. The feel of my hands. My mouth. My body against yours. How good you’ll feel when I’m nestled deep inside you.”

His chair squeaks once more. He’s adjusting. Slinking down, legs spread. More than likely palming the thick throb of his cock, head back.

Breathless, so deliciously feverish, you hang onto every jittering breath, humping into your hand. Only the taste of his name sits on your tongue, spilling out in broken hymnals.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.”

His voice works as an anchor. Cinder blocks dragging you further below the murky surface towards the sea floor. You don’t want to come up.

“You’re doing so good for me.”

A buckle clinking breaks through the static, followed by a zipper tugged down. A groan rolling like thunder. Relief.

“I can hear it. Your breath hitches every time you come close. So gorgeous when you fall apart for me,” he drawls as if to draw the attention away from his own torment.

You’re guided by instinct now. A burning need to be filled, sated, shepherded by the deep curl of his voice. By the memory of his mouth on you. Eyes shining like rubies uncovered in a cave as he sank to his knees between your legs, spreading them apart with gentle strokes before rewarding you for your patience.

“You want to come, don’t you?” It’s hardly a question. More of a statement, tucked beneath the amusement blended with pleasure. “You want to come with my voice in your ears and my name in your throat.”

Your attempt at a ‘yes’ comes out as a fractured plea.

His breath corks in his throat. He’s holding himself back. Abstaining from his pleasure in pursuit of yours. Always so considerate, even with miles and oceans between you.

“Then come, sweetheart. Let go. Give it to me. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

That sparkling rush spiders up your body as you press more into your sex. As you grind against your palm. The sensation spires in your stomach, stretching itself taut like a steel wire.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, panting in tandem with you. “Come for me. Nice and loud, sweet girl.”

Aided by his voice and the imagery of him feeding his cock into his palm, the line snaps. Frays, leaving sparks of electricity in its wake.

You’re quiet at first. Until the pleasure rolls over you like waves retreating towards the sea. Your pelvis surging off the bed, you shudder through it, Sylus’ name rolling around in your mouth, and your eyes burning with a hot wash of tears.

He lures you down from the sky with gentle praise. Binds you to your skin, voice syrupy as whiskey left to chill in the freezer.

“That’s my girl. My princess. Breathe through it. So proud of you. So good for me.”

Feeling slowly returns to your fingers. You’re staring up at the ceiling when the phosphenes recede, the kaleidoscope of colors draining away to reveal your room bathed in a film of grey.

The sun’s fully seated itself beneath the horizon.

You blink sluggishly, your body reminding you of its weight as you sink into the mattress. “Sylus,” you finally breathe, curling onto your side into yourself.

“I know, sweetheart,” he pacifies, the lust making way for affection. “I miss you, too.”

Grabbing a pillow from the headboard, you hug it tight as if your lover will appear in its place if you squeeze hard enough.

“Sleep,” he tenderly instructs. “Dream of me. I’ll stay on the line.”

As if tuned to his command, your eyes slip shut, a tired smile rounding your lips. You nestle into the pillow, curled around it like a baby koala, Sylus’ voice still a delightful echo in your ear.

[demeterlindavis]

reckless fever, lover girl!

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you think it’s nothing—just a one-off, a fluke—when bucky softens at the sight of a baby in your arms during a cookout. but then it keeps happening. babies at airports. babies on recon. babies in vending machine ads. and every time, he looks at you like you’re the answer to a question he hasn’t asked out loud yet. he starts carrying gum “in case someone’s kid gets fussy on a flight,” stares too long at tiny boots in store windows, and once, unironically, asks if your hypothetical child would like goats. you’re not dating. officially. no one knows. but you’ve been sharing a bed for months and he makes you tea without asking and you’re starting to have dreams about pacifiers. he’s subtle about it. until he’s not. until he’s standing at a target, holding a baby hat like it cracked his ribs open, and says he wants a family—with you. not someday. now. word count: 10.7k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, oral (f! receiving), soft dom bucky, light bdsm undertones, bucky barnes being whipped (he gets the baby fever first let's bffr), kind of feral bucky, you think you guys are in a situationship when he's fully looking at baby registries, nipple play, yearning, angst, dirty talk, praise, overstimulation, self-induced angst, multiple orgasms, talks of pregnancy and starting a family, marathon sex, riding, fingering, body worship, size kink, bucky picks the reader up, he talks you through it, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie notes: this is the most unhinged, feral thing i've ever written. i hope you enjoy!

The baby gets handed to you like a bread basket.

No warning, no instruction manual. Just, “Here, can you hold her for a sec?” from someone—one of the off-duty OXE staff maybe, or someone’s civilian cousin. You don’t catch a name, just a flurry of motion, and then—

She’s in your arms.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You carefully shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves slow, careful, like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Carefully. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare and deliberate.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it slowly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod slowly, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, slow and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and reverent and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft and reverent between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost reverently. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. Careful. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Just deliberate. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, careful and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Slowly. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod. Slowly. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How carefully he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed—reverent. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Needy to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw slow, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.

“Sweetheart,” he says, low and wrecked, “I’ll do it again. And again. All night, if that’s what it takes.”

[demeterlindavis]

THE GAME WE NEVER MEANT TO WIN — 𝖡𝖠𝖡𝖸 𝖲𝖠𝖩𝖠

WORD COUNT 5,315 GENRE erotic romance, erotica, && psychological tension. CONTENT CONTAINS extremely spicy read 🌶️, explicit content, rough touch, power struggle, && sex in a public setting. REQUESTED BY anon.

(¬`‸´¬)

it starts on a thursday.

the sky is bruised violet, humming low with heat, and the corner store’s fluorescent sign buzzes like a warning you don’t bother to heed. your fingers are sticky from an orange popsicle, the kind with the cheap plastic wrapper that slices your thumb when you tug too fast. you don’t care. it’s late and quiet, and you like this street best when it forgets to pretend it’s part of the city.

you don’t notice him right away.

he’s leaning against the far wall of the store, one sneaker scuffed against the concrete, hoodie pulled up even though the night is warm. his clothes are too bright for this hour — neon pink, hints of teal, yellow laces that glow faintly under the streetlight. it should’ve looked ridiculous. but it doesn’t. somehow, on him, it hums with intention.

he’s watching you through heavy lashes, mouth parted like a curse he’s trying not to say out loud. there’s something unnatural about the stillness of him — like he’s waiting for something to break.

you, maybe.

you’re biting into the last sliver of orange ice when you catch his eyes. teal hair, low brows, pupils a little too dark. he looks like the kind of boy your sister would kill. and you? you’re the kind of girl who likes pressing the red button just to see what explodes.

he doesn’t speak at first. just stares. like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your fingers drag over your throat, the sticky glint of sugar at the corner of your lips. and when he does finally open his mouth —

“you dropped something,” he says, voice as deep as stormwater, thick and curling.

you glance down.

there’s nothing there.

when you look back up, he’s closer. too close. standing beneath the dull yellow wash of streetlight now, his features half-shadowed, sharp. he smells like something bright and clean — soft detergent, hints of citrus and cherry candy — not a trace of smoke, just boy and heat and something that doesn’t quite belong.

and still, that look — that endless look — like he’s been starved for centuries and just now figured out what he wants.

you raise an eyebrow.

“smooth,” you murmur, licking a sticky thumb and wiping it on your thigh. “did that line work better on the last girl?”

his lips twitch, not quite a smile.

“wouldn’t know,” he says. “i think you’re the first one worth trying it on.”

you laugh. not light and flirty, but low and scornful, just a little amused.

he wasn’t expecting that.

you roll your eyes — bold, bored, burning — and toss the popsicle stick into the trash with a sharp flick of your wrist. “try harder,” you say, stepping past him with the careless grace of someone who knows how to make someone chase.

and just like that, something shifts.

he watches your hips sway as you walk away, jaw clenched tight, fists curled in the front pocket of his hoodie. inside, something ancient and sharp uncurls in his chest — a hunger not for your soul, but for your voice, your bite, your indifference. something furious and warm and terrifying.

you were just supposed to be an offering.

a name on a list.

a soul to be charmed, kissed, and collected.

but now?

now he wants to ruin you in a way that doesn’t end in death.

he wants to hear you whisper his name when you’re out of breath and trembling.

he wants you to come apart only for him.

he wants you to beg him to stop and keep going in the same breath.

he wants to worship every inch of you with your voice cracking in his ear and your fingers tangled in his hoodie.

baby saja has never failed a mission.

but tonight, he decides — you will not be collected.

you will be kept.

and gods help him, he’s going to make you beg to be destroyed.

you don’t glance back.

not even once.

but you hear his steps. light, quick. sneakers soft against the pavement as he catches up. his hoodie swings low around his hips, the sleeves tugged up just enough to show his wrists, faint silver rings flashing beneath the streetlight. there’s something puppyish about the way he follows you — eager, too eager — but it’s hiding something else. something that stalks.

“hey,” he calls out, half a breath behind you.

you don’t stop walking. not yet.

“you always walk away that fast after making someone fall in love with you, or am i just lucky?”

you let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. not because he’s funny — he’s not. he’s ridiculous. in those bright clothes, that sweet scent, that too-smooth voice that’s trying so hard to sound casual when it trembles with hunger underneath.

you slow your pace, just slightly. enough to let him think he’s closing the distance on his own.

“if you’re already in love,” you say over your shoulder, “that’s your problem.”

he laughs. soft, surprised. it sounds real.

you glance at him now — just for a second — and the look on his face is wild and warm all at once. like someone just handed him a riddle he wants to solve. like he’s never been turned down so easily and liked it this much.

“what if i said i wanted to take you out?” he asks, eyes gleaming under the glow of passing headlights. “get food. walk around. talk. nothing scary.”

you stop walking.

he halts beside you, blinking, his hands jammed in his hoodie pocket. he’s taller up close. not by much — but enough to be noticeable. enough to matter when he leans forward a little, waiting.

you tilt your head.

“you wanna date me?”

you say it slow, drawn out, like it’s something absurd. like he just told you the sky’s purple.

he shrugs, but his smile is sharp.

“i wanna know what you laugh like when you’re not trying to hide it.”

that surprises you.

your lips twitch. you lift your chin. and then, cool as anything, you say, “i’ll think about it.”

and you walk. again. just like that.

but this time, you know he’s watching. you know he’s smiling behind you. you can feel it — that strange static tug between you, that string he thinks he can pull until you unravel.

and baby?

he’s reeling.

he stands there for a second too long, staring at the way you disappear down the block, at the trail of citrus and heat you left behind. his blood is humming, fists clenched in his pocket, lips parted around a grin that cuts.

no one ever says i’ll think about it to him.

no one ever walks away twice.

he runs a tongue across the inside of his cheek, shaking his head once, smile stretching wider.

he’s never been this thrilled to be told no.

“alright,” he mutters under his breath, low and warm and breathless.

“game on.”

(¬`‸´¬)

the convenience store hums under artificial light. it smells like microwaved ramen and mint gum and something colder — faint, metallic, ancient beneath the floor tiles. you’re in the far corner, feet tucked up on the bench, lips red from the buldak heat. your phone glows beside you, untouched. the cup is hot between your hands. your chopsticks glisten with oil and spice.

and you wait.

he always comes eventually.

the bell above the door rings soft and cruel, like it knows what’s about to happen.

you don’t look up — not right away.

you hear the shift of sneakers. the faint breath of a curse under his breath when he spots you.

like it’s a trap he wanted to fall into. like he thought he set it — and forgot you could move the pieces.

he’s in lime green this time. orange undershirt. loud and bright like sin pretending to be a summer boy. it makes his skin glow warm and golden. his teal hair’s a little messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way there. like he’s nervous. or impatient.

he spots you.

you’re already looking, already smirking over the lip of your noodles.

“back again?” you murmur, voice low and amused.

he slides into the seat across from you, all casual confidence, hoodie bunched at his elbows. he leans forward, arms folded on the table, eyes dragging over your mouth like he’s starving. “couldn’t stay away,” he says. “missed your pretty face.”

you pretend to think, lips pursed, chopsticks raised. “hm. still trying?”

“trying,” he repeats, grinning. “baby, i’m doing. you just haven’t caught up yet.”

you tilt your head, all slow like honey. your foot shifts under the table.

he doesn’t notice it at first — not until it touches his ankle, featherlight.

his sentence stutters mid-thought.

you don’t stop. you drag your foot up the length of his calf, the denim warm under your sole. then down. then up again. smooth. slow. playful. you chew your noodles like nothing’s changed, like you’re not watching the flush rise at the base of his neck.

“that good at doing, huh?” you murmur, offering your chopsticks toward him.

a bit of noodle dangles off the edge, steaming, dripping red.

“then here. prove it. take a bite.”

his throat works around a swallow.

he leans in — mouth opening, lips parting, his eyes flicking up to yours like he can’t decide whether to look at your mouth or your eyes or your leg still sliding up his thigh. he takes the bite. chews slowly. swallows even slower.

you lick the tip of your thumb clean.

he watches like he’s never seen something so filthy in public in his life.

“too spicy for you?” you ask, almost mockingly.

“nah,” he says, voice lower now, wrecked around the edges. “you?”

you smile, all sweet danger. “i like the burn.”

his fingers twitch on the table. he shifts in his seat like it hurts — or helps — and the heat in his eyes has gone molten, dangerous. not monster-dangerous. man-dangerous. wanting in a way that has nothing to do with soul-taking and everything to do with you. this close. this casual. this cruel.

because now he sees it.

you’ve never been the one being chased.

you were just letting him think he could catch you.

and now?

now you’re toying with him. foot against his thigh. voice like velvet. teasing his mouth with your chopsticks, your tongue, your laugh.

baby’s breath catches as your leg slides just a little higher.

his voice breaks when he says your name — soft, like he’s praying.

and that’s when you know you’ve got him.

you feel the way he tenses. the way his legs press inward, like he’s trying to hold it together. his fingers curl around the edge of the table, knuckles tight and pale beneath the warm buzz of the convenience store lights. and his eyes — oh, those eyes — they’re blown wide and dark, jaw set like he’s holding back something feral.

then you sigh.

you lean back, set your chopsticks in the empty cup, and stretch your arms lazily over your head like you’ve just had a good nap, like you didn’t just send him spiraling with a little leg and a smirk.

“mmm,” you hum, soft and satisfied. “finished my noodles.”

baby blinks, dazed. his mouth is slightly open. still wrecked from the way you touched him without touching anything that counts.

you stand.

his gaze drops to your hips. then back up, sharp, trying not to look hungry.

“it’s getting late,” you say, brushing a hand down the front of your shirt. “i should go.”

he stares.

you tilt your head.

“you walking me out, or are you gonna sit there and keep pretending you’re in control?”

that gets him.

he rises — quickly — but not fast enough to hide the way he adjusts the front of his hoodie.

not fast enough to hide the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you fed him that noodle.

you walk slowly toward the door.

he follows — jaw clenched, teeth grinding behind closed lips, fists stuffed in his pockets to stop himself from doing what every muscle in his body is begging him to do.

because gods, he wants to.

he wants to grip your waist and bend you over that cheap plastic table, drag your hips back and push himself into you until the walls shake. he wants to hear your voice break into that same teasing tone while he fucks the confidence out of you. wants to ruin your composure the way you’ve ruined his.

but he can’t.

not yet.

because this — this is a war.

and if he moves too fast, he’ll lose.

and baby saja doesn’t lose.

so he follows you to the door.

opens it like a gentleman.

watches you step out into the warm night, the streetlamp casting golden light over the curve of your smile.

you glance over your shoulder, sweet as anything.

“see you around, baby.”

and then you’re gone.

he stays there in the doorway, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, teeth clenched, chest rising and falling too fast for someone who didn’t even touch you. his hoodie feels too hot. his skin itches. his hands curl into fists so tight his knuckles ache.

he breathes in deep.

exhales once, slow.

smiles, sharp.

“okay,” he mutters. voice thick. one point y/n.

(¬`‸´¬)

you weren’t expecting him tonight.

you’d walked into the bookstore with no intention of seeing him, fingers stained with ink from the spine of something old, your sweatshirt too big, your hair loose, your guard down.

you were relaxed.

comfortable.

unguarded.

and that’s how he gets you.

he’s already inside when you arrive — standing between aisles in the back, hood down, hands behind has head like he owns the place. soft pink t-shirt tucked into acid-wash jeans. messy teal hair falling over his eyes. he looks like chaos wrapped in candy — and worse, he looks calm.

when you see him, you almost stop walking.

almost.

but your step never falters. that’s not your style.

he notices. of course he does.

his lips curve like he knows something. like he’s already decided how this will end.

“you look cute,” he says, voice like syrup and static.

“off-duty, huh? lucky me.”

you raise a brow, already smirking, already preparing something sharp.

but he’s faster this time.

he crosses the space between you in two lazy steps, and before you can respond, he’s behind you — not touching, not yet, but so close you feel the warmth of his chest against your spine. his voice curls low against your ear.

“you gonna flirt again?” he murmurs. “or just pretend i’m not the one who keeps you up at night?”

your breath catches. only for a second.

but he hears it.

you feel his grin against your skin.

you recover — barely — turning to face him with a lazy smile.

“i forgot you existed until just now,” you lie.

his eyes flash.

“really?”

and before you can twist the knife, his hand moves — smooth and deliberate — sliding around your waist, fingers barely pressing in. not enough to hold. just enough to remind you he could.

you don’t move away.

“tell me again how unbothered you are,” he says softly, dipping his head just enough that his lips brush the shell of your ear. “while you’re standing there letting me touch you.”

your mouth opens, but nothing witty comes out.

your heartbeat answers for you.

his hand trails lower — slow, slow — until it’s resting against your hip. not grabbing. just resting. too casual. too warm. and you feel it: that heat crawling up your throat, blooming behind your ribs, shamefully pleased that he’s touching you again.

he leans back, just slightly, but keeps his hand there.

keeps his control.

you look up at him, sharp and unreadable.

he looks down at you like you’re the only thing worth watching in this whole dull world.

and then —

he lets go.

he steps back.

no smirk, no grin. just that devastating calm. the look of a boy who knows he just made you flinch.

“guess you’re not the only one who can play,” he says. and this time, it’s his voice dripping in satisfaction.

you stare.

and he knows.

you lost that round. and you know it, too.

“see you soon,” he adds, already walking away.

and before you can find your words — he’s gone.

you blink. exhale. taste the heat still on your skin.

and as you step back into the aisle, trying to calm your pulse, you curse under your breath.

one point, baby.

and from then on, it became a pattern — a wicked, beautiful rhythm. every meeting ended with one of you undone. sometimes it was you, caught off guard by the way his voice dropped when he said your name. sometimes it was him, breath hitching as your hand brushed just a little too low. one always walked away grinning, smug with victory, while the other stayed behind — rattled, aching, ruined.

and if you were keeping score?

you were ahead.

it drove him insane.

how was he losing at a game he started?

(¬`‸´¬)

the library is warm and silent, filled with the scent of aging pages and forgotten air. you like it here — the quiet, the stillness, the way people whisper like something holy might be listening. it’s the kind of place where eyes mean more than words.

and that’s exactly why you picked it.

he finds you in the philosophy section.

of course he does.

you’re standing by the window, half-shadowed by glass and shelf, fingers sliding down the spine of something with too many footnotes. and when you hear him — his steps, the creak of the floorboard behind you — you smile without turning around.

he stops just behind you, close enough that you feel the edge of his presence sweep along your spine.

“you stalking me now?” you murmur, not looking up.

“i was here first,” he lies.

you hum, unconvinced.

you don’t turn until you’ve tucked the book under your arm, your eyes lifting slow and sweet to meet his. he’s in blue today — soft powder on his hoodie, a yellow smiley face patch stitched above his heart. he looks like summer. like sin disguised in cotton and charm.

and he’s looking at you like he’s ready to make a scene in a sacred place.

but you’re not letting him win this one.

not today.

you take a step closer, almost chest to chest, and tip your chin just slightly. your breath fans over his collarbone. you reach for the drawstring of his hoodie — soft, innocent — and twirl it around your finger.

“you came here for a book, right?” you whisper.

“or are you just hoping i’ll bend over again like last time?”

he freezes.

just slightly.

his lips part, eyes darken, and you know you’ve hit it — that spot where control slips.

your thumb brushes his chest before you drop your hand.

you step back.

slow.

measured.

every inch of you dripping satisfaction.

“mm. didn’t think so,” you whisper, turning on your heel like you’re going to leave.

but this time?

you waited a second too long.

his hand shoots out — wraps around your wrist, firm and burning — and he pulls. hard enough that your back hits the shelf, hard enough to make your breath catch.

and then —

he kisses you.

deep. hungry. without warning or softness or thought.

his hands press into your waist, greedy, like he’s been starved for this and finally stopped caring about playing it cool. his mouth crashes against yours with the kind of heat that makes the world tilt, lips parted, tongue sliding, teeth catching.

you gasp against him, and that only makes him groan — low and rough, straight from the chest — like he’s just remembered what your voice sounds like when it stumbles.

his body cages yours. not cruel, but commanding. there’s nowhere to go but deeper into him, his hips brushing yours, his breath tangled with yours, his mouth moving like he’s trying to memorize every angle of your lips from the inside out.

when he pulls back, barely, it’s only to press his forehead against yours.

his voice is raw when he speaks.

“don’t walk away from me like that again.”

you’re breathless.

flushed.

speechless.

he grins.

finally.

you grab him by the collar and pull him in again —

this time, desperate.

the kiss turns messier. wetter. his hands dig into your hips like they’re looking for purchase, something to hold onto while the rest of him spins out. his hoodie brushes your skin in flashes of heat, his chest pressed against yours, breath tangled between your mouths like steam in a room with no windows.

you break apart only for air — and even then, he kisses down your jaw, over your throat, until you’re gasping his name like a secret prayer.

neither of you speak.

you don’t need to.

because the second your hand tangles in his hoodie and tug him backward, toward the shadows of the forgotten shelf behind you — he follows.

eager.

starving.

you crash into the space, hidden in the hush of dust and silence.

his back hits the wall.

then yours.

then his again.

clothes come off in pieces — fast, clumsy, bitten between kisses.

your sweatshirt pushed up, his hoodie peeled off. your hand shoved beneath his waistband, his palm sliding up the slope of your ribs like he’s touching something sacred.

and then, he sees you.

really sees you.

his mouth stills. his breath catches.

your shirt falls to the floor, and he just stares.

like he’s never seen a body before.

or like he’s never seen yours — and now that he has, it’s undoing him.

“fuck,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “you’re—”

he cuts himself off. presses a kiss to your chest.

then lower.

his hands roam, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the map of your body in braille. fingertips drag along your waist, your spine, the dip of your stomach.

he shudders like he’s the one being touched.

“i wanted your soul,” he says, voice barely above a breath, forehead pressed to your skin. “but now all i want is you like this. trembling. flushed. just for me.”

your hands find his bare waist, and he groans — deep in his chest — like he can’t take it, like your touch is both salvation and suffering. and when you pull him close again, mouth open and aching, he meets you in the kiss like it’s the first time he’s ever felt alive.

teeth clash. breath hitches. your back hits the bookshelf again, and a few old hardcovers tumble to the floor behind you.

neither of you care.

because he’s panting now. wrecked. eyes glassy and desperate as he pulls you tighter, mouths at your neck, and lets his control fracture.

this isn’t about keeping score anymore.

this is about giving in.

he kisses you like he’s starving.

but you kiss back like you want to own him.

you both are stumbling around behind the shelf in a tangle of teeth and hands, lips crashing again and again like waves breaking, like thunder cracking the sky open. his hands grip your waist, your hips, sliding down to grab your thigh and haul it up around his hip like he’s already claiming you. he bites at your lower lip, and you growl low in your throat, biting back.

literally.

he hisses when your teeth catch his bottom lip, and you feel his hips jerk into yours like he liked it more than he wanted to.

“you think you’re in charge?” you breathe, voice wrecked already, fingers tangled in the hem of his hoodie.

he grins against your mouth. “baby, i was born in charge.”

and that’s all it takes —

you shove him.

not hard. not cruel. just enough.

his back hits the bookshelf with a soft thud. a book drops somewhere behind him. he doesn’t move.

you smile.

you climb onto him, knee between his legs, fingers tugging his hoodie up and off in one motion. he lets you — but not without trying to flip you again. his hands slide under your shirt, gripping your waist like he’s about to throw you against the opposite shelf.

“don’t,” you whisper, mouth against his jaw. “you’re gonna lose.”

“not a chance,” he growls.

and then it’s chaos.

you grab his wrists and pin them above his head — just for a second — and his eyes go wide at how easy you do it. he breaks free, palms sliding down your spine, dragging you into him like he can distract you with friction alone.

but you kiss harder. press your body down heavier. grind slow enough to make his breath stutter.

“fuck—” he gasps.

“still think you’re winning?” you whisper, biting just beneath his ear.

he tries to flip you again.

tries.

but this time you catch his wrists mid-motion and twist them behind his back as you spin — slamming him back into the shelf with your body flush to his chest, one hand on his throat now, not choking, just holding.

he looks at you. flushed. panting.

and still grinning — but barely.

you lean in.

“you like this,” you murmur. “don’t lie.”

he swallows hard. tries to look smug.

fails.

and that’s when he knows — you’ve taken over.

and he let you.

because somewhere between the teasing and the push and pull, he realized he didn’t want to win —

he wanted to be tamed.

you drag his jeans down. he shudders.

you don’t rush.

you stroke him slow, controlled, watching his mouth fall open around a curse, his head tipping back against the shelf again like he needs support now. like you knocked the strength out of his legs.

your hand moves with purpose. with confidence.

and his hips can’t help but follow, twitching into your palm like he’s giving you everything without realizing.

“you gonna beg for it now?” you whisper against his ear.

his breath shakes.

“…fuck, maybe.”

you bite his throat.

and he moans.

the last thread of control slips from him as your fingers keep stroking — faster, tighter — and his hands cling to your hips now, his face buried in your neck, panting like he’s trying to survive you.

and the worst part?

he loves it.

he’s losing. completely.

and you’re smiling against his skin, dragging your teeth over his shoulder like he’s yours now.

because he is.

you feel him twitch in your hand — close, too close —

and just before he can fall,

you stop.

he lets out a sound — broken, confused, aching — his hips bucking once in search of you.

but you’ve already pulled away.

“wait—” he breathes, voice thin.

you don’t say a word.

you just slide his jeans down fully and guide him backward until he sinks into the floor, the backs of his shoulders hitting the bottom shelf. the books there shift, forgotten, dust blooming in the light above you.

then you climb on top of him.

slow. sure. devastating.

you straddle his lap like it’s where you belong.

like you were built to fit against him this way — your thighs flush to his, your chest pressed to his as your arms wind around his neck.

his hands are still at his sides, shaking.

unsure. stunned.

“touch me,” you whisper, soft but commanding. “now.”

and he does.

his hands fly to your waist — one gripping tight, the other gliding up your spine like he’s scared you’ll fade if he doesn’t memorize every part of you. his fingers dig in, desperate to keep you close, closer, inside the moment. his forehead presses to yours.

and when you sink down onto him — warm, slow, claiming —

his whole body shudders.

a gasp rips through him, muffled into your neck.

his hands grip harder.

his eyes screw shut like it’s too much.

“fuck—” he chokes. “oh my god—”

you kiss him.

slow, deep, grounding.

you roll your hips once — fluid, full — and he groans against your tongue, bucking up into you like his body’s acting without permission now.

“look at me,” you whisper between kisses. “don’t hide.”

his eyes flutter open — dark, glassy, ruined.

and that’s when it changes.

his cockiness is gone.

so is the smirk. the pride. the game.

what’s left is him. just him. raw and open beneath you, letting you take what you want, giving everything back with his hands, his breath, his voice.

your bodies move together like a prayer.

slow. consuming. tender and filthy all at once.

his hands never leave your hips —

holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

you ride him slowly at first, deep and deliberate.

you kiss him between each roll of your hips, your fingers laced behind his neck, his breath hot against your lips. every moan from him is caught in your mouth. every gasped “please” is swallowed whole.

and he says it. he says it again and again.

please. please. please.

until finally, your name.

not cocky. not teasing. just worshipful.

like you’re the only thing he’s ever truly wanted.

you ride the edge together, gasping in each other’s mouths, two pulses syncing in rhythm as you chase something holy between dusty books and breathless air. the world narrows — nothing but the slip and slide of skin, the low crack of your hips meeting his, the sound of his voice breaking in your ear. and god, his voice — wrecked and reverent, laced with longing, whispering your name like he’s already halfway undone, like if you told him to beg, he’d do it without shame.

your hands tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan. his grip on your hips is bruising now — not to control you, but to hold on, as if letting go would tear him apart. every thrust from him meets you with an equal grind from your body, a steady, breathless rhythm that grows more ragged, more frantic, as pleasure begins to curl through your spine like smoke. you’re no longer leading — and he’s no longer resisting. you’ve melted into each other, a rhythm only you two understand. he breathes your name again, and you feel it — not just in your ears, but in your chest, in your bones.

the heat builds sharp and sudden. your stomach tightens. your moans turn high, breathless, cut off by the way his mouth finds your neck and kisses you like he’s dying and you’re the only thing keeping him alive. your fingers slide down his back, anchoring yourself to the tremble beneath his skin, the tension rising between your bodies like the slow drag of a bow over violin strings. so close. so close. your body begins to quake.

and then —

it hits.

your climax doesn’t crash — it blooms.

warm. endless. all-consuming.

your body arches, lips parting in a soundless cry, trembling around him as the pleasure rolls through you in waves too deep for words. he feels you break apart and chases it, burying his face in your shoulder with a groan so guttural it shatters you again. he follows you into the fall, spilling into you, holding you so tightly you forget where you end and he begins. the way he clutches you, the way he breathes against your skin — it’s not lust anymore. it’s worship.

you stay like that.

long after the shaking stops.

long after the air returns to your lungs.

quiet. wrapped in each other.

his arms still locked around you like you’re something sacred.

your fingers brushing the edge of his jaw like you’re afraid he might vanish.

and as he exhales — eyes closed, lips parted, glowing in the afterglow of all that you are — you press a kiss to his temple, soft as dusk.

and for the first time since this game began —

neither of you is trying to win.

you’ve both already surrendered.

because in the end, it wasn’t about who conquered who — but who dared to be undone.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HERES A REQUESTED BABY FIC !!! I WILL NOW WORK ON A REQUESTED ABBY FIIIIC 😋 !!! ENJOYYYY !!! also guys with fourth of july coming up, i will be busy ! i do work tomorrow and saturday and right after work im going to a party so i’ll see about updates 😛🫶🏼 (i hope i didnt forget to tag anyone 😭)

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[demeterlindavis]

MIRA CAN’T KNOW

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 6,231 ) genre :: forbidden romance, && secret desire. content contains :: moderately spicy ending, acrobatic + designer reader, manipulation, temptation, infatuation, stalking mentioned (?), big sister mira. PART TWO ! PART THREE

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the sun was beginning to melt behind the city skyline, casting long, amber shadows over the quiet rooftops of seoul. golden hour made the steel beams glow like fire, and the concrete below softened in color — almost like the city was finally exhaling.

you moved with the air.

your fingertips pressed into the edge of the railing as your knees bent, weight shifting forward, and then —

a clean vault over the rooftop ledge.

your body arched, twisted midair, and landed silently on the next building, just above the park. you didn’t stumble. you never did. the soles of your sneakers caught the impact without a sound, years of acrobatic training whispering through your muscles.

you moved like water. fast when needed, invisible when still.

no one ever looked up.

from where you crouched, the scene below unfolded like a movie — soundless, distant, almost unreal. a small public performance stage had been set up in the park’s center, ringed by fans, press, and a wall of perfectly disguised security.

the saja boys were here.

you’d never seen them before. not in person. not up close.

you adjusted your footing on the metal beam, crouching lower behind an aging ventilation pipe. just enough to be fully concealed, but still have a clear view. the park lights were flickering on one by one as the stage crew rushed to finalize the setup.

and there they were.

five boys — tall, sharp silhouettes against the fading light, stepping onto the platform with practiced ease. the crowd erupted as music kicked in, a polished mix of synth and bass that vibrated through the rooftops under your fingertips.

you didn’t know their names.

you didn’t need to.

mira had told you: observe only.

do not engage.

you were plan b — their shadow on the rooftop, her eyes where she couldn’t be.

huntr/x had been asked to attend the performance publicly, to keep tabs on the newcomers. official reports called the saja boys “industry rising stars.” private files called them “unknown entities with potential corrupted energy signatures.”

mira called them dangerous.

and still — there they were, dancing like it was nothing. like they were just idols.

you tilted your head slightly, watching them move with perfect synchronicity. everything about them was clean, intentional, captivating — but not in the way regular idol groups were. no, this felt too exact. the lines in their choreography snapped like symbols being drawn midair. there was power in the way their limbs sliced through space.

you narrowed your eyes.

you weren’t trained to judge music.

you were trained to read tension.

and something — something in the way the tallest one pivoted — something in the way the boy with silver rings on every finger held his final pose —

it didn’t sit right.

you reached slowly into your jacket pocket, pulling out the small sealed charm mira had given you before you left. a flat gold disk etched with protective lines. a warning tool.

you held it under the ledge, hidden from view.

no glow.

no shift.

nothing.

but your gut…

your gut twisted anyway.

you pressed a hand to the cool rooftop to center yourself, breathing in through your nose. the scent of summer rain still clung to the concrete from yesterday’s storm. in the distance, the cheers swelled again as the music shifted into their final set.

your eyes tracked every step. every turn. every expression.

you weren’t here to be amazed.

you weren’t here to be impressed.

you were here because if something went wrong —

you would be the one to jump first.

you adjust your earpiece with one hand, fingers still curled around the golden charm in your pocket. the cheers below are deafening now — echoing off every surface and vibrating through the soles of your feet like thunder with a beat drop.

“update?” rumi’s voice comes through first. smooth. composed. a little crackly from static.

“anything abnormal in their aura signatures?”

“visuals look clean,” you whisper, low enough not to be picked up by any stray rooftop mics. “no glows. no pulses. their choreo’s tight, like… almost too tight. kinda creepy.”

“aw, i like creepy,” zoey chirps in, her voice cutting into the line like a can of soda being popped open. “creepy’s cool. like spooky hot. how’s their footwork, though? would you call it advanced or like… aggressively mediocre?”

“why does that matter,” mira mutters in the background. you can already hear the tired pinched edge in her voice. “this isn’t a dance competition, it’s a reconnaissance mission—”

“everything’s a dance competition if you believe in it hard enough,” zoey says immediately.

you bite back a small laugh and shift your weight, glancing down at the stage again.

they’re halfway through the final track now. you think it’s called soda pop. catchy, hyper-processed — the kind of song that would get stuck in your head for days whether you liked it or not.

you reach for the tiny tablet strapped to your forearm, logging each formation and energy reading, when the lights flash white-blue and the beat dips low, and then—

he steps forward.

the teal-haired one.

from this distance, he’s just a silhouette at first — low shoulders, relaxed stance, mic angled up toward his mouth. the crowd screams before he even says a word.

you blink.

then he starts rapping.

smooth. effortless. his voice is like carbonated sugar with a sharp afterbite — fast, clear, but slurred in the cool, cocky way that drips off the stage like syrup. he moves like he doesn’t care who’s watching, but every gesture is deliberate. one ringed hand tugs his jacket sleeve down mid-line, and it’s the kind of detail that shouldn’t matter, and yet your stomach flips anyway.

he throws a wink at the crowd, tongue flashing.

the fans lose their minds.

and for a second — just a breath — you forget where you are.

you forget why you’re here.

you don’t realize you’ve stopped writing until your tablet dims. your heartbeat thuds louder than the bass. you don’t even notice you’re leaning a little too close to the ledge.

“y/n!”

you jerk back hard, nearly slipping.

mira’s voice explodes into your ear like a lightning strike.

“what the hell are you doing?! eyes on the target!”

you wince and duck lower. “i am! i was just—he’s—i—it’s fine!”

“you zoned out. on surveillance. during a mission.”

“it was like—five seconds.”

“five seconds is all it takes to get killed,” mira snaps.

“mira,” rumi’s voice cuts in, calm but firm. “ease off. we’re done here anyway.”

you blink. “done?”

“yup. readings are normal. nothing’s showing up on my scans. we know what they’re hiding but their performances are pretty flawless from a fans perspective.”

a pause. and then—

“head back to the apartment, y/n,” rumi continues. “upload what you have, finish the intel logs.”

another pause.

“also… those new concert outfits aren’t going to design themselves.”

you sigh, long and dramatic. “i knew you were gonna say that.”

“i always say that,” rumi replies, just a little smug.

“put something cool on mine this time!” zoey yells faintly in the background. “maybe zippers that actually function? or like—detachable sleeves! oh, oh—pockets that can hold snacks!”

“no snacks,” mira growls. “you’re already banned from eating onstage.”

you’re already backing away from the ledge, tucking your tablet into your satchel as your sneakers hit the gravel and your fingers graze the rusted edge of the fire escape. your body flows into the movement without thought — a clean drop, two light bounces off the scaffolding, a wide arc off a shipping container. you sprint through the narrow side streets, leaping over fences and low walls with ease, vaulting through the quiet alleys like muscle memory.

but despite how fast your body moves—

your mind doesn’t.

you keep seeing him.

that teal hair, messy but intentional. that voice. those rings.

the heat in your chest that shouldn’t be there. he’s not supposed to matter. he’s not even supposed to exist in your head.

but still—

you run faster.

as if you can outrun the thought of him.

by the time you make it back to the apartment, the sun has long since slipped beneath the skyline, and the air is warm in that oddly electric way it gets just before summer fully sinks in. the elevator dings open to the usual mess: mismatched shoes scattered by the door, half-unpacked gear bags in the hallway, and the soft hum of a noodle pot boiling on the stove.

“hey!” you call, toeing off your sneakers. “i’m back!”

zoey leans her head out from the kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at you like a wand. there’s a streak of chili oil across her cheek, and her micro bangs are stuck slightly to her forehead again.

“we thought you died!” she shouts, dramatically slumping against the counter. “mira was this close to summoning an exorcism just in case—”

“that’s not even a thing,” rumi says calmly, lounging on the couch with a stack of printed mission briefs balanced on one thigh. her long purple braid is wrapped in a loose spiral across her shoulder, nearly brushing the floor where she sits cross-legged.

“totally is,” zoey mumbles through a mouthful of rice. “if you believe hard enough.”

you grin, sliding your tablet out of your bag and placing it on the side table.

“don’t worry, i’m not haunting you just yet,” you joke. “i’m heading up to the rooftop. finishing your outfits while the wind’s good.”

you lift your sketchbook and gesture toward the ceiling.

“and no, zoey, i’m not adding snack pockets.”

“what’s the point of pants if they don’t hold candy,” she cries behind you as you head for the window hatch.

mira, who’s just stepped into the hallway and is brushing through her pink twin ponytails with a look of practiced precision, catches your gaze.

her eyes flick once to the sketchbook, then to you.

“just be careful,” she says, voice low.

you give her a small, crooked smile — not mocking, not rebellious. just… fond.

“i know,” you promise.

then, with a quick backward sprint, you launch yourself out the open window frame — flip once, land silently on the adjacent ledge, and scale the pipe-ladder with the grace of someone who could do it blindfolded.

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the rooftop is your favorite place in the city.

the breeze dances around your shoulders like a scarf. the city’s noise dulls just enough to make it feel far away. above you, the sky is cracked open with stars, some still blurry behind the neon haze, but beautiful anyway.

your sketchbook lies open across your lap, pages dotted with incomplete designs — angled seams for rumi, flashy detailing for zoey, a more practical two-piece for mira. you’re halfway through finalizing their under-stage reinforced lining when your mind drifts again.

you don’t mean to.

but there he is again.

the teal-haired boy.

his voice, slick like soda fizz.

his movement, cocky and fluid.

his smirk.

you sigh, dragging your pencil across the paper in a lazy arc. not even the fabric kind. just a curve. possibly a mistake.

“get it together,” you whisper to yourself, erasing the line with a small, frustrated shake of your head.

but then—

you pause.

there’s a flicker.

not from the lights. not from your sketchbook. from the far corner of the rooftop — a shadow shifting against the grain of moonlight.

you freeze. slowly close your sketchbook. fingers slide toward your belt, brushing the carved silver handle clipped at your hip.

another flicker. this one faster.

closer.

your breath goes shallow. a cold tingle slips down your spine. you draw the weapon in a single movement — the sickle forming in your palm with a low hum, the blade igniting in that familiar, fierce glow — deep, glowing blue.

then the shadow drops in front of you.

you leap back, weapon raised, ready to swing—

until a hand catches your wrist. another hand presses gently — firmly — over your mouth.

your eyes widen, but the scream never leaves your throat.

he’s here.

the boy.

up close now, he’s taller than you expected. even in the half-light, his teal hair is unmistakable — windswept and messy in a way that almost feels intentional. there’s a single chain earring glinting in one ear, and his smile — crooked, easy — feels like trouble you forgot to lock your door against.

“shhh,” he whispers, leaning in just slightly.

“you’re gonna wake the whole city.”

his hand is warm over your mouth. not rough. but steady. steady enough that your heart hammers against your ribs like it’s trying to climb out.

your sickle stays raised.

his eyes flick to it, amused.

“woah,” he murmurs, clearly impressed. “a glowing sickle. that’s hot.”

you narrow your eyes.

he drops his hand from your mouth slowly.

you don’t scream.

but you don’t lower your blade either.

he grins wider.

“you’re cuter when you don’t yell.”

your eyes meet his, and for a moment—just a flicker of heartbeats—you forget to breathe.

up close, he’s even more unreal than he was on stage. the sharpness of his jawline, the faint sheen of sweat along his collarbone, the glint of a silver ring between two fingers. he looks like he stepped straight out of a dream manufactured for troublemakers with too much charm and not enough restraint.

and for a second, you let yourself stare.

just one second.

and then—

you swing.

your body whips into motion with no hesitation, sickle slicing in a fast, bright arc aimed right for his side. he steps back at the perfect angle, like he saw it coming from a mile away. the blade cuts the air where his ribs were just seconds ago.

“okay, okay,” he laughs, both hands raised now. “so that’s a no on the kiss?”

you lunge forward again.

this time he flips back, landing light on the balls of his feet, that same grin still painted across his mouth. he’s not even winded. cocky bastard.

“you’re fast,” he says, watching you circle him. “and flexible. i like that.”

“i hate that,” you snap back, launching a low swing at his legs. “stop talking like you’re impressed.”

“but i am,” he says, ducking the blade with a graceful pivot. “and not just by the weapon, though i gotta say—blue glow? dramatic. kind of a vibe.”

you exhale through your nose, annoyed. not because you’re missing—but because he keeps dodging like it’s a game. and it shouldn’t be.

“i know what you are,” you hiss, flipping your grip and aiming high this time, blade angled for his neck. “you’re not fooling anyone.”

he laughs again, voice syrup-smooth.

“oh no, i’ve been exposed,” he gasps, clutching his chest like you just insulted his whole existence. “what gave me away? the hair? the stage presence? my devastatingly good looks?”

“the energy signature, genius.”

your blade crackles as it cuts close again, barely grazing his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch.

“you’re leaking corrupted aura like it’s your cologne.”

“ah. so it is working.”

he flashes a grin like you just complimented him.

you lunge, but he dodges again, this time spinning behind you with infuriating ease. his breath brushes your ear before he speaks.

“so tell me, little rooftop spy…”

his voice drops to a whisper.

“you always come this high up just to stare at demons?”

you twist fast, elbow swinging, but he ducks with a laugh.

“you’re impossible,” you growl.

“i prefer charming,” he replies, stepping onto the ledge like he’s weightless.

“but impossible works too.”

you raise your sickle again, eyes narrowed.

“you’re dangerous.”

he tilts his head, mock-offended.

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“it is.”

his eyes gleam.

“then why haven’t you killed me yet?”

you freeze for half a second. your grip doesn’t loosen—but something in your chest pulses strangely. not fear. not yet. something sharper. curiosity, maybe. or the beginning of something you’re not ready to name.

he leans in, still out of reach, still grinning.

“or maybe…” he says, voice soft like static,

“you’re just a little curious, too.”

you grit your teeth.

“you talk too much.”

“i get that a lot.”

you swing again, harder this time — sickle arching clean through the air — but baby shifts just enough that your blade misses by inches. your momentum pulls you forward and suddenly—

his hand catches your wrist again.

your feet slide on the rooftop gravel.

his other hand steadies your waist.

and just like that—

you’re chest to chest.

he’s holding you in place, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. not with force. not with fear. just… familiarity. like he knew you’d end up like this.

your sickle glows between you, humming softly with energy. it casts a halo of blue light across his features — catching in the curve of his jaw, the corner of his grin, the ring on his middle finger. and god, he’s close. close enough that you can see the sharp slant of his lashes, the faint scar on his chin, the heat in his eyes.

“you gonna keep swinging?” he asks, voice low, amused.

you don’t answer.

your chest rises and falls too fast. your hand is still gripped tight around the handle of your weapon, but for some reason… you’re not moving.

“i saw you,” he says next, and the tone shifts — softens, slightly. not cocky. just sure.

“back at the performance.”

your brows furrow.

“you didn’t—”

“on the rooftop,” he says, fingers still resting lightly at your side. “you thought you were hidden. you were good — quiet, clever. but i noticed. and i kept noticing.”

your mouth opens. then closes again.

he leans a little closer.

the smirk returns, but it’s not the same kind of grin as before. it’s slower. quieter. it slips into you like a song you didn’t mean to memorize.

“you looked at me,” he murmurs.

“not like the others do. not like the screaming fans or the panicked scouts. not like you wanted to figure me out or take me down.”

his gaze flicks down to your lips — just for a second.

“you looked at me like you wanted to understand me. and that…”

his voice dips even softer,

“that’s how rumi looks at jinu.”

your eyes widen.

he smiles wider.

“i know that look. i’ve seen it. a hundred times.”

“it’s not like that,” you snap, but your voice betrays you — tight, uncertain. you try to pull back, but he’s still holding your wrist. your sickle flares a little brighter, like it’s trying to warn you.

or maybe just remind you what he is.

he tilts his head, teasing again.

“no?” he whispers.

“then why are you still here?”

your heart is slamming against your ribs. you want to shove him off.

you want to run. you want to scream, but your legs won’t move.

not yet.

“i could be wrong,” he says gently, eyes never leaving yours,

“but i don’t think you really want to kill me.”

and in the space between your silence—

he leans in even closer.

“i think…you’re just scared of what it’d mean if you didn’t try.”

your fingers curl tighter around your sickle, but it’s not raised anymore. your arm’s gone slack between the two of you, caught somewhere between defense and surrender. you don’t remember leaning in. it just… happens. like gravity — slow, certain, inevitable.

he’s so close you can feel the warmth of him, the ghost of breath on your skin.

your eyes flick down to his lips, just once, and something flutters wild in your chest.

he watches you.

not with hunger.

with certainty.

like this moment was always going to happen.

you tilt your head slightly, breath catching, lips parting as the space between you thins to a single inhale—

when—

“y/n!”

the voice cuts clean through the rooftop haze, sharp and familiar, drifting up through the half-open window just below.

you jolt back.

hard.

baby doesn’t flinch. he just lifts an eyebrow, amused, as you pivot slightly toward the edge.

“what?” you shout down, heart still thudding.

“there’s dinner in the fridge,” mira calls, her voice a little softer now, casual in that way she tries too hard to sound normal.

“don’t stay out too late.”

you glance down at the rooftop hatch like it might betray you.

“okay,” you call back, shifting awkwardly.

a beat.

then, from below again:

“and be careful.”

your lips twitch.

you swallow, nodding once — more to yourself than anything.

“i will,” you murmur.

baby’s eyes are still on you.

there’s something unreadable there now — a mix of mischief and heat, sure, but something quieter too. something sharper. like he’s memorizing you in the half-light, filing you away between lives.

“this is dangerous,” you say quietly, still not looking at him.

“you know that, right? this—us? we’re not compatible. i’m supposed to kill you.”

he hums, stepping closer again, slow and unafraid.

“there are very few things i want in my… ‘life,’” he adds air quotes with a sly curl of his fingers, “and you just happen to be one of them.”

you exhale sharply, caught between a scoff and a shiver.

“you’re not serious.”

“i’ve never been more serious,” he says, voice lower now. velvet around something darker.

he steps into your space again, and this time, you don’t stop him.

he leans in — not for a kiss — but closer, deeper, until his nose brushes the edge of your jaw, trailing gently down to the soft curve of your neck. you freeze, breath halting entirely as his lips don’t quite touch you — but his skin does. warm and real and wrong.

he inhales like your scent is something he’s been waiting centuries for.

“you smell like jasmine and chaos,” he murmurs, voice roughened now with something hungrier.

“it’s driving me insane.”

his nose grazes just beneath your ear, and your eyes flutter shut for a half-second too long.

this is a mistake.

a huge mistake.

but god, your legs won’t move.

you should move.

you should step back, raise your weapon, do something. but all you can do is stand there — frozen and burning from the inside out — as his breath ghosts along your neck like a secret you were never supposed to hear.

he’s close. too close. so close you feel the slow drag of his inhale, the careful tilt of his jaw as his nose brushes along the edge of your collarbone, as if committing the scent of your skin to memory. the contact isn’t even fully skin-to-skin — it’s featherlight. maddeningly soft. but it scorches all the same.

“you’re trembling,” he whispers, voice smooth as a sin he wants you to enjoy.

you suck in a breath and force your body to stiffen, as if that will make this easier. as if pretending your heart isn’t trying to punch a hole through your chest will make it true.

“i’m not trembling,” you mutter, eyes locked ahead, not daring to meet his.

he huffs a soft, amused sound against your neck — a little exhale that makes your stomach twist in a slow, tight knot.

“no?” he murmurs. “then what’s this, sweetheart?”

his hand, warm and ungloved, gently skims your side — from the slope of your hipbone up to the outer curve of your ribcage — not quite touching anything too intimate, but close enough that your breath catches again. you tell yourself it’s the wind. the rooftop chill. not him.

“this isn’t going to work,” you say quietly. the words tumble out flat, forced.

“you can flirt all you want, but i’m not falling for it.”

“for what, exactly?” he asks, tilting his head to look at you fully now. “my charm? my smile? my obvious disregard for your murderous intentions?”

he grins, slow and wicked, like he knows exactly how your nerves are unraveling. and when your eyes — finally, finally — meet his again, there’s something dangerous in his gaze. not because it threatens violence. but because it promises softness. sweetness. intimacy.

“i’m not supposed to want this,” you whisper, barely able to admit it even now. “you’re—”

you swallow.

“you’re a demon.”

“mm,” he hums, stepping even closer. your sickle is still in your hand, but it’s lowered. limp. forgotten.

“and yet, here you are. letting me touch you. letting me get this close.”

he leans down again, brushing the tip of his nose against your jaw, slower this time. more deliberate. your lips part without permission, your breath growing shallow.

“you can keep telling yourself you hate this,” he whispers.

“but your body tells me something different.”

his hand trails lower — not groping, never forceful — just grazing the curve of your waist like he’s tracing a line he already drew in a dream. your skin tingles in his wake. the glow of your sickle dims slightly in your grip, no longer burning, no longer fighting. even it doesn’t know what to do with this moment.

“i could ruin you,” you murmur.

“you could try.”

his lips are so close now, you feel the shape of his smile against your cheek.

“but you won’t. not yet.”

his nose brushes along your temple now, slow and reverent, and for a second — just one second — his lips barely graze the shell of your ear.

“tell me to stop,” he breathes.

you don’t. you should. but you don’t.

his face hovers a breath away from yours.

you can feel it — the next second, the next movement. if you just leaned a little closer, it would happen. lips would brush. breath would tangle. boundaries would break. it would be warm and soft and dangerous in ways neither of you can walk back from.

and for a moment… your body considers it. your eyes fall half-lidded. your lips twitch slightly, the air between you charged with something thick and unspoken.

but then—

you lift your hand.

and gently — but firmly — you cover his mouth.

“stop,” you whisper, barely more than a breath.

his eyes lock onto yours. his expression doesn’t change. but the energy between you shifts. it doesn’t die — not even close. it lingers, heavy and present, like fog that refuses to burn off.

you slowly step back, just enough to reclaim your breath, though your hand still rests between his lips and your heart.

“if you keep doing this,” you say, quietly, evenly, “you’re going to get killed.”

he blinks — once — but doesn’t pull away.

“if not by me… then by one of the girls.” your voice tightens slightly. “rumi. zoey. mira. they’ll see you as a threat — because that’s what you are.”

your fingers tremble, even as you lower your hand from his face.

“so whatever this is…” you murmur, gesturing between your bodies, your tangled energy, the lingering heat of his breath on your skin,

“it can’t happen. not if you want to survive it.”

and for the first time tonight — you see something flicker in his eyes. something that might be… disappointment. not dramatic. not cruel. just quiet. quiet in the way a song ends too soon, or a goodbye is whispered instead of spoken aloud.

you take a step back.

but then—

he takes two steps forward.

his hand lifts — not to grab — but to gently take your wrist, guiding your hand back to his chest. right over his heartbeat. it’s steady. strong. real.

“i know,” he says, and his voice has changed — softer now. less teasing. still warm, still magnetic, but shaded with something real.

“i know how this ends.”

his thumb brushes along the inside of your wrist — slow, deliberate — and then he leans in again. not all the way. not kissing. but his forehead nearly rests against yours.

“maybe it ends with you slicing me open. maybe i disappear before you ever get the chance. maybe we never see each other again after tonight.”

you close your eyes, exhaling shakily.

“then why?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “why even start?”

his nose grazes yours again, gentle. intimate. his voice drops even lower, like a secret meant only for the air between your skin.

“because not all temptations are meant to be resisted.”

you feel your chest twist painfully. the worst part is — you want to believe him.

you want to lean forward again.

you want to forget the way mira said be careful.

you want to pretend your mission was never to end creatures like him.

“even if we’re destined to fall apart,” he murmurs, “don’t you think it’s worth it to know what it feels like before we do?”

his breath brushes your lips again. and he smiles — not cocky, not cruel. hopeful.

“i’ll take every second you give me.”

“even if it ends in flame.”

you know what this is.

you’re not stupid. you’ve studied demons your whole life — in theory, in combat, in field missions beside your sister and the rest of HUNTR/X. you know how they operate. how they twist what’s tender, how they take the things you crave and make you believe they’re offering them — when really, they’re only taking what they want in return.

and still, your hands don’t move.

you let him touch you.

you let him speak in that voice that dips just low enough to sound like a secret pressed into your skin. you let his eyes linger on your mouth, your pulse, your silence.

you should resist him.

because you know his sweetness is just a weapon sharpened with want.

because you know the way he looks at you is practiced, perfect, and poisonous.

but you also know the worst part.

the part that terrifies you more than his teeth or claws or corrupted aura.

the truth that’s been sitting heavy in your chest since the rooftop, since the concert, since the first second you saw him step into the spotlight—

is that even before he noticed you, you couldn’t stop watching him.

that one moment.

you were supposed to be tracking heat signatures, eyes darting between the Saja boys’ formations. and yet, your gaze kept falling to him.

the flick of his fingers through his hair.

the way he glanced at the crowd like he owned it.

you’ve been carrying that moment with you all day.

like a splinter you don’t want to pull out.

your breath hitches as you close the distance again. your fingers twitch at your sides, uncertain, restless.

“mira can’t know,” you whisper, eyes fixed on his. your voice barely comes out.

it’s not just a warning.

it’s a plea. a prayer. a promise to yourself that this is just one night, one mistake, one weakness you won’t let grow.

his response is quiet, immediate.

“she won’t.”

and that’s all he says.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t beg.

but his grip on your waist tightens — warm, eager, a silent please.

you lean in.

inch by inch. breath by breath.

your chest brushes his. your nose skims past his cheek. your hand, somehow, finds the fabric of his jacket, gripping lightly just to keep your balance.

he exhales, soft and shaky — the first sign of urgency he’s shown all night.

and then—

his mouth is on yours.

it’s not gentle. it’s not slow. it’s desperate.

his lips part against yours like he’s been starving and only just now realized what he needed to survive. his hand slips to the small of your back, pulling you flush to him, and your fingers tighten in the fabric at his chest. your heart slams against your ribcage like it wants out — like it wants into him.

he kisses like he’s trying to burn himself into your memory.

and you let him.

because you’re not strong enough to stop.

not tonight.

his mouth moves against yours like he already knows your rhythms — not rushed, not forced, but starved. his kiss deepens, and suddenly, everything else falls away. the rooftop, the city, your mission, your sister’s warnings — they all dissolve into the blur of heat and fingertips and breath caught between two people who shouldn’t be touching but can’t seem to stop.

his hands are everywhere — in your hair, along your jaw, pressing into the curve of your lower back, sliding beneath the fabric at your sides. and you… you touch back. your fingers roam over the ridges of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the soft warmth just beneath his shirt where he burns.

you’ve never wanted like this before.

not with this kind of ache. not with this kind of pull.

you feel like you’re coming apart beneath his touch, unraveling thread by thread — and the terrifying part is, you don’t want him to stop.

his lips trail lower, grazing your jaw, the soft dip beneath your ear, and when he murmurs your name against your skin, it sounds like worship. like something sacred, even from a demon.

you shouldn’t be letting him do this.

you know better.

you know how demons work — seductive, cunning, patient when they want to be. you know they slip beneath your skin and make you think the want is your own.

you try to convince yourself that’s what’s happening.

that this is all manipulation.

but then his hand gently drags along the hem of your shirt — a question. a whisper of permission without words.

you freeze.

you’re going to say no.

you should say no.

but you don’t.

instead, you look into his eyes — and he’s not smirking. not teasing. not playful. he’s just there.

silent. breathless. waiting.

and some tiny voice in your head, distant and breathless, wonders—

why not?

just once.

just tonight.

if this is all there is — if this moment is the only one you’ll ever steal for yourselves —

why not go all the way?

so you nod.

and that’s all it takes.

his hands move with reverence, slow and careful as he starts peeling the fabric away from your skin. the night air brushes along your collarbone. your shirt slips from one shoulder. his lips follow. it’s maddening. it’s everything.

you close your eyes as he kisses lower.

and just when it starts to feel like you’ve completely let go —

like your heartbeat is synced to his,

like maybe your soul is too far gone to call back—

you hear it.

a sound.

not from him.

not from you.

a creak from the stairwell.

your eyes snap open.

baby freezes, lips still pressed to your shoulder.

you freeze. you think for a moment — just a beat — that someone’s found you. that the world has crashed through the rooftop and dragged reality back into your chest.

but nothing happens.

no footsteps. no voices. no more creaking stairwell.

just silence. just breath. just him.

his lips still hover against your shoulder, warm and unmoving, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. if you’ll pull away. if you’ll take the out you almost imagined was there.

but you don’t.

because that moment of fear is gone.

and all that’s left…

is this.

his breath returns to your skin first. slow, controlled, trembling at the edges. then his hand slides higher up your spine, curling into your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you’ll fade away if he lets go.

“you’re sure?” he whispers, voice low and raw — stripped of all his usual charm, all his practiced flirtation.

you don’t answer right away.

you just turn your face to his. and there’s no fear in your eyes now. no logic. no excuses.

“yeah,” you breathe.

“just… don’t make me regret it.”

his mouth is on yours again — deeper this time. slower. hungrier.

you feel it in the way he holds you now — not just to pull you close, but to devour you. like he’s been starving and finally, finally, someone let him taste fire.

your shirt slips fully off your shoulders. his hands trace every new inch of skin like it’s sacred. and yours do the same, slipping beneath the hem of his jacket, feeling the warmth beneath the chaos. his chest rises hard against yours. every breath is sharper now. every touch a little more desperate.

you don’t know when your legs moved — but they’re tangled with his now. the rooftop is warm beneath your back. the stars above blur and swirl and mean absolutely nothing.

his name escapes your lips in a whisper. not the demonic name you know. just him.

just baby.

and in the back of your mind, you know what this is.

you know what he is.

you know what you are.

and still —

you don’t stop.

because something inside you wants to see how far this will go.

you’ve already crossed the line.

already given in to temptation.

already let yourself fall into the thing you were trained to destroy.

so why not keep falling?

his mouth drags down your throat, hot and careful and needing, and your fingers tangle into his hair. your body arches into his without thought. without hesitation.

you stop thinking about consequences.

you stop thinking about the mission.

the lies.

the danger.

you stop thinking about what happens when the sun comes up.

because right now — in this breath, in this heat —

you just want.

and he wants too.

with hands that don’t want to let go.

with lips that speak nothing but yes.

with a body that fits against yours like it’s always belonged here.

so you let it happen.

you let yourselves be selfish.

you let yourselves burn.

and somewhere, tangled between his mouth and your heartbeat, you realize—

you’re not going to stop.

not tonight.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, help, hes so fine 😭 im sorry if this doesn’t seem like his character type but I TRIED. he’s jus so cute and fluffy but i read some fics on him and you know since hes a demon he’d be a very handsy manipulative demon boi 😋 anyways enjoyyyyy and if theres any requests please dont be afraid to make em !!

ko-fi 🎧

permanent 🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew

next suggested read : the game we never meant to win (baby saja)

look here for more reads 📚 !

[demeterlindavis]

MIRA CAN’T KNOW

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 4,576 ) genre :: forbidden romance, eroticism, && secret desire. content contains :: spicy read, acrobatic + designer reader, manipulation, temptation, infatuation, big sister mira. PART ONE !! PART THREE

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

ever since that rooftop, you’ve been meeting him in secret.

not always at the same place. not always at the same time.

but always late. always quiet. always when the rest of the world is sleeping.

it started with a single text — a message you should’ve deleted, a name you shouldn’t have saved.

then a shadow against your window. a knock you could recognize in your sleep.

and from there, it became routine. a habit. a hunger.

you’ve tasted him now.

and ever since that night, you can’t forget the way he kissed you like your lips were made of something holy.

can’t forget the way he said your name like it was the only word he wanted to remember.

you’re hooked.

on the way he smells.

on the way his breath catches when your hands slip under his jacket.

on the way his voice drops when he leans in to say, “you missed me, didn’t you?”

and god help you — you always have.

tonight, it’s your room.

the door locked. the lights dimmed. the window cracked open just enough to let the summer breeze creep in.

and he’s already got you against the wall.

his mouth is on yours, again and again, hot and desperate, like he’s making up for every second he’s had to pretend you don’t exist during the day. his hands are at your waist, then your hips, then pressing into the arch of your back to pull you flush against him.

you gasp softly when his teeth graze your bottom lip, and that sound — that sound drives him insane.

“you always taste like trouble,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing down the line of your jaw, “but I’ve never minded bleeding for it.”

your fingers tangle in his hair, guiding him back up to your mouth because god, the silence is too much — you need to feel him again, need to erase the guilt that always scratches at your chest when you’re apart.

the makeout turns messy fast.

heated. gasping. clothes shifting. his jacket already tossed to the floor. your shirt riding up with every movement.

his hands are everywhere — touching like he’s trying to memorize your shape, like he’s afraid he’ll forget if he stops.

your back hits the edge of the bed, and suddenly he’s pushing you down with a smirk that’s far too pleased, far too knowing.

and when he crawls over you, lips swollen from kissing, voice hoarse with need, he doesn’t ask permission.

he just says, “you’ve ruined me, you know that?”

his eyes dark and tender.

“i don’t even want to stop.”

and the worst part is — you don’t want him to.

not now. not here.

not when the space between you is nothing but heat and unspoken yeses.

and yet, there’s a fatal flaw.

you knew this couldn’t last forever.

no secret, no matter how sweet it tastes, can survive too long in silence.

not when it lives in stolen kisses and bruised lips, in locked doors and tangled limbs, in the way you’ve started looking for him even when he’s not there.

you should’ve stopped it.

the first night.

the second.

maybe even the tenth.

but you didn’t.

and now you’re here again — back pressed against the sheets, his mouth on yours, hot and relentless, like this might be the last time.

because it always feels like the last time.

you don’t even hear the door open.

you only hear the gasp — sharp, full of disbelief and heartbreak and betrayal — and when you break the kiss, your stomach drops so fast it nearly rips through you.

“what the hell.”

mira.

she’s standing in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide, expression frozen between shock and rage.

zoey is just behind her, blinking, speechless. rumi’s already stepped into a defensive stance, like she doesn’t know whether to fight or flee.

you scramble upright, heart in your throat, shirt half off your shoulder, baby still between your legs and too stunned to move.

fuck. you thought you locked the door.

you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

what do you even say?

this isn’t some petty secret. this is treason. this is betrayal. this is him. a demon. the enemy.

and you, Mira’s little sister — the one she’s spent her life trying to protect — are sitting in your bed, breathless and flushed, with the one person she would never trust near you.

you see the fury bloom in her eyes. the hurt blooming right behind it. she steps back once, then twice.

“you’ve been lying to me?” she says, voice cracking despite how sharp she tries to sound. “this whole time?”

you feel baby shift behind you, sitting up, silent. his presence doesn’t help. it makes it worse.

because no one in that room is asking if it was a mistake.

they saw.

and worse — they know it’s been more than once.

mira turns, muttering a curse under her breath, and storms down the hall.

zoey follows without a word.

rumi lingers at the door, gaze unreadable. she looks at baby. then at you.

then closes the door without saying anything.

the silence that follows is unbearable.

your chest rises and falls, too fast, too sharp.

you feel sick. dizzy. not just from the kiss, or the heat still lingering between your legs — but from the crash of reality that just hit.

you finally look at baby.

he’s staring at the closed door.

“…so,” he says after a long moment, “that went well.”

you don’t laugh.

but you almost do.

and then you move fast — faster than your mind can keep up with.

your hands fumble to straighten your clothes, cheeks flushed, limbs shaking. baby helps without saying a word, slipping back into his jacket like he already knows how this ends.

it’s quiet now. dangerously quiet.

you turn to him, your voice barely above a whisper.

“don’t move. don’t follow. just… just give me a second.”

his eyes flick to yours. unreadable, but not cold. never cold. not with you.

you step out of the room, closing the door behind you like it’ll keep the world from exploding.

but it doesn’t.

it’s already started.

mira’s at the end of the hallway. rumi and zoey flank her like shadows, but this time they aren’t in their oversized hoodies or casual fits.

they’re in full HUNTR/X gear.

thick boots. tactical belts. high-collar jackets fastened tight. every inch of them reads ready.

like they’re about to kill something.

your stomach drops. “what… what are you doing?”

no one answers.

your eyes scan their bodies again, panic crawling up your spine like a vine wrapping tighter and tighter.

then you see it — mira’s spear, glowing with faint light.

she only summons that for one thing.

your throat goes dry. “what are you doing in your full gear?”

rumi tilts her head, her voice cool, nearly clinical. “there’s a demon in your room.”

zoey adds, eyes sharp, “we’re here to kill it.”

and just like that — something inside you snaps.

you lurch forward, blocking the hallway like your body alone can stop three trained demon hunters from doing what they were raised to do.

“no—no, you don’t understand!” you yell, louder than you meant to, louder than you’ve ever yelled in your life. “you can’t—he hasn’t hurt me, he hasn’t—he’s not like that!”

mira steps forward. her tone is low, like she’s trying to hold herself back.

“he’s a demon, y/n.”

“and i’m not stupid!” you shoot back. “i know what he is! i know who he is! but you don’t get to come in here and decide—”

“he’s using you,” she cuts in, eyes burning. “he’s using your feelings against you—”

“maybe!” you shout, voice cracking. “maybe he is! but it’s mine to figure out! not yours to kill!”

rumi’s expression is unreadable, but zoey looks like she might be on the verge of speaking — until mira raises a hand, silencing everyone.

she stares at you. deep. searching. like she’s looking for the girl she used to protect. like she’s mourning someone who isn’t even dead yet.

“you’re not thinking clearly,” she says, voice low. “he’s manipulated you. that’s what they do. and we’re going in there. with or without your permission.”

you take a shaky breath. your voice softens, almost a plea now.

“mira, please… i’m your sister.”

mira’s jaw tightens.

“and i’m trying to keep you alive.”

she brushes past you.

and for the first time in your life, you shove her back.

hard.

she stumbles slightly, stunned. not hurt — just shocked.

the air between you turns electric.

and suddenly, you realize… if they take one more step, you might actually fight them.

for him.

for the demon behind that door.

and god help you — you don’t even know who that makes you anymore.

your breath catches when mira pushes past you again.

without thinking, your hand goes to your side — and your sickle glows blue in your grip before you even summon it aloud.

rumi and zoey both freeze.

“don’t,” you warn, voice tight.

zoey’s eyes widen, hands half-raised like she wants to stop all this before it begins. “y/n…”

“don’t,” you repeat. “don’t make me raise this at any of you.”

rumi glances at mira. “mira…”

but mira’s already summoning her spear — the shimmer of silver and violet illuminating her hardened face as it forms in her hand. she doesn’t hesitate.

“upstairs,” she says flatly to the others. “now.”

“mira, come on—” zoey starts, but rumi gently grabs her arm and pulls her back. her eyes meet yours one last time. there’s something apologetic in her gaze.

you don’t blame them. you wouldn’t fight your sister either.

as they disappear up the stairs, silence falls again.

then—

“baby, run!” you yell, backing up and keeping your sickle between you and the door. “go! please—just go!”

but there’s no reply. no footsteps. no blur of silver vanishing out the window.

you don’t know it yet, but he’s already gone.

mira twirls her spear once, steady and precise, eyes locked on you like you’re the demon now.

“he already got in your head.”

“he didn’t,” you snap, weapon raised. “you just never gave me the chance to show you who i really am.”

“i know who you are,” she says, voice sharp. “you’re my little sister.”

“then act like it!”

your sickle slashes first, slicing the air in a brilliant arc of blue light — she dodges, then lunges with a powerful thrust of her spear. you twist aside just in time, the tip grazing your shoulder. it stings. the pain is real. so is hers.

“you’re better than this,” she growls as your blades clash again, metal shrieking. “you were meant to lead, y/n. not fall.”

“fall?” you hiss, stepping back and spinning your sickle in your palm, sweat already dripping. “you think i fell just because i feel something? because for once, i chose something for myself?”

you duck as she swings again — this time harder. angrier.

your foot connects with her ribs in a clean side kick. she stumbles — not far, but enough.

“he’s not what you think,” you say, voice cracking as you go in for another strike. she blocks, barely. “and even if he is… he never lied to me. not once.”

“he didn’t have to!” mira shouts. “he used you!”

your blades clash again, sending sparks across the room.

you’re both breathing hard now, circling.

“no,” you whisper. “he saw me.”

she pauses.

and for a second, you think she might drop the spear.

but she doesn’t.

“then you’re already lost.”

she lunges again, and this time — you meet her halfway.

the next clash feels heavier. not in force — in emotion.

your sickle locks with the length of her spear, both weapons trembling between you as your arms strain, breaths sharp and fast. your eyes meet hers, and for the first time in this entire fight… she looks unsure.

not weak. not wavering. but tired.

you both push, and for a moment — neither of you gives in.

then—

“he’s gone,” rumi’s voice calls down from the stairwell. calm, certain.

you both freeze.

“we checked every corner,” zoey adds, appearing beside her. “no windows broken. no trace of a fight. no presence.”

your stomach drops, but not in fear. you already knew. you felt it the moment you stepped out of the room. that cold emptiness where his warmth had just been.

baby’s gone?

mira is the first to lower her weapon.

slowly, deliberately, like it’s costing her something.

you follow suit, releasing your sickle with a faint flicker of blue light as it vanishes from your palm. your hands are shaking.

“he left because of me,” you say softly, turning to mira. “because he didn’t want to make this worse.”

mira’s mouth presses into a line. her eyes scan you again, searching for something — guilt, maybe. clarity. regret. something that would make this feel easier. but you don’t give her any of it.

you step forward.

“i didn’t mean for it to happen like this. i didn’t even know how it was happening,” you admit. “but it was real. or at least… it felt real to me.”

silence.

then mira lifts her eyes.

“you don’t get to live in both worlds.”

the words hit harder than her spear ever could.

you blink. “what?”

“you can’t fight beside us with your heart somewhere else,” she says, voice firm. not cruel. not yelling. but final. “you want him? fine. that’s your choice. but don’t expect to come back and hold a blade next to mine if you’re still dreaming of kissing him.”

your chest tightens.

“mira…”

“choose,” she says. “the team. or him.”

you feel rumi shift at the stairwell, her fingers twitching slightly like she wants to intervene — but she doesn’t. zoey looks down, suddenly fascinated with the floorboards.

no one’s going to make it easier for you.

you’re standing on a knife’s edge. between what you know, and what you want. between your blood and your betrayal. and the worst part?

you still don’t know your answer. and you don’t say anything as you grab your shoes by the door.

not even when mira calls your name behind you — low, hurt, commanding in that older-sister way that used to make you freeze in place.

but not tonight.

tonight you just… walk.

barefoot at first, shoes dangling in your hand. the floor cool beneath your feet, your breaths still uneven from the fight — not just the physical one, but the one behind your ribs. the one you’re still losing.

you step outside and the air hits your skin like a slap.

it’s cold. humid. full of tension, like the world itself knows what you’ve done.

your eyes sting, but you blink fast. you don’t want to cry. not yet.

you walk for what feels like forever — no destination, just the need to move. to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like blood or regret.

you didn’t even realize where your feet were leading you until you looked up and saw the small stone archway, fog curling out like smoke from the cracks of the wooden door.

a bathhouse.

quiet. tucked away in the edge of the neighborhood. warm light glowing through the windows like an invitation to forget.

you slip inside without a word, barely nodding to the old woman behind the counter. she doesn’t ask questions.

thank god for that.

you strip down. wrap yourself in a towel. grab a robe and let the fabric cling to your damp skin as you make your way toward the steaming baths. the warmth is already seeping into your bones — gentle and forgiving in all the ways your world hasn’t been lately.

your muscles ache. your heart aches worse.

you find a corner tub, one of the smaller ones tucked away beneath a low-hanging lantern. the water bubbles quietly as you step in, slow and careful, the heat kissing your legs, your waist, your collarbones — until you sink into it fully, robe tossed nearby, steam curling up around your face like a veil.

you let your head fall back. close your eyes.

breathe.

just breathe.

and try — desperately — to forget the way mira’s voice shook.

the way rumi wouldn’t meet your eyes.

the way zoey stayed silent, like silence would save you.

two weeks ago, you would’ve chosen the team without question. would’ve stood at your sister’s side, sickle raised, swearing loyalty with no hesitation.

so why now?

why him?

why does your heart burn at the thought of his hands, his mouth, his voice — the way he always called you trouble with that soft grin like he hoped you’d never stop being it?

why does your body ache for someone you were trained to destroy?

you press a hand to your chest. it’s too much.

you just wanted a moment to breathe.

to forget.

to feel clean.

but nothing’s ever that easy anymore.

the steam curls around your shoulders like silk, heavy and soothing, your limbs loose and warm beneath the surface. your lashes flutter as your body begins to sink into that liminal place — not quite asleep, but somewhere distant. somewhere quiet.

the weight of the night drifts from your chest in slow exhales.

but then—

fingers.

light. familiar.

trailing through the steam, slipping against your collarbone like the start of a secret.

a palm ghosts over your chest, gentle and deliberate. not rushed. not mistaken.

and then — lips, just beneath your jaw.

soft. coaxing. too warm to be a dream.

you blink, barely breathing, and your eyes meet the impossible.

him.

baby’s face half-shrouded by mist, hair damp and falling near his brow, smirking like he never left.

“miss me already?” he murmurs, voice soaked in teasing, low and infuriatingly calm. “can’t seem to stay away from hot water, huh?”

you inhale sharply, but your body doesn’t flinch. it recognizes him.

every cell of you remembers.

your brain screams to say something — to tell him this is too much, too dangerous, that you’re barely holding your world together — but his hand doesn’t stop, gliding across your ribs with the kind of reverence that makes you shudder.

you close your eyes again for one stolen second.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“and yet…” his fingers brush your lips. “here i am.”

his mouth returns to your throat, slower now. like he’s daring you to push him away. to follow through on every rule and warning drilled into you since the day you joined HUNTR/X.

and maybe you should.

maybe you really should.

but the heat of his breath on your neck pulls you into a spiral.

and the way he says your name — soft, like a confession — makes your pulse skip.

you can’t keep doing this, you think.

but your hand finds its way to the nape of his neck anyway.

and suddenly, you’re not sure if you’re sinking into the bath — or into him.

his breath brushes your ear, hot and damp like the steam curling around your shoulders.

his touch is still feather-light on your skin, reverent in a way that drives you mad, even as your chest tightens with everything you can’t ignore.

“why did you disappear?”

the words come out like a crack — sharp, but soft. a break in your throat you can’t patch over.

he pauses.

his hand doesn’t move, but you feel him exhale against your neck, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw.

“gwi-ma called for us,” he says finally, voice low, unreadable.

“for what?” you ask, your tone firmer this time. trying to hold onto reality.

he pulls back just enough for your eyes to meet.

“don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. his fingers linger at your cheek, trailing down your jaw like he’s tracing something precious.

“but i am worried,” you breathe. “what was it for, baby?”

his eyes flick away for the briefest second.

“it’s part of the job. demon business.” he says it casually — too casually — like he wants to pretend it’s no more serious than a trip to the store.

but you know better.

you know what your sister’s files say about the gwi-ma. what their missions mean.

your hand presses gently against his chest — not pushing, but grounding.

you search his face.

“what kind of business?”

he doesn’t answer.

instead, his lips crash into yours — warm, full, silencing the question with something much heavier than truth.

and for a moment, your thoughts tumble. you fall into it.

his kiss is hunger disguised as comfort.

gentle pressure behind your neck, his other hand curling at your waist like he’s trying to erase the distance between what you are and what he can never be.

but you pull back — barely. your lips still touching his.

“you can’t keep doing that,” you murmur, forehead pressing to his. “i’m a hunter.”

his grip on your waist tightens.

“and i’m a demon,” he whispers back, “so what?”

his voice dips, deeper now — velvet and iron.

“that only matters on the battlefield. out there, it’s war. here, it’s just us.”

you shiver as his hand trails lower, not rushing — just being there. present. grounding. sinful.

you know this is wrong.

everything in your training says you should be running. or fighting. or calling your team.

but he’s looking at you like you’re the first thing he’s ever wanted.

and for once, you don’t feel like a soldier.

you feel like something worth wanting.

“relax,” he murmurs again, his voice softer now, lips brushing your shoulder like a prayer.

“cmon, for tonight. just… focus on me.”

and somehow —

you do.

you let yourself lean into the warmth of him, your worries floating in the steam, weightless for just a little while longer.

your back hits the edge of the tub, water lapping at your skin as baby leans in closer, chest brushing yours, fingers splayed across the curve of your thigh. it’s dizzying, the way heat blooms under every point he touches — like fire coaxed into a slow, steady burn.

“first time in a tub for me,” he says, breathless, with that teasing smirk that makes you want to curse and kiss him all at once.

you blink at him. deadpan. flushed.

“shut up.”

and then — you kiss him.

slow at first.

then deeper.

hungrier.

you move without thinking, legs wrapping around his waist, water sloshing with every shift between you. steam curls between your mouths as you breathe each other in, your hands threading through the damp strands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. always closer. as you slowly sit down.

his lips find your collarbone. your shoulder. your pulse. soothing you.

his hands roam — careful but aching, like he’s been waiting. like he hasn’t been dominating you for two weeks. like you’re hidden in shadows, untouchable.

but now you’re here.

on him.

around him.

like you belong to no one but the heat between you.

the bathhouse echoes with your quiet gasps, the soft sounds of breath and longing ricocheting off tile walls like a hymn.

your head drops to his shoulder. his name on your lips, a whisper.

every movement feels like giving in. like letting go of every line you’ve drawn between right and wrong.

and for a moment — in the heat, in the water, in the hush of this stolen world — you do.

you give in.

completely.

the steam kisses your skin like a secret.

his hands move like they already know the map of you, like they’d memorized the terrain long before ever touching it.

fingers press like whispers against pages — each turn, each stroke, unlocking verses only your bodies understand.

you shift in his lap, water rippling around you like silk torn in slow motion.

his name hums beneath your breath, not a sound but a surrender, like the world was always meant to fall quiet beneath it.

his mouth finds your shoulder — then the hollow between your collarbones,

drinking you in like you’re something sacred, something forbidden,

and the taste alone might damn him.

you move together like waves — sometimes slow, sometimes desperate,

sometimes like two things trying not to drown each other.

his grip tightens at your waist.

you arch.

a temple built in motion.

you feel yourself unraveling in pieces,

like threads pulled by candlelight — careful at first, then all at once.

and every place his mouth finds becomes a question

you never want answered.

you’re not even sure where you begin and he ends.

not in this heat.

not in this moment.

all you know is that the line between hunter and demon is blurring.

and your pulse is singing hymns you were never taught to understand.

your breath is a rhythm now — stuttering, breathless, caught between disbelief and desire.

and you don’t know when the words start pressing against your chest — just that they’ve been living there, coiled beneath your ribs like something wild and caged, scratching to get out. every time his fingers dig into your hips, every time his lips brush your throat, that truth pulses louder beneath your skin. it builds with every movement, every breath, every aching push of your body against his, like the rhythm between you is conjuring something ancient and holy and completely terrifying.

you’re losing yourself in the way he watches you — like you’re both the sin and the salvation. your hands slide into his damp hair, tugging just slightly, grounding yourself in the texture of him. steam clings to your skin, to his chest, rising like incense around your joined bodies. everything feels slow, stretched thin — like time itself is caught in the heat of this tub, afraid to move forward and ruin the moment.

and then you say it.

you don’t mean to. not really. but it leaves you anyway, a soft and shaky breath against the shell of his ear, your voice trembling as much from the confession as the sensation curling in your stomach.

“i love you.”

everything stills.

his breath catches like he’s been struck. and then — he groans. deep and wrecked, as if the sound was torn from somewhere he never meant to show you. his fingers clutch at your waist harder than ever, like you’re slipping through his hands and he can’t bear it. his eyes flare — not dimly, not faintly, but bright and golden and undeniably demonic, the glow of something ancient and overwhelming rising just beneath his skin.

“say that again,” he growls.

his voice is low, broken, almost disbelieving. there’s something desperate in the way he looks at you now — like he’s starving, not just for your body, but for the truth of you. for the part of you no one else gets to see. the part you swore you’d never give to anyone like him.

your breath stutters, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the water sloshing around you. his hands don’t stop moving — gripping, stroking, urging — but it’s the look in his eyes that holds you still. not the yellow glow of a demon, not really. but something softer beneath it. something broken. something that hopes.

you could lie. you could laugh. you could change the subject and pretend it never happened.

but you don’t.

you only lean in closer, forehead pressed to his, your lips parted just enough to whisper the words again.

not because you should.

but because you mean them.

and somehow, that’s even more dangerous than everything else you’ve ever done.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, WAS THIS UP TO EVERYONES EXPECTATIONS ?? WAS THE ENDING OKAY ?? HELP PART TWO WAS REALLY REQUESTED SO I HOPE THIS SATISFIES YALL ??? i will SCREAM if yall ask for part three, atp just make it a series 😭 (i wont say no though, luv yall too much to deny yall) IMA START WORKING ON A TWIN SIN CONTINUATION !!!!

update : PART THREE HAS BEEN REQUESTED AGHHHG

🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique @aspensnowwalker @strawbeii @chiharuhashibira @ateezswonderland

ko-fi 🎧

next read recommendation :: the twin sin (jinu nsfw)

look here for other reads 📚 !!

[demeterlindavis]

MIRA CAN’T KNOW

𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 5,200 ) genre :: forbidden romance, erotica, && secret desire. content contains :: spicy read, acrobatic + designer reader, reader has a nightmare, obsession, devotion, infatuation, big sister mira. PART ONE !! PART TWO !!

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the city is quiet in the way only cities can be—restless, humming beneath the silence, like it’s holding its breath. your shoes tap against the pavement, the sound too sharp in the stillness of almost-4am, too loud against the thunder in your chest. the streets are empty, but your mind is full—of him. of what you let happen. of what you whispered.

the night air wraps around you like a reminder, cool against the sweat still clinging to your back. your thighs ache with the memory of him. not in pain, but in presence. like he never left. like parts of him are still inside you. and in some way, they are. the echo of his hands. the rasp of his voice. the way he said your name like it belonged to him now.

you try not to think about it. about how you kissed him like he was salvation. how he held you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked. you try not to feel the aftershocks trembling through you. not just physical—but something deeper. like a spell you accidentally cast on yourself.

you reach the front steps of the HUNTR/X building and pause. the lights are off. too dark for this early in the morning. you don’t hear laughter. no midnight snacks being made in the kitchen. no whispered conversations from the hallway. no Mira.

they’re not home.

your heart stutters for half a beat, then steadies. probably out hunting. or scouting. or celebrating something you weren’t invited to. doesn’t matter.

none of my business, you think, like a shield.

you punch in the access code and the door clicks open, letting you inside. it’s colder than usual. the kind of cold that wraps around your ankles and climbs your spine slowly, thoughtfully. like it knows something you don’t.

you ignore it.

your footsteps echo against the tile floor as you make your way through the halls. the building feels hollow, like it’s holding its breath. or like it knows. maybe it does. maybe the walls remember the way Mira screamed your name. the way you screamed hers back. the sound of heartbreak wrapped in rage.

you push your bedroom door open and don’t bother turning on the light. there’s nothing you need to see. you peel off your jacket and let it drop to the floor, then toe off your shoes, letting them fall wherever they land. you stand there for a moment, bare feet on cold floor, eyes closed.

his hands. still on you. his voice. still in your head. his teeth. still pressing faint ghosts into your collarbone. you touch the spot without thinking and exhale, low and quiet.

what the hell are you doing.

but you already know.

you slip into bed and the sheets are cold, untouched, empty in the worst way. not even your own warmth is enough to distract you from what you left behind in that bathhouse. or what you brought back with you. you curl onto your side, pulling the blanket to your chin, and try to slow your breathing.

you don’t sleep yet.

you just lay there. bones aching, heart loud, the taste of sin still on your tongue.

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

you don’t remember falling asleep. one minute you’re staring into the darkness, letting the silence wrap around you like a warning, and the next—you’re running.

the dream doesn’t warn you. it doesn’t build slowly. it drags you in, shoves you down, and tears you apart all at once.

he’s there—baby—knees in the dirt, breathing heavy, body bruised and broken in ways you’ve never seen before. the light in his eyes is dimming. fading. he’s surrounded. not by monsters. not by demons. by them. by your girls. the ones you’ve fought beside, bled beside. rumi’s got her spear drawn, pointed right at his chest. mira stands behind her, jaw set. and zoey—zoey’s the one who pulls her daggers last.

you try to scream but your throat’s full of smoke. you try to run but your legs won’t move. all you can do is watch as they fall on him, as steel meets skin, as he groans your name one last time like it might protect him.

you wake up gasping, eyes wide and stinging, the blanket tangled around your legs like chains. your heart is pounding like it’s trying to break out of you. the room is too quiet, too still. for a second, you think you’re still dreaming.

then you hear it.

voices. soft laughter. the sound of shoes being kicked off in the hall. a bag hitting the floor. someone humming something that might be a pop song or a lullaby or a warning. your heart stutters.

you lift the blanket slowly, peeking over the edge just in time to see your door creak open, light from the hallway spilling in like an apology.

“heyyy,” zoey says softly, head tilting, micro bangs framing her face like always. “you awake?”

your throat’s dry, your body still stiff from sleep, but you nod. barely.

“can i come in?”

you nod again.

she steps in and closes the door behind her gently. no judgment. no weapons. she crosses the room like she’s walking into a church, careful and quiet, and sits on the edge of your bed. the mattress shifts beneath her weight.

“you okay?” she asks, voice calm, patient.

you nod again, even though you’re not sure. her eyes flicker down to your fingers, clenched in the blanket. she notices everything. she always has.

“you eat today?”

you hesitate. shrug.

“drink water?”

you roll your eyes faintly. “yes, mom.”

she smiles, small and kind. but there’s something beneath it. something knowing.

“you’ve been… quiet lately.”

“i’m always quiet,” you mutter, voice low.

“this is different.”

you don’t answer.

zoey adjusts, shifting slightly so she’s angled more toward you. her voice softens even more.

“you’ve been… distant. distracted. like you’re somewhere else even when you’re here.”

you sigh. look away. the blanket feels like it’s smothering you now, but you don’t move. your hands clench tighter.

“so,” zoey says gently, “you wanna tell me who you’re dreaming about?”

you freeze.

not flinch. not panic. freeze. because she says it like she already knows. like the name’s been on the tip of her tongue for days, and she’s just been waiting for you to be ready.

“you know,” you whisper, voice hollow.

she nods. “mira told us some of it. but… i wanted to hear it from you.”

so you tell her.

not all at once. not perfectly. but honestly. piece by piece. like pulling thorns from your throat. you tell her about the bathhouse. about the silence in his voice and the fire in his touch. the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. the way you feel safe with him, even when he’s terrifying. especially when he’s terrifying.

you tell her about the guilt. about mira’s eyes—how they burned. about the shame. about the fear that loving a demon makes you unlovable too.

but then you tell her the other thing.

“rumi was born from a demon and a hunter,” you say, voice shaking. “and she’s the best of all of us.”

zoey is quiet for a long time. not judgmental. not skeptical. just… listening.

you finally look up, eyes still rimmed with the dream. “i know it’s wrong. i know it’s dangerous. but it doesn’t feel wrong when i’m with him. it feels… like breathing.”

zoey reaches out, placing a hand gently over yours.

“then maybe it’s not wrong,” she says quietly. “maybe it’s just different.”

you blink at her. startled.

“we’re trained to kill demons,” she continues, “but maybe we were never taught what to do with the ones who make us feel something.”

you stare at her, heart raw and open.

she smiles. “just… promise me you’ll be careful. and if he hurts you—if anything happens—you’ll come to me first.”

you nod.

“and you’ll hydrate.”

you let out a soft, broken laugh. “yes. water. got it.”

she squeezes your hand once, then stands, brushing imaginary dust from her pants.

“get some sleep,” she murmurs, halfway to the door. “i’ll keep the others off your back. for now.”

and then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her like a secret being sealed.

you lie back down, eyes on the ceiling, heart a little steadier.

maybe you can sleep now.

maybe this time, he’ll live.

when you wake, the light has changed. it’s softer now, slipping through the curtains in lazy stripes, the kind that makes your room feel smaller, quieter. your limbs are stiff, tangled in the sheets, body sore in ways you can’t name. you blink slowly, the memory of your dream still dragging across the corners of your mind like ash. but the ache in your chest has dulled. a little.

the scent of food hits you first—something warm, faintly sweet, a whisper of comfort in the air. you lift your head just as the door creaks open again, soft footsteps padding across the floor. zoey appears, carefully balancing a tray, a cup of juice tucked between her fingers. her smile is tired but kind.

“good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, cheerful enough to sound normal—but not enough to hide the tension beneath.

your heart lurches.

you sit up too quickly, blanket falling into your lap. “where’s rumi?”

zoey pauses mid-step.

“and mira?” you press, sharper now. you look past her—toward the open hallway. nothing. no voices. no clinking armor. no sarcasm or scolding. just… quiet.

too quiet.

zoey sighs.

“look, i didn’t want to be the one to tell you—”

“zoey.” your voice cracks. “what’s going on?”

she winces, setting the tray on your desk before sitting beside you, the mattress dipping again under her weight. her hands fiddle with the hem of her sleeve. she doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“they went to find him.”

silence.

“they just wanna talk,” she adds quickly, glancing up. “they’re not gonna hurt him.”

your stomach twists. “how do you know that?”

zoey exhales, long and slow, like she was hoping you wouldn’t ask.

“because…” she lifts her hand, pinky extended. her eyes meet yours. solemn. “i made them pinky promise.”

you stare at her.

for a second, all you can do is blink. the absurdity of it. the softness. the desperation. your voice comes out quieter than before.

“zoey…”

“i know, okay?” she says, finally turning fully to face you. “i know it doesn’t mean much. but i made them swear. mira looked me in the eye and said they were just gonna talk. ask questions. see what this thing really is.”

you shake your head, heart pounding. “she hates him.”

“she’s angry,” zoey says. “and scared. but she’s not stupid. she knows what hurting him would do to you. and rumi… rumi’s curious. she wants to understand.”

“he won’t talk to them.”

“maybe not. but they’re trying.”

you wrap your arms around your knees, pressing your forehead against them. the blanket still clings to your skin like sweat, like fear. your voice is muffled when you speak.

“he’s not like us, zoey. if they corner him… if they even look like a threat…”

“i know,” she says gently.

you lift your head, eyes wide, throat dry. “how long ago?”

“not long. they left about an hour after we talked. figured you needed the sleep.”

you swing your legs out of bed, already grabbing for your jacket.

“where are you going?” zoey asks, standing too.

“i don’t know,” you say, stuffing your feet into your shoes. “but i have to find them.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

the night is humid, neon-lit and humming with city breath. baby’s halfway to the convenience store entrance when it happens.

romance is mid-flirt with the cashier inside—grinning through the glass, pointing at his own reflection, probably blowing kisses at himself. abby’s behind them both, casually carrying a case of water like it weighs nothing, his shirt already discarded for reasons no one questioned.

and baby—he’s quiet, eyes low, teal hair damp from the late summer heat, one hand tugging the edge of his hoodie lower. then—

“don’t take another step.”

the voice slices through the air before the point of mira’s spear does.

it catches him mid-step, just a breath from the doorway. a smooth drag of polished steel pointed straight at his chest. the energy behind it is old, righteous, and personal.

he doesn’t flinch.

“oh,” baby drawls, voice like smoke on gravel, “this is the part where i pretend to be surprised.”

rumi appears behind mira—sword already drawn, glowing faintly in the sickly light of the vending machine. her expression is unreadable, calm in a way that makes people nervous. a different kind of wrath. surgical. poetic.

romance spots the scene through the window and mouths “ooh damn,” pressing his face to the glass with a grin. abby just sighs and leans against the wall like he’s waiting for the popcorn to arrive.

“what do you want with my sister?” mira snaps, her grip tightening.

baby raises both hands, lazy and amused. “you sure you want me to answer that?”

rumi’s sword twitches.

“don’t play games,” mira growls. “what are you doing to her?”

he smiles, slow and wolfish.

“just using her body, mostly. breaking her in nice and slow. once she’s good and ruined, i’ll carve out her soul for gwi-ma as a little souvenir. maybe keep her heart for myself. decor, you know.”

the steel in mira’s eyes burns hotter.

but rumi’s sword moves faster.

in a blink, it’s pointed at his crotch—low, unshaking, terrifying in its precision.

baby finally shuts up.

“you’re not funny,” rumi says, voice calm and ice-cold. “and you’re a terrible liar.”

his smirk falters.

the air shifts.

gone is the snide bravado. gone is the smug devil-may-care grin. what rises in its place is something darker. heavier. more dangerous in its honesty.

he looks between them. and when he speaks next, it’s quieter. rougher.

“i love her.”

silence falls like a stone.

romance slowly pulls out his phone and starts filming, mouthing “this is so messy.”

baby ignores him. his eyes stay on mira and rumi. steady now. not pleading. not defending. just true.

“i didn’t plan to,” he says. “i don’t even know if i’m allowed to. but i do. i’m not using her. i’m not breaking her. i’m not… hurting her. i just—”

he pauses. swallows.

“—i just want her.”

mira exhales sharply through her nose.

“then do better,” she says.

baby frowns. “what?”

“if you’re gonna love her,” mira spits, “then take her on a real date. buy her dinner. walk her home. get her flowers. and stop humping her loose in her damn bed like a dog in heat.”

romance chokes on his laughter from across the street.

baby groans, dragging a hand down his face, actually blushing. “god, why would you say it like that—”

“say yes,” rumi cuts in, tone flat. “or i cut it off.”

he raises both hands again, eyes wide. “alright, alright. damn. yes. fine. i’ll take her out. like… dinner. candles. chairs. clothes. the whole thing.”

mira finally lowers her spear.

“you’ve got one chance,” she warns. “and if she ends up crying—”

“i’ll be the one crying next,” he mutters. “got it.”

૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

you’re angry.

not the burning, explosive kind. no. this is the quiet, seething kind. the kind that builds in your chest like smoke under glass—slow, tight, suffocating. you’ve spent hours chasing their shadows through alleyways and rooftops, feet sore, mouth dry, breath coming in short frustrated bursts. no trace of them. no messages. no calls.

you don’t know what they said to him.

you don’t know what he said back.

and that not-knowing wraps around your ribs like barbed wire.

by the time you’re back in front of headquarters, your throat’s dry and your mind’s louder than your footsteps. the early evening light dips behind the skyline, painting the walls in that golden-lonely kind of way. you’re already reaching for the keypad when you see it.

him.

leaning casually against the wall beside the entrance. dressed better than usual—dark jacket, clean shirt, boots without any new blood on them. teal hair still damp from a recent shower, falling across his forehead like he’s not trying too hard, but definitely trying. and his eyes—

god. those eyes.

they catch on you like a match striking dry wood.

he doesn’t smile. he doesn’t do that. but there’s something in the way he straightens when he sees you. something alive. burning beneath the surface.

“i’m here to take you on a date,” he says, blunt and unapologetic.

you blink.

the air between you shifts, warps, curls.

“what?”

he shrugs, like he didn’t just ambush you with the most bizarre, un-demonic sentence of the century.

“you heard me.”

you cross your arms, eyeing him carefully. “who told you to do this?”

“does it matter?”

you scowl.

“fine,” he admits, rolling his eyes. “mira. and the sword one. they threatened my anatomy. but i agreed.”

he pauses.

“i wanted to agree.”

the last part lands differently. like truth. and that’s what makes you hesitate.

you glance him over again—this cleaned-up, waiting version of the demon you swore you’d only see in shadows and sheets. you should say no. demand answers. yell, maybe.

instead, you sigh.

“give me five minutes,” you mutter.

his brows lift slightly, surprised, but he steps aside, hands shoved into his pockets as you disappear inside.

you move quickly through the hall. your fingers tremble a little as you strip out of your clothes. you don’t know why you’re dressing up. you don’t know why you pick the outfit you do—the one that clings to you like intention, the one that says yes, this is a date, but we both know how it’s going to end.

the top dips low. the skirt rides high. your throat gleams with the faintest hint of perfume. and when you step in front of the mirror, it’s not just you staring back. it’s want. it’s warning. it’s what he does to you.

you don’t rush.

when you finally return, pushing the front door open with an unbothered toss of your hair, you don’t even look at him first.

but you feel him.

his stare hooks into you before you speak. before you even breathe. it drags down your frame like velvet over a blade.

and when you finally meet his eyes, he’s already standing straighter. already swallowing hard. already watching you like he’s counting the seconds until this whole thing ends exactly the way you both know it will.

“you look…”

he stops. clears his throat.

“…intentional.”

you smirk. “that’s the idea.”

his jaw clenches slightly. not from anger. from restraint.

“this is going to be a very short date,” he mutters under his breath.

“we’ll see,” you hum, walking past him.

but the look in his eyes as he follows you?

yeah. he knows.

he’s not making it through the night untouched.

and neither are you.

it starts off simple. awkward, almost.

baby doesn’t take you far. just a tucked-away rooftop diner with flickering neon signs and food that smells like grease and late-night cravings. he doesn’t hold your hand on the way there—he keeps them shoved deep in his pockets like they might betray him if he lets them wander. but he stays close. always close. his shoulder brushes yours every time you turn a corner. his gaze flickers to your mouth every time you speak.

you notice.

and you use it.

you cross your legs slow under the table. lean in when you ask him questions. you let the strap of your top fall just barely off your shoulder when you reach for your drink. everything you do is effortless—but he’s unraveling by the minute.

he’s trying. god, he’s trying. he orders food. pays in cash. makes sarcastic comments about the menu. stares at the people around you like they’re aliens, and you’re the only thing in the room that feels familiar.

but you can see it.

the tension in his jaw when you lick the sauce off your thumb. the way his eyes flick down to your collarbone like he’s picturing the same thing over and over again—his mouth there instead. the way his leg starts bouncing under the table when you laugh too sweetly, lean in too close, speak too low.

“this was supposed to be normal,” he mutters, halfway through the meal.

you blink, feigning innocence. “this is normal.”

he gives you a look that says liar, and you give him one right back that says make me.

you pick a piece of food off his plate just to watch him twitch. his breath stutters when your fingers brush his. you chew slow. deliberate.

he swallows hard.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he growls under his breath, voice rougher now. darker.

you smile sweetly. “doing what?”

his hand fists the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping him from dragging you onto his lap. his eyes are gold now—subtle, but glowing. dangerous. like he’s losing grip on the leash wrapped tight around his own throat.

“you don’t know what it’s like,” he says, leaning closer. “trying to sit still. trying to be… good. when everything in me is screaming to drag you into the shadows and make you say my name until you forget your own.”

your pulse jumps. but you keep your expression calm.

“and yet here you are,” you murmur, “being so well-behaved.”

he laughs. low. sharp. pained.

“for how long, though?”

you say nothing. just uncross your legs. recross them the other way.

his eyes flick down like a reflex. his jaw flexes again.

the food goes mostly untouched after that. conversation gets thinner. tension gets thicker. and by the time you’re walking down the block again, the space between you has turned electric.

you glance up at him under the streetlight. “so. was this everything mira hoped it’d be?”

he lets out a bitter chuckle. “i don’t think anyone hoped i’d survive it.”

you smirk. “you’re doing okay.”

“no i’m not.”

you both stop outside headquarters. he hesitates. like he’s not sure if he should follow you inside. like he knows if he does, there’s no going back to pretending.

“what happens now?” he asks.

you turn to face him, eyes wide and soft and dangerous all at once.

“you walked me home.”

your voice drops.

“shouldn’t you kiss me goodnight?”

his breath catches.

and just like that—

he’s gone again. unraveling. undone.

you stand with him at the threshold of your world and his—your hand on the door, his eyes on your mouth. the city hums behind you, but the sound is drowned out by the pounding of your own heart. it’s stupid how close you are. how close you’ve been all night. the air between you practically burns with it.

he’s trying not to touch you.

you can see it—how his fingers twitch at his sides, how his jaw tightens when you shift closer, when your perfume hits him again like a spell. you tilt your head, just slightly, the way you know makes him weak. and still, he waits.

“so…” you whisper, soft as a prayer. “about that kiss?”

his eyes flick down to your lips.

slow.

like surrender.

then he leans in—hands still in his pockets, mouth hovering over yours, breath warm and uneven. when he finally kisses you, it’s devastating in its gentleness. not rushed. not rough. it’s everything he’s been holding back all night, pouring into one fragile moment. his lips part against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses too hard. his nose brushes yours. your hand curls into the fabric of his shirt.

but just when you lean into him—ready to fall all the way—

he pulls back.

slow. breathless. lips flushed and swollen, eyes glowing that soft, barely-there gold.

“goodnight,” he murmurs, voice low and shaking.

then he turns. walks away.

just like that.

you blink. frozen. stunned into silence. his warmth still on your mouth, his voice still curling through your spine. you don’t move until he’s completely gone from view, swallowed by the dark.

and then—

you open the door.

the scent of whatever zoey’s cooking hits you instantly—something sweet and spicy and chaotic. you walk in, heels clicking against the floor, still dazed. still glowing. at the kitchen island, zoey’s multitasking between five different dishes like she’s feeding a village. her hair’s tied up. music plays softly from someone’s phone.

you glance to the left. rumi and mira are on the couch, hunched over a board game, tension thick between them but not hostile—focused. mira looks up when she hears the door close. her eyes land on you.

you don’t say anything.

neither does she.

but the look you share is enough.

an entire conversation, wordless and heavy.

you make your way past them, up the stairs. your legs feel like mist. your chest still aches with the weight of the kiss he gave you—too soft to be real, too restrained to be final.

your room is dark, still and quiet. safe.

you shut the door gently behind you. flick the lock out of habit. toss your phone on the nightstand without checking it. you’re too tired to wash your face properly, so you just wipe it with a cool cloth, let the night cling to your skin a little longer.

you light a candle.

the flame dances, flickering warm shadows across your walls. it smells like something earthy and faintly sweet—home, maybe. peace. you peel your clothes off one by one, slow, lazy, the exhaustion finally setting in.

your fingers graze the zipper of your skirt, eyes half-lidded.

and then—

you feel it.

a pair of hands.

from behind.

slow. familiar. tender.

they slide up along your sides, from the curve of your hips to the dip of your waist, not rushing, not groping—caressing. like a worship. like a secret. you gasp, nearly lurch forward, but the hands anchor you in place, one of them pressing lightly to your stomach, the other brushing your hair aside.

his breath hits the back of your neck.

“couldn’t stay away.”

you close your eyes.

you knew it.

you knew that kiss was a lie.

his hands move like they’ve missed you for centuries.

there’s no rush in the way his fingers trace your skin, no frenzy in the way he breathes against your neck. it’s slow. aching. as if he wants to memorize you through touch alone. as if he’s terrified this will be the last time.

“you’re always warm,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion, not desire. “like you were made to melt me.”

his fingers slide to your zipper, slow and careful, undoing the metal with a tenderness that nearly breaks you. your skirt slips from your hips, pooling at your ankles like a fallen promise. his palm smooths down the line of your thigh, trailing back up until it finds the edge of your underwear—his knuckles grazing your skin in a way that makes your breath catch.

“i told myself i’d be good tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “that one kiss would be enough. that if i walked away, i could still pretend to be… something better for you.”

you tilt your head as he presses a kiss beneath your jaw—soft and slow and shaking.

“but the way you looked at me,” he continues, “like you knew what you were doing. like you wanted me to break—”

his hand slides higher, gently peeling away the last layer of fabric clinging to your hips. his other hand holds you close, steadying you as the silence wraps around both of you, thick and reverent.

“—i’ve never wanted anything the way i want you,” he breathes. “not power. not blood. not even freedom.”

he kisses your shoulder.

“just this. just you.”

he turns you gently in his arms, his eyes flickering gold in the candlelight. and there’s nothing cocky in them. nothing wicked.

only worship.

he looks at you like you’re his miracle. like the one beautiful mistake he wants to make again and again.

“you undo me,” he whispers. “and still, i keep coming back.”

he’s still watching you. not hungrily. not greedily. but like you’re something he’s never been allowed to have. like your skin is scripture and he’s trying to read it with his hands.

he kisses you again—this time on the mouth—and it’s not like before. this kiss is full. deeper. his hands slide to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. his body is hot and steady, trembling slightly like he’s still holding back some part of himself that aches to ruin everything.

“you feel like fire,” he whispers between kisses, forehead pressed to yours. “and i want to burn.”

you reach for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, tugging it upward, over his head. he lets you. arms raise. the fabric slides off, slow. beneath it—warm skin, muscle under tension, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s barely keeping himself together.

he picks you up like it’s easy. like you weigh nothing and everything at once. carries you to the bed as if it’s a holy place. and when he lays you down, he doesn’t fall on top of you like some feral thing—he sinks, slow and reverent, beside you. kissing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

his hands trail lower.

“you don’t even know,” he murmurs, voice low and trembling, “what you do to me.”

his mouth finds the softest places, pressing kisses so gentle they almost make you cry. he doesn’t grope. doesn’t grip. he touches. open-palmed and patient. like your body is a question he’s trying to answer with every stroke.

and when he finally aligns himself with you—when he finally slides into you—it’s not rough, it’s not rushed.

it’s slow.

anchoring.

he groans your name like a prayer—low and deep in his chest, as if just being inside you undoes the last thread of restraint he’s held all night. your body opens to him like you were made to fit. and he holds you. tight. like if he lets go, you’ll disappear into the dark.

he doesn’t move right away.

just stays.

buried in you. forehead pressed to yours. the only sound in the room your joined breathing and the soft flicker of candlelight.

“i love you,” he whispers again, broken this time. like he almost doesn’t believe he’s allowed to say it.

and then he starts moving.

not fast. not hard. just deep. full. slow strokes that drag every inch of him through you like he’s trying to imprint himself in your bones.

your name tumbles out of him over and over. each time softer. more wrecked.

his hand finds yours, fingers tangling.

“you’re mine,” he says, voice shaking. “and i’m yours. even if it kills me.”

and it might.

because the way he’s loving you isn’t safe.

it’s not careful.

it’s something dark and ancient and eternal—something that claws through both your souls and binds them tighter with every breathless, sacred, and sinful moment.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HERES PART THREE TO THE FAN FAVORITE, MIRAAAA CAAAANT KNOOOWWWW 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️ ENJOYYY THE READ MY LITTLE SODA POPS 😛 i will be working on TWIN SIN PART THREE and will include jinus perspective 🙈 AND coming up with a new baby fiiiic

update : just got two requests !! WILL BE PRIORITIZING THOSE BECAUSE THEY ARE YUMMY YUMMY

🔖 : @sukunasrealgf @sinamew @valentique @aspensnowwalker @strawbeii @chiharuhashibira @ateezswonderland @turkey-tom-mybbgalpha @decayingstrawberries @towfuu1 @bakugotypecrashout @kinichportablecharger @randomfan218-blog @azzberry @hurts-my-brain @miyakoa

KO-FI 🎧

look here for more reads 📚!

[demeterlindavis]

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader

A/N: K-Pop Demon Hunters has me in a chokehold and I have so many ideas floating around in my head but I’m really bad at actually writing and executing them. But I had to write something to help with this fixation. Also, I don’t know how the Honmoon works. Like, can anyone alter or control it after some training? Do you need to be born with a certain predisposition? So, I kinda just made some stuff up.

Edit: Now has Part 2! Part 3! Part 4! Part 5! Part 6! Part 7!

‼️SPOILERS FOR KPDH‼️

“Okay, you guys are just going down there, right? I’m gonna go pick up some groceries,” You tell the three girls in disguise.

“Thanks, (Y/n)!”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks, (Y/n).”

Sighing, you wave over your shoulder as you separate from the girls. You managed their wardrobe and visuals, you were able to take the vague ideas in their heads and their music and bring them together in stunning visuals while maintaining their individual styles and own input.

But, you were also Rumi’s twin sister. You grew up alongside her under the guidance of your Aunt Celine. You trained with her, learning to fight, dance, and sing with her. However… You were never able to tap into the Honmoon like her or Mira or Zoey.

Which meant you couldn’t debut with your sister or help her with the Honmoon. All you could do was support her and the other girls how your Aunt Celine taught you: Cover up, keep your patterns hidden, cook for them, clean for them, make sure they always look beautiful, no fractures or faults in their image. And no faults of your own must ever be visible either.

You love your sister, there was never any doubt about that. And you love Mira and Zoey too, they were practically your sisters too. But you couldn’t help but feel… invisible and jealous sometimes. You wanted to perform too. Just once.

“Excuse me, miss?”

You were shaken from your thoughts by a smooth, male voice and a colorful flier being held out to you. Looking further up, your eyes widened and your face warmed at the sight of such a handsome guy right in front of you. You were no stranger to beauty working in the idol industry, but wow. Soft, black hair, warm brown eyes, clear skin and a soft smile. Your heart couldn’t help but skip.

“Uhm, I’m sorry,” You shook your head, trying to focus on listening to what the boy said. You couldn’t help but swallow thickly, your face still hot, “Can I help you?”

He smiled kindly, “My friends and I are having our debut performance this afternoon just a street over. We’d love for you to come watch and support us.”

Flustered by his charm and his beauty, you took the flier from him. “The Saja Boys…” You read. Looking around, you tried to spot the rest of his group.

You were startled when an arm suddenly landed on your shoulders. Actually, make that two arms.

Looking up, two more gorgeously unreal guys were on each side of you, an arm around each of your shoulders. One was a buff beauty with shorter magenta hair in a yellow beanie, his shirt hanging on for dear life. The other had longer pink hair that framed his face in a heart shape.

“That’s right,” the long haired guy smiled on your left.

“We’re the Saja Boys,” the buff guy on your right smirked. The two boys spun to slide into place on each side of the black haired guy, the three posing. “I’m Abby,” the muscle man posed, flexing which caused his shirt to strain.

“I’m Romance~” He blew a kiss at you.

“And I’m Jinu,” the black haired guy winked, smiling which made your heart pound all that harder to be the center of attention of three gorgeous guys. “We also have Baby and Mystery who are passing out fliers somewhere as well.”

“Right here, boss.” Oh great, more hot guys to make your heart explode.

A mint haired guy looked at you out of the corner of his eye as he walked past, joining the other three with a cool air. Another guy with long, pastel hair that covered most of his face walked past as well. Did he just smell you…? Was he purring…?

Oh boy. These boys were gonna give you a heart attack at this rate. Your heart was racing and you felt so flustered and awkward having their attention. “Uhm, wow, sorry, I’ll try to be there to support your debut! If you’ll excuse me,” You gave a small bow. Escape. Too many hot guys.

“You promise, sweetheart?~”

Your face flushed darker and you hurried away faster, “Y-Yup! See you there! Good luck!” You had groceries to get.

After getting enough groceries for you and the Huntr/x girls, you checked the time and noted that you had time to see that debut performance. The girls hadn’t texted that they headed back yet so they must still be at the doctors. Carrying the bags, you walked over to the other street, which was only a little more crowded than usual.

It seemed like you were just in time as a cloud of pink smoke grew in the middle of the street. You got closer as music started to fill the street and from the smoke, the five boys appeared.

“Don't want you, need you~ Yeah, I need you to fill me up~ 마시고 마셔 봐도~ 성에 차지 않아~ Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (Yeah)~ You could be everything that~ That I need (Need), taste so sweet (Sweet)~ Every sip makes me want more, yeah~” The black haired guy, Jinu, seemed to take the main vocals. The song was so bouncy and catchy that you couldn’t help but bounce your shoulders as the crowd grew around you. You got pushed to the front of the crowd and blushed as Jinu winked at you. You blushed, holding your groceries tighter.

“You're all I can think of~ Every drop I drink up~ You're my soda pop~ My little soda pop~ Cool me down, you're so hot~ Pour me up, I won't stop~ You're my soda pop~ My little soda pop~”

Okay, Huntr/x would always have your whole heartfelt support as your favorite group, but the Saja Boys were also really good… Like, if you weren’t Rumi’s sister, you might’ve jumped ship…

You were just a girl after all…

You blinked when some of the boys started blowing kisses into the crowd, launching hearts out of thin air. If they were just debuting, how’d they afford such great special effects…? These boys must’ve worked hard.

At least you thought so until you saw a flash of demon patterns and eyes on some of the boys.

You gasped. Were they… like you and Rumi? Part demons? Wait, no, they can control their demon features, you and Rumi can’t. No matter how much you tried to hide the growing patterns inching across your skin, it never worked. All you could do was cover up with long sleeves and pants.

They were just performing though. The girls would probably kill them as soon as they could once they caught wind of this demon idol group, because demons were all evil, emotionless creatures… But, if they were just demon guys performing because they wanted to perform, if they were nice demons, then wouldn’t that help prove that it was okay for you to live too…?

They helped the girl at the corn dog stand and gave those stressed kids some gifts, and they didn’t try to suck a soul once.

Your heart pounded, not just with how attractive the five were, but with hope.

The performance ended as the boys took their final poses before taking a moment to wave and send kisses into the crowd. As you scanned the group of boys, Romance sent you a flying kiss, Abby flashed you some finger hearts, Jinu’s smile widened at you, Baby raised an eyebrow at you, and Mystery gave a head nod.

What were you supposed to do now…?

[demeterlindavis]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ — ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[demeterlindavis]

Tomato Soup Girl

Synopsis: Eddie is impulsive and touch-starved. You are shy and suffer from severe touching anxiety. You two are not meant to meet…BUT. You love tomato soup. Eddie does too. A fight for the last can ends up changing your life forever.

Where is it? Where is it?

Your shoes squeaked as you speed-walked down the narrow aisle in the convenience store, eyes scanning each shelf. Canned goods, canned goods, where—there. You spot it.

The last can of tomato soup.

You all but sprinted, your breath catching in a thrill of victory. Only a few more steps and it’d be yours. The red label glistened. Your hand reached forward—

Another hand touched it at the exact same time. You whipped your head to the side, your fingers tightening around the can. He was tall. Messy curls. Torn denim vest. Rings on his fingers. A smirk on his lips.

Eddie Munson.

You knew of him—most people in Hawkins did. He looked down at your hand on the can, then back at you.

“Well, well,” he said with a grin. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a standoff.” He mock-drew an imaginary pistol from his hip and clicked his tongue. “High noon, aisle three.”

You blinked at him. It didn’t make you laugh. Your grip tightened around the can.

He squinted theatrically, then leant in just slightly. “You look like a woman who takes her soup very seriously.”

“I do,” you confirmed a little too fast, too breathy. Panic flit in your chest like a moth. What’s gotten into you? Why are you talking? But more importantly, why is he still holding the can?

Eddie arched a quizzical brow at you. “Tomato soup. Excellent choice. Fit for the most delicate of palates.”

He wanted to sound funny. Maybe he was.

You weren’t sure what was funny anymore.

You tried to reach for the can once more, but he held it up. You gulped. Was this a fight? Were you seriously gonna fight over a can of tomato soup? You hadn’t fought anyone for anything since second grade—and that had only been a crayon. You had absolutely no combat training other than the occasional sales-attracted moms during price reductions periods…

“I just…” You glanced at the can, then back up at him, heartbeat starting to race. “I need it.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I see that. But see the problem here is…my hand was on it first.”

You didn’t want to abandon your precious. You unexpectedly grabbed the can, yanked it down and right out of his hands. He let go with a surprised chuckle, raising his hands in surrender. You cradled it against your chest, like it was a newborn baby and Eddie Munson was a raccoon who might try to take it away from you.

“Damn,” he exclaimed, tilting his head curiously. “You must really like soup.”

You gave a weak nod, eyes fixed on a spot somewhere behind his left shoulder. It was too much—his voice, the attention, the embarrassment heating your face like someone just lit a match behind your ears.

“I—I might have a problem.” You finally confessed.

He laughed—genuinely amused. “Right. Like…an addiction?”

You shrugged. He understood.

“I respect that. Tomato soup girl.” He stepped back with a theatrical bow. “I’ll let you have this one. Clearly—you need it more than me.”

You clutched the can tighter. “Thank you,” you mumbled.

He squinted again. “Didn’t catch that.”

“…Thank you,” you said louder, eyes finally flicking up to meet his.

Eddie laughed again. “Okay. You’re priceless. And I’m Eddie by the way. In case you were too focused on the soup to catch my name.”

He extended a hand. You didn’t take it. You only nodded slowly, unsure what to say, heart still thudding.

He backed away slowly with a wink and a lopsided grin. “Okay. I get it. No touching the soup girl. Welp. See you around.”

You watched him go. Then looked down at the can in your hands with a small smile.

Worth it.

…

A few days later

You shouldn’t have come to the store today.

But the craving hit again like it always did—warm, savory, nostalgic comfort in a can. Tomato soup wasn’t just a meal; it was a ritual. Something about it filled a space in you nothing else quite can. And you’d hoped, hoped, that today would be different. That he wouldn’t be here. That you’d just grab your can, pay, and disappear.

But fate has a sick sense of humor.

Because Eddie Munson was here again.

You spot him near the freezers. You ducked your head instinctively, pretending to study the side of a cereal box with the intensity of a nuclear physicist. Your fingers twitched around your basket and tried to reason with yourself. He’d probably forgotten about you.

Still, your entire body coiled tight like a spring. You kept your shoulders small, your steps quiet, movements cautious. You didn’t even go straight to the soup aisle. You stalled in baking goods. Pet food. Feminine hygiene. Anything to avoid—

“Hey there, Soup Girl.”

You froze. You didn’t even have to look to know it was him. You turned slowly, every cell in your body screaming to bolt. But it was too late. He was already beside you, holding a pack of microwave pizza and giving you that signature crooked grin.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” He rocked back on his heels. “I was beginning to think you only appeared when the soup shelf was down to its last breath. Like a sorta soup leprechaun.”

You tried to force a smile, but it landed somewhere between a wince and a grimace. “Hi.”

He tilted his head slightly, smile faltering as his eyes narrowed. The way you were hunched slightly, shoulders pulled in like you were trying to disappear. The way your eyes flicked around the store, always moving, never landing. The way you were holding your basket with both hands like it was a shield. You could feel him watching you. It made your stomach twist. Great. Someone else to take you for a freak…

But then, he did something unexpected.

“…You alright?” he asked—genuine concern in his voice.

You nodded automatically. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded slowly. “Yeah. Been there.”

You didn’t know what to say. He didn’t either, apparently, because for a second he just stood there. Why were you finding yourself in another awkward situation?

“I gotta be honest,” he finally spoke up, scratching the back of his neck, “I wasn’t expecting to meet someone as intense about tomato soup. I’ve been thinking about that can battle all week.”

Your mouth twitched and some inner demon forced you to speak up. “I won.”

He blinked and you did too. Why did you say that? What evil spirit possessed you to sound like a bratty kid who had just won a game of marbles?

You were about to apologise when Eddie gasped in mock betrayal—one hand landing dramatically over his heart. “You stole it. Robbed me blind in broad daylight. I should’ve called the police. But they’d probably take your side, huh?”

You nodded, letting your lips curl just a little. “I have soup immunity.” Okay. You really should stop talking now. Nobody wanted to talk about soup. Nobody cared about soup.

Eddie smiled again, and it was different this time. He seemed to be enjoying the conversation immensely.

“Hey,” he continued after a moment, “I was actually thinking…maybe next time, you and me split a can. I’ll bring the paprika, you bring the grilled cheese.”

You blinked. That was unexpected. But what happened next was even more unexpected. Your laugh escaped before you could stop it. It surprised you greatly, the sound. You weren’t supposed to laugh. Not here. Not now. But something about the offer—ridiculous and small and oddly kind—settled in your ribs like warmth from a stove. Eddie’s face lit up like he had just unlocked a secret level in a video game. But he didn’t lean in, didn’t crowd you.

Then, after a beat, he stepped back and winked. “I’ll be around. Same aisle. Just in case you’d want to…I dunno. Talk for a bit.”

You didn’t say anything. But you still smiled a little when he turned around to leave. It seemed like Eddie Munson had infected you somehow…

A few minutes later

You told him you wanted to apologise for the tomato soup incident. He insisted that there was no problem, but you were hella stubborn when your wanted to be…So he ended up accompanying you back home.

Once inside, you realised that he was incapable of staying still for more than a few minutes. He looked and touched everything. He ran his fingers over a chipped lamp, picked up a crooked pen, flipped through a half-finished notebook, like he was reading your life in fragments. He wanted to say something nice but…your place was a junkyard.

And he lived in a trailer.

He opened your cupboard and huffed a laugh.

Soup. Sooo much soup.

He took one out and smiled. He then realised that you had dated all of them with the exact day of purchase. If he was a freak, then you should be given the crown. He shook his head and then saw one on the counter…

Well well well. What do we have here? Why did that one deserve special treatment from her sisters? He looked at it and his eyes widened slightly when he saw that there was no date on that one. Just a name. His.

You returned at that moment with two glasses of juice and found him with the can you had purchased the day you both met. You opened your mouth to say something but, you then realized that there was nothing to justify. You just wanted to remember that day. There was no shame in it. You had made a friend. You wanted to remember that.

Eddie looked back at you and smiled.

“Hey, Soup Girl. Wanna share that one?”

Your blinked before smiling back.

Yeah. He knew…

…

The soup bowls were warm between your palms, radiating a comforting heat that curled around your fingers. You sat at opposite ends of the couch, a shared can split evenly, steam rising between you like a peace treaty. Eddie didn’t talk much at first. Neither did you. But it wasn’t awkward. Just…quiet. He seemed to belong here, in a strange way. Sprawled out on your old secondhand couch like it was made for him, legs wide, shoulders loose. His spoon clinked gently against the ceramic bowl every so often.

Then it happened.

You both reached for the salt at the same time.

Fingers brushed. Just for a second.

But your body betrayed you. A small, instinctive flinch—shoulders twitching back, breath catching in your throat like a hiccup. You hadn’t meant to react. It wasn’t even a bad touch. It wasn’t bad at all. That was the worst part. Eddie noticed immediately. His hand froze, then withdrew slowly, carefully, as if he were pulling it back from the edge of a cliff.

“…You good?”

You stared down into your soup for a second, your spoon barely moving. Your pulse thumped in your ears. You hated this part—the freeze, the fear, the way your mind tugged in two directions like a fraying rope.

You took a breath.

“I just…” you started, voice low. “I don’t like being touched.”

You braced yourself for something—a laugh, a joke, a change in his face. But Eddie didn’t do any of those things. He just blinked. Absorbed it. Then he smiled.

“Cool,” he commented simply, with a little nod. “Then I won’t touch you unless you say I can.”

A beat passed. Then another. And then, with the kind of grin that made you suspicious of its owner’s brain-to-mouth filter, he added, “But I will say—you’re missing out. I give a mean hug. Like, award-winning. I was robbed of a title once. Rigged competition. Big scandal. Whole town talked about it.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been the beginning of a laugh. Your lips curved, just barely. Not ready. Not fully. But something inside you warmed. Not just from the soup.

“Mm,” you hummed, spoon hovering over your bowl. “I’ll add that to the list of things I’ve missed out on.”

Eddie didn’t press. Didn’t scoot closer. Just smiled, as if your smile was something rare and he didn’t want to scare it off. You ate the rest of your soup in silence. But this time, it felt like sharing something. Even if it wasn’t a hug.

Not yet. Maybe someday.

“Hey,” Eddie said and snapped you out of your thoughts, suddenly rubbing the back of his neck. “Would it be…weird if I came back sometime? You know. Just to hang. Talk. Share soup and stuff.”

You blinked at him. The question was casual, but something behind it wasn’t. You felt it. That tiny fear of being too much. Or not enough.

You nodded with a smile. “Anytime.”

He grinned like you’d handed him the moon. What you didn’t expect was for ‘anytime’ to mean literally every night after that…By the third evening, you opened the door to find him holding two grocery bags like he was ready to pitch a tent and declare squatter’s rights, you just stared.

And accepted your fate.

You couldn’t possibly throw him out when the squatter in question was beaming at you and greeting you at the door with a: “Soup challenge night, baby.”

You blinked. “…Soup what now?”

Eddie pushed past you and plopped the bags on the counter. “I hit every grocery store in a ten-mile radius. We are ranking every soup flavour and brand I could find. This one’s organic. This one’s not. This one says ‘homestyle’ and I think that’s a trap.”

You looked at the cans in disbelief. “How many did you buy?”

He grinned at you. “Enough to question my life choices, not enough to regret them.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself and began heating the first can. He handed you a notepad and four categories scrawled across the top in his messy, looping handwriting:

1. Vibe

2. Slurpability

3. Emotional Damage

4. Soup-to-Soul Ratio

You glanced at him sideways. “Emotional damage?”

He shrugged. “Some soups just hurt, man.”

And so began the nightly ritual. Each night, a new soup. A new score. A new round of Eddie’s ridiculous, heartfelt commentary (“This one tastes like getting stood up at prom but making friends with the janitor instead”), and your increasingly sarcastic but secretly delighted responses. It seemed he was rubbing off his confidence on you as you started being more and more comfortable around him. At first, he always sat on the opposite end of the couch. Always gave you space. But over time, the gap shrank by inches, then not at all. Still no touching. Never without permission. But the nearness wasn’t scary anymore. It was warm. Familiar.

Somewhere between can #8 and #12, you caught yourself laughing so hard you had to put the spoon down. You looked over and saw him watching you. And for the first time in a long time, you realized something:

You liked him. A lot. That man had just barged into your life unexpectedly and had little by little became a part of your daily life…

Even if he was Eddie Munson. Maybe especially because he was Eddie Munson…

…

It started as nothing.

Just a quick trip to the store. You and Eddie, as usual. He was still riding high off last night’s soup ranking—had made you watch him act out a dramatic Oscar speech for Best Supporting Broth. You’d laughed until your stomach hurt. You were now in the canned aisle again, when someone called out.

“Munson!”

Eddie turned, his arm brushing yours. A guy walked towards you—someone around your age, all smirk and swagger, holding a six-pack and dressed like he knew people would look. You didn’t recognize him, but the familiarity in his eyes when he looked at Eddie made your chest tighten.

“Didn’t know you got yourself a girlfriend, man,” the guy teased, eyeing you like you were part of the punchline. “She the reason you keep buying soup like it’s the apocalypse?”

You froze. Your palms began to sweat. You tried to keep your expression neutral, but it always betrayed you when it mattered most. Before you could answer—before Eddie could say a thing—the guy stepped forward and, in what he probably thought was good humor, slung an arm around your shoulders.

“What did you do to him, huh?” he said with a mock-pout before smirking. “What’s your secret, huh? Witchcraft? Now Eddie seems to be attached to your hip 24/7.”

It was like your whole body locked up. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

Too close. Too sudden. Too much.

The air left your lungs. Then, just as quickly, the weight lifted. Eddie had peeled the guy’s arm off you without raising his voice, but with a grip that said he absolutely could. His body was suddenly between you and the other guy.

“Hey,” Eddie started, tone casual but steel-laced. “Let’s not touch people who didn’t ask to be touched, yeah?”

The guy blinked. Laughed like he wasn’t sure whether it was still a joke. “Relax, man. I was just kidding—”

“Yeah,” Eddie interrupted, smile gone. “She’s not laughing.”

Eddie didn’t look back at you, didn’t make a show of checking on you. He just held his ground. The guy backed off with a shrug, mumbling something about people being too sensitive these days, and wandered off.

Eddie turned then and looked at you. His expression was soft with concern. “You okay?”

You managed a nod.

He let out a small breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Okay. Good. Because that guy? He can bite it.”

You smiled faintly, trying to shake off the tremor in your chest.

“Sorry,” you muttered.

Eddie tilted his head, frowning like you’d just said something in another language. “What are you apologizing for? Being uncomfortable when someone touches you without permission? That’s not a you problem, Soup Girl.”

You looked at him and for the first time, you didn’t feel embarrassed for needing space.

Because he’d protected it.

Without turning it into a scene.

Without turning you into a victim.

Just…stood up for you. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eddie gave a sheepish little shrug. “No one messes with my soup girl. Besides me.”

And somehow, that made you laugh again—small, breathy, real. The trip ended with him insisting you pick out two cans today. The car ride home was quiet. Not awkward. Just filled with that kind of electric silence that buzzed under the skin. And then, your mouth worked before your mind could truly process it.

“You can stay the night, if you want.”

You didn’t even look at him when you said it. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter and tried to pretend you hadn’t felt your own heart skip. You expected hesitation. A polite no. A joke, maybe. But instead—

“Yeah,” Eddie replied, like it was obvious. “I’d like that.”

He was trying to play it cool—but his knee kept bouncing, bobbing up and down with restless joy. His fingers drummed against his thigh in rhythm, and every few seconds he snuck a glance at you.

You didn’t look back. But you felt it.

One corner of your mouth curled.

It was ridiculous, really. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t a date. It was just…dinner and maybe a movie. But you could tell, by the way he bounced like a restless kid, that this meant something to him.

And, okay, maybe it meant something to you too.

…

By the time you pulled up to your place, Eddie had tried to tone it down, smoothing his palms over his jeans and muttering to himself under his breath like he was giving himself a pep talk. You unlocked the door and he followed you in, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes immediately darting around like he was trying to take mental pictures of everything again. Like your weird soup-stocked home had become his favorite museum exhibit.

“You sure you’re cool with this? Like—me crashing here? I don’t snore, but I do occasionally sleep-talk about dragons. Fair warning.”

You raised a brow. “You sleep-talk?”

He chuckled awkwardly. “Only the important stuff. Soup recipes. Black Sabbath lyrics. Once I did a monologue from The Lord of the Rings in my sleep. My uncle taped it. He was disturbed.”

You snorted. “I’ve survived worse.”

He smiled—wide, a little crooked, a little stunned. “I can sleep on the couch. It looks amazing. Real comfy.”

You hesitated for half a beat as you looked at the couch which would obviously be too small for him to be truly comfortable. “You can sleep in my room if you want.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait. I get your room?”

You shrugged. “We can share. You’ve been nothing but respectful. I trust you.”

You went to grab extra blankets, and he wandered into your room like it was holy ground, careful not to touch anything for more than a second. He sat on the edge of your bed like it was made of glass. Then, a moment later, he flopped back with a groan and mumbled toward the ceiling:

“Sleeping at Soup Girl’s house. In her bed. With her.” He smiled. “Metal.”

A few minutes later

You hadn’t meant to walk in like that. You were just bringing him extra blankets and a spare shirt—something soft and oversized from the back of your drawer. But as you stepped in and looked up—

You stopped.

Eddie was standing near the bed, shirtless, backlit by the low glow of your bedside lamp. The room felt impossibly small, and he felt impossibly present in it. His skin was pale, scattered with freckles and ink, tattoos sprawled across his chest and arms. There was a mess of scribbles—flames, skulls, various creatures and a tiny dice—and lines of script you couldn’t read from here. His jeans rode low on his hips, exposing the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband.

Your breath caught.

You slapped a hand over your eyes on instinct. “Oh—shit. Sorry, I didn’t—”

Your voice died. Because his hand gently reached for yours. Eddie didn’t pull. He didn’t force. Just touched, asked, wordlessly, with the pads of his fingers against your knuckles. Light. Careful. You didn’t back away and slowly he removed your hand from your eyes. He was giving you permission to look. After a moment, you did. Your eyes danced over his chest and you held back a gasp. He knew that you were admiring. He could see it in your eyes. That small spark of light. He slowly interlaced his fingers with yours, and your breath hitched. Then, without a word, he lifted your joined hands—guiding yours to rest against his bare chest.

You felt the heat of him. The rhythm beneath your palm. A steady heartbeat. Real. Alive. And even then, he didn’t speak. He just covered your trembling hand with his own— anchoring, comforting—and let you stay there. Let you choose. You stared at the tattoos on his chest instead of his eyes. Your lashes fluttered, your breath uneven. His ink looked like stories carved into skin. There was so much of him. Too much. Too close. And yet—

You weren’t afraid of him. His thumb brushed yours gently. He did not urge you. If you wanted more, you could. If you didn’t, same thing really. He was already enjoying your curious gaze on him. It was like trying to reassure a timid fawn on the side of the road to come along. And then, he leaned forward. Close enough to press the lightest kiss against your cheek.

You stiffened. Froze. But you still didn’t pull away.

Eddie chuckled, voice soft and warm near your ear. “Hey. It’s okay,” he murmured, his lips just barely brushing your skin. “I promise I’m not gonna bite. Aaaand I got all my shots. Swear.”

You laughed. A shaky, breathy sound. You weren’t ready for more. And he didn’t ask for it. But you stayed. Hand to his heart. His hand over yours. Two people standing in the quiet, in the soft glow of lamp light, in a room that was starting to feel a little less yours, and a little more like both of yours.

…

An hour later…

Your back was to him. His was half-turned, one arm under the pillow, the other curled up near his chest. The tension of earlier had faded, replaced by something sleepier. Softer. Like exhaling after a long, hard day.

You thought he might’ve fallen asleep.

Until you heard his voice.

“…Y’know, I’ve never actually done this before.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Done what?”

He hesitated. You could almost feel the sheepish grin before he said it. “A sleepover. With a girl.”

You smiled into your pillow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously seriously.” He shifted a little. “Like, not the kind where there’s kissing and making out and then everyone leaves before breakfast. I mean…this.”

You turned slightly, just enough to peek over your shoulder. He was staring up at the ceiling now, hair a messy halo, one leg half-kicked free from the blanket.

“I never stayed,” he murmured. “And no one ever asked me to.”

You swallowed. Something about that hit deeper than you expected. “You can stay as long as you want. I already made it clear that I do not mind your presence. You are like my…forever guest.”

He turned his head just enough to look at you. You couldn’t see much in the dark—just the shape of him, the curve of his nose, the glint of his eye. But you felt the weight of his gaze.

“Yeah,” he whispered with a smile. “Guess I am.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then his voice again, a little quieter. “Thanks. For letting me stay.”

Your voice cracked a little, soft with sincerity. “Thanks for staying.”

He smiled. And after a moment, he asked, “Can I like…scoot a little closer?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

So he did. Just enough for his knee to lightly bump yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t try to make it more.

But you felt it. That warmth again. That silent comfort. And in the hush of the night, you fell asleep next to Eddie Munson—feeling, for once, like maybe letting someone in wouldn’t be so bad.

In the morning

You blinked a few times when the sun hit your eyes. The room was still. And then you noticed it. Eddie’s breathing. Slow. Even. Close. You turned your head and found him lying on his side, facing you. His mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheekbones, curls tangled over his forehead. One hand had snuck out from the blanket and rested near yours, close but not quite touching—like he’d reached out in his sleep, then stopped just short.

You didn’t want to move. But you must’ve shifted, because a moment later his nose twitched. His brow furrowed just a little—scrunching like he was confused about waking up. And then, his eyes cracked open.

Sleepy. Brown. Soft. Chocolate buttons…

“…Hey,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse with sleep. “Still here.”

You smiled, voice barely above a whisper as you replied. “I noticed.”

He gave a sleepy grin, slow and genuine, then stretched one arm above his head with a dramatic groan before flopping back down, half on his face. His curls puffed against the pillow.

“Your bed’s cursed,” he muttered. “Too cozy. I’ll never leave.”

You laughed quietly. He peeked at you again, through the tangle of his hair.

“…This okay?” he asked. And he meant the moment. The space. The proximity. The fact that you hadn’t woken him up and shoved him out the door the second the sun rose.

You nodded, feeling something soft unfurl in your chest. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding something in. Then rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling with a small smile. “I dreamed I turned into soup and you ate me. Spoon by spoon. Before giving me a D for lack of flavour.”

You blinked and laughed. “That tracks.”

His own mouth twitched into a smile. “You’re brutal in dreamland.”

You both lay in silence for a beat. And then, his voice again—warm, content, a little amused. “…Hey. You want me to do breakfast? I make amazing scrambled eggs.”

You smiled and nodded. He looked at you and answered you with a smile. His hand lifted…as if to touch your cheek. But he stopped himself and coughed before quickly getting out of bed. He then walked to the kitchen and looked at what he could cook without making a mess. He did not see the way you looked at him from behind and smiled…a smile that anyone would recognise. It was the kind of smile you gave when your eyes settled on the object of an affection deep and true.

He stood up with a couple of eggs in his hand and started making scrambled eggs. However, he cursed when he saw what time it was. He then turned around to tell you that he had band practice today and that he needed to leave—but that he would be back tonight.

Your eyes did hold a certain disappointment, but you quickly chased it away. You smiled again. “Sure. Have a great time.”

He nodded and quickly got dressed before leaving in a hurry. You then looked at the scrambled eggs and took a bite.

Not the most amazing scrambled eggs.

But still…pretty good.

That night

You’d made dinner. Well—tried to. It was mostly assembled stuff. Things that didn’t require too much time or effort. Pasta, some garlic bread, the good kind of cheap soda in glass bottles. You’d even set the table.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was the new normal. Eddie coming over. Talking. Laughing. Ranking soup like wine snobs. Sleeping over. Waking up beside him and pretending it wasn’t the highlight of your week…You knew he would come back eventually.

You just didn’t expect later to be…this late.

The food had gone cold. You’d reheated it once. Then again. Eventually, you stopped checking the clock and just sat on the couch in your hoodie, legs tucked beneath you, trying not to admit you felt a little foolish.

And then the door opened.

You looked up just as Eddie stumbled in, wind-chilled and glowing from the rush of post-practice adrenaline. His eyes spotted the two plates and he smiled. “Sorry I’m late, sweetheart.”

He said it so easily. So casually. And in the same breath, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek. It was fast. Barely there. But it hit like a live wire. Your body didn’t move. But your brain? Fireworks. Sirens. Screaming goats. Something internally short-circuited.

Sweetheart. He said sweetheart.

He kissed you. On the cheek.

Which, yes, was technically innocent. A blip. But it was still something. Your throat tightened. You nodded stiffly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your entire soul had flinched. But Eddie wasn’t dense.

He stepped back slightly, his brow furrowing. “…Everything okay?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just—tired.”

“Hmm.” His gaze searched your face for a beat longer, then softened. “I mean it, though. I’m really sorry. Practice ran long, and Gareth broke a string, and then we had to run back to get his amp because apparently some people forget half their gear when they’re in love with their own solos…” He trailed off, realizing you hadn’t really responded. So he changed tactics. “…Is that garlic bread?”

You nodded, still frozen.

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re a saint.” He gave a little bow of reverence, then sat down opposite you. You sat there. Still warm from where his lips touched your cheek. Still trembling from the word sweetheart. You had no idea what this meant.

But you knew it meant something.

You then both ate in silence…

…

You stood in the doorway of your bedroom, watching Eddie fuss with the blankets on the bed like he was trying to win a wrestling match against them.

You smiled—tired but genuine.

He looked up and caught your gaze. His hair was a mess, his band tee crooked from where he’d peeled off his jean jacket, and one sock was hanging halfway off his foot. And yet, he looked completely at home.

Which was…becoming a problem.

Because you couldn’t tell if this was just Eddie being Eddie—or if you were slowly falling off a cliff you weren’t ready to name. You lingered in the doorway for a second longer before getting under the blankets as well. Then, as lightly as you could muster you whispered: “Goodnight…darling.”

You turned to sleep. And he spun. A full, dramatic 180, like someone had slapped him with a metal album and told him to pay attention.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, voice halfway between scandalized and stunned.

You blinked. “I said goodnight.”

He squinted and scooted closer. “No, no, no, no. You definitely added a little spice at the end of that sentence.”

You shrugged, heat creeping up your neck. “I was just…being polite?”

“Oh no,” he said, now grinning. “You hit me with the d-word. That’s a loaded word. That’s old Hollywood. That’s flirtier-than-soup flirt, and you know it.”

You scoffed, trying to retreat. “I was being subtle.”

He chuckled and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, it was subtle, alright. Like being hit with a brick or by a car. You can’t just casually call a man darling and then go to sleep. That’s not how things work. You can’t just do that to me.”

“Why not?” you challenged.

“Because,” he said, breaching into your personal space—“now I have to wonder what happens if I call you sweetheart again.”

Silence. Thick. Electric.

You both froze.

So…that was on purpose? The casual ‘sweetheart’. He knew what he was doing calling you that.

His voice softened. “You okay with me…calling you that, right?”

You swallowed. Then nodded. Slowly. He smiled. “Then I’m definitely not stopping. And I mean…if you want to keep calling me darling. Please. Do.”

He tried to reach for your hand, but you retreated. You couldn’t handle much more right now. He backed up, hands raised. “Okay. Message received. I will…keep to myself. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He then decided to leave the bed and go to the couch. He understood the need for space.

You hid your face in your hands.

You were so screwed.

…

In the morning

You woke up to warmth. A lot of it.

And pressure. And…tangled limbs?

For a brief moment, your sleep-fogged brain tried to make sense of the situation. You could barely move. Something was wrapped around your waist. One of your legs wasn’t where you left it. And there was a knee suspiciously close to your ribs.

Then you blinked your eyes open.

Eddie. Asleep.

Practically wrapped around you like an overgrown, snoring octopus.

One arm thrown across your stomach, the other trapped under your neck like a pillow he’d claimed in the middle of the night. One leg hooked around yours. And his face—sweet God—his face was pressed into your shoulder, lips slightly parted as he breathed against your skin, dark curls everywhere.

Your first instinct? Panic.

You didn’t do this. This wasn’t normal. You weren’t even sure how it happened—he was on the couch last night. Right? You stared at the ceiling in stunned silence for a moment. Carefully, you moved your fingers.

“…Eddie?”

His grip tightened. You blinked again. He mumbled something. Then nuzzled closer. You felt his breath brush your collarbone and had to force yourself not to make a sound. It was terrifyingly sweet. Intimate. And so unexpected it made your brain short-circuit.

“…Eddie,” you tried again, a little firmer.

His eyes cracked open slowly, heavy with sleep. He looked at you, confused. Then down. Then back at you.

“…Shit.”

You both froze.

He didn’t move—just groaned into the pillow. “I swear I started on the couch.”

“I believe you,” you reassured him quickly.

“I have a history of unconscious bed invasion,” he mumbled. “Wayne’s been trying to cure me of it for years. Same with the sleep-talking. But he never found a solution.”

You laughed, half-nervous, half…surprised. Because this was new. But not scary. Not wrong. Not unwelcome.

He lifted his head, hair a complete mess. “Are you okay?”

You hesitated—then nodded. “Yeah. Just…surprised.”

He smiled sheepishly and began the slow, delicate process of detangling himself from you. “I can go back to the couch.”

You caught his arm gently. “You don’t have to.”

His eyes flicked to you.

You added, under your breath, “But maybe…fewer limbs.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

And when he settled back beside you—this time with a little more intentional space—you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

Invaded? Maybe.

But it was the nicest invasion you’d ever known.

…

A few weeks later

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the old floorboards. You and Eddie were nestled under the blankets, the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you grounding every flutter in your chest. He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek gently, and leaned in, just like always—aiming for that familiar, safe spot on your cheek.

But this time, your head turned instinctively.

The moment your lips met, time did a little somersault.

Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, wide and a little startled, but there was something else in his gaze. You froze, cheeks flushed, heart thundering louder than a drumline.

He whispered, barely audible, “Well…didn’t see that coming.”

You laughed nervously, your voice barely above a breath, “Neither did I.”

But when he shifted closer, resting his forehead against yours, all the awkwardness melted away.

…

It didn’t happen all at once.

First, it was little things—his jacket over your chair, his band tee in your laundry, the scent of his shampoo faintly clinging to your pillow. Then came the louder signs: his boots by the door, his guitar leaning against the wall, that half-used can of hairspray in your bathroom that somehow multiplied instead of ran out.

You didn’t ask him to move in.

He just…kept showing up. More and more.

Until one day, he never really left. He invaded your space like a slow sunrise. Not with a bang, but with a steady warmth that filled all the cold corners. He made your mornings louder. Your evenings dumber. Your nights safer. He’d play riffs in the kitchen while you stirred soup. He’d leave scribbled “rate my performance” notes next to your toothbrush after humming into your hair while you brushed. He’d fall asleep tangled in your blanket, one sock missing, a comic book open on his chest.

And you—who once tiptoed through the world like a whisper—found yourself laughing in full volume now. The place still looked like a junkyard. But now it looked like your junkyard—to the both of you. And one quiet afternoon, while you folded laundry and he laid on the couch tossing a pillow at the ceiling like it was a game, he murmured without looking at you:

“I think I live here now.”

You didn’t even pause. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He finally looked at you—crooked smile and all. “You good with that?”

You smiled. Soft, sure. “I’ve never been better.”

He stood up and before you could comprehend what was going on, you were spun in the air. You screamed and laughed as Eddie kept spinning you around and laughing with you.

Nothing seemed wrong anymore. Only right.

…

A few days later

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet for a night Eddie was supposed to come back humming with leftover stage energy and smelling like smoke and adrenaline. You’d been waiting—half-worried, half-knowing. And when the door finally creaked open well past midnight, you didn’t need to ask. One look at him, at the slumped shoulders and uncharacteristic silence, told you everything.

He didn’t say a word. Just muttered something about being tired and disappeared into the bedroom.

You gave him space. For twenty minutes.

Then you grabbed the emergency cereal box—the one with the ridiculous cartoon mascot and way too much sugar—and crept quietly into the room. He was cocooned in your blankets, his hair a mess over your pillow, one leg sticking out like he’d given up halfway through sulking. You didn’t say anything. Just lifted the blankets and began to worm your way in beside him, dragging the box with you like it was a peace offering.

Eddie cracked one eye open. “…Is that the good kind?”

You nodded solemnly. “The forbidden marshmallow kind.”

He huffed, a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something. You settled beside him, balancing the box between you both. You didn’t ask about the show. He didn’t offer. You believed he would tell you on his own eventually. You let the silence do the comforting, broken only by the soft crunch of cereal and the rustle of blankets. At one point, his shoulder brushed yours and this time—you didn’t flinch.

Eventually, he did tell you.

“…It was a stupid gig,” he finally muttered, still not looking at you. “Crowd was dead. Half the mics didn’t work. Gareth broke a string. Again. Some asshole yelled ‘Freebird.’”

You nodded solemnly, chewing beside him. “A classic tragedy.”

“Not even the good kind,” he grumbled. “Like, at least let me go down in a blaze of glory, not…defeat by shitty performance.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, gently.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, “if it makes you feel better, most geniuses were misunderstood.”

He snorted, finally turning a little to glance at you—hair in his face, eyes tired, but the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips.

“…Thanks, sweetheart.”

You held the box out to him again. “Cereal is love. Cereal is life.”

He grabbed another handful and sighed, letting his forehead knock lightly against yours. “I’m keeping you.”

You restrained a laugh. “A) I am the owner. B) You live here.”

He smiled. “Doesn’t make me keeping you any less true.”

You didn’t say anything after that. You didn’t need to. You just lay there, munching cereal in the quiet, sharing the warmth, letting him feel safe and seen again.

Bad show or not—he’d still end the night in bed, with you.

A month later

He didn’t know you were coming.

He was mid-rant backstage—about how the lighting sucked, and Jeff’s drum sticks had disappeared, and he couldn’t find his pick (it was in his pocket, it’s always in his pocket). He was anxious in that way he got before every gig, pacing and twitchy and talking too fast.

And then they called Corroded Coffin up.

He stomped on stage, full of bluster and sarcasm and eyeliner—like always. Grabbed the mic. Looked out at the crowd. Ready to put on a show for a room full of strangers who might or might not care.

And then he saw you.

Front row.

Wearing one of his band’s old t-shirts, one he didn’t even know you had. You didn’t wave. You didn’t shout. You just smiled—big, warm, eyes lit up like you were proud of him before he even strummed the first chord. He froze for half a second. Long enough for Gareth to glance sideways, confused. Long enough for Eddie’s heart to skip a full beat and crash land in his chest. You’d come. On your own. You didn’t have to. He hadn’t even offered you to come—knowing how you hated big crowds.

But you were still there. His Soup Girl.

For him.

He tried to recover quickly—cleared his throat and leaned into the mic, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“This one…” he said, voice a little rough, “is dedicated to someone in the front row who snuck in like a ninja and didn’t even tell me she had bought a ticket to one of our shows.”

You saw his eyes flicked to yours again. A flash of teeth in his smile. That little, stupid, boyish tilt of his head.

“This is for my Soup Girl. My sweetheart. She knows who she is.”

The crowd whooped like they knew a love story when they saw one. And as the first notes rang out, you watched Eddie light up the stage—loud and alive and utterly himself. But every time he looked your way, he played just a little harder. Smiled just a little wider. And when the show ended and he leapt off the stage straight into your arms, sweat-damp and breathless, he didn’t even wait before whispering in your ear:

“You came.”

You nodded, still smiling, and whispered back, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then buried his face in your neck like he’d explode otherwise. He never said it out loud—not that night, anyway—but that moment? That was the one where he realized something important.

He was gone for you. Completely. And so were you…

…

Later that night

“So…soup for dinner?”

The question had been casual—almost a reflex, the way he asked it. One hand on the wheel, the other draped over the gearstick, humming along to some half-forgotten tune on the radio as golden light spilled in through the windows.

You looked at him and smiled. “Not tonight.”

He blinked, then glanced over in full. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Tonight you get to choose.”

There was a beat of silence. The car kept moving, but Eddie had stopped. Not literally, but in that way people do when something settles too deep to ignore. He glanced at you. And something in his eyes changed. His smirk didn’t come, no teasing, no gasp of pure disbelief. Just…that expression. Like you’d slipped a hand inside his chest and placed something solid where he’d only had static before.

“You sure?” he asked quietly. “We might be violating some soup treaty.”

You smiled again. “I trust you.”

That was it. Just three words.

But it did something to him. He didn’t say much after that. Just nodded slowly and looked back at the road. You didn’t need to look at him to know. You felt it—the way his fingers tapped the wheel like they were holding in something big. The way he glanced at you again when he thought you weren’t looking. Like he couldn’t believe you were still sitting there—with him.

You’d told him you loved him, without saying the words. You’d given him the choice.

And when he pulled into that tiny, run-down diner he’d always been too embarrassed to suggest before—his favorite, the one that served greasy grilled cheese and chocolate milkshakes that came in metal cups—you didn’t ask any question.

You just unbuckled your seatbelt and smiled.

Eddie grinned. Wide. A little dazed. A little crooked.

“Love you too, sweetheart.”

You heard and looked back at him. And you smiled. The brightest smile he had ever seen and if he hadn’t been completely obsessed with you before, he sure as hell was now. He took your hand and you laced your fingers. The way you looked at him like he was made of something rare, like he was wanted and not just tolerated. The way your fingers fit between his like they’d been waiting for him this whole time. There was no big music swell. No flashing lights. Just the hum of the streetlamp outside the diner and the warmth of your hand in his.

Eddie stared at your joined fingers like he couldn’t believe it.

“You’re unreal, y’know that?” he asked, voice lower, gentler than usual before he grinned at you. “Like—someone should check if you actually exist.”

You chuckled. “You’re holding my hand.”

“Yeah, well,” he breathed, grinning again, “I’ve hallucinated worse.”

You tugged him towards the diner.

Inside, the place smelled like melted butter and old coffee. The waitress didn’t even blink at the sight of the two of you—just gave a tired smile and led you to a cracked booth by the window. Eddie ordered for both of you like he’d done it a hundred times in his dreams. You didn’t stop smiling. Not once.

That night, between bites of grilled cheese and the clink of milkshake cups, something settled between you. And neither of you needed soup to feel full anymore.

“You wanna know something funny?” You asked at the end of dinner.

Eddie blinked, half a strawful of chocolate milkshake still in his mouth. He slurped the rest of it up dramatically before leaning forward across the sticky table.

“Always,” he confirmed, eyes twinkling. “But only if it’s, like, ha-ha funny and not cry-in-the-shower funny.”

You smirked, playing with a napkin between your fingers.

“It’s about the soup,” you admitted.

Eddie gasped, clutching his heart. “My god. I knew this day would come. You’re leaving me for soup.”

You snorted, then rolled your eyes. “No, dork. Just…the day we met? That dumb fight over one stupid can of tomato soup?”

He grinned. “The beginning of our epic, soup-fueled saga. Yeah?”

You nodded before admitting. “I actually don’t even like that brand all that much.”

Eddie’s mouth dropped open like you’d confessed to arson.

“You’re joking. You mean I nearly sprained my wrist dueling a total stranger in a canned goods aisle over soup you didn’t even like?”

You shrugged, that playful gleam in your eyes. “It was the last can. You wanted it. I panicked. And…I dunno. Something about you made me want to get it before you did.”

Eddie stared at you, then burst out laughing. Loud, nose-crinkling, head-thrown-back laughing. A few patrons turned to look, but neither of you cared. When he finally calmed down, he reached across the table, curling his fingers lightly around yours.

“Well,” he said, voice still warm with laughter, “for the record…I’m really glad you were stubborn about that can of soup.”

You squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

The waitress came by to drop off the check, and Eddie reached for it without letting go of your hand.

“Next time,” he said, “we battle over waffles.”

“Loser does the dishes?” you offered.

Eddie’s grin went lopsided. “Deal.”

[demeterlindavis]

A Dragon's Claim

Word Count: 10.9k

Tags: dragon!sylus x fem!reader, smut, cunnilingus, breeding, creampies, biting, slight injury, some bleeding, primal kink, courting rituals, mating rituals, sylus has two cocks :333

Summary: Sylus begins to act strange and you think he may have caught some sort of illness. He's strangely warm, irritable and eating more. However this "illness" turns out to be more intense than you could have ever imagined... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you." You freeze. His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do." His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made. "You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

AN: Okay so, this fic was SO fun to write I may have gotten a little carried away hehe. This was a little bit out of my comfort zone but I am so happy with it!! Plus it was about time I did a oneshot for dragon!sylus. After what he went through he deserves as many babies as he wants ;(

Enjoy!!

Sylus had been unusually irritable lately, and it wasn’t just in the way he grunted or snapped when spoken to—it was in everything. His eyes seemed sharper, flicking around like he was constantly on edge, and his tail, which normally lay relaxed behind him, had developed a twitchy, agitated flick. He wasn’t acting like the level-headed fiend you’d come to know and love.

Even he seemed aware of the shift; there were moments he paused mid-sentence or mid-motion, as if catching himself acting out of character. When he returned to the cave after hunting, he couldn’t seem to keep still. He paced the stone floor in restless circles, ran his claws along the wall, muttered to himself under his breath. His whole body seemed to vibrate with pent-up energy, with something unspoken roiling beneath the surface.

His appetite had doubled, maybe even tripled. He devoured whatever meat, vegetables, or fruit he managed to scavenge or hunt for the both of you, sometimes not even bothering to sit down before tearing into it. He would eat so quickly it was like he hadn’t tasted food in days, and when he was done, he still looked unsatisfied. It was primal, instinctive, like something inside him was demanding more than he could give it.

And then there was the heat.

He’d started to feel noticeably warm to the touch, which was strange for a reptile. The first time you noticed it was when he brushed past you, and you flinched, startled by the heat radiating off his skin. Since then, it had only intensified. Whenever he hugged you, lingered too close, or let his fingers graze your arm, you felt it—his body running hot, almost feverish. It was unnerving. And his touches had changed too. They weren’t violent, but they carried a kind of hunger, an urgency that hadn’t been there before. He gripped a little tighter, held on a little longer. Like proximity alone wasn’t enough to settle whatever storm was brewing inside him.

It worried you terribly. Was he getting sick? Could dragons even get sick? The question gnawed at your thoughts, carving out little pits of anxiety in your chest no matter how often you tried to push it away. The heat that seemed to bleed from his skin, the sharp glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the unpredictable mood swings and restlessness...it all felt off. Like something inside him had shifted, and you didn’t know if it was something natural or something dangerous. You'd never seen him like this. He wasn’t just irritable, he was volatile. Every movement held tension, like he was wound too tightly and one wrong word might snap him in two.

You knew better than to voice your concerns aloud. Suggesting he try any kind of human treatment would go over about as well as trying to leash a wildfire. He’d scoff, roll his eyes, and brush you off with a dismissive sigh. Sylus was proud, fiercely so. Stubborn as a stone wall, and not exactly someone who tolerated being fussed over. An illness? He'd laugh at the implication.

Still, you couldn’t just sit back and watch him burn from the inside out.

So the next time he finally dozed off—after hours of pacing, mumbling under his breath, and tossing scraps into the fire like they’d wronged him personally—you waited until his breathing evened out and his face slackened. He lay sprawled out on the nest of furs you’d both piled near the hearth, the orange firelight casting shadows across his angular features. One arm was thrown loosely over his chest, the other curled slightly beside him. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that looked almost peaceful. Almost.

You moved with painstaking care, the cool, damp cloth in your hand trembling slightly from how tightly you gripped it. Your feet barely made a sound against the stone floor as you approached, every step deliberate. When you reached his side, you crouched slowly, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it might wake him before you even got the chance to touch him. You leaned in, gently pressing the rag to his brow, hoping the cold would cut through the heat pouring off of him like he was lit from within.

For a brief moment, you felt relief. He didn’t stir. Maybe, just maybe, he would sleep through this.

But then something shifted.

Without warning, a firm pressure clamped around your wrist. You gasped, flinching, and the rag slipped from your fingers. Your gaze dropped, heart stalling in your chest, as you realized his tail had slithered around your arm in one smooth, silent motion. Like it had a mind of its own.

His eyes snapped open a second later, glowing faintly in the dim light, red pupils slitted and sharp. He looked at you without blinking, like he’d known what you were sneaking up on him the entire time.

"And what exactly do you think you're doing?" he murmured, voice husky with sleep and something else—something darker. There was a flicker of amusement there, curling at the corners of his lips, but beneath it was something far more intense. Possessive. Primal. Like he wasn’t just waking up, but awakening to something deeper.

You swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry. Your heart thundered against your ribs like it wanted to escape.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words caught in your throat, stuck somewhere between nervousness, concern and something you couldn’t name.

"I'm helping you, silly. You're sick," you mumble, voice soft but threaded with a note of stubborn concern. Your lips purse, irritation flickering across your features as you glance down at the thick coil of his tail still looped possessively around your wrist. "Now let go of me," you add, trying to sound firm despite the tremor in your voice.

To your surprise, he does. The tension releases almost instantly, the pressure around your wrist vanishing as his tail retreats. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, rubbing at your skin where the warmth lingered.

"I am not unwell," he says after a pause, voice rich and steady, threaded with an unmistakable certainty. "Only mortals burn with fever."

You frown, eyebrows drawing together in quiet frustration. "Yeah, but... you've been acting really strange lately," you reply, your voice lowering, touched now with genuine worry. "You’re restless, snappy, and you never eat this much. I just...I want to make sure you’re okay. That you’re not hurting."

The confession slips out before you can think better of it. You stare at him for a moment longer, searching his unreadable expression for some crack, some tell that might confirm or deny what your instincts have been screaming.

And then you move, slow and tentative, inching closer to him as if drawn by an invisible force. When you rest your head lightly against his chest, you feel the heat radiating off him in waves, hotter now than it had been earlier. His body is solid beneath you, unmoving, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. The sound of his heartbeat thuds against your ear, rapid and deep, like a distant drum.

You think, for a moment, that he might relax.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his entire frame stiffens. There’s a flash of tension through his shoulders, and then his tail moves again—but not with the idle instinct of before. It wraps around your waist in a slow, deliberate spiral, the grip firm but not cruel. He lifts you effortlessly, his strength startling in its subtlety, and then plants you down several feet away from him.

You blink, stunned, arms still half outstretched in the air where you had been.

The new distance between you is not just physical. It feels like a chasm, sudden and inexplicable, heavy with all the things he won’t say. You sit in silence for a heartbeat too long, the echo of his rejection ringing in your chest like a hollow bell.

He avoids your gaze, eyes cast to the fire, jaw clenched tightly.

"Hey! You can't ju—" you begin, voice raised in disbelief, frustration bubbling over—but the look he gives you stops you dead in your tracks. It's not angry or loud, but it carries a quiet authority that slices through the air like a blade. His eyes flash with a warning, cold and unreadable.

"Silence, love. Sleep on the other side of the cave tonight," he says, each word deliberate, clipped. There is no room for negotiation in his tone. It’s final. Commanding. His eyes close again, as if your protest doesn’t deserve his attention. Like the matter is already settled in his mind.

The dismissal stings more than you expect.

It hits like a slap, raw and disorienting. You reel back a step, mouth parting slightly as you try to process the flood of emotion that crashes down on you all at once. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. They churn in your chest, thick and suffocating. What the hell? All you had done was try to help. You had stayed up, watched over him, worried yourself sick, and this was how he repaid you? By pushing you away like a child being told to go to their room?

Ugh. Stubborn. Always so impossibly, frustratingly stubborn.

Your jaw tightens as the ache behind your eyes starts to burn. He didn’t get to do this. Not after everything. If he thought you were just going to walk away, tuck yourself into the far corner of the cave like a scolded pet and let him suffer in silence, he clearly didn’t know you as well as he should.

Because humans don’t give up on the ones they love.

"Sylus!" you bark, louder this time, anger sharpening your voice. You stomp across the stone floor toward him, every step punctuated by the slap of your feet and the pounding of your heart. "You know I’m not doing that! I’m not going to just curl up in the corner like you didn’t just say that to me!"

He says nothing, but you can see his jaw twitch. That slow, deliberate breath leaves his nostrils again—heavy, controlled. Tired. Still, he doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t look at you. It’s like he's deliberately trying to sever whatever invisible thread connects the two of you.

You press your palms into your thighs, trying to ground yourself, fighting the overwhelming desire to scream. "What is wrong with you? Just talk to me! Look at me! Say anything!"

But all you receive is silence. Stubborn, infuriating silence.

Your fists tighten at your sides. The cold cavern air suddenly feels stifling.

Fine. You could be stubborn too.

Without thinking, you finish crossing the cave, heart pounding loud enough to drown out your better judgment. Every step echoes with stubborn purpose as you close the gap he created between you. You don't hesitate. You don’t ask. You simply act—climbing over him, swinging a leg across his large body, and settling yourself squarely atop his waist. The furs beneath you shift and rustle, but he doesn’t stop you. His brow furrows slightly, the only sign he even notices, but otherwise, he remains infuriatingly still.

Still silent. Still distant.

You lean down slowly, hands braced on either side of his torso, and fix your gaze on his face, searching for some flicker of emotion—anything to tell you he’s still there beneath the silence. The heat rolling off of him is overwhelming up close, like standing too near a smoldering hearth. It curls around you, prickling your skin, quickening your breath. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken things.

"Sylus..." you murmur, your voice low, raw with feeling.

No response.

"Sylus! I know you can hear me!" you bark, sharper now, frustration rising with each second he continues to ignore you. Your heart twists painfully.

Still nothing.

You sigh, the sound long and defeated, your chest aching with the weight of his silence. Carefully, gently, you lower your forehead to his, hoping maybe the closeness will shake something loose. His skin burns beneath yours, unnaturally warm.

"I just want to know what’s wrong with you," you whisper, voice so quiet it nearly disappears in the cavern's stillness. "Guess your species are terrible communicators."

Still, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. But you feel it—something in him coiling tight, like a rope being pulled taut. He may be still, but he’s not unaffected. Something inside him is shifting, stirred by your proximity, your touch.

Acting on instinct and desperation, you close the small distance between your mouths and press a kiss to his lips. It’s meant to be fleeting, a soft reassurance. But it lingers. Longer than it should. Your lips stay, pressed gently to his, drawn in by the heat, the subtle shape of his mouth, the restraint that pulses beneath his immobility. Your eyes slip closed as your hands move—one cupping the side of his jaw, the other resting on his chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart.

Then you feel it. A breath. Deeper. Shakier. His chest rises and falls faster.

And in a blink, the world flips.

One moment you’re above him, tethered by warmth and hope—the next, you’re on your back, the furs catching your fall as a gasp escapes you. "Ah!" The air leaves your lungs in a rush. Your eyes fly open to find him hovering above you, strong arms braced on either side of your head. His large body cages yours in completely, heat surrounding you like a second skin.

His eyes are open now. And they are glowing.

There is something feral in his expression—not cruel, but ancient and wild and hungry. His gaze drags across your face with a depth that makes your breath hitch. Every inch of him is tense, restrained, as if holding back something that wants very badly to be unleashed.

He still hasn’t spoken.

But he is no longer ignoring you.

"You're making it very difficult to control myself, love," he growls, his voice like gravel softened by heat, thick with restraint and something darker coiled beneath it. The words roll over your skin just moments before his lips do. His breath fans against your neck—a warning, a promise—before he dips his head, and you feel the sharp, precise puncture of his teeth sinking into your skin.

This isn’t a playful nip. This isn’t a teasing show of dominance. His bite breaks the surface, deliberate and deep. You feel the sharp pain bloom instantly, a white-hot flash that steals the breath from your lungs. A gasp escapes you—startled, raw—and your hands fly up to clutch at his shoulders. Your fingers dig into him as your back arches against the sensation. Warm blood trickles down your shoulder, and your skin tingles where it flows.

You weren’t unfamiliar with Sylus's biting. He'd always had a possessive streak that came through when things turned intimate or emotional. But this—this felt different. It felt desperate. Like he was trying to root himself in you. Like something inside him was slipping, and you were the only thing keeping him from losing his grip.

His mouth lingers at your neck, his lips now parted just slightly. You feel the tremor in his breath before his tongue slips out and glides across the bite. Slow. Deliberate. He licks away the blood he’d drawn, and the pain dulls under the hot, wet press of his mouth. In its place comes a deep, spiraling heat that blooms low in your belly, tightening your grip on him.

"S-Sylus..." you breathe, barely able to form the words. Your voice trembles. "If you were just...er, in need—you know I would've helped you ages ago."

Still, he doesn’t answer.

You feel the way his body stiffens slightly against you. His hand slides up along your side, slow and controlled, as though he’s still deciding what to do with the storm inside him. Then, he leans in again and presses his lips gently to your neck, just beside the wound. This time, the touch is less claiming and more conflicted—like he's trying to soothe something in himself rather than stake another claim.

He stays there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of your skin, your blood, your closeness. You feel the tremble in his chest where it presses against yours, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch as though resisting the urge to hold you tighter. The cavern feels impossibly still around you, as if the very walls are holding their breath.

At last, he lifts his head. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, he looks completely unguarded. They glow faintly, with a trace of something wild, but it’s the emotion in them that catches your breath—raw, aching, afraid.

"It's more than that," he says, his voice rough and frayed at the edges. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Just...honest. Like every word costs him more than he knows how to show.

You stare at him, heart hammering, throat tightening.

Oh no. It's bad news, isn't it?

The thought slams into you with the force of a crashing wave, stealing the air from your lungs. You blink rapidly, trying to keep your vision clear, but the sting in your eyes wins. Tears begin to well, hot and fast, blurring the edges of your world as your chest tightens with dread. Something in his voice, in the way he looked at you—it had to mean something terrible. Something irreversible.

"What is it? Please tell me you're okay!" you blurt out, your voice cracking and shaking as panic rises up your throat. Your hands cling tighter to him, desperate and trembling, fingers curling into the fabric of whatever covers his back. As if somehow, your grip could keep him from slipping away. As if love alone could hold back whatever awful truth he was about to reveal.

Sylus blinks, visibly startled by your sudden burst of emotion. The intensity in your voice clearly catches him off guard. His eyes, once glowing with wild tension, soften slightly. His expression shifts—no longer hard and guarded, but touched with a flicker of something else. Something gentler.

Wordlessly, he draws you closer. His arms wrap around you more securely, with purpose now. Not to restrain, but to reassure. His hands press to your back, his warmth enveloping you like a cocoon. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and deliberate. A slow drag of velvet.

"No need to fret," he murmurs. "All is well."

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes wide, your breath caught halfway in your lungs. Your heart pounds in your ears. There’s a moment of suspended silence where you brace yourself for the real answer.

"It's just mating season."

You freeze. Your body goes still, and your mind... blanks.

Of all the explanations you had been preparing for—a curse, an ancient affliction, some kind of irreversible breakdown of his control—that had not even crossed your mind.

Mating season?

You blink once. Twice. And then the realization crashes over you, dragging with it a rush of relief and a sudden, absurd clarity. The heat, the irritability, the pacing, the biting, the overwhelming hunger—both physical and something deeper. It all made sense now. It fit together like puzzle pieces you hadn’t realized you were holding.

You let out a breathless huff, lips parting as the tension begins to unravel inside you.

And then you laugh.

A full, startled, ridiculous laugh bubbles up from your chest and bursts free before you can stop it. It catches you completely off guard, but you can’t hold it in. The absurdity of it all—the sheer contrast between what you imagined and what it actually was—breaks something loose in you.

You double over slightly, pressing your forehead into his collarbone as your shoulders shake with the sound. It’s laughter born of relief, disbelief, and the strange, heady rush of realizing everything isn’t falling apart.

Sylus stares down at you in silence, his eyes narrowing slightly. Clearly, he doesn’t find your reaction particularly amusing. If anything, his expression deepens into a look of resigned irritation, as if this wasn’t quite the response he expected.

But still, he doesn’t pull away. His arms stay around you, anchoring you to him, the heat of his body steady and real. His tail curls lightly around your leg, a quiet, instinctive motion. Protective. Possessive.

And despite the glare he levels at the top of your head, there’s no real venom behind it. He lets you laugh, lets you melt the fear from your chest with every shaky breath, until your voice begins to soften again.

Eventually, you lift your head, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

"Is something humorous?" he asks, his voice low, edged with a faint note of offense, though there is no true malice behind it. His eyes narrow slightly as they study your face, as though trying to decipher the cause of your sudden laughter. But even in his quiet suspicion, his arms never loosen their hold around you. If anything, he draws you closer.

You shake your head quickly, the laughter dying in your throat as a rush of guilt creeps in. "Honestly, you had me scared" you say, your voice softening, breaking slightly at the end. "I really thought you were going to die on me."

That doesn't seem to ease him. He exhales through his nose in a deep, low grunt—not dismissive, but something closer to acknowledgment. The sound vibrates against your body, a warm, strange comfort. Then, with a fluid, instinctive movement, he adjusts your positions. His strength is effortless as he shifts, guiding you until you're lying beside him on the furs, your body drawn into his larger frame like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

His arm curls around your waist, securing you against his chest. It isn’t just for comfort—there is something possessive in the gesture, protective, as if he’s anchoring you there by will alone. The heat of him envelops you entirely, bleeding into your limbs until the cold stone floor feels like a distant memory.

"Does this mean..." you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper. But the thought drifts before it finishes, scattered like leaves on the wind. You have so many questions tumbling through your mind: What does this mean for him? For you? Is this temporary? Instinct? A sign of something deeper? But they all blur at the edges, softening under the pull of exhaustion.

Your body is finally registering the toll of the night. You had stayed up far too late, keeping vigil while Sylus paced, brooded, fought himself in silence. You hadn't let yourself rest until he did. Now, the weight of sleeplessness pulls at your limbs like gravity, and your eyelids feel impossibly heavy.

Outside, the first blush of morning glows gently. Sunlight begins to pour through the narrow cracks in the rock that serves as the cave’s natural door. The pale beams stretch across the stone floor like golden fingers, warming the air with soft radiance. The quiet sounds of the wilderness beyond stir faintly, muted by distance—birds beginning their morning calls, wind rustling through high branches.

Sylus doesn’t answer your unfinished thought. He merely presses closer, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. His breath fans across your skin in slow, even waves, and the low, rhythmic sound that rumbles from his chest is unmistakable. A purr. Deep and velvety. Content.

The sound settles into your bones, a vibration that eases the tightness from your shoulders and lulls the last frayed edges of fear from your heart. There is something incredibly grounding about it—like being cradled by the earth itself. One of his hands rests on your waist, fingers spread, as if silently promising that you are safe, that he will not let go.

You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of smoke and warmth and him. Despite the adrenaline, despite the questions that remain unanswered, your body begins to let go. Your thoughts drift. His purring fills the quiet like a lullaby spun from heat and breath and unspoken devotion.

Sleep takes you gently.

And you surrender to it, wrapped in Sylus’s arms, as the light of a new day filters through stone and silence alike.

As the days passed, you began to notice other, more subtle changes in Sylus's behavior—the kind of shifts that spoke not just of mood, but of instinct, of ritual. Of purpose.

It started gradually. At first, it was the gifts. Sylus had always brought you little trinkets here and there—a gleaming stone from a riverbed, a silver ring once forgotten in the ruins of some fallen estate, or a flower pressed flat and preserved between scraps of parchment. But now? Now he returned from his ventures with arms full of treasure.

You began to receive things that looked as though they had been pulled from the vaults of kings. Gemstones the size of your knuckles. Necklaces heavy with gold and set with fire-bright opals. Crowns, actual crowns, one with a missing jewel that he promised to "replace shortly." Delicate filigree bracelets and earrings of such craftsmanship that you wondered if they had come from the hands of mortals at all.

You accepted them, of course. How could you not? They dazzled the eye and stirred something deep within your chest—awe, gratitude, wonder. And then there was the way Sylus looked at you when you accepted each piece. The way he watched your reactions with quiet intensity, hunger and satisfaction warring in his gaze as your fingers traced the contours of every offered treasure.

"Is this suitable to your liking, beloved?" he would ask, voice a rich hum in your ear. There was always a thread of tension in his tone, a need that ran deeper than pride.

You’d smile and nod, sometimes laughing softly at the extravagance, sometimes whispering thanks as you leaned into his warmth. That always seemed to satisfy him. His shoulders would relax, his tail would curl in closer around you, and a low purr would rumble from deep in his chest.

And the gifts didn’t stop with jewels and gold.

His hunting habits changed too. Where once he had returned with modest catches—a brace of rabbits, a string of fish, the occasional deer—now he came back with trophies that left you reeling. Massive elk, towering wild boars with tusks the length of your forearm. Game that would feed you both for weeks. And then, one evening, he returned dragging behind him the largest bear you had ever seen.

Its massive body sprawled across the cave entrance like something out of legend. Thick fur matted with snow and blood, claws that could gouge stone. You stood frozen in the firelight, staring at it, unsure whether to marvel or panic.

Sylus merely stood beside it, chin slightly raised, one clawed hand resting on its flank like a proud hunter presenting a trophy.

"For you," he said simply, as if it were nothing.

You had blinked at him, stunned. "Sylus, I...I don’t even know how to cook that."

He grinned, utterly unbothered. "Then I will learn."

The gifts. The feasts. The constant nearness. The careful watching of your every reaction. You had thought it was simply Sylus being more open, more affectionate in the wake of your recent closeness.

You were trying not to overthink it. Truly, you were. Every part of you wanted to believe that all the changes were just instinct, affection taken to a slightly obsessive level. You’d chalked up the treasure hoarding, the feasts, the increased proximity, the way he hovered just a little too closely sometimes—all of it to simple fondness. Maybe even a primal form of love. But nothing could have prepared you for what awaited you after returning from a brisk walk one particularly chilly afternoon.

The moment you stepped through the threshold of the cave, you froze in place, heart lurching with confusion.

Sylus had completely transformed everything.

Gone were the scattered, mismatched piles of pelts, the half-organized piles of gold, the signs of his usual indifference to comfort or aesthetic. In their place was something deliberate. Thoughtful. Nest-like. The entire back of the cave had been cleared and restructured, centered around an enormous bed of furs that had been meticulously arranged. It looked almost ceremonial in its care.

The old sleeping area had been expanded, padded with thick layers of fur and hide—including the bear pelt from the beast he had dragged home days ago. It now lined the center of the nest, skinned, cleaned and softened into a thick, luxurious base. Softer animal hides had been layered on top, and the perimeter was reinforced with woven branches, dried moss, and feathers, creating a barrier of warmth and comfort.

It wasn’t just for practicality. It was beautiful.

There were little details everywhere. Smooth stones from your favorite riverbank placed in a pattern near the fire pit. Bits of dried herbs—the ones you loved for tea or the scent they gave when burned—tucked into the seams of the bedding. A string of beads you thought you’d lost was now nestled between two thick furs, as if it had been intentionally displayed.

You stood there for several seconds, mouth slightly open, completely unprepared.

"Sylus..." you breathed, your voice caught somewhere between awe and bewilderment. "What’s the meaning of all this?"

He looked up at you from where he knelt, smoothing out the bear fur with surprising tenderness. His expression was completely unreadable. Calm. Focused. As if this were the most natural thing in the world. "You were shivering at night," he said simply. "This will keep you warmer."

That might have been enough for anyone else. Practical. Logical. An easy excuse.

But his eyes told a different story.

He watched you too closely. Not just to gauge your reaction—but to savor it. There was something ancient and yearning behind the glow in his eyes, something that vibrated in the silence between his words. He was waiting. Not for your thanks, but for your approval.

Noticing your lack of response, Sylus's expression begins to shift. The warmth in his eyes dims, replaced by something sterner, more guarded. His tail flicks once behind him—a sharp, agitated motion that echoes his growing unease. He straightens his spine, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.

"Do you not like it?" he asks, his voice quieter now but unmistakably tense. There’s something beneath his words that makes your chest tighten—disappointment, certainly. But also something rawer. Doubt. Hurt. The faint tremor of vulnerability from someone unaccustomed to feeling exposed.

Your eyes widen, and guilt rises quickly in your throat. You hadn't meant to be silent for so long. You were simply overwhelmed—by the effort, by the meaning behind it all. But now, seeing the shift in his posture, the way his eyes avoid yours, you realize how that silence must have come off.

You quickly close the space between you, reaching out instinctively. Your hands lift to cradle his face, palms warm against his heated skin. You guide his gaze back to you, gently but insistently, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. His eyes flicker up to meet yours, searching your face as though still bracing for rejection.

"No," you say softly, firmly, your voice thick with emotion. "I love it. I really do. It's beautiful. I just...I don’t understand why. You don’t have to do all this. The gifts, the meat, the rearranging—I was already happy. I was perfectly content with how things were before."

Sylus doesn’t recoil. Instead, he leans into your touch just slightly, as though the reassurance eases something deep in his chest. The tightness in his shoulders begins to uncoil, and the tension etched into his brow softens. A quiet exhale escapes him, almost inaudible.

"You laughed," he murmurs after a moment, his voice roughened by something too ancient to be called simple sorrow. "When I spoke of mating season. I assumed then that you deemed me unworthy as a mate—ill-fitted to claim or keep one such as you."

You blink, taken aback. The memory of that moment resurfaces—your burst of laughter, the disbelief, the release of tension you hadn’t realized he was carrying so heavily. It hadn’t been mockery. But now, you see how it must have been received by someone like Sylus—a creature whose understanding of humor, especially human levity in the face of instinct, is limited by centuries of solemn tradition and a worldview where gestures hold more meaning than words. 

"So...the jewels? The meat?" you ask gently, your voice cracking slightly as realization begins to sink in.

He lets out a low, almost frustrated huff, glancing to the side. His tail curls around one of your ankles without thought, anchoring you to him in a quiet, possessive motion. "To prove I can provide for you," he says simply. "And for our offspring that I hoped you'd bear."

The words hit you like a wave, your breath catching in your throat. Your heart swells and shatters at once, a knot forming deep in your chest. He really wanted a baby with you? To form new life? With you??

Because that was it, wasn’t it? This powerful, ancient creature—so feared, so composed, so unreadable to others—was doing everything in his power to show you his worth. Not by demanding your affection or asserting his claim, but by showing you how he could build a life around you. Make a place for you. Prepare for a future, one you hadn’t even considered yet.

He had rearranged his entire world to make space for you in it. Courted you to prove himself just as many of his species had done with their mates.

You looked at him now with new eyes, your throat tightening as you caressed the edge of his jaw.

"Sylus...you don’t have to prove anything to me. I never doubted your strength. I never doubted you for a single second. Sometimes humans laugh when we feel relieved. That's all."

You notice that he seemed to perk up ever so slightly, though his expression remained unreadable. His posture straightened by a fraction, the glow in his eyes shifting with something new—not quite relief, but intrigue. A subtle ripple of tension unwound in his shoulders, though he tried to mask it.

"Mortals laugh when they feel better?" he asked, voice low and gravelly, as if the question itself was unfamiliar. There was a curious tilt to his head, the tone almost scholarly—as if he were cataloging your species' behaviors like one would study a rare flame.

You nodded, giving him a gentle smile. "Yes. Laughter is...a release. I wasn’t mocking you, Sylus. I was relieved. It meant you weren’t dying. And...I think you would make a wonderful mate. And father. To our baby."

His grip on you suddenly shifted, tightening with sudden purpose. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that grounded you firmly against him—possessive, almost reverent. His pupils expanded rapidly, red irises eclipsed by black. A primal heat surged behind his gaze, burning steady and intent. You felt the growl in his chest before it even reached his lips, a low, rumbling vibration that poured through your body like a tremor.

"Then...you accept?" he asked slowly, the words thick with restrained emotion. "You will take my seed into you? You would bear my offspring?"

Your heart skipped a beat—no, several. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel your pulse hammering in your throat. He said it with such conviction, with none of the coy hesitations or evasive phrasing you were used to. Just truth. Raw and full of meaning. The ancient kind of promise that didn’t ask, but waited.

You hesitated, swallowing hard. "I mean...I do have my doubts," you admitted, fingers curling against his chest. Your fingers graze the edge of his scales. Your voice trembled slightly under the weight of his gaze. "I don’t think I’m strong enough to carry children of yours. Dragons are...different. Your children, they’d be massive, wouldn’t they?"

You tried to laugh. It came out tight, nervous. A shaky sound that barely carried.

But Sylus didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. Instead, something deeper flickered behind his eyes—a hunger, yes, but also certainty. Purpose. Legacy.

A low, pleased growl rolled from the depths of his chest, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped as you felt his tail move, the strong, silken muscle winding slowly up your leg. It caressed your skin with practiced control, the movement deliberate. Purposeful. The hem of your dress lifted inch by inch under the teasing weight of his tail.

"Nonsense," he growled, and this time his voice was like smoke and stone. "You are more than capable. I would never choose a mate who was not capable of the task. Your body, your spirit, your frame—they are all sufficient. More than sufficient."

His claws ghosted over your hips, drawing you in closer, like a hunter gathering something sacred. You felt the heat of him, not just his body but his intent, his longing, the centuries of instinct that pulsed just beneath his skin.

"I'm not even sure if it will work..." you murmur, your voice laced with uncertainty. "Humans only ovulate for a short time. If that window's already passed—"

Sylus moves before you can finish. His body leans into yours with quiet purpose, and in an instant, the air shifts between you. His breath ghosts over your neck, warm and steady, and you shiver as his nose traces the delicate line of your throat. The movement is slow, deliberate—not just intimate, but instinctual. He inhales deeply, the sound low and resonant like something ancient stirring in his chest. The rumble that follows isn’t quite a growl, but it thrums through you like thunder beneath the earth.

"You're wrong," he murmurs, voice husky and edged with something raw. "You’re fertile. I can smell it on you."

You freeze.

His lips ghost just beneath your ear as he continues, tone smooth and reverent. "Your scent is different now—sweet, ripe, like fruit at the peak of bloom. The warmth of your skin, the rhythm of your pulse...your body sings to mine in ways you cannot hear. But I do."

His hand tightens at your waist, possessive, anchoring you to him like you might drift away otherwise. The heat in his eyes is no longer just desire—it is intention, it is instinct honed over centuries, it is him answering a call your body didn’t even know it had made.

"You're ready. Now," he growls, the final word laced with a quiet sort of reverence, as if he were speaking a truth ordained by something far older than either of you.

Your breath catches, your face flushing as your heart pounds against your ribs. You can feel the heat rising in you, pooling low, your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

You search his face for doubt, but find none. Only certainty.

So, you were ovulating, and he could smell it—and worse, he wasn’t just aroused by it; he was called by it.

You feel your nerves ease, if only a little. Sylus was dependable—fierce, steady, and impossibly sure in the way only something ancient could be. For all his intensity, he had never once let harm come to you, had never faltered in his protection. And now, with the weight of everything shifting between you, that truth brought the smallest measure of calm. If he said he would keep you safe, you believed him. If he said he would protect the life growing between you, you knew it to be a vow etched in something deeper than words.

The idea of having a baby had once seemed distant, more fantasy than reality. Something soft and quiet that belonged to another version of your life, another world entirely. But now? Now it felt inevitable. Natural. Fated. Like every step had led to this moment, and all that was left was to lean into it.

He wanted this with you. You could see it in everything he did: the nesting, the offerings, the way he curled around you at night like a guardian warding off the dark. His every action had been leading here, even if you hadn’t recognized it at the time. And though nerves still fluttered in your chest like a thousand wings, the deeper truth remained. You wanted it too. You weren’t entirely prepared, not yet, but you were ready to say yes.

You looked into his eyes, your heart thundering, and gave a small but certain nod. "Okay. I accept."

Those three words changed everything.

It was as if a switch had been flipped inside him, something primal and powerful released from its cage. You barely had time to react before he swept you off the ground with effortless strength. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he cradled you against his chest, his expression focused, almost reverent. In mere seconds, he had crossed the room and laid you gently down on the massive bed of furs he had so meticulously prepared—his gift to you, his offering.

The nest was impossibly warm, soft and inviting, wrapping around your back and shoulders like it had been waiting for this moment. You could feel the heat of his body above you, the power in his frame held taut just beneath the surface. He hovered for a breath, eyes raking over you, and then his tail moved—snaking up one leg, coiling slowly with deliberate grace.

The fabric of your dress tightened as his tail looped beneath it, and you barely had time to gasp before you heard the slow, purposeful sound of it tearing. With practiced precision, his tail shredded the fabric, beginning to peel it away from your body with a hunger that had been restrained for too long. Each thread undone was like a silent declaration: mine, mine, mine.

You felt a rush of cool air against your skin, and your breasts were exposed to his gaze. You could sense his eyes on you, drinking in the sight of your bare skin and hardened nipples, you felt a shiver run down your spine. Your breasts bounced slightly as you shifted, and you could feel his gaze following the movement, his eyes hungrily taking in every detail.

You instinctively tried to shield yourself, your arms moving to cross your chest, but he was quicker. His tail wrapped around your wrists with gentle but unyielding strength, keeping you exposed beneath him. Vulnerable. Claimed.

He leaned in closer, breath hot against your skin, and you felt it hitch as he studied you like something sacred. There was a deep rumble in his chest, not quite a growl but something more ancient—a sound of possession and awe.

"This will not be gentle," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel smoothed by fire. "But do not fret. I will take care not to hurt you, beloved."

His words settled over you like a brand, searing into your skin. There was something sacred in them, a promise forged not in softness, but in strength—and devotion.

And the way he said it, with such conviction and tempered need, made your breath stutter and your fear crumble, replaced with something far more powerful:

Desire. Acceptance. Surrender.

His voice was a low rumble, "I want to see you. All of you." His eyes met yours, seeking consent, respectful despite the fierce hunger within. You nodded, your heart still pounding, but the fear was gone, replaced by a strong lust you didn't know you had.

He reached for the remnants of your dress, his touch gentle yet firm as he pushed the rest of the fabric off you. It slipped down your body, leaving you bare except for your undergarments. His breath hitched, his gaze roaming over you, worshipful and hungry.

"You're beautiful" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Like a dream I never dared to have." He leaned down, his lips met yours, a soft, tender kiss that belied the intensity of his gaze. It was a question, a request for permission to explore further. You responded, your body melting into his, your lips parting to deepen the kiss. He tasted of smoke and spice, a heady combination that made your head spin. His claws, those large, warm claws, traced the curve of your neck, your shoulders, your breasts, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You gasped, breaking the kiss, your body arching into his touch. He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that sent shivers down your spine. "I want to hear you," he whispered, his breath hot on your ear. "I want to hear every sound you make, every gasp, every moan." He captured your mouth again, his tongue delving in, exploring, tasting. His hands continued their journey, tracing the curve of your waist, your hips, the soft flesh of your thighs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your undergarments, pulling back to look at you.

He slid the underwear down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt a shiver of anticipation and vulnerability, but the heat in his gaze, the raw desire, kept you from feeling exposed again. He stood up, his tail unwrapping from your waist, and you missed the contact instantly. But he was back in a moment, his hands on your knees, gently pushing them apart.

He knelt down, his gaze still locked with yours, and you felt a jolt of surprise and excitement. His rough claws traced up your inner thighs, his touch feather-light, sending shivers through you. You could feel the heat of his breath on you, and you squirmed, your body aching with anticipation. He smiled, a slow, knowing smile, and leaned in.

His long tongue found your aching bud, hot and wet, and you gasped, your body arching off the pile of furs. He made a sound, a low growl of pleasure, and the vibration sent waves of sensation through you. He gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he explored you, his tongue and lips driving you to the edge. You could feel the pressure building, your body coiling tight, and you grasped the furs beneath you, your knuckles turning paler.

"Thank you for agreeing to give me the gift of new life" His gaze held you captive, even as his tongue continued its torturous, delightful dance. You felt a flush spread across your body, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

But you didn't look away. You held his gaze, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body writhing with each flick of his tongue. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer to the edge. You could feel it, the pleasure building, coiling tight like a spring ready to snap. "Sylus," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.

He growled in response, his fingers digging into your thighs as he redoubled his efforts. The room spun, the golden light blurring around you. Your body tensed, every muscle coiled tight, and then, with a cry, you shattered. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in sensation. You felt Sylus's claws on you, steadying you, his tail wrapping around you, holding you close as you rode out the storm. When the world came back into focus, you found yourself cradled in Sylus arms, your body still trembling with aftershocks. He was looking down at you, his eyes soft with concern and something else...a deep, profound satisfaction.

As you finally noticed the absence of his usual belt, your eyes widened in shock. There, at you waist, were not one, but two substantially sized cocks, side by side, both throbbing with desire. You could've sworn he only had one before?? A wave of heat rushed to your face, and you felt a surge of panic. You tried to wriggle free, to create some distance, but Sylus's grip only tightened. He growled, a low, primal sound that sent shivers down your spine, as you managed to shift into a crawling position. But your brief moment of triumph was short-lived.

With a swift move, he grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back towards him. You could feel his hot breath on your neck as he forced you face down onto the soft furs, his body pressing heavily against yours. "You cannot run from this," he rasped, his voice thick with lust and determination. "Be still." The fear that had been lurking within you surged back, filling every fiber of your being. You knew, with a certainty that was both terrifying and exhilarating, that there would be no escape. Not this time. Not until he had marked you, claimed you, bred you. His need was too great, his desire to leave his seed within you too strong to change your mind now.

As Sylus began to push his first cock into you, you felt a searing pain and a sense of being stretched to the limit. You realized, with a jolt of fear, that he hadn't been lying when he said this wouldn't be gentle. His cock was like a battering ram, forcing its way into your tight pussy with a ferocity that left you breathless. He let out a fierce growl of pleasure, pushing himself as deep as he could possibly go inside your walls.

He pumped feverishly, his hips moving with the strength and power of a beast. You groaned, your voice hoarse and barely audible, as your pussy was forced to take the pounding he was giving you. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that left you gasping for air and gripping the fur beneath you.

His cock was huge, and it felt like it was tearing you apart, stretching your walls to the limit. You felt like you were being ripped in two, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure as he pounded into you with reckless abandon.

You were at his mercy, unable to escape the torrent of sensations that he was unleashing on your body. Your mind was a jumble of pain and pleasure, your body torn between the pain of his thrusts and the thrill of being taken by a creature so powerful and dominant. You felt his second cock rubbing itself between the rounds of your ass.

As Sylus continued to pump into you, his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure, he leaned in close and whispered in your ear.

"You'll never want for anything, beloved," he growled, voice low and reverent, thick with the weight of promise. It wasn’t just a statement. It was a vow. An oath carved from the bones of instinct, older than memory and heavier than gold. His breath was hot against your neck, his words brushing over your skin like fire.

"Not once," he continued, a possessive rumble threading through each syllable, "not once you're full with my children."

There was no shame in his tone, no hesitation. Just certainty. Purpose. He spoke like a dragon made flesh, a creature built for legacy, for claiming, for protecting what was his with unrelenting devotion. His hand traced your side as he spoke, the motion slow and reverent, as if feeling the space where new life would soon grow.

"Yes...yes give me as many children as you want Sylus, I want them all..." you begged, feeling yourself beginning to drool into the furs.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it seemed to have a profound effect on Sylus. His eyes flashed with a fierce light, and his face twisted in a snarl of pleasure.

Without warning, he pulled his cock out of you, the sudden withdrawal leaving you feeling empty and uneasy. But before you could even catch your breath, he flipped you around, his hands grasping your hips and pulling you back onto his cock. You felt him shove his cock balls deep inside you once again, the sudden invasion making you gasp with shock and pleasure.

You were stretched to the limit, your body struggling to accommodate the size and strength of his thrusts. But Sylus didn't seem to care, his face twisted in a mask of pleasure and desire. He pumped into you with a fierce intensity, his hips moving with a rapid, pounding rhythm that left you breathless and gasping. You felt his second cock sliding in harmonious rhythm across your stomach as he continued to pump the other inside you.

Sylus's movements grow frantic, each thrust more desperate than the last. The heat builds between you, an unstoppable force that drives you both to the edge. His breath hitches, and you can feel the tension coiling in his muscles, ready to snap.

With a final, forceful thrust, he slams deep inside you, a low groan ripping from his chest as he cums. The heat floods into you, a searing wave of release that leaves you both gasping. As he rides out the last pulses of his climax, he leans forward, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. The bite is sharp, claiming, sending a shock through your body that mingles with the aftershocks of his release.

You're both slicked in sweat, your chests rising and falling in a staggered rhythm as you cling to each other, trembling and utterly spent. The cave around you is dense with heat and the scent of exertion, the air thick enough to drink. Your skin is flushed, tingling, every nerve alight from the intensity of what has just passed between you. You feel the large amount of cum he shot inside you begin to spill out, making your thighs stick together. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins—his warmth wraps around you like a living cocoon, steady and ever-present.

Every breath you take is his, pulled in from the narrow space between your mouths, and every exhale becomes a shared offering. His body is heavy over yours, enveloping, protective. You’re still reeling, caught somewhere between bliss and disbelief, when Sylus leans down and claims your lips in a kiss—fierce, unrelenting, yet reverent. It isn’t rushed. It’s deep, meaningful, and possessive in a way that leaves your heart pounding anew.

"Can you help me up?" you whisper, voice trembling, your limbs aching with fatigue. You lift a shaky hand, fingers brushing the fresh mark on your shoulder. The skin there is tender and warm, a physical memory of him etched into your flesh.

Sylus pulls back just enough to look at you, a small smile touching his lips. There’s affection in his gaze, but it’s layered with something else—something feral, possessive, unwavering. You blink at him, puzzled by the look he gives you, your breath catching as your body anticipates an answer.

"We aren’t finished, beloved" he murmurs, his voice like a caress wrapped in iron. The timbre of it thrums through your bones. He motions to his other member, still throbbing with need on your stomach. "I still have seed stored. I told you this would not be brief. We won’t be done until I am certain—utterly certain—that my seed has taken root."

The words wash over you like a second wave of heat. You feel it building again—not fear, not even hesitation. Just the slow, inevitable rush of anticipation. Your breath shudders as he presses closer once more, and the look in his eyes makes your heart stutter. He is so sure. So devoted. So...inescapably yours.

This isn’t just instinct anymore. It isn’t mere biology. It’s a vow, an offering, a claiming that comes from something sacred and ancient within him.

And as his lips brush against your throat, his tail curling possessively around your thigh again, you know one thing for certain:

Sylus isn’t finished.

And this becomes abundantly clear as he pushes his second cock inside you.

The next two days blur together in a haze of heat and aching limbs. Sylus is relentless—a creature driven by instinct and obsession, bound not just by desire but by an instinctual need to claim and secure what he now considers his. The cavern is filled with the sounds of breathless gasps, low growls, and the slick sound of bodies tangled in devotion and purpose.

There is barely a moment to rest. He presses into you again and again, each time with a ferocity that leaves you trembling, breathless, dazed. He rarely lets you catch your breath before pulling you close once more, whispering possessive promises into your ear, vowing over and over that he will not stop until he knows that his seed has taken root.

Still, there are brief breaks. Moments when he leaves to hunt, returning with food to replenish your strength. He never brings back just a meal—he returns with offerings: rare fruit, tender meats, things he’s sure will sustain and strengthen you. His eyes scan you for any signs of weakness, worry carved into the lines of his face even through the veil of lust that constantly clouds him.

One such time, you had tried to redress yourself, more out of instinct than shame. But when he returned and found you clothed again, his eyes darkened, the low sound of displeasure vibrating in his chest. He had stalked over to you, roughly tearing the garments off of your body, scattering them on the stone floor in pieces.

"Sylu-"

"No," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "You are to remain bare for me. Ready. Always."

And with those words, he had taken you again roughly, until the floor was soaked in his cum, as if to remind you that your body was his haven now—a vessel for something sacred. And this continued hourly, even when you had just awoken from a nap. He simply would spread your legs and begin pumping himself inside you. You welcomed this of course, figuring he was just following what his instincts were telling him to do.

Eventually, his frenzy began to slow. The fire that had once consumed him now burned low and steady, replaced by a quieter, more reverent form of devotion. Weeks passed in a blur of rest, warmth, and gentle touches, and then came the shift—he began to note that you smelled different. His sharp senses detected it before you felt a thing. He would murmur it against your skin, nose pressed to your neck or your belly, voice thick with wonder.

"You carry new life," he’d whisper.

At first, you rolled your eyes and laughed it off, teasing him for being so certain. You didn't want to get your hopes up. But soon, you began to feel it too—a flutter, faint and flickering like butterfly wings deep within. The first time it happened, you froze, a hand going instinctively to your belly. Sylus noticed immediately, his head snapping up, eyes wide.

"Did you feel it?"

You nodded slowly, hand still pressed to the gentle curve of your stomach. He was elated. Absolutely overcome with joy. He knelt before you and kissed your belly with a soft, contented purr rumbling from deep in his chest, his tail wrapping protectively around your ankles.

True to his word, he kept his promise. You never wanted for anything. He hunted only the best for you, brought the juiciest fruit, the most nourishing roots. He prepared meals with painstaking care, even if he didn’t eat most of it himself. When your back ached or your feet swelled, he massaged you with surprising tenderness, his large hands easing every knot and tension from your tired limbs. At night, he curled around you like a shield, his wings a blanket of protection, whispering soft things in a language you didn’t always understand.

Eventually, your clothes grew too tight to wear. Your belly swelled gloriously with life, and you gave up trying to force yourself into fabric that no longer fit. You wandered the cave freely, naked and glowing, your hands always resting protectively on your rounded stomach. Sylus didn’t mind in the slightest. He thought you looked divine.

Even in the later stages of your pregnancy, when walking made you tired and your body ached from the weight of his child, he still looked at you with hunger in his eyes. He remained ever ready to take you, though now with more patience, more gentleness to not hurt you or the baby. His touches were slow, reverent, his need no less intense but guided now by something softer—an unshakable adoration.

To him, you were more than his mate.

You were the future of his lineage. A living miracle he worshiped with every breath.

He was awoken one morning by the soft, fragile sound of you whining beside him—a breathy, instinctive noise that sliced through the quiet like a blade, shattering the peace of dawn. Instantly, he was alert, his senses snapping into sharp focus. In one smooth, practiced motion, he propped himself up on one elbow and leaned over you, red eyes scanning your body with fierce, frantic protectiveness. His hands hovered inches from your skin, as though afraid to touch and yet desperate to find the source of your distress.

When he found no visible wounds, he moved lower, his tail curling around your leg and lifting it gently. What he saw next made him still completely—and then smile, slow and reverent. A sheen of clear fluid glistened at your thighs. His chest swelled with emotion, and a warm, knowing glow filled his gaze.

It was time.

His breath caught in his throat, and the world seemed to narrow around this one miraculous truth. He leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and gently shook you awake, voice husky with emotion. "Wake, beloved," he murmured. "The hour is upon us."

What followed was the longest, most grueling day and a half of your life. The cave became a sanctuary of primal sound and sacred pain—the sharp edge of your cries echoing off the stone walls, the slow, rhythmic cadence of your breathing, and Sylus’s steady, grounding presence through it all. The space that had once been a den of passion now transformed into a place of birth and bond, of new beginnings.

He had prepared for this, of course. He always did. A nest of soft animal pelts had been lovingly arranged just days prior, thick and warm and perfectly layered to support your aching, straining body. You lay upon them, your skin damp with sweat, hair plastered to your temples, your belly tightening again and again with each new contraction. The pain was searing, unforgiving, your body fighting for every inch of progress.

And Sylus never left your side. Not for a moment.

He positioned himself behind you, his body acting as both cradle and shield. His larger frame curved protectively around yours, arms curled reverently over your middle, claws softened and carefully restrained so they wouldn’t harm you. He rubbed slow, grounding circles into the swell of your belly, the weight of his presence a balm against the storm.

His lips brushed your shoulder often, murmuring affirmations and praise, voice a low, calming purr that vibrated through your bones. His tail coiled gently around your thigh, anchoring you when you trembled. Whenever you cried out or whimpered in agony, he was there—not panicked, not shaken, but steady. Fierce.

"Breathe, my love," he whispered again and again, the words threaded with admiration. "You’re strong. So strong. You were made for this."

There was never a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He watched you with awe, holding space for your pain and your power, never wavering. His devotion took on a quiet intensity, every touch purposeful, every breath synchronized with yours. When you broke down in tears, sobbing through another wave of pain, he kissed your temple, held your hand, and wrapped you tighter in his warmth.

He treated you like something sacred—not just the mother of his child, but the miracle who bore his legacy. There was reverence in the way he touched you, in how he shifted with you through every hour, how his purring grew louder as your contractions deepened. You were his whole world in those moments, and he made sure you felt it.

As the hours stretched into exhaustion and time lost all meaning, he remained your constant.

And when the sharp, piercing cry of a newborn echoed through the cave, Sylus felt the breath leave his lungs entirely. The sound struck him like thunder, powerful and sacred, and his eyes locked on the sight before him: you, cradling the small, wriggling form against your chest. You were slick with sweat, flushed from exertion, but your smile—soft, exhausted, and full of wonder for your new baby—was the most radiant thing he had ever seen.

He moved toward you reverently, as if approaching something divine. But as he leaned in closer, a deep instinct stirred within him, passed down through countless generations. His tongue flicked out ever so slightly, and his body tensed with the urge to clean the newborn himself—the way his kind had always done.

You caught the motion and gave him a knowing look, gently placing a hand on his cheek. "No licking," you whispered with a tired laugh. "That’s not how we do it."

It took some convincing, his instincts hard to quiet, but he eventually yielded, watching with wide-eyed fascination as you showed him the human way. Warm cloths, gentle strokes, soft murmurs of comfort.

He knelt beside you, silent and attentive, absorbing every detail.

And though he did not get to perform the ritual of his bloodline, he found something just as profound in learning yours.

Together, you welcomed new life in a way that blended two worlds into one.

[demeterlindavis]

Take a Hint

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: You were only supposed to help Din Djarin with one bounty. But after the mission, you stuck around — teasing, flirting, testing the waters. He never reacted the way you hoped, always hiding behind practical words and stoic silence.

Or five times you thought Din was dense and one time you realized you were wrong.

Tags: Fluff, 5+1 things, miscommunication, SFW, Din Djarin is oblivious, he's trying his best, one sided, or is it???, idiots in love, protective Din Djarin, Din Djarin being soft (in his own way). No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: I know it's a lot shorter than my other Din fanfic, but I hope you'll enjoy this one as well. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 2.7k

masterlist

1.

You stretched your arms above your head, letting out a sharp sigh as the bounty’s unconscious body thudded to the floor of the Razor Crest’s cargo hold.

“That’s one way to say job well done,” you muttered, brushing space dust from your jacket sleeve before slinking into the co-pilot’s chair.

Behind you, Din Djarin closed the ramp and began checking the carbonite chamber, ensuring the target was fully frozen and secure. He hadn’t spoken much since you reached the ship — not that he was ever particularly chatty — but you chalked that up to the Mando brand of "taciturn charm."

“Well, that was fun,” you said brightly, spinning halfway in the chair to face him. “You always do jobs this entertaining, or was this just to impress me?”

His helmet tilted slightly toward you. “It wasn’t supposed to be fun.”

“No? Shame. You looked pretty good out there.” You gave him a teasing grin and leaned back, resting your boots on the edge of the control panel.

He turned fully toward you now, helmet glinting in the light of hyperspace pre-jump. “You almost got shot.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t let that happen.” You pointed a finger at him, lazily. “Knight in shiny beskar and all that.”

“…I hired you for your recon work. That’s all.”

You shrugged. “Sure, Mando. I’m just saying, you throw a girl against a wall to shield her from a blaster bolt, she might start thinking you care.”

He walked past you to the cockpit, flicking switches like nothing had happened. “We leave in ten.”

You laughed under your breath and leaned back further, hands behind your head. “You’re cute when you pretend I don’t fluster you.”

No response. Just the cold silence of a man fully immersed in his pre-flight check.

Not even a head tilt this time.

You pursed your lips, then smirked.

Alright. That one might have been too subtle…for him.

But you weren’t going anywhere just yet.

2.

You leaned against a stack of fuel canisters, watching Din as he crouched next to the hull of the Razor Crest, speaking low and serious with Peli Motto. Something about coolant lines or hyperdrive relays—you weren’t listening. Mostly because he’d taken off his gloves again, and there was something about watching his fingers flex against a piece of machinery that scrambled your thoughts like eggs on a Tatooine skillet.

Grogu was toddling near your feet, cooing up at you. You bent down and gave his ear a little scratch. “He’s lucky he’s got you, kid,” you said. “Shame you’re the only one in this partnership with any emotional intelligence.”

Grogu blinked at you slowly, then burbled in agreement. Or maybe hunger.

“Mando!” you called out, hopping off the crates and sauntering toward the ship. “Since we’re stuck in Mos Eisley for a bit… how about I buy you a drink?”

He didn’t even look up from where he was tightening something under the ship’s belly.

“No.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You sure? Could be a bonding moment.”

“No.”

You sighed, pushing your tongue against your cheek to hide the smile. “Are you afraid I’ll drink you under the table? Or that you’ll have fun?”

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“We’re not on a job,” you replied smoothly. “We’re in between. There’s a difference.”

He finally looked up at you, visor catching the Tatooine twin suns. “We don’t need to bond.”

You opened your mouth, but then shut it.

Instead, you gave a mock salute and walked off muttering, “Alright, Casanova, loud and clear.”

Later, you were helping Peli hook up a new motivator coil when she snorted and said, “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart.”

You turned your head. “Excuse me?”

“With him,” she nodded toward Din, who was now sitting on the ramp with Grogu in his lap, feeding him a little packet of something green and mushy. “You’ve been laying it on thicker than Bantha butter, and he’s just… nothing.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the sand beside her. “Is he dense, or just emotionally stunted?”

“Both,” Peli replied cheerfully. “Don’t take it personally. I’ve seen rancors with better romantic instincts.”

You covered your face with your hands. “Hopeless.”

“Yep.”

You peeked through your fingers, catching sight of Grogu now waddling toward you with food smeared across his mouth.

“Well,” you murmured, sitting up and letting him crawl into your lap, “at least one of them likes me.”

Peli patted your shoulder, greasy handprint and all. “That’s a start.”

3.

The alley was narrow, the kind of cramped, shadowed crevice that smelled like rust and desperation. You ducked in first, tugging Din’s arm behind you just as blaster fire cracked against the duracrete wall.

“I told you that guy looked too twitchy to be a clean drop,” you hissed.

“You waited until we were already inside to tell me that,” Din replied, voice flat but calm as ever. You could practically hear the slight raise of his brow under the helmet.

“Call it a hunch,” you muttered.

Another volley of shots whizzed past, and Din shoved you further into the shadows. He followed in right after, pinning you both against the wall as the enemy patrol ran past. There was barely a breath between you. His arm was braced next to your head, his chest pressed fully against yours, armor cold even through your clothes.

You tilted your head up slowly, voice low. “You know, if you wanted me pressed up against you, Mando, you could’ve just asked.”

His helmet was angled so close you could see your own smirk reflected in the beskar.

“Stay quiet,” he said.

“That’s all you’re gonna say? Really?” You leaned in just a little, voice all honey and trouble. “No comment on the close quarters? The dim lighting? The way your knee is pressed against my—?”

“I said quiet.”

You let out a long, exaggerated sigh, head thudding back against the wall. “I’m just saying, most people would at least acknowledge the tension here.”

Din shifted his weight slightly, and you thought maybe—maybe—that you’d finally gotten through.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to glance outside the alley. “They’re gone. Let’s move.”

And then, just like that, the warmth of his body was gone, his cape brushing your arm as he slipped back into the light.

You stood there for a second longer, staring after him.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, jogging to catch up. “I was practically breathing pick-up lines in your face, and you gave me nothing. Not even a grunt.”

4.

It had been a long day. The kind that sank into your bones and made even the air feel heavy.

The bounty had fought harder than expected, and Din had taken the brunt of it — bruised ribs, a split lip under the helmet, and a noticeable limp that he stubbornly refused to acknowledge.

Now, inside the dim hull of the Razor Crest, the silence between the two of you felt comfortable. Grogu was already asleep in his hammock, snoring softly like some tiny, ancient gremlin.

Din was sitting on the edge of the cot, working one-handed to undo a section of his chest plate. You noticed the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he winced every time he shifted his weight.

“Here,” you said gently, crossing the space to kneel in front of him. “Let me help.”

He started to protest, of course. “I’ve got it.”

You gave him a look, one you knew he could feel even if he couldn’t see your face. “I didn’t ask if you could. I said let me.”

He hesitated… and then let his hands drop.

Your fingers moved carefully, familiar now with the clasps and locks of his beskar. You worked slowly, undoing the armor piece by piece — chest plate, gauntlets, pauldrons — setting each one down beside you with reverence, like they mattered. Like he mattered.

His undershirt was dark with sweat and streaked with grime. You resisted the urge to reach for a cloth and clean him up. Instead, your hands hovered near the edge of his vambrace.

“You always take care of everyone else,” you said softly. “Let someone take care of you, just this once.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then: “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You smiled faintly, not looking up. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You unlatched the vambrace slowly. His forearm tensed beneath your fingers, the bare skin warm.

He didn’t say anything to that. But he didn’t stop you, either.

When you finally looked up, you found his visor fixed squarely on you. The silence stretched between you like a held breath.

If he felt anything—warmth, tension, the way your fingers lingered against the edge of his wrist—he didn’t say.

Just a small nod.

And then: “Thank you.”

You nodded back, lips curled in the barest smile. “Anytime.”

You stood and walked past Grogu’s hammock, brushing a hand over his ears as you went.

From behind you, you could feel the weight of Din’s stare following you the whole way.

5.

The Razor Crest creaked under the weight of frost, a low groan echoing through the hull as wind battered the exterior.

You were both grounded — a storm too thick to fly through and a bounty who was likely just as frozen as the damn planet. The heating system, true to its usual charm, had sputtered out three hours ago.

You were curled into yourself on the floor of the ship, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. Your jacket was decent, but nothing short of a portable sun was going to fight the kind of chill creeping into your bones.

Grogu was warm in his little insulated pod, snuggled deep in his blanket nest, occasionally letting out a snore.

Across the room, Din sat on a crate, sharpening one of his vibroblades like it was just any other night. No sign of discomfort. No sign he was feeling the same way your teeth were chattering.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t sure if it was pride or exhaustion, but the silence stretched.

Until finally, without looking up, he spoke.

“You’re cold.”

“No kidding,” you muttered, breath puffing visibly in front of your face. “What gave it away? The blue lips or the full-body shiver?”

He didn’t rise to the sarcasm. Instead, he reached into the compartment behind him and pulled out a heavy, worn blanket.

“Come here,” he said, scooting to the edge of the crate and patting the space beside him.

You blinked at him. “You’re inviting me to share body heat?”

“Purely practical.”

You snorted as you stood, dragging yourself over. “Right. Not because you enjoy my company or anything ridiculous like that.”

He didn’t answer, just opened the blanket as you sat down beside him.

It was warmer than you expected. His armor had retained some heat, and beneath it, his body was a furnace. The blanket went around both of you, his arm loosely draped behind your shoulders to keep it up.

The silence settled again.

Then, a little softer: “Better?”

You tilted your head toward him. “If I said no, would you let me shove my hands under your shirt?”

He didn’t so much as flinch. “No.”

You laughed, but it was quiet. Tired. The kind of laugh that cracked into something tender. You leaned your head against his shoulder, your voice dropping low.

“...Thanks, Din.”

He didn’t say anything. But you felt it — the shift. A subtle lean into you. The way his fingers adjusted the blanket more tightly around you both.

And then Grogu stirred in his pod, peeking out, blinking at the sight of you nestled together. He blinked once. Twice. And let out a soft, amused coo.

You met his gaze with a smirk.

+1

You stopped calling him Din.

Not on purpose. It just… slipped away.

It had started subtly: the teasing softened, the smiles dimmed. You kept your hands to yourself more, kept your jokes to Grogu instead. You still worked with Din, still followed him into the fire and out again, but the space between you felt wider than it ever had.

And maybe it was for the best.

Maybe you'd crossed a line, misread something. Maybe your flirting had made him uncomfortable, and he was too kind—or too stoic—to say it outright.

You hadn’t realized how much it hurt to pull away until you were halfway across a frozen plain, following behind him in silence, and he didn’t say a word about the wind biting at your skin.

He always offered the blanket before. Always stood just a little closer.

Now?

Nothing.

You tried to tell yourself it was fine. You were fine. You weren’t here to fall in love with a man who never showed his face. You were here because you wanted to be.

You didn’t expect him to care.

Then one night, as the ship drifted through hyperspace and Grogu was snoring softly in his hammock, Din stood in the middle of the hull, hands loose at his sides. Watching you.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked.

You blinked from where you sat on your bunk, caught mid-polishing your blaster. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

You looked down. “I just figured maybe I was… pushing too much. Saying things I shouldn’t have. Being… flirty.” The word stung coming out of your mouth. “Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

There was a long pause. You expected silence. Maybe a brush-off. But instead:

“You weren’t.”

You glanced up. He stepped closer, the quiet clink of his armor unusually loud in the quiet. “I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

He hesitated, then said carefully, “I was flirting back.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He tilted his head. “You remember the first job? When we caught that bounty together, and I told you to leave right after?”

You nodded slowly.

“I made sure you got a full share. Paid for your passage off-world. Protected you during the shootout. I don’t do that for strangers.”

You swallowed. “That’s not—”

“And on Tatooine,” he cut in, voice quiet but firm. “You asked me to bond over a drink. I told you we didn’t need to bond.”

You furrowed your brow. “Exactly. You turned me down.”

“No,” he said. “I said, ‘We don’t need to bond.’ What I meant was—we already do. I didn’t think I needed more than what we had.”

Your mouth opened, then closed.

“In the alley,” he continued, stepping even closer, “when I had you pinned against the wall… You think I didn’t want that? That I wasn’t aware of how close we were?”

You felt your pulse jump.

“I wanted it,” he said simply. “I just couldn’t say it then. Couldn’t risk you thinking it was anything less than mutual.”

You sat up straighter, the air tight in your lungs.

He took another step, now close enough that you could feel the shift of his weight. “When you helped me take off my armor… I don’t let anyone do that. No one touches it. No one touches me.”

“Din—”

“And the blanket? On the ice planet?” His voice gentled. “That wasn’t practical. That was me finding the only excuse I had to hold you. To make sure you were okay.”

Your heart thundered in your chest.

“I thought I was being clear,” he said, finally. “But I guess I’m not great at… this.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to catch up. “You… you’ve been flirting this whole time?”

“As much as I know how to.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then, softly—warmly—he added, “So. You gonna keep pulling away? Or are we finally gonna admit we’ve been on the same page since the beginning?”

You stood, moving toward him until you were close enough to touch his chestplate.

“You could’ve said something.”

“I just did.”

You smiled, helpless and stunned. “Guess we’re both kind of hopeless.”

His hand brushed your arm, hesitant but deliberate. “Maybe. But not anymore.”

And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.

And just like that, all the quiet tension between you—weeks of half-meant jokes and unspoken affection—finally settled into something real. Something shared.

Not lost in translation anymore.

[demeterlindavis]

Out of Step, In Sync

Pairing: Eddie Munson X F!Reader

Summary: After a disappointing prom night, you stumble into an unexpected conversation behind the gym with Eddie Munson—Hawkins’ favorite scapegoat and misunderstood metalhead. What starts as a casual talk over a shared escape turns into something else unexpected.

Tags: Fluff, pure fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, honestly yall will need a dentist, SFW, mutual pining, developing relationship, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, prom, dancing, 80s sci-fi references, no upside-down. No descriptions of reader. No mentions of Y/N

A/N: Yeah, you know me, I love a good 'ol fluff, I needed to feel something. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 8.4k

masterlist

You didn’t even bother glancing back.

The bass from the gym echoed down the corridor, muffled and distant, like a heartbeat you weren’t part of. Glitter clung to your dress and your shoes pinched with every step, but you didn’t care. The heels were coming off soon anyway. The air back here was cooler, quieter, less drenched in Aqua Net and teenage desperation. You welcomed it like an old friend.

You weren’t angry. Not even a little heartbroken. Just… done. Your so-called prom date was slow dancing with some girl from his chem class—too close, too familiar—but honestly? It was a relief. The two of you had nothing in common, and you’d spent most of the evening counting down the songs until you could leave without it being “a thing.”

Now, finally, you were alone.

You pushed the heavy double doors open and stepped out into the cool night. The gym’s back lot was empty, save for a few leftover streamers fluttering from a fence post. You sighed, breathing in the crisp air. Somewhere in the distance, a cicada buzzed lazily.

Then you caught it—the scent of smoke.

Cigarette smoke.

You turned your head and there he was, half-shadowed by the building’s edge, denim jacket draped over a worn prom tee, black slacks like he hadn’t tried at all—and still somehow made it work. Eddie Munson, leaning against the brick wall like the whole world bored him to tears.

He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you, but didn’t say anything at first. Just took another drag and watched you with a crooked smile.

“Well, well,” he said finally, voice low and amused. “Didn’t peg you for a backdoor escape artist.”

You crossed your arms, smirking. “Didn’t peg you for someone who’d show up at prom.”

He shrugged. “Had to see it to believe it. The glitter. The heartbreak. The emotional meltdowns. It’s like a zoo in there.”

You laughed, the first real one of the night. It caught you off guard.

He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and nodded toward the gym. “So. Who do I have to thank for you gracing the back alley with your presence?”

You tilted your head. “My date’s dancing with someone else.”

Eddie winced dramatically. “Oof. Harsh.”

“Nah,” you said, leaning against the wall beside him. “We had the chemistry of a wet sponge. I’m just glad he realized it before I had to fake a bathroom emergency.”

He chuckled, and it sounded honest. Warm.

“Well,” he said, holding the cigarette out like an offering, “welcome to the land of misfit prom-goers.”

You eyed the cigarette, then shook your head. “I’ll pass. But thanks, ambassador of the misfits.”

Eddie grinned, sliding it back between his lips. “Suit yourself.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt kind of… easy. The thump of music behind you became background noise, like it belonged to another world. You looked out across the empty lot, then back at him.

“So what about you?” you asked. “Didn’t have a date either?”

Eddie snorted. “Please. Can you imagine me at a formal dinner with someone’s mom taking pictures? Nah. I’m just here for the chaos. Thought I’d maybe sneak in, spike the punch, throw a few firecrackers—y’know, the classics—but someone already beat me to it. So now I’m stuck lurking like a gremlin in the shadows.”

You laughed again, easier this time. “Well, you wear the gremlin look well.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “High praise.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Peaceful. Like the noise of the gym didn’t even exist out here.

You twirled the cigarette in your fingers. “I used to think you were all noise, y’know,” you said without really thinking. “Like, loud music and heavy boots and wild hair.”

“I mean, I am all of those things,” he said, raising a brow.

“Sure,” you said. “But I don’t know… I think there’s more to it.”

He looked at you for a second, like he was trying to read your mind. Then he smiled. “Alright. Your turn. Tell me something about you that’d surprise me.”

You thought about it. Then, what the hell.

“I like science fiction. Books. Comics, too.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not something I talk about. People think it’s weird.”

“Okay, hold on.” He straightened up, suddenly animated. “What kind of sci-fi? Like, classic stuff or weird future dystopia stuff?”

“Both,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov. And there’s this one graphic novel series I’ve been obsessed with—The Long Tomorrow. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Eddie’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? Moebius is a god. That gritty noir-future vibe? That’s, like, the blueprint for half my D&D campaigns.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you like Moebius?”

“Like him? I worship him. I have The Airtight Garage under my mattress so my uncle doesn’t ‘accidentally’ throw it out during one of his cleaning sprees.”

You couldn’t stop smiling now. “That’s ridiculous.”

He pointed at you with his cigarette. “You’re ridiculous. All this time I thought you were just another prom queen in disguise and now you’re telling me you’re secretly a sci-fi nerd?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not a prom queen.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “You’re way cooler.”

The compliment caught you off guard. There was no smirk behind it, no teasing edge—just honesty. His eyes lingered on yours, and for the first time all night, you felt seen. Not dressed up, not performing, just you.

“Guess we both had the wrong idea,” you said quietly.

He nodded. “Guess so.”

And just like that, the space between you didn’t feel so distant anymore.

You both stood there for a while, trading stories—about favorite books, childhood cartoons, and how utterly overrated prom was. You were surprised how much you had in common. Maybe not in how you moved through the world, but in the way you looked at it. Like both of you were on the outside looking in, only now you had company.

Through the slightly cracked door, a new song filtered out. Faint but unmistakable.

“I wanna know what love is…”

You glanced back toward the gym. The colored lights flickered just beyond the windows, a blur of red and blue. The music carried more clearly now, bleeding into the cool night air like some kind of cosmic joke.

Eddie took another drag, then stubbed out the cigarette under his boot. “You should go back in,” he said after a moment, flicking ash from his fingertips. “It’s prom. Go dance with someone. Someone who doesn’t hang out behind dumpsters and make fun of the decorations.”

You tilted your head at him. “You mean someone boring?”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Someone who won’t get you judged by, like, the entire social hierarchy of Hawkins High.”

You shrugged. “I already got ditched by my date. What’s the worst they can do? Gasp?”

Eddie smiled, but his eyes drifted back toward the glowing gym windows. “Still… I’m not exactly prom royalty.”

“Well, neither am I,” you said. “So maybe that’s the point.”

He didn’t answer. Just rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking unsure of himself for the first time that night.

You tilted your head again, studying him. “You know,” you said slowly, “you could go dance too.”

Eddie barked a short laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He held up his hands, surrender-style. “I can’t dance. I mean it. Like, at all. I’ve got rhythm when I’m playing guitar, but put me on a dance floor and I look like I’m dodging bees.”

You stared at him for a moment. Then something wild and impulsive bubbled up inside you.

You stepped forward, just close enough to be a little dangerous.

“Okay,” you said, lifting an eyebrow. “So don’t go on the dance floor.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Stay right here. Dance with me.”

Eddie straightened slightly, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. “Are you… serious?”

You nodded, smiling now. “I’ll guide you. You don’t have to know how. Just follow me.”

He hesitated. And for a second, you thought he’d say no. But then, slowly, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too fast, he took your hand.

His fingers were warm. Calloused. A little shaky.

You placed his other hand at your waist, your free hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

The music swelled behind you, soft and sweet and full of yearning.

“…and I want you to show me…”

You started to sway, just a little. Nothing fancy. Just moving to the rhythm, simple and easy.

“Okay,” you said, voice low. “Just match me. That’s it.”

Eddie watched your feet like they held all the answers in the universe, but he followed. Awkwardly at first. Then with a little more confidence. Then a little more.

He looked up at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really doing this.”

“So are you.”

And under the stars, with music bleeding out from a world that didn’t quite fit either of you, Eddie Munson danced.

With you.

You didn’t let go.

And for the life of him, Eddie couldn’t understand why.

Your dress swaying slightly in the night breeze, and you were holding his hand. Guiding him like this was just some normal thing people did — like you weren’t the kind of girl who was supposed to laugh behind your locker with friends in matching dresses. Like you weren’t way too pretty, too bright, too out-of-his-league to be caught slow dancing with the town freak behind a gym full of people who’d never get it.

But there you were. Smiling at him like he wasn’t a joke. Like he wasn’t just a rumor in black denim.

And all Eddie could do was follow your lead.

You moved gently, no pressure. Just a simple sway. His hand was on your waist, and he could feel your heartbeat through the fabric, could feel the way your fingers gripped his just enough to ground him. Like you knew he was seconds away from spinning off the planet.

How was this real?

For once, Eddie Munson wasn’t putting on a show or throwing up middle fingers at the world. He wasn’t posturing or mocking or performing.

He was just here.

Dancing with you under the stars, to a song he didn’t even like, and somehow? It felt like the most honest thing he’d ever done.

The ride home was quiet, but not the awkward kind. The good kind. The kind that settled between the two of you like a blanket, warm and easy.

Eddie’s van rumbled softly down the back roads, headlights cutting through the dark. Your heels were in your lap, your feet bare and curled up on the seat, glitter still dusting your legs. The leftover makeup smudged slightly beneath your eyes, but you didn’t care. Neither did he.

He kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed, but you didn’t say anything.

The radio played something soft—some late-night ballad that felt a little too on the nose—but neither of you reached out to change the station. It kind of fit.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, the engine idled low, casting the porch in pale yellow light. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

You turned to him, your voice softer than it had been all night. “Thanks for the ride.”

He looked at you, really looked at you, and gave a small, genuine nod. “Yeah. Of course.”

You opened the door, about to step out, then hesitated.

“And… thanks for earlier,” you added, eyes meeting his. “I actually had fun tonight.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Like… more than I’ve had in a while.”

Eddie’s fingers drummed once on the steering wheel. “That’s kinda sad,” he teased. “But I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes darker in the dim light. “You’re not what I expected,” he said, quietly.

You tilted your head. “Good unexpected?”

He shrugged, but there was something softer in the way he looked at you now. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You nodded slowly, then stepped down from the van. The door thunked shut behind you, but you lingered at the curb, turning back one last time.

“See you Monday?”

He grinned. “I’ll be the one getting detention.”

You laughed, backing toward your porch.

And he stayed there, parked under the streetlight, watching you go—wondering what the hell just happened, and why he kind of, maybe, really wanted it to happen again.

Monday’s cafeteria buzzed with leftover prom talk—who wore what, who threw up in the parking lot, and who was already regretting their choice of date. You sat with your usual group, a tray of barely-touched food in front of you, picking at a soggy fry as your friends swapped stories.

“I swear, if I hear more stories of Lisa and Charlie slow dancing, I’ll puke,” one of them groaned.

“I heard Jeff cried during I Wanna Know What Love Is,” another snorted.

You chuckled under your breath, but you were only half-listening. Your thoughts were still stuck somewhere in the quiet part of Friday night—lit by stars, wrapped in soft music and Eddie Munson’s uncertain hands.

“Okay,” said Courtney, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “tell us. What happened with you? You disappeared after ten.”

Your stomach did a small flip. “I, uh… went outside for some air.”

“That long?” someone chimed in. “Didn’t your date ditch you?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. But it was mutual, kinda. No chemistry.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “So what, you just wandered off?”

You hesitated, then decided to own it.

“I ran into Eddie Munson. We talked for a while.”

The table quieted. You didn’t miss the way someone blinked. Or the small, uncomfortable scoff.

“Wait—Eddie Munson?” said one of the girls, drawing out his name like it tasted wrong. “As in… Hellfire Club, Eddie?”

You looked up, steady. “Yeah.”

“Oh my god,” another said under her breath. “Isn’t he like… failing half his classes?”

“I heard he might repeat senior year again,” someone else added. “That’s like—what, his third time?”

You set down your fry and leaned back a little. “So what?”

That shut them up for a beat.

You looked around the table. “He was nice. We talked. We danced. It was actually… fun.”

Courtney blinked at you, like she couldn’t quite process it. “You danced with Eddie Munson?”

You smiled. “Yeah. He’s different than people think.”

They exchanged a few glances, probably trying to figure out if you were serious, but you didn’t give them room to argue. You just went back to your tray, casual but firm.

You didn’t owe them anything else.

And when they finally moved on to a different story, you let your mind drift again—back to Eddie’s hands, awkward and warm in yours, and the way he’d smiled like no one had ever looked at him the way you had.

The final bell rang and the halls of Hawkins High exploded with noise—slamming lockers, shouted goodbyes, the usual stampede toward the exit. You were pulling out your books, ready to head home, when a familiar mop of messy curls came into view.

Eddie.

He almost walked past, arms full of binders and that damn lunchbox of his, but then he spotted you. His grin bloomed instantly.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite prom partner,” he said, walking backward in front of you with dramatic flair.

You snorted. “I’m your only prom partner.”

“Details,” he waved off, turning to walk beside you. “Still the best.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile too wide, but it was hard. He kept cracking jokes—half of them dumb, some surprisingly clever, all of them weirdly charming. By the time you reached the front doors, you were laughing hard enough to forget about the weight of your backpack or the way people stared.

Outside, the sun was still high, casting golden light over the parking lot. You lingered near the bike racks, and Eddie rocked back on his heels, suddenly looking like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“You doing anything right now?”

You blinked. “Not really. Why?”

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Wanna get milkshakes or something?”

You tilted your head, amused. “Are you asking me out?”

“What? No!” he said quickly, eyes wide. “I mean—not that you’re not—ugh.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Not like a date date, just, y’know. A post-school, ice-cream-adjacent hangout. Very casual. Extremely non-threatening.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “You’re doing a terrible job of making it sound casual.”

He groaned. “God, I know.”

You paused for a second. Then smiled.

“Yeah. Let’s get milkshakes.”

Eddie blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Really,” you said, starting to walk again, this time toward his van. You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Do I get to pick the music in your van?”

He placed a hand over his heart, mock wounded. “Absolutely not. But you can control the windows.”

Lunchtime in the cafeteria. Same old gray plastic trays, same mystery meat, same half-hearted arguments about campaign rules. Eddie was halfway through explaining, for the third time, why rolling a nat 1 on perception doesn’t mean you automatically get eaten by a mimic, when something—or rather, someone—stepped into his line of vision.

You.

He blinked up at you, startled. You were holding something. A piece of paper, no—thicker than that. Watercolor paper.

You thrust it out toward him before he could even say hi.

“I, um… I made this.”

Eddie looked down.

It was a watercolor painting. Bold, messy brush strokes in warm and murky tones. And there, standing like some strange cosmic king, was Major Grubert from The Airtight Garage. Rendered with this dreamy, layered energy—loose and vivid, with little gold details that shimmered when they caught the light.

“You painted this?” he asked, dumbfounded.

You nodded quickly, already looking like you regretted everything. “I don’t know. It’s dumb. I just— You said you liked the comic, and I was painting for art club, and I thought maybe you’d—”

He stared at you.

You stared at the floor.

“Anyway,” you rushed, already backing up. “You don’t have to keep it or anything. I just—yeah, okay, bye.”

And then you turned on your heel and disappeared between the tables, like a mirage, gone as fast as you came.

For a second, Eddie didn’t move. His tray sat forgotten, and the painting was still in his hands.

“What the hell was that?” said Gareth.

Jeff leaned over, squinting. “Is that… art?”

“Holy crap,” said one of the freshmen, eyes wide. “Did she just give you that? Like, a gift?”

“I think she did,” Eddie murmured.

He was still staring at it. Still stunned.

Because it wasn’t just the painting—though that alone was cool as hell—it was the fact that you made it for him. That you remembered that offhand comment about The Airtight Garage from days ago. That you painted this weird little sci-fi character, and thought of him while doing it.

It was… a lot.

Eddie cleared his throat, trying to shake the dazed look off his face. “Shut up,” he mumbled, carefully sliding the painting into his binder like it was made of glass. “None of you get it. It’s called being interesting, you cretins.”

They didn’t stop staring.

Gareth leaned over the table. “Dude. Seriously. What was that?”

Doug raised an eyebrow. “Did you hex her or something?”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered, still guarding the painting like it was top-secret government property. He shoved it deeper into his binder, then clapped it shut with a loud snap.

“You’ve been weird all week,” Jeff pointed out.

“Yeah, man,” Gareth said, gesturing wildly. “You’ve been, like… smiley. It’s freaky.”

Eddie sighed like a man defeated, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Fine,” he mumbled, keeping his voice low. “If I tell you, will you shut up and let me eat my damn lunch?”

They all nodded in rapid, eager unison.

Eddie leaned forward slightly. “We danced at prom.”

The table went silent.

“What?” Gareth blinked. “Who did?”

“Me and her,” Eddie said, voice a little more defensive now. “It just kind of… happened. She came outside. We talked. She offered. I didn’t step on her feet. Miracle of the decade.”

“She asked you to dance?” Jeff repeated, stunned.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jeff. It’s not that hard to believe.”

“It’s just—she’s, like… art club. Social. Normal,” said Doug.

“And I’m a freak,” Eddie finished, not angrily—just matter-of-fact. “Yeah, yeah. I know. That’s the whole thing, right?”

They all exchanged awkward glances.

Eddie softened a little. “We’ve just been talking since then. That’s all. She’s cool. Funny. Into sci-fi stuff. And apparently, she paints really badass cosmic generals in her spare time.”

The group went quiet again, but this time with a slightly different energy.

Jeff nodded slowly. “Huh.”

“Damn,” Gareth muttered. “Did not see that coming.”

Eddie shrugged, leaning back in his seat and finally stabbing at his lunch. “Neither did I.”

But under the table, his fingers tapped quietly on his knee—restless in that weird, hopeful way.

Because yeah… he didn’t see it coming.

Your room looked like a clothing explosion.

Jeans on the bed. A skirt on the floor. Three different tops draped over your chair. You stared into the mirror, adjusting the neckline of your favorite shirt for what had to be the fourth time, then gave up and let out a groan.

It wasn’t a date.

Not officially.

But still.

Eddie had asked you yesterday—Eddie Munson, king of chains, dice, and anti-establishment rants—if you wanted to go to the new Starcourt Mall. He’d said it kind of awkwardly, like the words felt weird in his mouth. Then he’d doubled down with, “I mean, I hate malls, they’re corporate brain rot, but if you’re there too, I guess I won’t spontaneously combust.”

Which, translated from Eddie-speak, meant: I want to spend time with you, and I’m doing something completely out of character because it might make you smile.

So yeah. Maybe it was a date.

You adjusted your hair again, spritzed the tiniest bit of perfume, and gave yourself one last once-over. Just polished enough to show you cared—but not so much it looked like you were trying. Hopefully.

A soft knock on your door pulled you back to Earth.

Your mom peeked in, eyes twinkling.

“Sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

She pushed the door open with a hand on her hip and an expression halfway between curiosity and polite judgment. “There’s a young man waiting downstairs for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “He’s early?”

She shrugged. “Five minutes. Maybe he was excited.”

You tried to hide your smile as you turned back to the mirror, smoothing down the hem of your nicest top. Not fancy fancy — just enough to look like you put in effort. It wasn’t every day Eddie Munson asked someone to hang out somewhere as un-Eddie as the Starcourt Mall.

You were flattered. And a little impressed. He was trying.

Your mom lingered by the doorway, arms crossed loosely now.

“You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone.”

You paused, lip gloss wand hovering in the air. “I’m not. We’re just… hanging out.”

She arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “I mean it.”

“Well,” she said, pushing off the doorframe. “He’s… not what I expected.”

You turned slowly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Leather jacket. Messy hair. Rings on every finger. He’s got a… rough-around-the-edges thing.” She shrugged. “I didn’t peg him as your type.”

You hesitated. “Is that a problem?”

She raised her hands. “Not for me. Just... interesting choice.”

Then, softening, she added, “But he stood up when I walked in. Called me ma’am. And he didn’t look at the family photos weird, so… he’s alright in my book.”

You blinked. “Wow. High praise.”

“I’m just saying,” she smiled. “You could’ve warned me you brought home a James Dean type.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you were grinning. “He’s not like that.”

“If you say so.”

With that, she turned to leave, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t leave him waiting too long—he keeps checking his watch.”

Your heart fluttered.

You gave yourself one last look in the mirror—quick swipe of gloss, tuck of hair behind your ear—and grabbed your bag.

You didn’t expect Eddie Munson to know his way around a shopping mall.

And to be fair… he didn’t.

From the moment you stepped into Starcourt’s fluorescent glow, he looked like a vampire in daylight—eyes squinting, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets, muttering about “late-stage capitalism” like the air itself offended him.

“This place smells like fabric softener and broken dreams,” he declared as you passed an Orange Julius stand.

You grinned. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d have already burst into flames.”

But despite all his grumbling, he stuck close. Arm brushing yours. Slowing down when you lingered in shop windows. Letting you tug him toward places you knew he’d secretly like—like the comic shop tucked near the food court, where he perked up at the sight of a rare Swamp Thing issue and ended up ranting, passionately, about horror art for ten straight minutes.

After that, it all got easier.

He let you drag him through a novelty store, where he made you try on glittery heart-shaped sunglasses and nearly bought a lava lamp “just because.” At Sam Goody, you flipped through cassette tapes while he made dramatic gagging noises at pop albums and then—when he thought you weren’t looking—quietly bought a Bowie tape because you mentioned liking one song.

Somewhere between Cinnabon and Spencer’s, your arms brushed again.

And this time, he didn’t move away.

Instead, he offered his elbow in that silly, exaggerated way, like some knight escorting royalty through battle. You rolled your eyes but linked arms anyway.

You didn’t unlink for a while.

When you passed the photobooth, it was your idea.

“C’mon,” you said, already tugging at his sleeve. “We have to. It’s practically a law.”

“I hate pictures,” he protested.

“Too bad.”

He grumbled, but followed.

The booth curtain smelled like static and old gum, and the light inside was way too bright. But Eddie slid in beside you anyway, pressing his knee against yours in the cramped space.

The timer beeped.

First photo, a blur of you both, too late to pose.

Second photo, you were smiling, he was sticking his tongue out.

Third, he turned his head and said something just as the flash went off, so his mouth was frozen mid-word and you were laughing.

Fourth, he looked at you. Really looked. And you looked back, cheeks warm. And for that one second, neither of you made a face.

That last one made your stomach flutter.

The strip slid out a few seconds later, still warm from the machine. You both leaned over it, smiling like idiots.

“I’m keeping this one,” you said, pointing to the last shot.

“No way. That’s the best one.” He mock-whined. “It’s mine now.”

“Split it,” you said, already reaching for it. “Even trade.”

So you carefully tore it down the middle, each of you keeping two little squares. You tucked yours into your wallet. He stuffed his into the pocket of his jacket like it was something worth keeping safe.

After that, you shared a cherry slushie and browsed the record store. You ended up on one of the benches near the fountain, your shoulders bumping gently as you sat.

Eddie kicked at the tile with the toe of his boot. “Okay, confession,” he said, not looking at you. “This was kinda fun.”

You smiled. “Even though it’s a capitalist wasteland?”

He grinned. “Especially because of that. I got to rant and be dramatic and walk around with a pretty girl on my arm. All the core Eddie Munson needs.”

You laughed and leaned your head against his shoulder.

And you didn’t say it out loud, but in your pocket, the photo strip pressed between your wallet like proof:

Something was happening between you.

And it felt really, really good.

The smell of acrylic paint alingered in the air, windows cracked just enough to let in the late afternoon breeze. You sat cross-legged on a stool, paintbrush in hand, blotting a soft gradient of pink across the corner of your sketchbook while your friends chatted around you.

“So then Brad says he didn’t cheat, he just ‘accidentally’ kissed her,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes as she rinsed a brush in a cloudy jar of water. “Like that’s a thing.”

“Classic,” Angela muttered. “Men are such a disease.”

You hummed in vague agreement, still focused on blending your colors. It wasn’t until Courtney nudged your foot under the table that you looked up.

“Okay, but you had that smug little look on your face when you walked in,” she said. “So. Tells us. What did you do this weekend?”

You paused.

Then smiled. Just a little. “I went to the mall.”

“Ugh, I live there,” Angela said. “With who?”

“…Eddie.”

Courtney blinked. “Eddie Munson?”

Angela dropped her pencil. “Seriously?”

You shifted in your seat, brushing a spot of paint from your thumb. “Yeah.”

They exchanged a glance, the kind that was just a little too loaded. “Are you—like—serious with him?” Courtney asked, a bit cautiously.

You looked down at your sketchbook.

The memory hit you fast and warm—Eddie, leaning back on a food court bench, drumming his fingers against his knee and grinning every time your hand brushed his. The way his face softened when he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real. The photobooth picture in your wallet, folded so carefully it was starting to wear at the edges.

You swallowed, eyes flicking back up.

“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “But… maybe.”

Courtney raised a brow. “I mean, he’s kind of—”

“Different,” Angela finished for her. “Like, not who we thought you’d be into.”

You let out a breath, not defensive—just tired of that tone.

“He’s actually really sweet,” you said. “He listens when I talk. He cares about stuff. He remembered I liked a random song and went back for the tape the next day. He’s not what you think he is.”

The girls went quiet for a second.

Then Courtney shrugged. “Okay. I mean, if you like him.”

“I do,” you said quietly, adding a final brushstroke to your page. “More than I thought I would.”

Angela cracked a smile. “Well… if he breaks your heart, we’re egging his van.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

The library was louder than usual—not in noise, but in energy. Stress hung thick in the air, like a storm cloud hovering over every student hunched at their tables. Pages flipped, pencils scratched, the occasional frustrated sigh echoed off the stone walls. It was exam season.

Eddie Munson was in hell.

His science textbook lay open in front of him, untouched for the last ten minutes. His notebook was empty, save for a rough sketch of a dragon flipping off a periodic table. He tapped his pencil against his lip, eyes unfocused, legs jittering under the table.

This wasn’t his place. He hated the cold lighting, the itchy silence, the way it all felt like it was judging him for every gap in his knowledge.

And then you walked in.

Like sunlight in a storm.

You made your way across the room, dodging backpacks and tangled limbs, carrying your bag against your hip and a calm expression that made it look like you weren’t drowning in deadlines and formulas. You spotted him, gave a little wave, and sat down across from him.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. “Hey.”

You glanced at the disaster zone of his table—crumpled notes, half-drawn doodles, an empty soda cup with a chewed straw—and smiled.

“Rough day?”

Eddie dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m about five minutes away from faking my own death and starting a new life as a gas station poet in Ohio.”

You laughed, but it softened quickly as you reached into your bag and pulled something out: a clean, colorful folder. It had your name written neatly on the corner, and sticky notes poking from the sides like a rainbow spine.

You slid it across the table toward him. “These are my notes. For science. And history. And… okay, maybe I got carried away.”

He blinked. “You—”

“They’re color-coded. Definitions are in blue. Equations are pink. Anything our teachers stressed in class is highlighted. I even made flashcards, they’re in the back pocket.”

Eddie just stared at it.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because something about it felt… personal. Intimate.

No one had ever done something like this for him before.

You fiddled with the edge of your sleeve. “I don’t know, maybe it’s dumb. But they helped me. I figured maybe they’d help you too.”

He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. Then, reverently, he opened it.

It was like walking into your mind. Your handwriting curled neatly over page after page. You’d drawn little diagrams. Circled key dates. There was even a little cartoon mitochondrion wearing sunglasses on one page.

He swallowed.

“This is…” he said quietly, still flipping pages. “This is incredible.”

You shrugged, trying not to blush. “Just thought you could use a little help.”

Eddie didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, running his thumb along the edge of one of the pages like it might disappear if he let go.

Then he looked up at you. Not with the usual teasing smile or lazy smirk.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I swear to god,” he said, voice low and serious, “if you keep being this perfect, I’m gonna have to make you mine.”

Your heart stuttered.

You blinked, stunned—but not in a bad way. Just… surprised by the weight of those words, how much they didn’t sound like a joke.

You recovered with a half-smile. “You should probably focus on passing chemistry first.”

“Baby, I’m failing chemistry because you walk into the room and all the atoms in my brain rearrange.”

You laughed, covering your face for a second. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s emotional science,” he insisted. “Way more complicated.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth wouldn’t leave your cheeks.

He closed it gently, like he was sealing up treasure.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it.

“Of course,” you replied, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve been helping me too. Just in a different way.”

Eddie tilted his head. “Oh yeah? How?”

You looked at him, and this time, didn’t hesitate. “You make me feel like I don’t have to hide the weird parts of myself.”

Eddie’s eyes softened.

“I’d riot if you did.”

You were digging through your locker for your pencil pouch when you heard it—footsteps, pounding fast down the hallway, like someone was being chased. You didn’t even look up until a voice you knew all too well shouted your name like it was a fire alarm.

“Hey!”

You turned just in time to see Eddie Munson nearly skid on the polished floor as he sprinted toward you, hair wild, jacket flapping behind him like a cape.

He nearly collided with the locker beside yours, bracing himself with one hand, breath coming in quick bursts.

“Eddie—what—?”

“I passed,” he said, eyes bright and disbelieving. “I passed.”

It took you a second to register what he meant. “Wait—like... everything?”

He nodded, grinning so hard his face looked like it might split open. “Everything. Math, English, science—Mrs. Miller gave me a D-minus, but that’s still a D! That’s still passing!”

You dropped your books onto the floor without even caring.

“Eddie, that’s amazing!”

And before you knew what you were doing, you threw your arms around him.

He laughed into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor for a second, spinning once with the wildness of it all.

“I had to tell you first,” he said, voice muffled in your hair. “I ran here.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, eyes shining with something that looked way more intense than just pride.

He looked at you like you were the sun after months of rain.

“Seriously, I never would’ve made it without you,” he said. “Those notes? Those flash cards? The dumb acronyms you made up so I could remember physics formulas—”

“They weren’t dumb,” you said, laughing.

“They were adorable,” he corrected, like it was obvious. “And apparently effective.”

His hands were still on your waist. Yours were curled into his jacket without you noticing. Your faces were close—closer than usual. And you saw it flicker across his face—something unspoken, something about to break through.

And then it did.

He kissed you.

No hesitation, no stammering this time. Just a sharp inhale, and then his lips were on yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t polished or practiced—it was a kiss powered by sheer joy, by the rush of success and the comfort of you, by everything he’d been holding back. His hands slid from your waist up to your jaw, cradling your face like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And the thing was—you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back, arms looping around his shoulders, grounding him, steadying him in the middle of this ridiculous, beautiful rush.

When he finally pulled away, your faces still close, you could feel his breath fanning your lips, still uneven.

You stared at him, slightly dazed, your pulse thundering in your ears.

“…You didn’t plan that, did you?” you asked, voice half-breathless, half-amused.

Eddie gave the softest little laugh, head leaning against yours for a second as he caught his breath.

“Not even a little,” he said. “I think I blacked out after I said ‘I passed.’”

You shook your head, cheeks burning in the best way.

He grinned, wild and flushed and completely Eddie. “You’re gonna be so sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

And you didn’t even have to think about it.

Because if this—this chaotic, sweet, completely unfiltered boy—was the reward at the end of every academic achievement?

You’d tutor him forever.

“Eddie’s here,” your mom called from the hallway, her voice light and knowing.

You looked up from the mirror, heart skipping just a little.

Your dad’s voice followed a beat later from the living room. “Tell him to keep it under 60 this time.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately as you grabbed your bag. “He only sped once, and that was because we were late for grad practice.”

“He was going eighty,” your dad replied.

“It was downhill,” you said, already headed for the door.

You passed your mom in the hall, and she gave you a soft smile. “He brought flowers. Again.”

You couldn’t help the way your smile grew.

When you stepped outside, the warm air wrapped around you like a blanket. The sun was still high, the cicadas buzzing lazily in the trees, and there he was—leaning against his van like he belonged there, a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers in one hand, the other shoved into the pocket of his worn jeans.

He looked up the second he heard the screen door creak.

And you swear, even now, after everything, he still looked at you like it was the first time.

“There she is,” he said, grinning wide.

You walked up to him, arms crossing just to keep yourself from doing something embarrassing, like swooning. “What’s the occasion?”

Eddie held out the flowers. “Just celebrating the fact that I somehow tricked the universe into giving me a girlfriend this amazing.”

You rolled your eyes, taking them anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned closer, voice low and smug. “And yet… here you are.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours, but your smile gave you away.

He opened the passenger door for you with an exaggerated bow. “M’lady.”

“Such a gentleman,” you muttered, climbing in.

As he circled the van to the driver’s side, your dad stepped out onto the porch with a glass of coffee and a suspicious glare.

Eddie gave a little wave and a crooked smile. “Sir. Swear I’ll have her back by ten. Eleven max. No stunt driving this time.”

Your dad just raised an eyebrow.

Eddie slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door and pulling on his seatbelt. “He loves me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you said as he started the engine.

“So,” he said, flicking the stereo on low, “this theater just started showing Back to the Future. Two days early, somehow. I figured a little time travel with you sounded better than melting in my room watching The Evil Dead for the twelfth time.”

You laughed and gave him a look. “You just want to see the DeLorean.”

“…Okay, also that.”

He reached over and laced your fingers with his, resting your joined hands on the bench seat between you.

The van rumbled down the sunlit road, windows cracked open, the summer air carrying in the scent of grass and gasoline. Your hair danced in the breeze. Eddie hummed along to whatever cassette was playing—a little out of tune, but you didn’t mind.

Not when his thumb kept tracing slow circles over the back of your hand.

Not when the entire summer felt like it was unfolding in front of you like something sacred.

And as he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning like you were the best part of the world—

You thought maybe you were right where you were supposed to be.

The mall was alive with its usual symphony—chatter, synth-pop from overhead speakers, the distant ding of arcade machines, and the occasional whir of the fountain in the food court. You and Eddie split off the moment you stepped into the theater’s cool, air-conditioned lobby.

“I’m getting the tickets,” he said, already headed toward the box office.

“And I’m getting snacks,” you said before he could argue, already turning for the concession stand. “Don’t fight me on this, Munson.”

He shot you a mock glare over his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

When you met back up, he handed you a single stub—he’d already torn them and given the other to the usher. You handed him a large bucket of popcorn and a cherry Icee with two straws.

Eddie blinked. “You got two straws in my Coke?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s our Coke now.”

His heart may have done a ridiculous little flip at that, but he just grinned and led the way inside.

The theater was dark and cool, the trailers already rolling as you found seats near the middle—close enough to feel immersed but far enough that you weren’t cranking your neck. Eddie set the popcorn between you, but you curled into his side instead, slipping your hand into the crook of his arm and resting your head gently on his shoulder.

He stilled for half a second, surprised by the contact—he never quite got used to the way you just… leaned into him like that. Like it was easy. Like it was safe.

“You comfortable?” he whispered, glancing down.

You nodded without looking up, your voice soft. “Perfect.”

When the movie began, the glow of the screen lit your faces in blues and oranges and whites. You quietly giggled at the opening scene, nudging Eddie every time something ridiculous happened—he whispered a sarcastic comment back each time, just enough to make you cover your mouth to stifle laughter.

At one point, he reached into the popcorn bucket and accidentally brushed your hand. You didn’t move away. Neither did he.

When Marty McFly first hit 1955, you leaned closer, eyes wide with wonder. Eddie didn’t say anything—just smiled a little to himself, letting you rest there, your head warm on his shoulder, your heartbeat syncing quietly with the slow, steady thrum of his.

And in the dark, surrounded by strangers and movie magic, Eddie Munson let himself imagine—just for a moment—what it might be like to have this forever.

The van rolled to a quiet stop in front of your house, headlights casting soft beams across the porch. The movie was long over and the cassette in the stereo had looped twice already.

Neither of you moved.

You glanced at Eddie with a small smile, fingers nervously picking at the edge of your sleeve. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

He turned toward you, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “Yeah? Me too. That was…” He looked at you like he was still a little surprised this was real. “That was a good night.”

You both laughed at how underwhelming that sounded.

“I mean—great night,” he amended, mock-dramatic. “One for the ages.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Come on, rockstar. Walk me to the door?”

Eddie hopped out first and came around the van, opening your door like he always did—even when you rolled your eyes at him for it. The night air was warm but quieter now, the street still and bathed in porchlight glow. You walked side by side up the driveway, close enough that your arms brushed.

At the bottom step, you turned to face him.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, shifting on his feet like he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. “I, uh… hope this wasn’t too boring. You know the mall and a movie isn’t exactly my usual scene.”

You shook your head. “I loved it. And… I like seeing different sides of you.”

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Small, warm, a little shy.

You stood there for another beat, the silence stretching out but never uncomfortable. Just full—like both of you were hoping time would slow down.

“Well…” you started, tilting your head toward the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess this is—”

You kissed him.

Soft and certain. You leaned in first, lips brushing his with the kind of ease that only came with practice and care. He melted into it instantly, one hand slipping to your waist, the other steadying him against the railing like the whole world had narrowed down to just this.

When you finally pulled away, your noses were still almost touching.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” you whispered.

He blinked, dazed. “Goodnight.”

You stepped inside with a smile still tugging at your lips, and the second you closed the door behind you—

“That was quite the kiss.”

You jumped. Your mom was standing in the kitchen, sipping tea with your dad, both of them clearly having witnessed the entire thing from the window.

“Did he trip over the step again?” your dad asked casually. “He always does that when he’s nervous.”

You groaned. “You two seriously have nothing better to do?”

Your mom just smirked, eyes twinkling. “We like seeing you happy.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning, but you couldn’t stop the grin from breaking through.

Because yeah… you were happy.

Dating Eddie Munson is nothing like you expected—and everything you didn’t know you needed.

It’s loud music in his van, the kind that rattles the floorboards and makes you laugh when he drums on the steering wheel like the world’s watching. It’s his leather jacket slung over your shoulders when the air turns cold, his rings cool against your skin when he reaches for your hand. It’s messy hair, wild ideas, and the way he always walks on the outside of the sidewalk, like it means something.

It’s learning to love the chaos, and realizing that under all that noise and bravado, Eddie’s just… gentle. Thoughtful. Unbelievably loyal.

Dating Eddie is getting a cassette made just for you—your name scribbled on the label, each song chosen because it reminds him of you. It’s him sitting beside you while you paint, trying not to move too much even though he’s definitely itching to fidget. It’s him reading the comics you lend him, even the weird ones, just so he can talk to you about them later.

It’s milkshakes and movie nights and the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt. It’s long drives with no destination, arms dangling out the window, his voice carrying through the breeze as he sings along—terribly—to some over-the-top power ballad.

It feels like a plot twist Eddie Munson never saw coming.

He thought he knew how his story would go—misunderstood metalhead, high school dropout, maybe famous one day if he got lucky. But then you happened. And now every chapter feels rewritten.

It’s surreal, honestly.

You—who used to feel so out of reach—actually laugh at his stupid impressions and roll your eyes in that way that kills him, but never walk away. You sit next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You hold his hand like you mean it. That alone blows his mind.

It’s the way you look at him like he's not some town freak. Like he’s not a rumor or a punchline or a lost cause.

Like he’s enough.

He'll go to every goddamn mall just to see you smile under neon lights, taking photos in a booth he secretly keeps in his wallet, and pretending not to blush when your head rests on his shoulder during a movie.

Dating you, to Eddie, feels like finding out the world isn’t as cruel as he thought it was.

It’s not always easy. He still worries he’s not good enough for you, that you’ll wake up one day and see what everyone else says they see. But you never flinch. You just keep showing up. Keep choosing him.

And he’d burn down the whole world just to deserve you a little more.

Yeah. Dating you?

It’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

[demeterlindavis]

decentralize and clean up your life!!!

use overdrive, libby, hoopla, cloudlibrary, and kanopy instead of amazon and audible.

use firefox instead of chrome or opera (both are made with chromium, which blocks functionality for ad-blockers. firefox isn't based on chromium).

use mega or proton drive instead of google drive.

get rid of bloatware

use libreoffice instead of microsoft office suite

use vetted sites on r/FREEMEDIAHECKYEAH for free movies, books, games, etc.

use trakt or letterboxd instead of imdb.

use storygraph instead of goodreads.

use darkpatterns to find mobile game with no ads or microtransactions

use ground news to read unbiased news and find blind spots in news stories.

use mediahuman or cobalt to download music, or support your favorite artists directly through bandcamp

make youtube bearable by using mtube, newpipe, or the unhook extension on chrome, firefox, or microsoft edge

use search for a cause or ecosia to support the environment instead of google

use thriftbooks to buy new or used books (they also have manga, textbooks, home goods, CDs, DVDs, and blurays)

use flashpoint to play archived online flash games

find books, movies, games, etc. on the internet archive! for starters, here's a bunch of David Attenborough documentaries and all of the Animorphs books

burn your music onto cds

use pdf24 (available online or as a desktop app) instead of adobe

use unroll.me to clean your email inboxes

use thunderbird, mailfence, countermail, edison mail, tuta, or proton mail instead of gmail

remove bloatware on windows PC, macOS, and iOS X

remove bloatware on samsung X

use pixelfed instead of instagram or meta

use NCH suite for free software like a file converter, image editor, video editors, pdf editor, etc.

feel free to add more alternatives, resources or advice in the reblogs or replies, and i'll add them to the main post <3

last updated: march 18th 2025

[demeterlindavis]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter