#I genuinely never stop thinking about him

[marvelstoriesepic]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it’s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[blueberrisdove-sideblog2]

It was a peaceful afternoon when you decided to bake something sweet for the two of you. The house was filled with the warm scent of freshly baked cupcakes, their colorful frosting so pretty that it almost felt like a work of art. You carefully arranged them on a platter, eager to surprise Mydei with your homemade treat. The moment he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes lit up, and his usual serious demeanor softened at the sight of the cupcakes.

"Mydei, look! I made these just for you!" you said, your voice full of excitement, offering him a cupcake. His intense, piercing gaze flickered to the plate, and for a moment, you could have sworn he was going to smirk. Instead, he gave you a nod, accepting the cupcake from your hand with a gentle, almost reverent touch. "You made them? How could I refuse, my love?" His words were soft, but you could hear the slight edge of mischief in his tone, though you didn’t catch it at first.

As he took a bite, his expression shifted ever so slightly, but he quickly masked it with an exaggerated smile. You couldn’t help but notice his eyes narrow a little, but he chewed with purpose, swallowing the mouthful as though he was savoring every second. "It’s... quite delicious," he murmured, his voice smooth as he wiped a little frosting from his lips with his thumb. You beamed at the compliment, feeling your heart swell with pride. He was always so kind to you, even when things weren’t perfect.

Yet, as he took another bite, it was clear something was off. His face twitched slightly, and his brows furrowed ever so slightly. Still, he didn’t let it show fully. "Truly, love, your baking skills never cease to amaze me," he continued, his tone low and smooth. But you caught the slight grimace he tried to hide as he chewed, his gaze a bit unfocused. You tilted your head, wondering if he was really enjoying it or just being kind.

"Mydei," you said, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips, "you’re not hiding it well. You don’t have to pretend you like it." He paused, the cupcake halfway to his mouth. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and in that instant, you could see the battle waging within him. He was trying so hard to mask his discomfort, but the way his jaw clenched betrayed him. Still, he forced a smile, leaning toward you. "It’s not about the taste, my love. It’s about the effort," he replied, sounding a little too rehearsed.

Finally, he took another large bite, swallowing slowly as though it was some kind of punishment. You watched him closely, barely able to contain your laughter at how he was clearly suffering. But Mydei, ever the stoic one, managed to maintain his composure, his eyes locking with yours. "I think I’ve found a new appreciation for your… unique baking style," he said with a grin, though you could tell he was struggling. "I am truly honored, my dear." You bit your lip, trying not to burst into laughter, knowing just how much he was pushing himself to make you happy.

"Sweetie," you said teasingly, reaching out to gently stroke his cheek, "you don't have to keep eating them. I know they’re not the best, but you can stop pretending now." Mydei’s intense gaze softened, and his lips curled into a small, genuine smile. "Only for you," he murmured, finally setting the half-eaten cupcake down on the counter. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you. "I will always endure any hardship, just to see you smile, my love." You chuckled softly, resting your head against his chest, feeling the warmth of his embrace. Despite the cupcake disaster, there was no place you'd rather be than in his arms, knowing he’d do anything to make you happy.

[mediumgayitalian]

prev

———

Will likes to be praised. True / False

———

The first theory he tests he is so sure of he barely bothers with a notebook. There is a paper, crumpled into his pocket. And a broken pencil.

"Hey," he says, appearing next to Kayla, who yells in surprise, "I have forty dollars for you."

She recovers quickly. "American?"

"No, Icelandic." He pulls several crinkled ones and fives he hustled out of the Hermes cabin last week. "Obviously American."

"Good, good." Kayla counts them obnoxiously, rolls them, and tucks them in her pocket, turning back to Nico. "What can I do for you, Scrooge McDuck?"

"I need you to switch your archery block with me and not tell Will," Nico says, ignoring the insult. "No further questions allowed."

"No questions will be an extra seven dollars."

"What? No way!"

"One dollar per question, Tony Stark." She scowls. "Curse our society for making rich characters cool. I'm trying to insult you."

Nico really considers telling her to stuff it. One dollar per question is a ridiculous rate and he refuses to pay on principle.

However.

There is no way he is getting the forty dollars he has already given to her back, so.

"Your bloodline will be cursed a generation per bill," mutters Nico darkly, counting out the bills. He is in fact short, and has to reach through the shadows to the loose panel under Cecil's bed and borrow a few quarters.

"Yeah, yeah. Alright." She squares her shoulders, staring up at him. She has a way of appearing as if she is six feet tall, when in fact she is four-foot-three. "I will do this for you. But note: I don't need that archery practice." She plants her feet on the ground, tilts her chin up, and stares. Nico realizes abruptly that this is not playfulness on her end, this is not the character she plays when they have these such interactions — her face is darkly serious, mouth drawn into a thin line. "I think it's funny what you're doing, di Angelo. But my brother is sensitive. This better not be a joke."

Nico's eyes widen. "It's not. I — swear, Kayla, I'd never do that."

She nods. "Good."

She makes a show of slinging her bow, stalking across the common with the sun glinting off her arrows. Nico is under no such delusions that it is unintentional. He watches her gather her siblings, rushing them away between the stables and strawberry fields before Will notices.

Nico breathes deeply, shaking himself. Will steps finally out of his cabin, tripping down the last porch step, and the confused little pout on his face is so obvious Nico can see it on the other side of camp.

He jogs over to the archery range, grinning.

Five minutes later, as he's setting up the last target, Will wanders over.

"Nico? Do you — have you seen the kids?"

The kids— the fourteen and twelve and nine and seven year olds that he, sixteen year old, mother-hens. The kids.

"There has been a change of plans," says Nico evasively. He clears his throat. "I, uh, thought we could spend a period together."

Will smiles a soft, pretty thing, squinting his eyes around the edges. "Change of plans, huh?" His smile turns cheeky. "Wanted to be alone with me that badly?"

Part of Nico curls and twitches at the tease, balks and flushes up to his roots. But the bigger, more curious part of him stops, relaxing his shoulders and softening his brow into something genuine, something determined. He holds the silence between them, curling it like rope, and says:

"Yes."

And then he waits.

There is no glowing red, not yet. There is a flash of surprise in Will's bright eyes; the blue narrows as his pupils dilate, as his blond blond eyebrows snap up to his forehead and breath nicks sharply along the back of his throat. But he recovers, or at least tries to, and busies himself with a practice quiver.

"Oh," he says, pressing his finger into an arrowhead. The tight skin of his fingertip snaps and beads a sphere of red, which he stuffs quickly in his mouth, sucking gently. Nico fights back the twitch of his own mouth and a comment about sepsis. When Will speaks again, his voice is quiet. Almost shy. "I'd like that, Nico."

Nico shivers. The hard k of the turn in his name sounds good in Will's mouth. Nico wants to press his ear to Will's throat, to feel the beat of it in his eardrums.

Instead, he grabs his own arrow, his own quiver.

He will always be clumsy in archery. Part of it is simply physiology — he does not have the armspan for it — but most of it, he feels, is the discipline. Archery is measured breathing, it is laying in wait, it is distance and sharp eyes and a bow string taut against your eye that can hurt you as much or more than your enemies if you twitch one muscle out of place. Archery is friendly fire and airborne plague. Archery is a thousand raining arrows, shot by one man — there is power, in archery, in the way there is power in a cook, in a janitor. Unassuming and easily equipped. It is not the discipline Nico knows, of the bellowed yell and the double-fisted blade, of closeness enough to your enemy to see the sweat on her skin and hate in her eyes. The heaviness for archery comes later, counting the arrows parallel to the ground, the half-cross graveyards released from your two pointer fingers.

Archery is for the tall, borne from willowtree bark.

He tries, though, matching his shots with Will's. Matching their breathing, the wideness of their stances; every time Will inhales, so does Nico, every time his arrow kathunks in the pupil of the target's eye, Nico's follows in the sclera.

A dozen in, he stops, turning to watch his friend. Will doesn't notice, exhaling, still, for ever release, inhaling for every line-up. Blinking only when shadow passes over the bright sun.

It is a rare thing for Will to stand at his full height.

He is still when he shoots. Aside from the blink of his eyes, every shot is lined up for entire infinite moments: muscles locked, hands steady, fletch clutched between his middle and pointer fingers. He exhales, once, and the arrow flies neatly and cleanly through the dead center of the target, and there is a half-second of movement where he turns, lining up the next one. But then he is still, again. Quiet. Measured.

"You're good," Nico says, quietly.

He sees first the defensive curl of Will's shoulder, the immediate, reflective frown. The I am not! pre-written on the tip of his tongue. But there is something, maybe, in the ease of Nico's stance, or maybe in the quirk of his lips. He keeps his eyes relaxed and open, meets his searching gaze.

"Bullseye after bullseye," Nico repeats, in answer to Will's unasked question. "I hit, like, two." He flicks his eyes over the dozens of targets, appraising. "You're good with a bow, Will."

Maybe he can hear the truth in Nico's voice. Maybe his affection is obvious. Maybe it is the use of his given name, stretched in the cavern of Nico's mouth: Will rocks back on his heels, huffing, and his pretty, rounded face burns.

"I'm — okay, barely!"

Nico smiles indulgently. "'Okay' hits seventeen straight targets?"

Will sets his stubborn jaw when he argues. It is different, significantly, when he cannot decide what to do with his heated cheeks. "Kayla can hit at least forty. In a row! Last week, she even —"

"I'm not complimenting Kayla," Nico interrupts, recognizing the deflection for what it is. "I'm complimenting you." He pauses. "You're talented, Will. Good job."

Will squirms, even as Nico gives him the space free from his gaze. He fiddles with the arrow clenched in his fists — it is warped, now, and even if he shoots it with the best technique on the planet only a blessing from his father will land it anywhere. He flicks it, over his fingers, near dropping it, and stuffs it back in his quiver.

"Thank you," he says, quietly. The tiniest smile Nico has ever seen on him quirks his lips, and he shivers at the sight of it. Like the edge of a solar eclipse, like the crack before an erupting volcano. "I — thank you, Nico."

Nico wants to say more. Suddenly, lit up like fire inside of him, is the urge to stand on a table, a soap box, and read off in any expanding order the plethora of things he has noticed: Will's gentleness, his smart-mouth grin, the flutter of his wide hands when he is excited and the careful way he positions his body to show people he is listening when they speak. Even if no one else is. Especially if no one else is.

But Will is embarrassed, already. He breathes quickly and stands hunched and keeps a foot of space between the two of them, although his shaking hands twitch, as if to reach over. As if to rest on his hips, like they do when he pushes, when he questions.

Sensitive, Kayla called him.

Shy, Nico adds.

"Anytime," he says. They are close enough together still that Nico can bump their hips together and this makes him snort, has him eye the space between where Nico's waist begins and Will's thighs just begin to meet torso, until Nico shoves him in exasperation. He snickers, pleased, comfortable, and catches Nico's poking hand.

"This block ends in twenty," he says. "Want to ditch early and throw things at Ellis from the roof of the Big House?"

"Yes," Nico agrees quickly, tossing his borrow bow haphazardly onto the stands. "If I ever say no to that, assume I'm a clone and shoot me."

Will snorts, taking much more care with his bow. "I'll keep that in mind, Death Boy."

They walk quickly to the Big House, scaling the wall and hiding beside the crumbling chimney. Will chucks pebbles with half as much accuracy as he shoots, but he still lands them, and muffles his cackling into his hands.

Nico hides his crumpled paper until his knees, and immortalizes the shape of Will's smile.

———

next

[yoiisa]

Hello sofie! I bring to you a windbreaker request!

Coukd you do one with the wbk boys wherein their s/o gets a little possessive over them? Like imagine the s/o saw them getting hit on and got a little (very but tries to hide it) jealous about it. And then proceeds to stake their claim on their boyfriend? And the boys thinks it's adorable how they're getting possessive over them 🙏

Please do this with Sakura, Suou, Sugishita, Nirei and Umemiya ✌

Thanks for reading! <3 I love your fics btw💕🙏

for the longest time, i didn't think that i'd get jealous super easily, but in the past year, I have discovered that is not in fact the case. i get like territorial really easily over my friends and stuff, so i can't even imagine what i'd be like over a boyfriend (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

➜ for sakura haruka genuinely, i don't even think you'd get a chance to swoop in ➜ it took forever to get him to stop turning beet red around you alone, so if another girl tries something with him, he just reverts back to factory settings and starts yelling ➜ he'll probably immediately seek you out and give like a dirty look to whoever was hitting on him, so it kinda cuts your jealousy short a little ➜ but if he finds out you were jealous, he'll get super confused. like, genuinely, what on earth were you jealous about?

You'd started walking home without him early. Your steps were determined and heavy as you did everything you could to avoid turning around and looking behind you. The image of the girl rubbing Sakura's arm was still vivid in your head, and it was made you feel like tearing out your hair. When you stop at a crosswalk, you hear someone calling your name from behind you. "Y/N! Wait, why are you leaving so early?" you turn around just to see Sakura hurrying towards you, his backpack rocking behind him as he catches up to you. He pants and fixes his bag. "What happened?" You stare up at him- his two-toned wind swept hair, the marbled amber of his eye, and the slight pink to his face. That pink is normally reserved for you, but it appears that this time . . . "It's nothing. I just have a lot of stuff to do at home. I can't stick around," you say, turning on your heel and walking out into the street. "Wait-!" he grabs your arm and yanks you back. "Look out, you almost walked straight into oncoming traffic!" A bike whips past you, the driver flipping you off. You roll your eyes and turn to look at Sakura. The two of you stare at one another awkwardly before you manage, "Thank you." "Are you mad at me?" You take a step back and ask, "Why would I be mad at you?" "I don't know!" You sigh. "I saw you flirting with that girl." He freezes, like a cat that's had water dumped onto him. "Me? Flirting? With who?!" "That girl!" you cry, gesturing vaguely behind him. "The one with the pink ribbons in her hair! She was touching your arms and-" Suddenly, Sakura wraps his arms around you and squeezes you tightly. "Idiot. You're an idiot Y/N." "What are-" He grumbles into your skin, burying his face into your neck. "You don't-" he sighs and squeezes you tighter, his arms tightening around your waist. "You don't need to be jealous of me." You slowly bring your arms up and wrap them around him. "Why was she touching you?" you croak. "She accidentally bumped into me and her food fell onto my jacket. She was just wiping it off," he pulls back and his face is bright red as he manages out a hoarse, "Why would I flirt with someone else, when I have you?"

➜ on the contrary to sakura, i think suo hayato would kinda relish in your jealousy, just a little bit ➜ don't get me wrong though, he'd never encourage someone else flirting with him. when someone else makes moves on him, he's quick to shut it down in his usual passive aggressive, "mean" way ➜ but when it's just the two of you alone and he notices that you're acting more possessive than normal . . . yeah expect some teasing ➜ it's his favorite hobby after all!

"Y/N," he coos, poking your cheek. You swat his hand away and turn to face away from him stubbornly. "Y/N." "What do you want Hayato?" you ask finally, still refusing to meet his gaze. "I love it when you pout, it's adorable," he teases, "but don't you think you're getting a bit too sulky?" "Who's sulking? Not me." No, definitely not you. Certainly not after seeing a girl give Suo chocolates for Valentine's Day, and he just took them. You wonder idly where he kept them. Did he eat them? Whatever, it's not like you care. You should've just accepted all the chocolate offers you got as well, give Suo a taste of his own medicine, but you didn't, and now your chocolate less, even from your own boyfriend. You bite your bottom lip as your eyes begin to burn. You dig your nails into the palm of your hand, and a tiny gasp escapes your lips as Suo takes your hand. "Hey, enough of that now," Suo says softly. "Is this about the chocolates?" You wipe your eyes, but more tears seem to just fall. "And if it is? Then what? You never have the food I give you, and all of a sudden some random other girl gives you chocolate and you . . . you . . ." Suo sighs and cups your head in his hands. He brings you closer to him, pressing his forehead against yours and he click his tongue. "What am I going to do with you?" Your breath hitches as he says, "The chocolates were for Sakura, but he went to the outskirts for patrol today, so she was just asking that I give them to Sakura. I wouldn't take a gift like that from someone, anyone, other than you." You take a few deep breaths trying to calm down, but still you can't help but asking, "Then why . . . why didn't you get me anything for Valentine's Day?" "Who says that I didn't?" he kisses your nose before reaching into his bag. He pulls out a small pouch of chocolate kisses, as well as a tiny bouquet of white lilies. "Happy Valentine's Day," he says with a cheery smile, handing you the presents. You take the bag in one hand and he places a lily in your hair. He wipes the rest of your tears from your cheeks and pats your head. "My lovely girl~"

➜ i think sugishita kyotaro would accidentally encourage it ➜ i think it would be kinda hard for him to understand romantic cues, since he thinks that if you like something then you like it, and there's no nuances to it more than that ➜ he'd get genuinely very confused as to why you're upset, like sakura ➜ you have to explain emotions to him (ᵕ—ᴗ—) after all, he is just a high school boy

When you haven't been responding to his messages or answering his calls, he makes a beeline for your house. It's late and rainy and he's drenched when you open the door after he spams the doorbell. "Kyo? What the hell- are you insane?" you cry as you yank him inside. "You're mad. Why?" he asks, not even acknowledging his haggard appearance. You drag him to a bathroom and sit him on the toilet. You rush to grab a towel and begin drying him off. "It's pouring outside, why on earth would you come at this hour and in this weather?" "You're mad," he repeats, grabbing your hand. "Why?" You sigh. "I'm not mad, I'm just upset." Sugishita narrows his eyes, becoming more impatient, "But why?" "Because," you throw your hands up in frustration, "because of that girl!" His face goes blank. "What girl?" "You were giving a girl your bofurin jacket earlier today as you were leaving Pothos," you explain as you finish drying him off. "Don't you remember?" Sugishita stares at you, his expression as clueless as ever, before realization finally dawns on him. "Oh. That." You want to scream. "Yes, Kyotaro. That." "I didn't," he sighs, resting his forehead in his hand. "I didn't realize you would be that upset by it. She spilled something on herself so I-" You cup a hand over his mouth and give him a sharp look. "You're not helping your case." You gives you an equally annoyed look and sighs. "I'm sorry. I'll get it back from her tomorrow. I didn't think about it like that. I didn't want to upset you. I won't do it again, promise." You stare down at him, before reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. The tips of his ears are turning red, and you can't help but smile at the display. "You better not," you mumble, before giving him a kiss.

➜ i think nirei akihiko would initially try really hard to comfort your jealousy but he overdoes it ➜ eventually he realizes that he just needs it to fizzle out naturally, so he just sits back and lets your emotions run their course ➜ he makes a note of how to deal with your jealousy in his journal, in which he has an entire chapter dedicated to just you that he's marked with tiny post it notes ➜ he also writes a tiny note to you as well, just as something to solidify your good mood

You're starting to feel really bad about the way you completely blew Nirei off earlier today. You were just so frustrated with how much time he'd been spending at Pothos with Kotoha, you felt like you were going insane! To make matters worse, he pressed the issue so much that you reached your breaking point so much quicker than if he hadn't. You'd said some horrible things, you couldn't deny that right now, but you still couldn't swallow your pride enough to apologize. After all, he'd showed some random girl the entries in his notebook. That was something he only did with people he was closest with, so why was he giving it to some random person? Whatever, the whole thing was too much for you to bear even thinking about. As you finished walking home, you checked the mailbox to see if anything had come for you. That's where you found a pink envelope. It had a Akihiko ♡ written on the back and your heart gave a painful squeeze. You rip open the envelope and pull the contents out. A small piece of paper, along with a polaroid of the two of you on your first date, are inside. You unfold the piece of paper, revealing a letter: Dear Y/N, I'm sorry that I upset you. I don't know how to make it up to you, but I wanna try really hard. Come over to my place tomorrow, I'll have tasty food and we can just hang out and chat and work this all out, promise! I love you always, don't forget that! - Akihiko ˙ᵕ˙ You reread the note a few more times, a few tears dropping onto the paper and smudging the ink. You fold the note and put it into the pocket of your school uniform's jacket. Then, you hurry over to Nirei's house. He's sitting on the porch, notebook in hand when you get there. Seeing him, you beam and rush up the steps to him. When he sees you, he freezes, but when he sees your smile he relaxes. You wrap your arms around him in a tight hug, burying your face in his neck. "I'm sorry," your voice is muffled against his collar and he shakes his head. "It's all okay now, don't worry about it at all."

➜ umemiya hajime is the best at handling your emotions ➜ i mean come on that's literally all he does with sakura (ᗒᗜᗕ) ➜ like nirei, i think umemiya would try to go after the problem directly, but unlike nirei, he's doesn't overwhelm you with the conversation ➜ he makes sure that he spends as much time as possible with you in the immediate aftermath, reaffirming your relationship

"Locking me here on the roof is a new low, even for you." You cross your arms over chest and glare at your boyfriend, who sits cross-legged on the floor. A small blanket of tea and sweets rests in front of you, staring up at you with a soft smile on his face. "I want to work this out," he explains. "There's nothing to work out," you moan frustratedly. "I just got a little jealous, that's it. There's nothing more to it, so can you just let it go Hajime?" He shakes his head and stands, walking towards you in a few quick strides. He takes your hands in his and squeezes tightly. "You know I love you right?" "Of course." "Then don't doubt me, okay babe?" he nuzzles his nose with yours. "I love you." "I know, Hajime," you shy away from him, giggling a little bit. "Say it back." "I love you too." "Like you mean it." "Hajime." He laughs and tucks your hair behind your ear. "Next time you get upset just come to me first, you don't need to shut down because you get jealous." You deflate a little in his arms. "You're way too mature for me some times." "One of us needs to be." "Okay, enough," you swat at his arm and move to walk away, only to be pulled back in for a kiss. "Is there anything else you want to talk about while we're here?" he asks after pulling back. When you shake your head, an odd sense of tension fully dissipates from his body. "Good, now let me show you the new chilis that just started growing."

A/N: can you tell I got lazy by Umemiya? I promise to write something better for him in the future ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ how they help during your period

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, higuruma, shiu

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff, slight nsfw but nothing serious

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask! currently being held hostage by my own period so this felt like the perfect time to tackle this request. tried to keep the symptoms general bc we all suffer in our own special ways. hope you all enjoy 🙂‍↕️

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

₊⊹. Gojo will buy you the dumbest heating pads on the internet: one's shaped like Gudetama, another is a buff Jigglypuff. You're exasperated. But also using them.

₊⊹. He googled "how to help partner on period" and then mansplained it to you like a TED Talk. "So apparently prostaglandins are to blame for your cramps. Isn't that such a loser name for a hormone?"

₊⊹. Gojo, after seeing you curled up and wincing from cramps, throws himself face-first on the bed next to you and goes, "I think I can feel them too. Empathic link. It's the Six Eyes. I'm basically menstruating." You slap him with a pillow and he dramatically yells, "DOMESTIC VIOLENCE?! WHILE I BLEED IN SPIRIT?!"

₊⊹. You groan and double over. He instantly teleports behind you and drops to his knees. "Get on. Backpack mode." He piggybacks you around the apartment while muttering dramatic anime OST lyrics. He stops at the fridge. "Want strawberries?" You tell him yes. He proceeds to spoon-feed them to you while making airplane noises.

₊⊹. He will 100% insist on period sex 'for science.' He genuinely looks curious. "So, like. If I activate Infinity... does that mean I technically never touch the blood?" He is forcibly removed from the bedroom.

₊⊹. When you sigh heavily from discomfort, he'll dramatically fall onto the bed beside you, matching your sigh with exaggerated flair and groaning, "The burdens we hot people bear, huh?"

₊⊹. When you can't sleep from pain, he lies awake beside you, rambling about obscure Digimon trivia from his youth as he draws little hearts on your back with his fingertip until you drift off. He's proud his niche knowledge is finally useful.

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

₊⊹. Geto somehow knows your cycle better than you. Not because he tracks it obsessively but because he's that terrifyingly observant, "You're due in three days. I've already stocked the soba, heat packs, and I have chamomile ready." You look at him like he's some sort of mystic. He just smirks and continues slicing green onions.

₊⊹. He's unfazed by blood. You bled through your pants once and panicked. He just looked down calmly. "Blood is natural. You are sacred. I've killed 112 villagers in one night, this is fine."

₊⊹. If you want affection, he’s all over it. If you want to be left alone, he disappears like mist. Only to reappear 20 minutes later with a warm drink, just in case you changed your mind.

₊⊹. If you get clingy, like full-on emotional barnacle, he lets you. Doesn't even blink when you insist on lying directly on top of him like a heated blanket burrito. He'll just mutter, "Guess I'm immobilized now," and carry on reading with one hand resting lightly on your back like it's the most natural thing.

₊⊹. Geto keeps a hidden stash of menstrual supplies in the bathroom, meticulously organized. When you discover his stockpile, he smirks, "Preparation level: Dad of Teenage Girls. Amateur hour ended a decade ago."

₊⊹. If you're out at work or something and he knows you're in pain, you start receiving cryptic but oddly soothing texts like, "Drink something warm. Don't argue. I'm watching." You have no idea how. But he is watching.

₊⊹. When you fall asleep from exhaustion, he adjusts your limbs so you won't cramp further and he stays beside you. Occasionally brushing hair from your face with a faint smile like you're a fleeting dream he doesn't want to wake.

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

₊⊹. "You're not dying. It just feels like you are." Delivers this line in a deadpan tone with tea and a heat pack because he genuinely wants to help. But he refuses to sugarcoat it.

₊⊹. He noticed you wincing once and now tracks your cycle better than you do like a sentient calendar. "Your period should start tomorrow. You want me to stop for anything on the way home?"

₊⊹. Nanami is your domestic god. He doesn't joke, he just executes. Heating pad? Done. Soup? Simmering. Ibuprofen? Already in your hand. You're curled up on the couch and he just tucks you in like a burrito, sits beside you, opens a book, and radiates quiet husband energy.

₊⊹. He always carries extra pads in his bag. When asked about them, he replies, "Emergency preparedness is a fundamental adult skill."

₊⊹. He refuses to let you do chores while you're cramping. Once you tried to clean and he stared at you so long in silence you actually got scared. "Stop." he said, simply. "You are not allowed to suffer and vacuum."

₊⊹. You once mentioned your back hurt. He cracked his knuckles like a shonen protagonist and said, "I read a Swedish study on pressure point relief." then gave you the most life-altering massage of your existence. You almost cried. He muttered, "It's basic muscle care."

₊⊹. Nanami holds your hand during the worst moments. Always gently. Always like it’s the easiest thing in the world to make you feel safer. Sometimes he just rubs his thumb across your knuckles and says nothing. Like he’s anchoring you in place.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

₊⊹. Choso learned about periods in great detail via one of those god-awful health class pamphlets left on a table at Jujutsu High. He read it cover to cover. When you complain about cramps, he nods gravely and says, "Yes. I have read about the uterine lining." You genuinely don't know whether to laugh or cry.

₊⊹. When you mention mood swings, he nods solemnly and places a comforting hand on your shoulder, quietly stating, "We will defeat them together." utterly serious, making you laugh despite yourself.

₊⊹. He's very careful not to overstep, because despite having his vessel's memories, he's still constantly second-guessing human behavior. So you'll catch him hovering awkwardly outside the bathroom door like, "... Should I get you a clean pair of pants? Is that considered offensive?"

₊⊹. Choso cries with you when you cry from hormonal swings. You're sobbing and he's sobbing and now you're crying because he's crying and it's just a puddle of emotions on the couch.

₊⊹. He doesn't flinch when you bleed through your sheets. Zero ick factor. If anything, he's kind of like, "I thought the iron scent was familiar. It's very... cozy." You're horrified. He's content.

₊⊹. He tried to cook you miso soup once to help soothe your cramps but forgot to turn off the burner. You both ended up with slightly burnt soup and an open window to get the smoke out. "I failed." he muttered. You told him it was still good. He looked at you like you'd just declared everlasting love. He's been trying new recipes every cycle since.

₊⊹. When you're sore and sluggish, he doesn't push you to do anything. He just follows you around the apartment quietly doing everything before you have the chance to. You reach for a mug? It's already full of hot tea. You try to stand up? He's already placed a fuzzy blanket on your lap. "Rest," he says, softly. "You're leaking." Thank you, boyfriend of the year.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

₊⊹. The second he notices you curled up like a dying shrimp on the bed, face down, blanket over your head like you're trying to cease existing, he doesn't ask, he just knows. The man's been through two marriages and several long-term flings. Your monthly suffering isn't new territory for him. His first reaction? A sharp, "You good?" but it's Toji-speak for "Do I need to go kill someone or is this just cramps?"

₊⊹. Toji will 100% eat all of your snacks. But then he buys you twice as much to make up for it and drops the bags in front of you saying, "Eat. Or don't. I dunno. Up to you."

₊⊹. He does not understand hot water bottle covers. "Why the hell does it have a face?" he mutters while staring down your Sanrio-themed cover like it insulted his bloodline. Still warms it up for you every night.

₊⊹. Toji somehow acquires random knowledge about menstrual products, casually mentioning, "They have organic ones now, whatever the hell that means. Do you care or is that bullshit?"

₊⊹. He brings home food for you even when you said "I'm not hungry." Because he knows. He knows you'll sniff it and change your mind in 3.2 seconds.

₊⊹. He insists on carrying you bridal-style up the stairs when your cramps are peak awful. "Romantic, huh?" he smirks. Then slams his knee into the doorframe and nearly drops you. "Fuck—romance canceled."

₊⊹. He starts stockpiling comfort items a week in advance. Not because he's sentimental. Just because "it's easier than dealing with you on edge and empty-handed."

₊⊹. Hiromi Higuruma

₊⊹. Higuruma doesn't flinch when you groan and dramatically announce, "I am perishing. This is the end." He glances up from his book, deadpan. "We should draft your will. I assume I inherit the heated blanket?" No smile. Just pure monotone. But he's already tucking the blanket around you like a human burrito.

₊⊹. One particularly bad day, you tell him you feel gross. He immediately pauses whatever he's doing, cups your face like you're the last honest witness in a corrupt trial, and says very seriously, "Don't do that. You're experiencing a biological function. You wouldn't call someone disgusting for sneezing."

₊⊹. When your cramps hit so hard you start walking like a villain with a backstory, he matches your pace down the hallway like it's totally normal to be power-walking with someone who looks like they're about to start monologuing about vengeance. He doesn't say a word, just keeps pace.

₊⊹. He never says a thing about your oversized pajamas or the nest of snacks around you. In fact, he once brought you more Pocky and placed it on the bed with reverence. "Your altar of comfort appears understocked."

₊⊹. He sends you detailed texts updating the progression of menstrual leave legislation in Japan. "See? Soon, your uterus's tyranny will be punishable by paid leave."

₊⊹. You once fell asleep half-sobbing and woke up with him spooning you from behind, hand on your stomach like he's attempting to telepathically cancel the uterus subscription. He murmured, "I'd take your pain if I could." He meant it. No theatrics. Just quiet, intense sincerity because when Hiromi Higuruma commits to caring about someone, he doesn't do it halfway.

₊⊹. During your period, your appetite gets weird. Sometimes it's one grape and you're full. Sometimes it's 8,000 calories of pure evil. You texted him once, "I want fries. And mochi. And pickles. Also maybe… curry?" 35 minutes later he showed up with all of it. Didn't say a word. Just set the bags down and kissed your forehead.

₊⊹. Shiu Kong

₊⊹. When you lie dramatically across the bed claiming your death is imminent, he responds with, "Should I call the morgue or just put on that one drama you pretend not to cry at?" You throw a pillow.

₊⊹. He never complains about you turning the air conditioner to "Arctic Tundra" because your internal body temperature is currently set to Satan's front porch. He just silently adds another blanket onto himself like a polite boyfriend-turned-snowman.

₊⊹. You once bled through your pants in public. Shiu wordlessly shrugged off his coat and tied it around your waist, his face unreadable. "Happens. Don't let it ruin your evening. I've seen worse. Like Toji's parenting skills."

₊⊹. You ask for a massage offhandedly, not expecting anything, but Shiu responds with alarming seriousness. "I've studied torture—I mean pressure points, professionally. Let's see how transferable these skills are." You have the best massage of your existence.

₊⊹. When you finally fall asleep during a painwave, he goes full ghost mode. Doesn't talk. Stays in place. He opens a bag of chips slower than a bomb diffusal expert and chews like he's being held hostage.

₊⊹. You've learned not to hide your discomfort from him because Shiu notices anyway. He'll raise an eyebrow and announce dramatically, "We've reached crisis levels. You're walking like an elderly penguin. Come here."

₊⊹. He subtly adjusts his smoking habits around you during menstruation, stepping outside to light up without a word. When questioned, he deflects smoothly, "Trying to avoid becoming collateral damage to your heightened sense of smell."

[moon-fics]

lewis pullman brainrot rn 🧎‍♀️‍➡️🧎‍♀️‍➡️🧎‍♀️‍➡️bob floyd x flirty reader 👀 how would he react???

Ugh I love this! I love talking about Bob Floyd and I need to write fics for him. Lewis Pullman the man you are!

I like to think that Bob enjoys being quiet and observing the world around him.

He doesn't mind just listening to conversations, but he'll chime in when he can.

So, when you approach him at the Hard Deck and start a conversation with just him, he's surprised.

There are a large amount of men around who would chat you up a storm if you asked.

Yet, here you are focusing on him.

Well, that's enough to get his heart pumping.

Even before you start flirting with him, he's stumbling over his words.

He keeps the conversation going for a while because he keeps asking about you.

Meanwhile, you keep making compliments on his job and his appearance.

He's not stupid, and he's been flirted with before. So, he picks up on your interest in him pretty quickly.

The only difference between you and the other women who hit on him is that you're genuine.

You want to know about him and what he does. This only furthers his struggle to speak.

---

"Wait, so your call sign is just Bob? It's just your name?" You let out a laugh. He nods while a large smile spreads across his face. "Alright, I can dig that." You say.

The bar is loud from other pilots yelling and the music blasting. Yet, your voice rings clearly in his ears. You've been talking for nearly two hours, and he enjoys every second of it. The way you lean into him every once in a while, and how your eyes never wander from him.

"Yeah, well, it's better than Hangman," He chuckles. You don't know the context, but the name is enough to ward you from whoever it is.

"I think Bob has a better ring to it. It's welcoming and a name I'd love to say often," She hums. His heart nearly stops, but he keeps his smile spread on his lips. There's a pause between them where she seems to be waiting for something. "That was your cue to ask me out." She teases.

"Oh!" He says loudly while putting his cup of peanuts on the floor. If he's going to ask you out, he's going to do it properly. "Will you honor me with a date?" He asks.

The moment you say yes is the moment he knows he wants to spend as much time with you as possible.

[harmonyrae]

Making a Change🌸

Synopsis: You’ve started to like things you’ve hated for over a decade. You don’t want to surprise your boyfriend. He has a certain aesthetic and you’re not sure he will be a fan… But he’ll prove, once again, that you should never doubt his love for you.

AN: This is incredibly self-indulgent and I just needed to write it down… I’m entering a new era and honestly I thought it’d be cute to imagine Sylus encouraging it. Also, I kinda need encouragement since I’m nervous. So, thanks Sylus! (Cover images from Pinterest)

Content Warnings: PURE FLUFF, Touchy Sylus, Sexually Suggestive, 18+ MDNI to be safe

Word Count: 1.2k 

“Sy…” 

You crack open the door to his office and peek inside. He’s leaning back in his chair, feet up on his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. You spot his desk phone blinking, he’s on a call. You’re about to back out, but he notices you. Using his evol, the door opens wider. His eyes lock onto you and he beckons for you to come in. Pulling the sleeves of your hoodie down, you shuffle into the room. As you get closer you can hear the voices on the other end of the call.

“Mr. Sylus, we can have that shipment to you by the end of the day. I apologize for the delay, please, we did not expect this.”

The voice is strained, fearful, desperate. Someone fucked up. Sylus reaches for you and before you can protest, you’re straddling his lap. You almost lose your balance with how his chair is tipped back to keep his long legs propped up. His hands dip under your hoodie and you slap his chest, making him chuckle. He rubs your thighs, your hips, your waist, his fingers massaging and bringing you closer with every touch. You finally give up and rest your hands on his chest, giving him the same treatment as you pop open the buttons to his shirt.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood Viktor. Kieran will be expecting you. If you’re not there by midnight, I’ll be paying you a visit. And we won’t be playing poker.”

The man thanks Sylus profusely before Sylus looks past you, his finger twitching against your waist as he focuses his evol to hang up the phone. He tries to tug your hoodie up, but you stop him. He puts on the most pitiful pout and you pinch his cheek making him tighten his hold on you. He pulls you down and buries his face in your neck, kissing your sensitive skin over and over until you’re wiggling.

“Sy! I wanted to talk to you…”

He stops kissing you to set his chin on your shoulder, his hands still gently tracing shapes over the skin of your lower back. Your body relaxes against him and he sighs as you unwind. 

“Go on then kitten, I’m listening.”

You bite your lip and run your fingers along his arm. You’re not sure why you’re nervous to talk to him about this, you know he won’t care… Maybe it’s because you haven’t talked to anyone about this. Of course you’d talk to your boyfriend about it first. His opinion matters to you, it won’t change your mind, but you do want him to be informed on your life and the changes you want to make. It’s like Sylus can sense you’re overthinking, he squeezes your hips and kisses the shell of your ear. 

“Sweetie… what is it?”

“How do you feel about the color pink?”

Of all the things you could have said, he didn’t expect that. He couldn’t form a single sentence. His brain was trying its best, but he couldn’t decide if this was a genuine question or if there was a hidden meaning. You lean back and look down at him, his confusion evident. 

“I… I know you like dark colors and I like them too! Red and black, it’s very you. I guess I wanted to know… like… what do you think about other colors? Like pink?”

You fall forward against him as he kicks his legs down off the desk. He tucks his hands under your ass and lifts you to sit on the edge, his arms resting on your thighs. 

“I don’t dislike the color. I’m more curious why you’re asking.”

You fiddle with the cuffs of your hoodie, tugging the sleeves down over and over. Sylus takes your hands to stop your nervous habit. The way he looks up at you, earnest and eager to understand. You sigh and look away to look around the room. The dark decor, leather sofa, black marble floors, red accent pillows and artwork in obsidian frames. You still love it, but your tastes have changed, evolved.

“I’ve spent the past decade in black, well, not just black, but a lot of dark colors. I dyed my hair black as soon as I was allowed and it’s been my comfort color for as long as I can remember. But lately…”

You glance at Sylus, his expression unchanged, still listening with rapt attention. 

“I guess I’ve started to really like different things and different colors…”

“Like pink?”

You can hear his smile, you nod and keep your eyes downcast.

“I guess I spent so many years saying I hated pink and girly things, even though I was relatively girly as a kid… I don’t want to say it was a phase, I do really like the gothic style, I just… I find myself wanting to buy, you know, pink things. Girly things. I know I probably sound stupid, like I’m making a big deal out of going from 'a goth to a princess' when I can be both and I know that! I never expected myself to actually like a more feminine style but now–”

Sylus cuts you off with a kiss. It’s a patient kiss, gentle, with just enough force to calm you down. When he backs away you nearly slip off the desk chasing after him. He holds your hips to steady you. 

“Sweetie, I will love you no matter what your favorite color is. You know that right?”

“I know! Yes, I know that. I just didn’t want you to be surprised or I don’t know!”

“If you want to change your style, change it. It won’t change the kind of person you are. Just how you present yourself to the world. And as long as it makes you happy, that’s all that really matters. If being around and wearing frilly, lacy, girly pink things will make you smile, I will buy you everything pink.”

Your eyes water and your stomach flips, he really is your prince charming isn’t he? Just wrapped in a “most wanted criminal mob boss” package. And that makes it even hotter.

“So… you won’t hate it if I change those black roses to pink ones?” You point at the vase on the coffee table.

“Not at all.”

“Or… add a pink fuzzy blanket to our bed?”

“Please do.”

“What if I replace your robe so we can have matching pink ones?”

“I’ll wear it with pride.”

“So I could replace my entire wardrobe and you’d… like it?”

“Kitten, I’d give you my black card in a heartbeat.”

You giggle and hop off his desk to sit on his lap again. He wraps his arms around you and nuzzles against your shoulder.

“Will you come shopping with me then? Oh! And we can get manicures together!”

He looks up at you.

“Only if we go to my nail tech. She has an impressive portfolio.”

“YOU GET MANICURES?” You squeal.

“I have to keep my nails pristine for a certain kitten.” 

He trails his fingers along your inner thigh and you gasp. You grab his hand before he continues, your cheeks a bright shade of red.

“I can’t wait to see her work… I’ve been wanting to see what pretty pink nails would look like when my hand is wrapped around your cock.”

His eyes go wide and he huffs in surprise. Oh those cute, surprised boba eyes are your favorites. He seems to forget you match his freak. Every. Single. Time. Now, you’ll just match it while wearing the softest shade of pink.  💗🌸🎀🌸💗

𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙: @trishiepo0 @not-so-quite-human @kitsunetori @babyx91 @libriomancer @lilyadora @crowskitten22 @letharue @silverbrain @alastor-simp @drama-trauma @0tterteeth @mysticcollectionvoid @godzillaglitter @godoffuckedupcats @klmpun @ariallaisawesome @spidy-spider01 @m00nchildwrites @plsdonttakemyname @hauntedbysmut @withering-dream @lostwingz2236 @simpfortheseven @bubbleteakittyy @freddy-2002-blog @plsdonttakemyname @sylus-hunter

[towasdandelion]

Can you also make a part two with sinostra frostheim and mortkranken with hickey smau?

👉👈

Yes! Here it is, the last part basically hehe. Hope you like it! Warning suggestiveeee

Sinostra, Mortkranken and Frostheim ghouls when they leave a hickey on you

Taiga... Do I even have to say anything? He treats biting you like a full time job. And he doesn't care about his surroundings either. You can be minding your own business taking a walk around the campus and he will just appear out of nowhere and bite your neck, getting a very embarrassing sound out of you. Shame? Not in his dictionary. So yeah, don't expect him to take your whining seriously in any way. It's not going to change anything whatsoever. But hey, at least he's usually careful enough not to hurt you with his sharp teeth!

Romeo will literally lie through his teeth. He always says how unhygienic and weird it is and how he would never bruise your skin like that but then somehow, mysteriously some marks appear on your neck. Naturally you just had to confront him about it. And behold, there's your one in a million chance to see Romeo embarrassed. He's annoyed with himself. Why couldn't he just resist? What was so good about it that made him think about doing it again? Well, I advise against teasing him too much or he will legit get upset. If it happens again don't bring it up either. Just accept his love bites.

Ritsu hmm I guess he would sneak one in here and there when he's feeling extremely affectionate. Or when you two are studying and he catches a glimpse of your exposed neck. He's not really embarrassed about it either. It's just one of the ways to express his love after all, so your reaction is a bit confusing. Oh, so it's about your image? You do have a point then. As the best lawyer, he cares about his appearance a lot after all. It won't really make him stop biting you though, no. He will just leave his love bites somewhere no one else can see them from now on.

Don't ask me why but I see Jiro being addicted to biting you. He just loves seeing and tracing the small bruises with his fingertips whenever it's just the two of you. He genuinely doesn't realize the effect he has on you. Affection is a normal part of every healthy relationship, isn't it? You could say it's very straightforward for him. He doesn't see the point in hiding anything. If he likes someone, he shows it - fair and simple. So long as you're okay with it, he won’t stop marking you with those subtle signs of how much he cares.

The "this is unsanitary!!" guy number two - Yuri. He swears he would never do something like that, adding how's there are many better ways to show affection. And yet... One day you see a small purplish mark on the back of your neck. (Yes he was trying to be sneaky hoping maybe you wouldn't notice it there) Let's just say he's less than pleased when you bring it up. It's just for science he says! (Science my ass he's just delusional and won't admit his desires for you) Well, he understands your embarrassment because he's pretty embarrassed himself. Probably won't do it ever again unless you reassure him it's okay. You should also promise him that you won't be bringing it up each time it happens.

Jin’s definitely an actions speak louder than words kind of guy, so marking you is right up his alley. He loves reminding you that you’re his whether it’s his hand on your waist everywhere you go, or draping his jacket over your shoulders like it’s second nature. Though his favorite is actually marking you. He doesn’t see why you’d get so embarrassed about it. To him, it’s just natural and instinctive. A quiet, physical way of saying mine without needing to say a word. And if you catch him glancing at it later with that faint smirk? Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Tohma usually goes for kisses rather than hickeys, so you might feel caught off guard when you notice a small mark on your collarbone peeking from underneath your unbuttoned shirt. Oh, so at least he was considerate enough to leave it somewhere a bit less visible. When you ask him about it later, he’ll just smile, asking you to show it to him. That one picture from you makes him sure - this is not going to be the last one. It’s rare for him to act like that, but now that he’s started? He’s definitely not planning to stop.

Lucas isn’t the type to act on impulse, especially not with you. He’s always measured, always gentle, so when you catch a mark low on your neck it genuinely catches you off guard. You send him a photo later, asking if he’s aware of what he left behind. He doesn’t deny it of course. He feels a little embarrassed getting exposed like that but that's something he can put aside. What he can't however is your reaction. He's hoping he didn't make you feel to uncomfortable or weird. What can I say, sometimes even someone like Luca will give in to his desires

Kaito is not exactly known for bold moves. Don't get me wrong he wants to make a move here and there but often he just.. chickens out, thinking its probably not a good moment. And so the tiny mark just under your collarbone unexpected, to say the least. He’s more the type to apologize for breathing too loud. You decide to confront him about your finding. The 'read' appears immediately but there's no reply. He's probably screaming into his pillow right now. Five minutes later your phone buzzes with a flood of texts - panicked, and awkward. He may be spiraling but deep down he’s also a little proud, smug even. Just too scared to admit it out loud.

[archivegyu]

masterlist

if i could give you the moon

i would give you the moon

choi seungcheol x reader ll 9k words

The moon hung impossibly large in the night sky, casting silver light across the cityscape below. She leaned against the rooftop railing, eyes fixed on its luminous face, finding comfort in its silent presence. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional siren created a strangely peaceful urban lullaby.

She didn’t hear the roof door open, didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until they stopped beside her. Seungcheol’s familiar presence settled next to hers, his gaze following hers upward without a word. For a moment, they simply existed together in the moonlight, two silhouettes against the vastness of the night.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: October

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves as they walked through the upscale shopping district. It was her birthday, and despite her protests, Seungcheol had insisted on taking her out for the day.

"You work too hard" he'd said when he showed up at her apartment that morning. "One day off won't kill you."

Now, as they wandered through boutiques she'd normally never set foot in, she tried to ignore the price tags that made her stomach clench. Seungcheol seemed completely at ease, occasionally picking up items and asking her opinion with genuine interest.

"What do you think of this?" he asked, holding up a soft blue scarf.

She touched it hesitantly, the cashmere impossibly soft under her fingers. "It's beautiful" she admitted, checking the price tag and quickly putting it back. "But I'm just looking."

Seungcheol nodded, seemingly letting it go. But when she turned away to examine a display of notebooks; something practical she might actually be able to affor. She didn't notice him discreetly hand the scarf to a sales associate with a quick whisper.

This pattern continued throughout the day. She'd admire something, a leather-bound planner, a pair of silver earrings, a vintage edition of her favorite book. And each time, she'd talk herself out of buying anything. Each time, Seungcheol would find a moment when she was distracted to quietly ensure the item was set aside.

At a small bookstore, she lingered over a collection of poetry she'd been wanting for months.

"You should get it" Seungcheol encouraged, watching her flip through the pages.

"Maybe another time" she said, returning it to the shelf despite the longing in her eyes. "Textbooks took up all my book budget this semester."

When she moved to the next aisle, Seungcheol quickly purchased the book, the associate slipping it into a bag that disappeared into his jacket before she returned.

By late afternoon, they'd stopped for coffee at a quiet café. She looked happier than he'd seen her in weeks, relaxed in a way she rarely allowed herself to be, even if she hadn't actually bought anything.

"Thank you for today" she said, warming her hands around her mug. "I needed this more than I realized."

"The day's not over yet, Seungcheol replied with a mysteriously satisfied smile. "But you're welcome. Happy birthday."

As the evening approached, they headed back toward her apartment. Seungcheol insisted on driving her home, though her place was easily accessible by public transportation.

"I have something for you" he said as they neared her building, pulling into a parking spot.

"Cheol, you didn't need to—"

"I wanted to" he interrupted gently, reaching into the backseat where, miraculously, a large shopping bag had appeared. "It's nothing extravagant, I promise."

She accepted the bag with suspicious eyes, peering inside. Her jaw dropped as she recognized the items; the cashmere scarf, the planner, the earrings, the poetry book, and several other things she'd admired throughout the day.

"How did you—" she looked up at him, bewildered. "I didn't see you buy any of this."

Seungcheol's smile was both mischievous and tender. "I have my ways. And before you argue about it being too much, it's already done. Consider it compensation for putting up with me all year."

She ran her fingers over the soft scarf, emotions warring inside her. Pride fighting with gratitude, independence with the rare feeling of being cared for so thoughtfully.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted.

“Thank you works" he suggested, his eyes soft in the dimming light. "Or you could just promise to wear that scarf when it gets colder."

Something in his voice made her look up, and for a moment, the air between them seemed charged with unspoken feelings.

"Thank you" she said quietly. "Not just for the gifts, but for seeing me. What I love, what I want but won't let myself have."

Seungcheol reached across the center console, taking her hand in his. "That's easy" he said simply. "Seeing you is the easiest thing in the world for me."

The moment stretched between them, teetering on the edge of something more. But then her phone rang, her mother calling to wish her happy birthday. And the moment passed, leaving behind a lingering warmth and the unshakable feeling that something had shifted between them.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

First Year: September

The lecture hall buzzed with nervous energy as students filtered in for their first class. She clutched her notebook tightly, scanning the room for an empty seat. Years of academic excellence had earned her this scholarship, and she wasn't about to waste it by being anything less than perfect.

"Is this seat taken?"

She looked up to find a tall figure gesturing to the chair beside her. Plump lips, gentle eyes that somehow managed to be both playful and serious, and an easy confidence that spoke of privilege.

"No, go ahead" she said, sliding her bag closer to make room.

"I'm Seungcheol" he offered, extending his hand. "Choi Seungcheol."

She introduced herself, shaking his hand firmly the way her father had taught her. "Nice to meet you."

"First day nerves?" he asked, unpacking his brand-new laptop that probably cost more than her entire semester's expenses.

"Just ready to get started" she answered, not wanting to admit that yes, her stomach was in knots, and she'd barely slept last night.

The professor walked in, and the room quieted. As the syllabus was distributed, she methodically wrote down every due date, every percentage breakdown of grades. Beside her, Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, seemingly relaxed but she noticed how intently he was listening, how his eyes never left the professor.

When they broke into pairs to discuss their academic goals, she hesitated before turning to him.

"So, why Business?" he asked before she could speak.

"Practical choice. Good job prospects. I want to make sure my younger siblings have options I didn't." The words came out more honest than she'd intended. "You?"

"My father runs Choi Enterprises. I'm expected to take over eventually." he said with a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

The name registered immediately. Choi Enterprises was one of the largest conglomerates in South Korea. This wasn't just any rich kid; this was heir-to-an-empire rich.

"That must be a lot of pressure" she said carefully.

Seungcheol shrugged. "It's always been the plan. What about you? What's your plan after graduation?"

"Top of my class, land a job at a multinational firm, work my way up," she recited the goals she'd set for herself years ago. "Nothing too complicated."

"Ambitious" he nodded, looking impressed. "I like that."

When class ended, she gathered her things quickly, ready to head to her part-time job at the campus coffee shop.

"Hey," Seungcheol called as she stood. "A bunch of us are grabbing lunch. Want to join?"

She glanced at her watch. "Can't. I have work."

"Work? On the first day?"

"Some of us don't have the luxury of free time," she replied, immediately regretting the sharpness in her tone.

Instead of being offended, Seungcheol just nodded. "Fair enough. Maybe next time?"

She softened slightly. "Maybe."

As she walked away, she couldn't help but think that Choi Seungcheol was nothing like she'd expected a chaebol heir to be.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

First Year: November

Two months into the semester, she found herself spending more time with Seungcheol than she'd ever anticipated. They'd fallen into a rhythm of studying together at the library, his easy-going nature balancing her intensity.

"You're going to wear a hole in that paper if you keep erasing so hard" Seungcheol commented, looking up from his economics textbook.

She sighed, dropping her pencil. "This concept isn't clicking."

"Let me see." He moved his chair closer, leaning in to look at her notes. His shoulder brushed against hers, and she caught the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive, no doubt, but understated.

"Here's where you're getting stuck" he said, pointing to her formula. "You're overthinking it. Look at it this way..."

As he explained, she found herself watching his hands—strong but gentle as they moved across the page, drawing diagrams that somehow made everything clearer. When she finally understood, the smile that broke across his face was triumphant, as if her success was his own.

"See? You've got this" he said, and for a moment, she believed him.

Their study session ran late, and when they finally emerged from the library, the campus was quiet, streetlights casting long shadows across the paths.

"Let me walk you home" he offered.

"I'm fine on my own" she insisted automatically.

"I know you are. But it's late, and it's on my way."

It wasn't on his way at all—his luxury apartment was in the opposite direction from her modest housing—but she was too tired to argue.

As they walked, he asked about her family, and she found herself telling him about her parents' sacrifices, about being the first in her family to attend university, about the expectations weighing on her shoulders.

"That's a lot of responsibility" he said quietly.

"It's what has to be done" she replied, the mantra she'd repeated to herself countless times.

When they reached her building, she turned to thank him.

"Hey, there's this project for Business Strategy coming up" he said suddenly. "Want to partner up?"

She hesitated. Group projects usually meant carrying someone else's weight.

"I promise I'll pull my share" he added, reading her expression. "I'm not just some rich kid coasting through."

Against her better judgment, she agreed. "Alright. But if you slack off, I won't hesitate to tell Professor Kim."

Seungcheol grinned, unfazed by her warning. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

First Year: December

Their Business Strategy project earned them the highest grade in the class, a perfect blend of her meticulous research and his innovative thinking. They celebrated at a small café near campus, sharing a plate of pastries.

"We make a good team" Seungcheol said, pushing an extra strawberry tart toward her.

She nodded, allowing herself a moment of satisfaction. "We do."

"So, winter break plans?"

"Working extra shifts" she said, mentally calculating how much she could save in the three weeks off. "You?"

"Family trip to Switzerland. Annual tradition." He said it casually, but she saw the flash of discomfort in his eyes, as if he was suddenly aware of the gulf between their lives.

"Sounds nice" she offered, trying to smooth over the moment.

"It's mostly business for my dad. Meetings disguised as skiing trips." He paused. "You should come over for dinner before I leave, though. My place. I've been practicing this pasta recipe, and I need someone to tell me if it's actually edible."

She raised an eyebrow. "You cook?"

"Don't look so surprised" he laughed. "I'm full of hidden talents."

Two days later, she found herself standing outside his apartment door, clutching a bottle of moderately priced wine that had still cost more than she'd wanted to spend. When he opened the door, wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans with an apron tied around his waist, she was struck by how different he looked outside of their university setting—more relaxed, more himself.

His apartment was exactly what she'd expected: spacious, tastefully decorated, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. What she hadn't expected was the mess in the kitchen; flour dusting the countertops, a pot boiling over on the stove, and what looked like tomato sauce splattered on the wall.

"Don't say it" he warned, rushing to turn down the heat. "I know it looks like a disaster."

She bit back a smile, setting down the wine. "Need help?"

Together, they salvaged dinner. She showed him how to save the sauce from being too acidic, and he admitted that perhaps watching YouTube tutorials wasn't quite the same as actual cooking experience. By the time they sat down to eat, the pasta was slightly overcooked, and the garlic bread was a touch too brown, but it was edible.

"Not bad for a first attempt" she conceded, taking a sip of wine.

"High praise coming from you" he teased. "But thank you for saving me from complete embarrassment."

As the evening wore on, conversation flowed easily. She told him about her younger siblings, how her brother was hoping to follow in her footsteps to university, how her sister was showing talent in art that no one in the family knew how to nurture. He shared stories of growing up under the shadow of his father's success, of the weight of expectation that had been placed on his shoulders since before he could understand what it meant.

"Sometimes I wonder what I'd do if I had a choice" he admitted, his voice softening.

"And what would that be?"

"Music, maybe" he said, gesturing to the piano in the corner of the living room that she hadn't noticed before. "Or psychology. Understanding how people think has always fascinated me."

"You'd be good at that" she said, and meant it. Seungcheol had a way of making people feel seen, of creating space for others to be themselves.

Later, as he walked her to the bus stop despite her protests, snow began to fall lightly around them.

"Thank you for coming tonight" he said, his breath visible in the cold air.

"Thank you for dinner" she replied. "Even if I did most of the cooking."

He laughed, the sound warm against the winter quiet. "Next time, I'll do better."

"Next time" she echoed, and realized she was looking forward to it.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: March

Spring semester brought new classes, new challenges, and a growing circle of friends that revolved around Seungcheol. She'd been gradually introduced to his other friends; twelve guys who formed a tight-knit group but welcomed her with surprising warmth.

Jeonghan, with his angelic face and devilish sense of humor, had initially been skeptical of her, watching her interactions with Seungcheol with knowing eyes. Joshua, gentle and thoughtful, had been the first to make her feel truly included, asking about her studies with genuine interest. Junhui's quiet kindness, Soonyoung's boundless energy, Wonwoo's sharp wit, Jihoon's musical genius, Seokmin's sunshine personality, Mingyu's clumsy charm, Minghao's artistic sensibility, Seungkwan's dramatic flair, Vernon's laid-back attitude, and Chan's youthful enthusiasm—each of them brought something unique to the group.

Today, they were gathered at Seungcheol's apartment, ostensibly to study but mostly to distract each other.

"I still don't understand why we can't just order food" Mingyu was saying as he chopped vegetables in the kitchen. "I always end up cooking anyway."

"Because you love it and you're good at it" Seungcheol replied, passing him salt.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by textbooks and notes, trying to focus amid the chaos. Jihoon sat nearby, headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever composition he was working on. Wonwoo was immersed in a game, while Jeonghan and Joshua debated something in hushed tones.

"You know, you're allowed to take breaks" Seungcheol said, sitting down beside her with two mugs of tea.

"I have a midterm on Monday" she reminded him, accepting the tea nonetheless.

"So does everyone else. But they're not killing themselves over it."

She bristled slightly. "Not everyone has as much at stake."

Seungcheol opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Soonyoung launching into an animated story about his dance instructor. The moment passed, but she felt his eyes on her, concerned and thoughtful.

Later, when most of the others had drifted off to various corners of the apartment, Seungcheol nudged her gently.

"Come on, I want to show you something."

Curious despite herself, she followed him to the building's rooftop. The night air was cool, the city lights spread out before them like stars fallen to earth.

"I come here when everything gets too loud" he said, leaning against the railing. "Thought you might need it too."

She stood beside him, exhaling slowly. "It's beautiful."

"You know, you work harder than anyone I know" he said after a moment. "But sometimes I wonder if you remember to actually live while you're working so hard for your future."

"That's a luxury I can't afford" she said simply.

"It's not about luxury" he insisted. "It's about balance. Even my father, who works insane hours, makes time for the things that matter."

She didn't respond, unsure how to explain that balance was a privilege of those who had safety nets.

"My parents want to meet you, by the way" he said, changing the subject.

She turned to him, surprised. "Why?"

"Because I talk about you all the time, and they're curious about the person who keeps beating me in every class" he smiled. "Just dinner. Nothing formal."

"I don't know, Cheol..."

"Please? They're not scary, I promise."

Against her better judgment, she found herself agreeing.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: April

The Choi family home was intimidating in its understated elegance; a modern mansion in one of Seoul's most exclusive neighborhoods. She'd worn her best dress, simple and black, but still felt underdressed as a housekeeper led her through the marbled entryway.

Seungcheol was waiting for her, looking unusually formal in a button-up shirt. "You came" he said, relief evident in his voice.

"I said I would" she replied, trying to keep her nerves from showing.

Mrs. Choi appeared first, a graceful woman with kind eyes that reminded her of Seungcheol's. "So lovely to finally meet you" she said, taking her hands warmly. "Seungcheol speaks very highly of you."

Mr. Choi was more imposing; tall and distinguished, with an air of authority that commanded attention. But when he smiled, she saw where Seungcheol got his warmth. "The mysterious study partner who keeps our son on his toes" he said, shaking her hand. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Dinner was served in a dining room that could have comfortably seated twenty, but they kept to one end of the table, creating a sense of intimacy. She was surprised by how easily conversation flowed, how genuinely interested the Chois seemed in her studies, her background, her aspirations.

"Seungcheol tells us you're at the top of your class" Mr. Choi said, sounding impressed. "On scholarship, no less."

"I've been fortunate to have good opportunities" she said modestly.

"Opportunity means nothing without the talent and drive to seize it" Mrs. Choi countered. "Don't diminish your achievements, dear."

As the evening progressed, she found herself relaxing, even laughing at Mr. Choi's surprisingly dry sense of humor. When Seungcheol excused himself to take a phone call, Mrs. Choi leaned in slightly.

"You know, you're the first of Seungcheol's friends he's ever asked to bring home" she said thoughtfully.

"Oh, we're just classmates" she clarified quickly. "We study well together."

Mrs. Choi's smile was knowing. "Of course. Still, it says something that he values your opinion enough to want you to meet us."

Later, as Seungcheol walked her to the car his parents had insisted on sending her home in, she felt strangely conflicted.

"They like you" he said, looking pleased. "I knew they would."

"They're different from what I expected" she admitted.

"Different good or different bad?"

"Different good. They're... real people." She winced at how that sounded. "I mean—"

"No, I get it" he laughed. "They're not the cold business tycoons people assume. They work hard, but family matters to them. Values matter." He paused. "You matter to them now, too. Once you're with my parents, there's no escaping."

She didn't know why that thought made her heart beat faster.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Second Year: Summer

Summer brought an unexpected opportunity—an internship at a prestigious firm that could set her up perfectly for post-graduation employment. The only problem was the cost of living closer to the city center where the firm was located; her part-time job wouldn't cover the higher rent for those three months.

When she mentioned the dilemma while studying with Seungcheol, he immediately offered a solution.

"Stay at my place" he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I'm leaving for Jeju to help with my father's new resort development, so the apartment will be empty anyway."

"I can't just take your apartment, Cheol."

"Why not? It's sitting there unused, with a perfectly convenient commute to your internship. It makes logical sense."

She hesitated, pride warring with practicality. "I'd pay rent."

"You absolutely will not" he said firmly. "Consider it an investment in your future success, which will make me look good by association."

"Seungcheol—"

"Please? It would actually help me out. Someone should be there to water my plants and make sure the place doesn't get robbed."

In the end, logic won out, though she insisted on at least covering utilities. When Seungcheol gave her the keys before leaving for Jeju, there was something unreadable in his eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing" he said, closing her fingers around the keys. "Just take care of yourself, not just my plants."

Living in Seungcheol's apartment was a strange experience. Everything was comfortable, convenient, designed for ease. She found herself working later at the internship than required, partly out of dedication and partly to avoid becoming too accustomed to the luxury that wasn't hers.

Mingyu and Wonwoo checked in on her occasionally, bringing food and company. Junhui brought books he thought she'd enjoy. Jihoon, surprisingly, became a regular visitor, often working on his music while she prepared reports for her internship, the silence between them comfortable.

One night, as they shared takeout after both working late, Jihoon looked up from his noodles. "You know he's in love with you, right?"

She nearly choked. "Who?"

Jihoon gave her a flat look. "Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you."

"Seungcheol and I are friends" she said firmly. "Good friends."

"Sure" Jihoon shrugged, returning to his food. "But just so you know, he doesn't lend this place to just anyone. I've known him since high school, and you're the first person he's ever given keys to."

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she changed the subject. But later, alone in Seungcheol's guest room, she found herself staring at the ceiling, thinking about his easy smile, his unwavering support, the way he seemed to see her—really see her—in a way no one else did.

It was a dangerous line of thought, one she couldn't afford to entertain.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Third Year: November

The third year brought mounting pressure; harder classes, preparation for thesis proposals, the looming reality of job hunting. She and Seungcheol remained close, though their different schedules meant they saw each other less frequently. When they did, it was usually in group settings with the others or during late-night study sessions in the library.

Tonight was rare; just the two of them, working on separate thesis outlines in his apartment. Rain lashed against the windows, creating a cozy atmosphere despite the stress of their work.

Jihoon, Mingyu, and Jeonghan had been there earlier, working on their own projects, but had left hours ago, leaving them alone with their thoughts and the sound of keyboards clicking.

"I think my brain is officially fried" Seungcheol announced, pushing back from his laptop. "Want some ramyeon?"

She glanced up, blinking as her eyes adjusted to looking at something other than her screen. "Sure."

In the kitchen, she watched as he moved efficiently, preparing their late-night snack. There was a comfortable domesticity to it, one that made her chest tighten with a feeling she refused to name.

"My father asked about you yesterday" he said casually as he waited for the water to boil.

"Oh?"

"He's impressed with your internship performance. Apparently, his friend at the firm couldn't stop singing your praises."

She felt a flush of pride. "I didn't realize they knew each other."

"Seoul's business world is smaller than you think" Seungcheol said, pouring the hot water into their bowls. "Actually, he mentioned they might have a position opening up after graduation. Said you'd be a perfect fit."

She froze, ramyeon halfway to her mouth. "What?"

"It's just an option" he said quickly. "No pressure. But it's a good company, great benefits, room for advancement—"

"Did you ask him to do this?" Her voice was suddenly cold.

Seungcheol looked genuinely surprised. "What? No. He brought it up on his own."

"Really? Your father just happened to mention a job opportunity at his friend's company, for me specifically?"

"Yes" he frowned. "What's the problem?"

She set down her chopsticks. "The problem is I don't need your family pulling strings for me. I can get a job on my own merits."

"No one's saying you can't" he countered. "It's just networking. Everyone does it."

"Everyone who has connections" she shot back. "Some of us have to work for everything we get."

Seungcheol's expression hardened. "And you think I don't work? That everything just falls into my lap because of my last name?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant" he said, voice rising slightly. "You've always thought that, haven't you? Poor Seungcheol, born with a silver spoon, never had to struggle a day in his life."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? You've built this whole identity around being the scholarship kid who does everything herself. You're so afraid of accepting help that you don't even see when people are just trying to care about you."

The words hit too close to home, igniting a defensive anger. "I don't need anyone to care about me. I'm doing fine on my own."

"Are you?" he challenged. "Because from where I'm standing, you're working yourself to exhaustion, pushing away anyone who tries to get close, all because you're terrified of admitting you might actually need someone."

"What I need" she said, standing abruptly, "is to not be your charity case. I'm not some project for you to fix, Seungcheol. I'm not here to make you feel good about yourself for helping the poor scholarship student."

His face went pale, then flushed with anger. "Is that really what you think of me? After three years?"

The hurt in his eyes made her want to take back her words, but pride kept her silent.

"I have never," he said, voice low and controlled, "seen you as a charity case. I thought we were friends. I thought—" he stopped, running a hand through his hair. "Forget it. If that's what you think of me, maybe we don't know each other at all."

She gathered her things in tense silence, shoving papers into her bag without caring if they crumpled. When she reached the door, she paused, knowing she should apologize but not knowing how.

"Let me call you a car at least" he said stiffly. "It's pouring out there."

"I'll take the bus" she replied, and left before he could argue.

The rain soaked her within seconds, but she barely noticed, her mind replaying their argument on loop. By the time she reached her apartment, she was drenched and shivering, but the cold emptiness inside her had nothing to do with the weather.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Third Year: December

Three weeks passed without a word between them—the longest they'd gone without speaking since they met. She threw herself into her thesis preparation, taking extra shifts at work to avoid her thoughts. Her phone remained silent; even the group chat with the others had gone quiet for her.

One evening, as she was closing up the coffee shop, she looked up to find Jeonghan waiting at the counter.

"We need to talk" he said simply.

They sat at a corner table, her still in her apron, him elegant as always in a camel coat.

"He's miserable" Jeonghan said without preamble. "And from the looks of it, so are you."

She stared at her hands. "It's complicated."

"It's really not" Jeonghan countered. "You both said things you didn't mean, and you're both too stubborn to apologize first."

"He told you what happened?"

"He didn't have to. We've all been watching this dance for three years now." Jeonghan's expression softened. "Look, I get it. Pride is a hard thing to swallow. But is it worth losing him over?"

"I don't want to lose him" she admitted quietly.

"Then do something about it" Jeonghan said, standing. "And for what it's worth, none of us, especially not Seungcheol, have ever seen you as anything less than what you are: brilliant, determined, and incredibly frustrating."

After Jeonghan left, she sat alone in the darkened coffee shop, thinking about Seungcheol. How he'd never once made her feel less than, how he'd always believed in her abilities, how he'd created space for her in his life without question.

The next morning, she found herself standing outside his apartment, heart pounding. When he opened the door, he looked as bad as she felt; dark circles under his eyes, hair uncombed, wearing a hoodie she recognized as one of his comfort clothes.

"Can I come in?" she asked softly.

He stepped aside wordlessly.

Inside, they stood awkwardly in his living room, the silence heavy between them.

"I'm sorry" she finally said. "What I said was unfair and untrue. You've never made me feel like a charity case. That was my own insecurity talking."

Seungcheol's shoulders relaxed slightly. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have pushed about the job thing. I know how important your independence is to you."

"It's not just about independence" she tried to explain. "It's about feeling like I've earned my place. Like I belong in those rooms on my own merit."

"You do belong" he said firmly. "More than most people I know. But accepting help doesn't diminish that." He paused. "I'm not trying to make your path easier because I think you can't handle it. I offer because I care about you, and that's what people do when they care. They try to make each other's lives better."

The simple honesty of his words broke something open inside her. "I'm not very good at letting people care about me" she admitted.

"I've noticed" he said, a ghost of his usual smile appearing. "But I'm pretty persistent."

"That you are" she agreed, feeling the tension between them begin to dissolve.

"So, friends again?" he asked, and there was something vulnerable in his eyes that made her heart ache.

"Friends" she confirmed, trying to ignore the voice inside her that whispered it wasn't enough.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Fourth Year: February

Senior year was flying by too quickly, the future looming large on the horizon. She and Seungcheol had settled back into their friendship, though something had shifted subtly between them; a new awareness, moments of silence that stretched a beat too long, touches that lingered.

Tonight, they were on the rooftop of his building again, bundled against the winter cold, celebrating the completion of their thesis drafts with a bottle of wine.

"To never having to look at my thesis again," Seungcheol toasted, clinking his glass against hers.

"Until next week when we get feedback and have to revise everything" she reminded him, but she was smiling.

"Always the optimist" he teased.

They fell into companionable silence, watching the city lights below them.

"Have you heard back from any of the places you applied?" he asked after a while.

"Not yet" she said, trying to keep the worry from her voice. "You?"

"I start at the company in July" he said. "After graduation and a brief vacation.” 

"That's great, Cheol," she said, genuinely happy for him despite the twist of anxiety in her own stomach about her uncertain future.

"It is" he agreed, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "It's what I've been working toward."

"But?"

He shrugged. "No 'but.' It's the right move. The responsible choice."

She studied his profile, illuminated by the distant city lights. "Does it make you happy?"

"Happiness isn't always the point" he said quietly. "Sometimes it's about doing what needs to be done."

Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded like a platitude. Coming from Seungcheol, who carried the weight of his family name with such grace, it was a confession.

"I think" she said carefully, "that you'll find a way to make it your own. You always do."

He turned to look at her then, his eyes searching hers for something she wasn't sure she was ready to give. "What about you? What makes you happy?"

The question caught her off guard. She'd spent so long focusing on survival, on achievement, on making something of herself, that happiness had always seemed like a distant luxury.

"I don't know" she answered honestly. "I haven't thought about it much."

"Think about it now" he urged gently.

She closed her eyes, letting herself imagine for once. "Stability," she said finally. "Knowing my family is taken care of. Work that matters. People who understand me." She opened her eyes to find him still watching her. "Freedom to choose my own path."

"That sounds like a good life," he said softly.

"It does," she agreed. "What about you? If you could choose anything?"

"This," he said simply. "Moments like this. Being with people who see me as me, not as the Choi heir. Making my own decisions. Music, maybe. A life that feels authentic."

His honesty made her brave. "And us? Where do we fit in those futures?"

The question hung between them, loaded with unspoken feelings. Seungcheol reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch feather-light.

"I don't know" he admitted. "But I know I want you in mine. However that looks."

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed. Reluctantly, she checked it—an email notification that made her heart stop.

"What is it?" Seungcheol asked, noticing her expression.

"A job offer" she whispered, hardly daring to believe it. "In New York. The international firm I applied to, they want me."

Seungcheol's face went through a rapid series of emotions before settling on a proud smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's amazing. When would you start?"

"August" she said, still processing. "They want an answer within the week."

"You're going to take it, right?" he asked, voice carefully neutral. "It's what you've been working for."

It was everything she'd dreamed of—a prestigious firm, international experience, a salary that would let her help her family. But suddenly, the thought of leaving Seoul—leaving Seungcheol—made the victory taste bittersweet.

"I need to think about it" she said, and they both knew it was a lie. There was no decision to make. This was her path, the one she'd sacrificed for, the one that would validate all her hard work.

"Of course" Seungcheol said, raising his glass again. "To new beginnings."

She echoed the toast, but as they drank in silence, the space between them seemed to grow, filled with things they weren't ready to say.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Fourth Year: May

Graduation day dawned bright and clear, the campus transformed by decorations and proud families. She stood among her classmates in her cap and gown, scanning the crowd for her parents and siblings, who had saved for months to make the trip.

She spotted Seungcheol with his parents near the front, looking handsome and official in his regalia. They hadn't spoken much in the weeks since she accepted the New York position, both busy with final exams and preparations for the future. But they'd maintained their friendship, carefully avoiding any mention of her imminent departure.

When her name was called, she walked across the stage with her head held high, accepting her diploma with the knowledge that she had earned every bit of this moment. As she shook the dean's hand, she heard cheers from the audience; her family, but also a distinct group that could only be Seungcheol and the others, who had become her second family over these four years.

As she moved the tassel on her cap, she caught Seungcheol's eye in the crowd. He smiled at her, proud and pained all at once, and something inside her chest constricted. This was what she had worked for; her ticket to a better life, a chance to make her mark on the world. Why, then, did victory feel so hollow?

After the ceremony, amid the chaos of families taking photos and classmates saying tearful goodbyes, she found herself pulled into an embrace by Mrs. Choi.

"We are so proud of you" the elegant woman said, holding her at arm's length. "Such an accomplishment."

Mr. Choi nodded in agreement, his usually stern face softened with genuine warmth. "Seungcheol tells us you're headed to New York. An excellent opportunity."

"Yes" she confirmed, "I start in August."

"Seoul's loss is New York’s gain," Mrs. Choi said with a meaningful glance toward her son, who was talking with her parents a few feet away. "But I suspect you'll do remarkable things wherever you go."

Before she could respond, Seungcheol approached, bringing her family with him. There were introductions, handshakes, her mother looking slightly overwhelmed but pleased as she chatted with Mrs. Choi. Her younger siblings stared in awe at Seungcheol, who treated them with the same easy respect he showed everyone.

"We're having a small celebration at our home this evening" Mr. Choi announced. "For Seungcheol and his friends. You and your family are welcome to join us."

Her mother started to decline, she knew they had planned to take the evening train back home to save on hotel costs, but Seungcheol interrupted gently.

"Please" he said, addressing her parents directly. "It would mean a lot to me. To all of us. We've made arrangements for your accommodations, and transportation back tomorrow."

She opened her mouth to object, pride rising automatically, but caught herself. This wasn't charity; this was friendship. After four years, she was finally learning the difference.

"We'd be honored" her father said, and the matter was settled.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

The Choi residence was transformed for the evening, the formal spaces made warm and inviting with soft lighting and flowers. The celebration was more intimate than she had expected—just the fourteen of them, their families, and a few close friends of the Chois.

She watched as Seungcheol moved through the room, the perfect host, making sure everyone was comfortable. He had a gift for making people feel at ease, regardless of background or status. Her father, initially stiff and uncomfortable in the opulent surroundings, was now laughing at something Joshua's dad had said. Her mother was deep in conversation with Jihoon's parents about music education, while her siblings had been thoroughly adopted by Seokmin and Soonyoung, who were teaching them some ridiculous dance moves in the corner.

"He gets it from his mother" a voice said beside her, and she turned to find Mr. Choi offering her a glass of champagne.

"Sorry?"

"Seungcheol. The way he brings people together" Mr. Choi clarified, nodding toward his son. "His mother has always had that gift. I'm more like you—focused on goals, sometimes at the expense of connections."

She accepted the champagne, surprised by his candor. "I wouldn't have guessed that about you."

Mr. Choi smiled slightly. "I've learned over the years. Thanks in large part to her." He glanced fondly at his wife across the room. "The right people in our lives have a way of making us better versions of ourselves."

Before she could respond to this unexpectedly personal insight, Mingyu appeared, dragging her away to settle a debate with Wonwoo about the best street food in Seoul. The evening continued, warm and joyful, a perfect culmination of their university years.

Later, as the party began to wind down, she found herself on the terrace, taking a moment of quiet amid the celebrations. The night air was cool but pleasant, the garden below illuminated softly by strategically placed lights.

"Hiding?" Seungcheol's voice came from behind her.

"Just catching my breath," she replied as he joined her at the railing. "It's been quite a day."

"One for the books" he agreed, loosening his tie slightly. "Your family seems to be enjoying themselves."

"They are. Thank you for including them."

"They're important to you" he said simply, as if that explained everything. And in a way, it did.

They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the party muted behind them, the city spread out before them like a constellation of earthbound stars.

"New York" he said finally, the word heavy with everything they hadn't been saying. "When do you leave?"

"Three weeks" she answered, her voice smaller than she intended. "I need to find an apartment, get settled before orientation."

Seungcheol nodded, his profile stoic in the dim light. "You're going to be amazing there. They're lucky to have you."

"What about you?" she asked, needing to change the subject. "Ready to be the new face of Choi Enterprises?"

A smile flickered across his face. "Not exactly the new face. More like the behind-the-scenes guy implementing changes while my father continues to be the public figure."

"Changes?"

"I've been thinking about what you said months ago, about making it my own." His eyes met hers, serious and determined. "I want to shift some of our priorities. Focus more on sustainable practices, ethical sourcing. Maybe expand our scholarship program."

Pride bloomed in her chest. "That sounds like something you would do."

"It's something you inspired" he corrected gently. "You've always pushed me to be more than just my father's son."

The sincerity in his voice made her throat tighten. Four years of friendship, of challenges and growth, of becoming adults together—it all seemed to crystallize in this moment.

"I'm going to miss you" she admitted, the words barely audible.

Seungcheol turned to her fully then, his eyes searching hers. "I've been trying to figure out how to say this for weeks" he began, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his gaze. "Actually, years, if I'm honest."

Her heart stuttered in her chest, knowing what was coming and terrified of it.

"I'm in love with you" he said simply. "I have been since that first study session when you corrected my accounting formula and told me I needed to pay more attention to details."

A small laugh escaped her, half-surprised, half-pained. "That was four years ago."

"I know" he smiled ruefully. "I'm not telling you this to complicate things or make you feel guilty about New York. I just couldn't let you leave without being honest. I respect your choices, your independence. I always have."

"Cheol—" she started, but he shook his head.

"You don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know that someone sees you—all of you, the strength and the vulnerability, the ambition and the fear. And loves you for it."

The words she'd been holding back for so long rose to her lips, but before she could speak, the glass door to the terrace slid open, and Seungkwan appeared.

"There you are! We're about to do toasts, and Jeonghan says we can't start without you two."

The moment shattered, Seungcheol stepped back, the confession hanging unresolved between them. They rejoined the party, where champagne flowed and emotional speeches were made. Through it all, his words echoed in her mind, both a gift and a complication.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Three Months Later: August

New York was everything and nothing like she had imagined. The city's energy matched her own drive, the constant movement and ambition a perfect reflection of her internal landscape. Her apartment was small but functional, her job challenging and rewarding. On paper, everything was exactly as she had planned.

But in the quiet moments—late at night when the city's pulse slowed, or early mornings when the light slanted just so through her window—she found herself thinking of Seoul, of thirteen boys who had become family, of one in particular whose confession she had never properly answered.

They kept in touch, sort of. Group texts with the others, occasional video calls where they carefully maintained the friendship they'd always had, neither mentioning the words spoken on the terrace. She saw snippets of his life through social media—Seungcheol at business functions, Seungcheol implementing new company initiatives, Seungcheol with the others on weekend trips. He looked good, successful, exactly where he was meant to be.

Tonight, she found herself on her tiny balcony, staring up at the narrow strip of sky visible between buildings. The moon was bright, a perfect silver disc that seemed to follow her across oceans and continents.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Jihoon, a rare direct message from the most reserved of the group.

*You're both idiots, you know that?*

She blinked at the bluntness of it.

*Hello to you too, Jihoon.*

*He's miserable. You're probably miserable too, knowing you.*

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. *We're both where we need to be.*

*Need and want are different things. Figure it out.*

The conversation ended there, typical Jihoon—direct, uncompromising, and unfortunately insightful.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. The truth was, she was doing well professionally but personally... personally, she felt adrift. She'd achieved her goal, proved herself capable and worthy, secured her family's future. But something was missing, and she was finally honest enough with herself to name it.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with an email notification. A follow-up from her boss about a project she was leading—an expansion into the Asian market, specifically South Korea. They needed someone with local knowledge, language skills, and connections. Someone exactly like her.

She stared at the screen, heart racing with sudden possibility. It wasn't a solution, not yet, but it was a door opening where before there had been only walls.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Six Months Later: February

Seoul in winter was exactly as she remembered it; crisp, vibrant, familiar in a way that settled something inside her. She pulled her coat tighter as she walked through the business district, the cashmere scarf, his gift from years ago, wound around her neck.

The Choi Enterprises building loomed ahead, modern and imposing against the skyline. She had informed her team she would handle this meeting personally, citing her familiarity with Korean business culture. She hadn't mentioned her familiarity with the company's leadership.

At reception, she stated her name and appointment, the Korean flowing easily from her lips after months of practice to maintain her fluency. The receptionist directed her to the elevators, instructing her to go to the 42nd floor, executive offices.

Her heart pounded as the elevator ascended. She hadn't told him she was coming. Hadn't told any of them, afraid she might lose her nerve if she did. The doors opened to a sleek reception area where another assistant greeted her.

"He's expecting you" the woman said with a smile, leading her down a hallway to double doors at the end.

She took a deep breath as the assistant knocked once, then opened the door.

"Your 10 o'clock is here, Mr. Choi."

She stepped into the office; spacious and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a stunning view of the city. Seungcheol stood behind his desk, reviewing documents, his back to the door.

"Thank you, I—" he began as he turned, the words dying on his lips when he saw her.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, taking in the changes six months had wrought. He looked different; more mature, his hair styled differently, wearing a perfectly tailored suit that made him look every inch the business leader he had become. But his eyes, his eyes were the same, warm and deep and suddenly wide with shock.

"Hi" she said softly, when she could find her voice.

"What are you—" he stopped, glancing at his assistant who was watching with undisguised curiosity. "Thank you, Min-ah. That will be all for now."

When the door closed behind her, silence descended, heavy with unasked questions.

"I'm here on business," she explained, stepping further into the room. "My company is looking to expand into the Korean market. I'm leading the project."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "You're representing them."

She nodded. "They thought my connections might be helpful."

"Your connections" he repeated, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "And you chose Choi Enterprises as your first meeting."

"It seemed logical" she said, maintaining the professional facade, though her racing heart betrayed her. "Your company has a strong digital presence, innovative ideas. We're looking for a partner with vision."

Seungcheol moved around his desk, closing some of the distance between them. "Very logical. How long are you in Seoul?"

"Two weeks, to start. Longer if the partnerships develop well."

"And after that?" he asked, the question loaded with meaning.

She took a deep breath. "That depends on what we find here."

Their eyes held, the pretense of a purely business conversation slipping away.

"I never answered you" she said quietly. "That night on the terrace."

"You didn't need to" he replied. "Your path was clear."

"My path has led me back here" she countered, taking a step toward him. "Maybe that means something."

Seungcheol's expression softened, hope cautiously emerging. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I've accomplished what I set out to do. I've proven myself, secured my future, helped my family. I'm saying that I'm proud of who I've become, and that includes being someone who can finally admit what she wants." She took another step closer. "I'm saying that I love you too. I have for a long time."

The distance between them vanished as Seungcheol closed the gap, one hand coming up to cup her face with a tenderness that made her breath catch.

"You're sure?" he asked, his voice low. "Because I don't want you to ever feel like you've compromised your independence for me."

"Loving you isn't a compromise" she said firmly. "It took me a while to understand that accepting love isn't the same as accepting charity. You were right—it's what people do when they care."

The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise, bright and full of promise. "I've missed you" he whispered, forehead touching hers. "Every day."

"I've missed you too," she admitted, her hands coming to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat strong and steady beneath her palm. "More than I allowed myself to acknowledge."

When he kissed her, it felt like coming home.

It’s like finding something she hadn't known she was missing until this moment. It was gentle at first, a question and an answer all at once, then deepening with the weight of feelings long held back.

A knock at the door forced them apart, and Seungcheol cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," his assistant called through the door, "but your father is asking if you'd like to join him for lunch with your visitor to discuss the potential partnership."

Seungcheol looked at her, eyebrows raised in question. She nodded, a smile playing at her lips.

"Tell him we'll be there" he called back, and then more quietly to her, "My parents are going to be insufferable when they see you. My mother has been asking about you for months."

"They knew how you felt?"

"Everyone knew" he laughed. "Apparently, I wasn't subtle."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a message from the group chat she shared with all thirteen of them. She pulled it out to find a text from Jeonghan:

Tell him we expect both of you at dinner tonight. No excuses.

She looked up at Seungcheol, confused. "Did you tell them I was here?"

He leaned over to see the message and laughed. "No, but Jeonghan has an uncanny sixth sense. And possibly spies in my building."

Another text came through, this one from Jihoon: Told you so.

"What does that mean?" Seungcheol asked.

She smiled, putting her phone away. "It means he was right. We were both idiots."

Seungcheol took her hand, interlacing their fingers as if they'd been doing it for years. "Not anymore" he said softly. "Now we're just two people who took the long way home."

As they walked out of his office together, she thought about the journey that had brought her here; the scholarship girl determined to make it on her own, the walls she'd built around her heart, the gradual realization that true strength wasn't about standing alone but about choosing who to stand with.

Outside, the winter sun broke through the clouds, casting long shadows across the snow-covered city. In the distance, the Han River flowed steadily, unchanging and ever-changing all at once. Like the moon that had watched over both of them from different corners of the world, bearing silent witness to their separate paths that had, against all odds, converged once more.

She squeezed Seungcheol's hand, feeling him squeeze back without hesitation, and knew with certainty that this—this was what coming home felt like.

⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Just like the moon, I'll pull you back again

I'm always going to be who I've been  

But I'm not afraid to admit I'm wrong

When I know I'm right where I belong

- moon song, phoebe bridgers

[cheekytv]

too much ain't enough -- g. clarke & a. hill & c. dixon x reader 18+

an unfortunate incident leads to you having to move into casa hill-dixon-clarke. obviously, they offered you a place to stay. obviously, you are very thankful. and, obviously, the tension that builds up between you and your new flatmates purely exists to give into it.... right?

pairing: george x f!reader x chris x arthur hill genre: smut MDNI!!! warnings: foursome, unprotected sex (woopsie doopsie), throat fucking, creampie, cum swallowing, oral (m. receiving), boys are a bit perverted but oh well, loads of tension wc: 4.9k a/n: hi there! welcome to... this... shitshow? listen, i am just a whore what can i say. i hope you enjoy!!! don't forget to reblog / comment / send an ask telling me what you think <3

as much as you wish it doesn’t, the burning feeling of guilt sweeps through you as you watch arthur roll your suitcase into his (or now your) room. 

“is this really okay?” you ask for the seventh time this hour and arthur chuckles, putting his hands on his hips as he turns to you.

“stop asking already, if it weren’t okay we wouldn’t have offered, alright?” he gives you a smile and you bite down on your lip, hugging yourself with your arms as you nod slightly.

“i just feel so bad for-,”

“kicking me out my room, i know, y/n, you’ve said that about four hundred times.” he walks over to you, placing his hands on your shoulders. the smile he gives you reaches his pretty hazel eyes and you finally give in.

“i’m sorry, you’re right. you wouldn't have offered. thanks, arthur, really.”

all of this hassle and your guilty conscience because one of the pipes in your building randomly decided to burst and leave you with a flooded bath- and living room. the damage was too big for you to move back in for the next couple of weeks (if not months) and when you had cried about it to your friends, they had promptly invited you to stay with them. 

you have been friends with chris, george and arthur for over two years now, being in the same circle due to working the same job. the three of them have somehow become your closest friends in the past few months; you hanging around their place with arthur and bach more often than you were at your own place anyways. but you never spent the night, never saw them in the morning, never were part of their daily routines at their flat.

now, that’s about to change.

the first few days go smoothly, even with you around in the mornings. arthur is crashing on the couch for the time being and sharing bathrooms with george while you get his all to yourself. and it’s nice, it’s perfectly fine. 

except for the fact that the more chris, george and arthur are around you, the less they can ignore how attracted they are to you. the way you wear your hair, the sweet perfume you put on every morning, your genuine smile and these bloody skirts you love to wear - it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. 

it becomes a topic amongst them only a few days after you move in. the first time chris mentions it to george is right after he watched you hurry into the living room with nothing but a very short bathrobe on, your skin glowy from what he assumes is body oil and your hair in wet curls over your shoulders. his ability to breath temporarily left him and he could only return the smile you gave him with the most awkward wave of his life. 

he’s leaning over the kitchen island with george eating cereal next to him, seated.

“i am starting to regret this.” chris says and george chews his food, shrugging before swallowing.

“you’re being dramatic. just… don’t look.”

he is punched in the face by karma a minute later when you walk into the room with said bathrobe, laughing about how you got one thing earlier only to forget the second. george chokes on the spoon of cereal he just shoved into his mouth and chris slaps him on the back, giving you another awkward wave. 

“what was that?” he then says to his friend who’s still recovering from his coughing fit.

in reality, the boys are just severely under fucked. seeing a beautiful woman in a bathrobe should not get them this excited. but work is rough and their time is already limited. chris hasn’t been on a date in months which, according to his friend group, is an actual scandal. 

arthur isn’t much better. he’s been thinking about you sleeping in his bed every night on the couch. he feels like a creep, imagining his sheets smelling like you, imagining waking up next to you. he can’t help it though. not when you’re that pretty and that hot. it shouldn’t be legal to be both, he thinks.

the three of them talk about nothing else in their group chat. 

finchy: if i see one of her panties in the washing again i will literally chop my hand off

chris: any specific reason for that particular body part?

finchy: …

finchy: fuck off

george: when i did the washing last week i almost cried 

george: she has this pair of like pink panties with white bows and i’m just

chris: i need you to stop talking 

george: suffer with me wth

finchy: i need a cold shower

george: also arthur don’t you dare wank off on our couch 

it’s the one month anniversary of your move and the boys are out for a football shoot. you take the opportunity to prepare dinner. the last month had been hectic as hell and you hadn’t gotten the chance to properly thank them for their kindness. 

you cook your signature bolognese, clean the apartment and decorate it with flowers you bought from the market in the morning. a beautifully set table, delicious food and several bottles of expensive wine, two candles in some pretty candlesticks you found in the cupboards. you turn on some soft music, humming along as you do the last bits and bobs before the boys come home. 

it didn’t go over your head, obviously. the gazes, the lingering touches, the awkwardness. and maybe, once you’ve figured it out, you did kind of… do it on purpose. walked around in that bathrobe that made george choke and chris lose his ability to speak. chose some more scandalous skirts from your closet when you left your room for the day. let your underwear lay on top of the washing for them to see. 

all of it seems like fun and games to you, but it also opens up a door you never really intended to open. by all means, you never expected to be attracted to your three closest friends, not like this. but living with them also meant seeing them in a way you hadn’t before. george’s bedhead and his bare chest in the mornings when you were already sitting on the couch planning something on your ipad, the way chris’ would stretch before a run and how he’d come back with his cheeks rosy and his hair sweaty, how arthur looked right out of a shower, his hair a mop of wet curls on his head, all his tattoos on display when he walked out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist. 

you are just a girl. a girl with eyes and needs and, fuck, has it been long since someone fucked you properly. getting off in arthur’s bed feels strange so you haven’t even done that and the shower… god, it feels wrong, too. so, you haven’t come in a month. your body is on fire, your thoughts are anything but innocent. and maybe, just maybe, tonight isn’t just about thanking them for letting you stay but also trying to see if they were up for… something. 

just when you get the spaghetti into the water, you hear the front door unlocking. your head turns to the door, a smile forming on your lips. 

“something smells incredible.” you hear arthur say and you giggle to yourself, tugging a strand of hair behind your ear. 

a moment later, the three men walk in, all of their jaws slightly dropped.

“surprise!” you grin, walking around the island and over to them. “i thought it was about time to properly thank you for letting me stay here. so, i cooked you dinner and bought some wine, cleaned the place, you know, nothing too grand but still nice.” 

chris, george and arthur are speechless. not just because of the delicious scent inside their apartment, but because of you. it’s like you peeked inside their minds, like you scouted every message to know exactly what they talked about. 

finchy: if i see her in that tennis skirt one more time

george: don’t even get me started

chris: i feel like the creepiest creep on earth but… same

finchy: like fucking hell 

finchy: i vote we burn it so i don’t get another fucking hard on when she’s just standing there

george: i hate that i can’t even make fun of you for that

chris: sigh

chris: same

the white tennis skirt and football jersey over it makes all of their minds go places they aren’t so sure they should. 

“that’s…. wow, you- you really didn’t have to.” chris somehow stumbles out but you shake your head.

“no, no. i wanted to. dinner is ready in like fifteen minutes, yeah?” you give them another wide smile and turn around again, grabbing your phone from the counter. 

the boys exchange looks. how on earth was this night going to end?

the dinner goes smoothly. after the boys all take their well needed showers you gather around the dining table. the wine flows, the bolognese gets complimented and laughter continuously fills the air. it almost feels like it did before you moved in, almost. there is this new addition to the mix, a tension that lays above you all like an invisible blanket. 

it’s in the way george’s eyes linger on your lips when you talk, in the way arthur pours you wine and smiles at you and how chris’ fingers brush against yours when he hands you the salt. perhaps it’s also in the way you speak to them, how you can’t keep your eyes off their handsome faces when they talk, how you thrive on their attention on you. 

after dinner, when arthur and george begin cleaning up the table and chris opens another bottle of the wine you bought, you find yourself seated on the couch, wondering. 

not long and the boys join you. george and arthur on the carpet, chris on the couch with you. the conversation from before continues, but it’s different somehow - the tension is thick and heavy and you wonder how and when it’ll become too much. 

“how about a little game?” you finally propose and the boys look at you with slightly raised brows.

“what game?” george asks and you shift on your seat, taking a small sip of your wine glass.

“i was thinking… never have i ever?” you grin. 

“cheeky.” chris laughs, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“you start then.” arthur clinks his rings against his wine glass absentmindedly. 

the first few rounds are tame. but with time passing and more glasses of wine getting emptied… it’s no surprise the spirits change and everyone feels a little bit bolder. 

“never have i ever touched myself in a bed that isn’t mine.” arthur’s words reach your ears and your eyebrows raise up. oh, this was surely aimed at you. 

“cheeky, arthur.” you chuckle, but keep your glass down. “but i fear that hasn’t happened.” you tilt your head and arthur’s eyes widen slightly, a mix of surprise and disappointment in them.

george and chris press their lips together, suppressing a laugh. 

“never have i ever imagined someone touching themselves in my bed.” you then continue, gaze fixed on arthur, who feels his own throat go dry for a second. then, he raises his glass and takes a sip, never breaking eye contact. you smile wider.

“hm, interesting.” 

“but wait, i have a question.” chris leans forward, curiosity playing on his pretty face. “just purely out of curiosity… the shower, then?” 

“christopher dixon, are you actually asking me where i’ve masturbated in your apartment right now?” you reply laughing, throwing one of the pillows at him. george and arthur chime into the laughter, but all of you know it’s not really a joke. it’s the start of something else, something that should feel forbidden but somehow doesn’t. 

“i mean, yeah. if it’s not in arthur’s room it surely has to be the shower, right?”

you lean back, eyeing chris for a second. then, you shake your head.

“i fear you’ll have to live with the fact i have not done that in your apartment as of right now.”

the silence that follows your words is louder than any words. you’ve been living with them for a month. and as far as they know you haven’t been shagging anyone. does that mean…?

“you haven’t gotten off all this month?!” arthur finally breaks through the silence and you turn your head towards him, raising a brow.

“what? like it’s hard?” you stop for a second, grinning. “because it’s not.”

the boys all laugh at your stupid joke, shaking their heads at you. still, the atmosphere-change stays. even with the laughter, with the playfulness - it’s all somewhat feign. 

when the laughter finally dies and all that stays is a loaded silence, the boys, while not communicating openly, know they are all sharing the same thought.

“perhaps,” george now starts, wetting his lip, “we should change the game. fancy a round of truth or dare?”

it’s a farce. you know it, they know it. but you play along, nodding as you bring your glass to your lips, taking another sip.

“sure.” you wait for one of them to ask you, to make you say the words all of you need to hear. 

“truth or dare?” arthur breaks the moment of silence, his pretty eyes focused on you. butterflies go crazy inside your stomach as you lick over your lips, the remaining drops of wine coating the tip of your tongue.

“truth.” it’s probably not what they want to hear - or maybe it is. maybe they want to know what you truthfully feel before daring you to do anything.

“would you like it if…,” arthur’s eyes flick from you to chris and back, “if chris kissed you right now?” his voice is merely a whisper, sending shivers down your spine. you slowly move your head, seeing chris look at you from the other side of the couch, his hand still holding his wine glass. he looks so pretty in this light, green eyes sparkling and the white jumper hanging off his frame. you bite your lip and finally nod, giving arthur an answer to his question.

“yes… yes, i would like that.” 

with every second that passed, the tension in the room seems to grow thicker. the invisible blanket is about to suffocate you in the most delicious way.

“chris? truth or dare.” george’s voice chimes in now and your heartbeat picks up speed. 

“dare.” a no brainer, of course. he is already moving forward, the wine glass finding its way onto the small table separating you from george and arthur.

“i dare you to kiss her.” 

chris doesn’t wait long. his hands find your waist and you’re suddenly so close to him, the smell of his lemony body wash fills your senses and leaves you wanting more. his breath hovers over you for just a second before his lips finally touch yours. what starts out sweet, lips slowly moving against each other, becomes more heated with every fleeting moment. 

your free hand moves to his nape, fingers curling into the hair at his neckline, your eyes shut close. chris tastes like wine and warmth, his tongue tackling yours skilfully. feeling arthur and george’s gazes on you only makes the whole thing hotter. you feel their eyes burning on your skin, can only imagine how much they want to be in chris’ stead or just.. participate in any way. 

parting from chris feels like the hardest thing you ever had to do, but you do it, looking at george and arthur. their faces are flushed and they look even better than you had anticipated. without saying another word, you slowly get up, setting your glass onto the table as well, lowering yourself onto the floor and straight onto arthur’s lap. his breath gets stuck in his throat when he feels you close in, his eyes fluttering shut when your hands land on his cheeks and your lips on his. 

george and chris watch you and arthur hungrily, their best friend’s making out, your legs straddling him, his hands on your hips. 

arthur’s kisses are intoxicating. they are surely going to get you more drunk than any wine ever could. the way his lips feel against yours, the way his mustache rubs against your upper lip, the way his tongue feels inside your mouth…

but there is a third person, someone you can’t leave hanging. so, with all the selfcontrol you can gather, you get off arthur’s lap just to move over to george, who’s already awaiting you. his blue eyes stare up at you, lips slightly parted and, god, he’s so hot. 

his big hands move to your waist, practically dragging you on top of him. having waited the longest, he dives into the kiss right away, one hand now grabbing your face, lips crashing against yours. he devours you deliciously, a moan slipping through your lips as your fingers dig into his pretty curls. 

chris and arthur watch, arthur slowly moving closer and chris getting off the couch. nothing matters anymore, nothing but you and this moment and what they want to do to you - with you. 

it doesn’t take long for you to feel another pair of lips on your body - arthur, you guess - pressing kisses against your neck. and then there is another pair of hands, caressing your sides, slowly moving underneath your shirt. 

it’s all too much and yet not enough. all the unspoken words, the longing gazes, the lingering touches. the pent of frustration of not touching yourself in a month has you drenched, your hips grinding down on george, who groans against your lips, hands now both back on your hips.

“someone’s eager,” he breathes with a smirk and you bite down on your lip, looking up at him with wide eyes. just that alone almost makes him beg you to let him fuck you. instead, he dips forward again, kissing you passionately. 

someone needs to touch you, you don’t care who. and as if he can read your mind, arthur moves even closer, lips still kissing your neck, nimble fingers finding their way underneath your skirt. that god forsaken tennis skirt he has fantasised about so many times. 

he can’t stop the moan when he feels your drenched panties.

“fuck, you’re so wet for us, aren’t you, love?” 

he shoves them to the side, fingers gliding over your folds, thriving on the way you feel,on how easy it is to slip between your legs, and on the sounds you make when he finally touches your throbbing clit. 

chris, meanwhile, frees your tits from the restraints of your bra. his thumb and index squeeze your nipples and you arch your back against arthur. 

“fucking hell.” chris feels like he’s about to explode. his cock is straining against his underwear and joggers and he can only imagine arthur and george feel the same way. after all the dancing around it, the conversations in the group chat… it’s kind of a miracle neither of them came in their pants so far. 

your hips begin to move against arthur’s hand, your senses not your own anymore. fingers dig into george’s shoulders now as the latter continues to kiss you like he owns you. his lips and tongue chase yours, hot breath and saliva, too much and yet not enough to satisfy your yearning. 

“take this off, will you, darling?” chris’ voice echoes through your mind and all you can do is nod and part from george for a second to let them get your jersey off of you. your bra falls down onto the floor with it, leaving you in just your skirt and underwear. neither of the three men know how on earth they deserve this. deserve you.

“jesus christ…” george moves forward, lips catching one of your nipples, his right hand grabbing the other breast, cupping it possessively. arthur is now right behind you, thumb still rubbing circles on your clit while his lips suck marks onto the delicate skin of your neck and shoulders. and chris? chris takes george’s place, claiming your lips with his, hands grabbing your face. 

all their attention on you, their lips, their hands… it’s about to make you explode in a load of fireworks. noone has ever made you feel this way and you doubt anyone but them ever will again. while you have absolutely no idea what this means for you and them in the future, the prospect making slight worry creep up your spine for just a fleeting moment - right now it doesn’t matter. not when you’re about to have your first orgasm of the night, the first orgasm in a month, the first of many to come. 

“oh, fu-fuck!” you cry against chris’ lips, his tongue licking over your bottom lip and just when his teeth sink into it, you feel it hit, the high you’ve been craving for a whole month. 

arthur leads you through it with his thumb, pressing down as you grind down on him and george, as your head begins to spiral and your body shakes from the intensity of your orgasm. 

“good girl, came so prettily for us,” george kisses his way up, licking along your skin and you whimper, eyes fluttering shut and open, stars dancing in front of you. 

you find yourself laying flat on the carpet next, george in between your legs, arthur and chris kneelings by your sides. from here, you can see that all three of them are clearly… struggling and you lick over your lips, reaching out for arthur and chris.

“let me take care of you…” you whisper, palms pressing against their very present erections. they groan and nod, shoving down their pants and briefs, freeing their cocks - finally. your pussy throbs at the sight just as your mouth waters. you look from one to the other, sure you’re about to wake up from yet another wet dream. 

but no, when you let your thumbs swipe over their sensitive tips to gather precum for the glide, you’re still here and don’t wake up. and when you begin to stroke their cocks, when you hear them breathe heavily - you’re still not waking up. 

george watches you, eyeing you like you’re his prey and perhaps you are. his fingers move to get your panties off your legs and this time he doesn’t feel any ounce of shame when he brings them to his nose, taking in your perfect scent. 

“i fear you’ve opened a door you’ll never get to close again, pretty girl.” 

your eyes meet his and you watch him free himself as well, watch his pretty cock slap against his clothed stomach and, fuck, why are they all still wearing so much clothes? You can’t really complain though, not when george grabs your thighs and pushes them back, eyes now glued to your glistening folds. 

“you have no idea how many nights i’ve dreamt about this.” his words make another shiver run down your spine and you cry out his name when you feel his tip enter you. his big hand is wrapped around his cock, pushing more and more of him inside you. you had had a hunch that he was on the bigger side, but this? fucking hell. 

it takes him a good while to bottom out, your hands still wrapped around his flatmates’ cocks, stroking them. arthur and chris have their heads thrown back, enjoying the way your hands feels around them. 

“what a perfectly tight cunt you have, love.” george groans, both hands now back to pushing your thighs back. when he does his first thrust, you can’t stop the loud moan, your whole body shaking with lust. 

“oh, oh, isn’t someone a loud one?” george teases. “perhaps someone should stuff your mouth, hm?”

the thought alone makes you whimper, tears beginning to well in your eyes. chris and arthur exchange a glance, but finally chris is the one who moves, your hand slipping from his cock, now replaced by his own.

“we don’t want to disturb the neighbours, do we?” he smirks, his cock now right there in front of your mouth. you open obediently and his eyes sparkle with hunger. you are going to end him, he just knows it. he lets his tip glide over your tongue, the sensation already almost enough to make him burst. when you close your lips around him, sucking him deeper into your mouth, he thinks he might be in love with you. 

“holy shit.” he groans once he’s fully buried inside your mouth, his cock feeling right at home inside your pretty mouth. 

“don’t you look pretty with chrissie’s cock in your mouth, darling.” george licks over his lips. “let’s see how pretty you are while you get your pussy and mouth fucked at the same time, yeah?” 

they go mayhem on you. 

and you love it. 

love the way george pounds into your pussy like he was meant for it.

love the way chris sounds as he fucks down your throat.

love the way arthur grips your hand with his to move faster around his cock. 

their sounds make you stumble over the edge again, all too much and still it never feels like enough. 

george feels you clenching around him, his grip on your thighs tightening. holy hell, you truly are a sight to behold. tits bouncing with every thrust, your skirt risen up, hair a mess on the carpet. not to mention the view of chris inside your mouth. 

picking up his speed, george lets his eyes wander over your body, finally reaching where he keeps fucking into you. his breath hitches and he can’t hold back any longer, his head tipping back as his hips chase his high. 

“fuck!” he feels his climax rush over him, quickly pulling out and watching his cum paint your stomach in pretty streaks of white. he falls back, leaning against the couch, his chest heaving. 

“who’s next?” he smirks, pulling a hand through his hair. chris, too focused on your mouth and the way it’s all warm and perfect around his cock, doesn’t even think about switching to your cunt, which leaves the musician of the group to take the spot between your legs. 

“hold on.” he beckons chris to stop for just a moment, turning you over on your hands and knees. 

“much better.” arthur’s eyes can’t get enough of your body, his hands caressing your backside as he jerks himself off a few times before finally bringing his tip to your entrance. you whimper at the contact, your mouth back to being claimed by christopher. 

it’s like music, arthur thinks. the way you sound, the way you work with him and chris. your body reacts perfectly to them, plays along with their rhythm, meets every thrust like a champ. 

“you’re perfect, love, so fucking perfect.” he whispers as he begins to pick up the pace, his hands caressing your back as he fucks you. chris knows it won’t be long until he hits his high, your throat continuing to restrict around him. he is obsessed with the way you choke around his cock, with the way your eyes water when you look up into his eyes. this is everything he had ever hoped it to be and so much more.

and when you swallow around him, your choked moan like a symphony in his ears, he can’t stop himself from croaking out your name as he comes deep down your throat, hungrily watching you swallow it all, not letting even one drop go to waste. 

“yeah, take it all, bloody hell…” chris’ hands hold your head steady, gripping your hair tightly as he rides out his orgasm, finally pulling out and catching his breath.

which now leaves arthur last. and with your mouth now free… he grips your hips tighter, thrusts growing periodically harder again. you moan, pussy fluttering with an nearing third orgasm. his hips chase yours and your body is once again shaking from pleasure. everything feels hot and sweat is running down your temple, hands beginning to grow tired underneath you.

but arthur behind you makes it all worth it. and when he pulls you back by the shoulders, your back now pressing against his chest, when you feel his lips on your neck, his tongue licking along the marks he left earlier, you can’t stop yourself from coming a third time, hard and final around arthur’s cock.

“good girl, such a good perfect girl.” he whispers into your ear as you orgasm, his own climax only seconds away. he fucks you through your high and finally feels his own washing over him, allowing himself to come inside your pulsating cunt, once, twice. 

he’s done for. all of them are. just as you.

you collapse back onto the carpet, arthur right next to you.

“good god.” you stare at the ceiling, feeling chris lay down next to you. only george is still seated against the couch, chuckling at the image before him.

“now, who would have expected this?” he grins. you shake your head. not you. definitely not you.

“george?” chris suddenly says next to you. 

“yeah?”

“i think i just laid down in your cum.”

silence.

then bursts of laughter.

the faint worry from before was for nothing as it seems. because when they help you get cleaned up and you fall asleep in arthur’s bed with not just him but chris and george next to you… you feel like it will all find its place.

[timmydraker]

Tim Drake who was raised to not be allowed to ask questions at home and so he just assumes that he’s not allowed to anywhere.

It wasn’t like he was told he couldn’t, it was just that he was often ignored when he did or made to feel like a burden or even straight up stupid when he did. They were too busy to answer questions that could be easily answered if he just thought about it.

It doesn’t help that he’s a naturally curious child and can rattle off a dozen questions in a single minute.

So, when he starts being around and eventually living in the manner he sort of just assumes he’s not allowed to and naturally, this leaves him with a lot of internal turmoil. He does ask questions, but not things that are either able for him to figure by himself or something that he thinks could be a bother for others, things like how to use the new tech that came into the ace or where the fresh linen was.

Bruce at first is impressed by the way Tim adjusted to things so independently and with so little need for guidance, but even when he’s at his lowest he’s able to see how strange it is that Tim seems to put so much stress on himself for things he can get others to do. He assumes Tim is like him and just wants to figure things out himself, determined to solve things on his own.

It comes to a head one day when he watches Tim storm up the stairs while a confused Dick is standing below looking utterly bewildered.

Upon questioning him, Dick explains that he had just been asking Tim if he needed any assistance with his ongoing case as it seemed to be bothering him only for Tim to instantly snap at him about hypocrisy and double standards.

Bruce tells Dick to just give him some space to calm down and instead goes to see Tim himself.

His ongoing my theories since he started to get a clearly head and had talks with Dinah.

Standing next to the door to very clearly show that Tim can leave the conversation whenever he wants, he doesn’t bother trying to hide what he’s doing because no matter how he does it Tim will notice, instead he just stands there a moment until Tim looks up from where he is angrily rearranging his clothes… on the floor… to other parts of the floor.

Bruce holds back a sigh and instead speaks in as steady of a voice as he can, “Ducky, I want us to have a talk, not just about you. Can we please try?”

Maybe it’s the earnest wording and the way he’s invoking himself in the discussion, or the old nickname that Bruce hasn’t actually used for a while, or perhaps both, but Tim deflates like a balloon and goes to sit down on his bed and gives a single nod.

Bruce smiles and something it is so clearly Bruce the person, the parent, the guy whose just trying and not Batman or Brucie.

Bruce sits as well, parallel to him and with as reflex posture he can have with such a tense body, “Tim, why do you feel you can ask for help?”

It’s such an open ended question and Tim can’t help but scoff, his own internal perception making him feel angry at the question and so he snaps, “Because I can’t! You guys never offer help and even when I want to it doesn’t matter because it’s always about what Damian wants for dinner and what times are better for Dick for lunch or- or work! It’s only me doing Wayne Enterprise stuff and I also have to do Drake Industries stuff now and none of you guys help me because I have to do everything on my own-“

Bruce doesn’t want to cut him off but this confirms some things and if so, he needs to do fix some things quickly.

“Ducky, why do you have to do everything on your own? I don’t mean as Robin or Red Robin, but as you, as Tim.”

Bruce can only hope he’s doing this right and that he isn’t pushing in a way that’s going to hurt Tim.

Nothing can stop the way Bruce startles when Tim lets out a guttural scream of pure frustration, standing up and looking so genuinely past it as he shouts, “BECAUSE I ALWAYS HAVE TO! IF I ASK FOR HELP I’LL JUST BE IGNORED OR TOLD IM STUPID OR- OR-“

Tim starts to huff, choking on air as he lets out several years of frustration out only to collapse under Joe helpless he feels.

Staying as still as he can, not showing his concern or his growing heart ache, Bruce leaves a hand palm out out for Tim to take and asks as carefully as he can, “By who, Ducky?”

And Tim, he looks so angry at first and yet when he opens his mouth he sputters and hesitates, trying to say something before thinking better of it a couple times and then… then he just looks defeated as he can’t bring himself to give an example of this because in reality, it hasn’t really happened. Sure there have been times when people have had to deny him, but how rare has that been?

And when has he actually been denied for no reason?

Tim sputters again and this time he actually speaks and says, “But mum-“

Bruce has to hold everything in him back from giving the most heartbroken look because it will definitely be misinterpreted as pity.

Never has Tim look more like a kid even though he’s almost eighteen, he looks like he’s lost in a supermarket and the front counter has called for his parents several times and still he’s alone.

He gives an encouraging nod when Tim goes to speak again and stops, still holding out his hand even as his arm beg isn’t to ache.

Tim manages to say, “If I ask for help then-then I’m being childish.”, right before falling into a ball of himself while also reaching a hand out to grasp Bruce’s.

Bruce himself brings himself to the floor and squeezes Tim’s hand, getting as close as he dares without checking in first but Tim just falls into him.

He can’t deny it’s a bit awkward at first, but eventually he just does what feels natural and cradles Tim to his chest.

A moment passes before either speaks again and it’s Bruce, “Ducky, I want you to know this isn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have just let you take on so much by yourself and assumed you were okay, I shouldn’t have offered help and shown you that you can ask for it.”

Tim goes to speak and Bruce gives a small squeeze to ask him to wait, luckily Tim understands and lets him continue, “I don’t know everything, I have an idea but I think assuming things is what’s put us in this position in the first place. What I do know is that some things need to change, including how much pressure has been put on you and at the same time, I need you to do something for me. It’s not going to be easy but I know you can do it, Ducky.”

With a sniffle, Tim pulls away from him and looks at him with red eyes, “What is it?”

Bruce smiles, “I want you to try to not assume how we’re going to react to things. More specifically, I want you to do your best to give us a chance to respond to you better or even just differently to how your parents would.”

Tim look ashamed for a second and Bruce knows that expression, it’s the one Tim gets what he feels confused or stupid and so Bruce pulls him close again and says, “You haven’t done anything wrong, Tim. You haven’t made a mistake, it just… you were raised in different way to how we do things, right or wrong. Because Tim, and I’m saying this as clearly and plainly as I can,”

This time he nods along to his words and prays he’s doing the right thing and says, “You are allowed to ask questions.”

Tim starts to sniffle again and Bruce knows he’s done right, “you can ask anything, Ducky, even something small and pointless or something huge and personal or even just something without a definite answer. We’re here to help you, not hinder you.”

This time Tim cries and by all definitions it’s a wail, a heartbreaking and tragic wail of pure emotion as he sobs into his father’s arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I thought- god I was so angry and it was all my fault and I-I’ll

Bruce shuts that down immediately, “no it wasn’t, we should have done better to show you it was okay before hand. Yes, you did put more power to this than you should have but by all accounts it makes sense, and at the same time-“ because two truths are possible and important, win for Dialectic Behavioural Therapy “-we had a duty to you to notice and act on it. I knew something was up and I didn’t do anything even though I’m a detective and your carer, and that is on me. I admit that.”

Tim just cried harder and tries to shake his head no but then Bruce holds him tighter and he can’t.

He does feel stupid, like he made a big deal out of something small, but it was so big to him growing up and he wanted better but just… couldn’t take the chance.

But Bruce seems to want to understand and in a lot of ways already does, so…

“Okay. Okay, I believe you.”

Bruce smiles and kisses his head, “Thank you, Ducky.”

Dick and Alfred, standing by the doorway, both give each other a nod and start working out how to explain this to the Damian ‘Change Is My Worst Enemy’ Wayne.

[markkiatocafe]

hi idk if you’re taking requests but could i get she fell first but he fell harder type of ordeal with haechan? reader really likes him & doesn’t mind showing it, but haechan brushes her off, she finally takes a hint, but he actually liked it, he was just flustered but now that she’s stopped he’s realized he’s in deep with her and doesn’t want her to stop??

intro : dreamscape

𖠚 warnings: they’re baking cookies, haechan calls reader “pretty,” multiple times, other than that quite fluffy i think!!!!

𖠚 synop: haechan doesn’t realize his feelings for you until you do something about it. you don’t intend to make him want you, but, hey, you’re not complaining.

𖠚 pairing: fem!reader x downbad!haechan

𖠚 w.c: 725

𖠚 a/n: hiii anon!!!! i am taking requests ><!!! i hope you like this :33 i love this trope (plus any cheesy trope in general tbh) sm….. this was also sm fun to write, so i hope it’s as fun to read!!!!

you’ve been friends with haechan since highschool. although, only a few months ago did you start to realize that you honestly have some pretty deep feelings for him.

you were never one to really hide your feelings, you made jokes and sarcastic remarks about how you felt towards haechan multiple times before, but usually he just brushed it off or made a flirty but clearly friend-zoning joke back. you had even flat out told him you liked him one time, and he just replied back, “who wouldn’t like someone like me?” so, you felt he established your place pretty clearly.

until recently.

recently, haechan had started to be more… clingy. it was in small ways, asking you to come over more often, letting his hand brush against yours if you both reached for something, pulling away at the last millisecond, and he even started making teasing remarks towards you. so, today you decided to confront him.

not really confront him, he wasn’t a criminal or something, but you were curious where all this clingy nature came from so suddenly. today you were going over to his house, to make cookies and watch a movie, so it was all laid out for you, anyways.

you were currently working on the cookies together, music playing from haechan’s speaker in the background, a demo he had been working on. he was giving you the, “premium best friend preview privileges,” as he called it. you were busy cutting up the dough with the metal cookie-cutters you brought, which were in the shapes of leaves.

“here, let me do it,” haechan suddenly spoke up after fiddling with his phone to play the right song and connect to the bluetooth speaker. he walked over to you, gently moving you out of the way and taking the cookie-cutter from your hand. “don’t want you to get a cut on those pretty hands, do we?” he said, his voice having that signature flirty tone, although, it was too real. too genuine to just be a joke this time, the same way it had been sounding way too much recently.

“why have you been acting like that so much lately?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously, crossing your arms across your chest.

he tilted his head at you a little bit, still cutting the cookies, a tiny smirk playing on his lips as he shrugged. “what do you mean, pretty?” he replied, feigning innocence.

you put out your hands, holding them out just like how you held his heart so tightly without either of you even realizing it. “that!!!” you pointed a finger at him. “that tone!!!”

he shrugged, letting out a soft laugh. “i don’t know what you mean, i’m just being me.”

you rolled your eyes, huffing. “you do know what i mean, because you’re smiling. you do that when you lie,” you retorted.

he couldn’t help but feel a little, tiny bit of warmth in his chest that you even noticed that. he brushed that to the side for now, though. “i can’t be affectionate to my best friend?” he asked, drawing out the words at the end. as flirty as he was, he was so stubborn to admit it when actual feelings were behind the flirty comments and nicknames.

“you know that’s not what i mean.” you replied, your voice a little more serious now, “your voice has this, like… underlying tone. like i’m the most special thing in the world.” you said, as your voice got more serious, it also got quieter. it didn’t dawn on you how it would be a little odd to talk about this so directly. implying that someone has feelings for you is… nerve wracking, especially when there’s a huge chance they could just brush it off as nothing. “knock it off.” you added at the end, your voice back to a relatively normal volume, trying to add that lightheartedness back to the conversation at hand.

haechan let out a soft sigh. the sad thing was, he couldn’t say you were wrong. he placed down the cookie cutter, opening the oven and placing them in. “maybe you are the most special thing in the world,” he said, his voice quiet, thoughtful in it’s own way as he turned the dials on the stove to turn it on. “at least, in my world.”

[ducksido]

Hi! I hope you're doing well. I'd like to see the reactions of the Twisted Wonderland boys to a male Yuu who is their partner BUT we’re from the Malfoy family and our brother is Draco. We have the same personality as him, and if possible, we’re his twin brother. We are Draco’s (adult) twin brothers, oh yeah.🔥

(I only did housewardens + some random characters. (i spun a wheel) and male!yuu)

Housewarden's

Riddle Rosehearts At first, Riddle is constantly flustered. You’re confident, aristocratic, and walk around like you own Night Raven College. He tries to lecture you about rules, but you always manage to twist things around with silver-tongued logic that makes him look like the one out of line. Still, he admires your poise and elegance—something he resonates with deeply. The Malfoy name and your mannerisms impress his mother (a bit too much), and Riddle panics when she starts suggesting matching cloaks for you both.

“I do wish you’d follow the rules more, but… you do look remarkably dignified in that uniform.”

Leona Kingscholar Oh, he loves it. That snarky attitude? The disdainful smirks? The way you carry yourself like a prince even in the dust and grime? You’re like an aristocratic flame he can’t stop poking. There’s constant banter—your refined Malfoy shade vs. his lazy princely sarcasm. When you rest in his lap with a “You should feel honored,” he just smirks and says, “Keep dreaming, blondie.” Deep down, he’s obsessed with your sass and calls you “My snob.”

“Tch. You’re arrogant, dramatic, and clearly spoiled… Don’t stop. It’s entertaining.”

Azul Ashengrotto He sees you and goes: power couple potential. You walk into the Lounge like you own it? Azul is immediately imagining your names on a business plaque. You charm clients with that rich pureblood charisma while he handles the deals—it’s perfect. Your “I'm a Malfoy, darling” line has floored Floyd more than once, and Jade genuinely enjoys your wit. Azul acts cool, but internally he’s giddy every time you lean over and whisper venomous observations about other students in that smooth drawl.

“I must say, Mr. Malfoy… having you by my side is a terrifying advantage.”

Kalim Al-Asim You’re like...a whole new species to Kalim. He’s fascinated. You always act like everything around you is quaint, and he adores how proper you are—like a storybook noble. He doesn’t even notice your judgmental little remarks half the time; he just laughs and offers you more baklava. When you actually soften for him (in private), it makes his heart melt. “You’re the only one here worthy of my time,” you whisper—and he’s swooning.

“You’re so different from everyone I know… but I love that about you!”

Vil Schoenheit Power. Couple. You both radiate beauty, pride, and unshakable self-worth. Others can’t stand to be near you for too long because the combined judgment is crushing. You two correct people’s posture with synchronized sneers. But there’s a surprising softness between you and Vil—brushing his hair, matching cologne, whispered words of affirmation masked in aristocratic elegance. Epel thinks you two might actually be the same person split into two bodies.

“We are not ‘too much’—we are simply correct. And if the world can’t keep up, that’s its failure.”

Idia Shroud At first, he’s intimidated. You’re elegant, confident, and you talk like you’ve never seen a video game in your life. But then—you call him darling. With a smirk. You tease him gently, but always with this aura of protectiveness. Idia’s heart explodes. He starts calling you “my evil noble overlord bf” and writes fanfic about you two where he’s your mysterious magical bodyguard. You play along with the drama perfectly, like a Malfoy who found a socially anxious gremlin and just decided, “This one is mine.”

“W-wait… you actually… like me? You’re not just roleplaying some… aristocrat kink!?”

Malleus Draconia Oh, a fellow noble with centuries of tradition behind the family name? He is intrigued. You and he bond over legacy, etiquette, and terrifyingly intimidating stares. But you’re dramatically sassy in a way that Malleus finds deeply amusing—like an elegant cat batting at things it hates. You openly critique NRC architecture, call Lilia’s tea “peasant brew,” and pet Sebek on the head like a dog. Malleus, utterly charmed, just chuckles and says, “How delightful you are, my little Malfoy.”

“You are bold, arrogant, and strangely enchanting… You must meet my grandmother.”

Bonus: Others

Ruggie Bucchi “Rich, cocky, and talks like he’s above everyone?” He should hate you. But you feed him imported wizarding pastries and fix his tie with a delicate touch. You always act like he’s your pet hyena, and Ruggie just rolls with it. He teases you about being “too soft” for the Slums™, but deep down, he likes your snooty attitude—it makes him laugh when you get flustered.

Silver You treat him like a knight sworn to protect your delicate nobility. He doesn’t really get your dramatic nature, but he respects your pride. You’ll ruffle his hair and say, “You’re the only one here with manners,” and he’ll nod solemnly. You fall asleep on him, and he carries you to bed like a perfect Malfoy prince deserves.

Sebek Zigvolt He doesn’t know how to process you. You insult his tone, correct his posture, and call him a “shrieking goblin” when you’re mad—but he can’t deny how regal and commanding you are. You remind him of Malleus in a weird way. There’s lots of yelling, but you two somehow make it work. When you defend him to others? He blushes to his ears.

Floyd Leech He thinks you’re hilarious. You act like you’re made of porcelain, and he’s always poking at you to see when you’ll snap. You call him a “brutish merman” and he just laughs and picks you up like a cat. You may act above it all, but you secretly love the chaos. Floyd calls you “Fancy-pants” and smothers you with affection in public just to mess with your image.

[livvymd]

Anything you want.

this was a request but I genuinely cannot be bothered looking for it sorry also this may be cringe

You were curled up on Chris’s sofa in your favorite hoodie — well, his hoodie — and a pair of leggings that had definitely seen better days. Your feet were tucked beneath you, blanket draped on your legs.

“I think I need new trainers,” you said absentmindedly, sipping from your tea.

Chris glanced down from where he was scrolling on his phone, one arm thrown around the back of the couch. “Yeah, babe, I’ve been meaning to stage an intervention.”

You nudged him with your foot. “Oi.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned. “You deserve trainers that don’t look like you've taken bites out of them.”

You snorted. “I like my beat-up ones.”

“Mmhm,” he hummed, a mischievous glint already forming in his eyes.

You didn’t think much of it.

Until two days later, when he showed up at your door — black hoodie, sunglasses, and a grin that told you he was up to something.

“Get dressed,” he said, stepping inside like it was the most casual thing in the world. “We’re going shopping.”

You blinked. “Shopping?”

“Yep. For you.” He leaned in, pecked your forehead. “And don’t argue. I’m not having you walk around in tragic trainers and threadbare jumpers any longer.”

“Chris, seriously — ”

“Nope.” He backed away, hands up. “Don’t want to hear it. You’re my girlfriend. I fancy you stupid. And I want to spoil you. Let me.”

It was only once you got to the shopping centre that you realised just how serious he was.

He took you to the fancy part of town — clean walkways, shiny glass storefronts, soft music playing outside shops that you’d never dared enter alone. The kind of stores with stylists who greeted you like old friends and folded tissue paper into your bag with ridiculous precision.

The first store had the comfiest trainers you’d ever seen.

You tried on a white pair, bouncing a little on your heels. “These are actually nice.”

“Perfect,” Chris said, tossing them over to the cashier. “We’ll take those — and those two as well.”

“Wait, I didn’t even try the other ones — ”

“They’re your size, yeah?”

“Well, yeah, but — ”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then trust me. You’ll look fit in all of them.”

You wandered in and out of shops, Chris barely letting go of your hand the entire time. Every so often, he’d pull you to a stop just to tuck your hair behind your ear or press a kiss to your cheek.

“You realise I don’t need all this stuff,” you said as he piled two cardigans and a dress onto his arm.

“I know you don’t,” he replied. “But I want you to have nice things. And I like the way your face lights up when you find something you like. Also,” he added with a crooked grin, “I’ve been fantasizing about you in that dress since we walked in.”

You rolled your eyes but felt your stomach flip. He always said things like that so casually, like complimenting you was as natural as breathing.

Eventually, you found yourself standing outside a changing room, clutching a handful of clothes.

“Go on then,” Chris said, sitting on the little bench outside the curtain. “Let me see the goods.”

“You’re not peeking.”

“I would never,” he said solemnly, though the smirk tugging at his lips suggested otherwise.

The first outfit was a cropped jumper and a pair of high-waisted jeans. You stepped out shyly, smoothing the fabric.

Chris looked up from his phone — and grinned. “Alright, who is she? Look at you.”

You flushed. “It’s just jeans — ”

“It’s not just jeans when it’s on you,” he said, pulling out his phone to sneak a photo. “Turn around.”

You spun slowly, cheeks warm.

“Yep,” he said. “Buying it.”

You ducked behind the curtain again, changing into a sage green sundress with tiny white flowers. Then a white blouse with subtle embroidery. Then a pair of faux-leather trousers that made you laugh out loud.

"SO slay." "...Please never say that again."

Chris insisted on seeing all of it.

Until you reached the last item in the pile: the silky, fitted navy dress.

It wasn’t something you’d usually pick for yourself. It had thin straps, a low neckline, and stopped just above your knees. When you pulled it on, the fabric slid like water over your skin.

You hesitated, fiddling with the hem. Then, slowly, you stepped out.

Chris had his head bent over his phone, scrolling. But the second you appeared, he looked up — and froze.

You shifted awkwardly. “Is it too much?”

His eyes raked down your frame, slow and reverent. “No.”

You fiddled with the strap. “I mean, it’s a bit… fitted.”

He stood. “No.”

You bit your lip. “Chris — ”

He reached for your hand, tugging you gently closer until your chest bumped his. “You look unreal,” he said, voice low. “I mean it. That dress was made for you.”

“You really think so?”

He stared at you like you’d hung the stars.

“I think… I could look at you in this dress every day and still freeze on the spot." He leaned in, lips brushing your temple. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You looked up at him, touched.

“And don’t even get me started on how kind you are,” he continued, stroking your arm. “Every shop assistant you’ve thanked. Every person you smiled at. The lady you held the door open for like it was second nature. You’re just… you.”

“Effortlessly kind?” you teased.

He grinned. “Exactly.”

You reached up, pulling him into a soft kiss. He tasted like spearmint and warmth.

When you pulled away, he was smiling stupidly.

“I love you,” he said. “You’re my favourite person in the world.”

By the time you reached the car, you were exhausted, buzzing, and maybe a little overwhelmed. The backseat was stacked with shopping bags, and Chris was whistling as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” you said, glancing back at the bags.

He took your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “Believe it. And we’re not done yet. You’re wearing that navy dress tonight.”

You groaned softly. “Chris…”

“Nope.” He winked. “I’m taking you out. Somewhere nice. You, me, that dress, and a stupid amount of compliments you’ll pretend to hate.”

You laughed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You really are the most dramatic boyfriend in the world.”

“And you,” he said, squeezing your hand, “are the love of my life.”

TAGLIST :

@jamiekluivert

@wherethezoes-at

@pretendyoucantseeme

@artvscvntymullet

@chrisolivia4l

@formulaal

@smzyyx

[chadobi]

Thought I'd come here to maybe get the first bay mikey ask, but could I get something like as a joke and a flirt bc he's shooting his shot and Mikey gets her a necklace with an M on it. And she's happily wearing it for like months and at some point he's losing hope bc she didn't say anything about it and nothing has progressed.

Cut to her storming down to the lair and getting on him all angry bc she thought the necklace meant they were dating the whole time! Turns out April had revealed to y/n that was not the case

Just fluffy and silly and miscommunication if that's alright 😭 I love your writing

I already have some Mikey one shot in my drafts but tbh i still want to work on it haha But i love this idea so i hope you will enjoy!

“M is for… Misunderstanding?”

It started as a joke.

At least, that’s what Mikey told himself.

He saw the little necklace at a vendor’s stall during one of their above-ground sneaks with April. A delicate silver chain with a small charm—just a fancy letter M, but in his head, it immediately stood for Michelangelo… or Mikey… or Maybe-she’ll-think-this-is-cute-and-fall-for-me.

So he bought it. And, true to form, presented it with a flourish.

“Yo, angelcakes,” he’d said, swagger in full effect as he leaned on the back of the couch you were curled up on, “thought you needed somethin’ shiny to remember your favorite turtle by. You know, in case I vanish in a puff of glitter one day.”

He dropped the necklace into your palm with a wink, and you laughed. A real laugh. Genuine and warm. Then you clasped the necklace around your neck right then and there, and Mikey nearly short-circuited.

You wore it every time you came to the lair after that.

Which sent Mikey into a spiral.

Sure, he flirted like it was his day job—but that necklace? That was serious. Or… it could’ve been. He didn’t know anymore. You never said anything about it—never teased, never asked about the meaning. You just… wore it. Happily.

Months passed. Every time you laughed at his jokes, he wondered if maybe this was it. Maybe you were his. But you never said anything. And he didn’t want to ruin it by assuming.

So Mikey spiraled further. Thought maybe it was just a “friend thing.” Maybe you liked the aesthetic. Maybe the “M” stood for Mystery Inc., or Mac and Cheese, or Mikey-is-my-platonic-bestie-who-gives-gifts.

Hope started to fizzle. And Mikey stopped calling you “babe” so often. Stopped texting you three memes a day. Just… backed off.

Until one evening, the lair door slammed open.

“Mikey!” you stormed in, eyes ablaze, the chain of the necklace bouncing on your collarbone as you marched toward him.

“Whoa—whoa—whoa, princess, what’s up?” he held his hands up, pizza slice abandoned on the table as you stopped inches from him, radiating rage and heartbreak in a way only you could.

“You jerk!”

“Okay, hurtful.”

“You gave me a necklace with your initial on it!” you jabbed a finger into his plastron. “You flirted with me for months! You called me your angelcakes! And I wore this necklace—every single day—thinking we were dating!”

Mikey’s jaw dropped. “Wait, WHAT?”

“April told me yesterday! Apparently it wasn’t a ‘we’re totally a couple now’ kind of necklace, and that you didn’t say anything to anyone! I’ve been parading around like your girlfriend for six months, Mikey!”

He blinked. “You are my girlfriend.”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are!”

“No, I wasn’t! Because you never asked me out officially! I thought the necklace was the asking!”

He looked at you, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, before his brain finally clicked into gear.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, then burst out laughing. “This is the dumbest miscommunication in the history of romance.”

“You’re not helping!”

“I gave you a necklace with my initial on it! I thought you didn’t want to make it a thing!”

“I thought it was a thing!”

He laughed so hard he had to lean against the couch, and you shoved him, exasperated.

And then he looked up at you, the laughter softening, sincerity glowing behind his ridiculous blue eyes.

“Well, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck. “How ‘bout this—we officially start dating now. I mean, you already got the jewelry, you know my brothers, you’ve seen me in sweatpants… we’ve basically skipped to year two already.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself, arms crossed. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he beamed. “So… can I kiss my actual girlfriend now?”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his bandana tails, pulling him down to press a quick kiss to his lips before muttering, “Took you long enough.”

[antlerqueensab]

nsfw travis headcanons?

oughhh i was planning on doing one of these

so first off, i think it takes a while for him to hype himself up for anything other than kissing. like, the first time he groped you, he immediately pulled back and apologized. which, obviously, you encouraged him to do whatever he felt like was right, so he tried it again after a few seconds, and he could not stop doing it for weeks after that

definitely looks to you for reassurance and - though he'd never admit this - he listens to whatever you say and just needs you to guide him through whatever you're doing. so, he'll try and act all confident and sure of what he's doing, but the second you say to do it a different way, he's mumbling an apology and fixing it immediately

pre-crash, travis is definitely all for praise and encouragement. since he's sort of still in that loser/insecure about his experience phase, when you tell him he's doing the right thing and making you feel good, he's instantly red in the face and nodding along to your words. (also, definitely cried after the first time you two had sex)

i also think he'd be really into giving/getting hickeys. he thinks it's an easier way of showing affection than telling you outright - he also doesn't want to fuck up what you have by sounding too possessive. so, he chooses to focus on how you started giving him hickeys and copied what you did. and once he learned the right way to do it, he cannot fucking stop. travis genuinely can't help himself and will leave them anywhere and everywhere.

in the wilderness, he starts learning more of what he likes and gets more confident and secure with your relationship. he'll start convincing you to go on hikes with him just so he can fuck you against a random tree. there'd been a few times he woke you up and you both snuck out of the cabin to go down to the lake just to get a quiet moment away from everyone.

around a year into the wilderness, he's confident and knows exactly what you like. he makes it a point to tease you so much, grabbing onto your hips when you both are with the other girls, walking past you and purposefully touching some part of you, making sure to fix things where you can see him (he's not fucking blind, he can tell how much you love his arms and how strong he'd gotten), whispering things to you. then, when you get alone, he's teasing you even more while laying you down on the makeshift bed, making sure you keep quiet for him so the other girls don't hear.

he prefers giving instead of receiving when it comes to head. really, it started out with him trying to rush through his turn when it happened because it seemed too complicated and hard to figure out the right way to do it. but once he did it a few more times and kept his eyes on you the entire time, he got perfect somehow.

now, he'll get you alone, make sure you're steady before tugging down whatever pants you're wearing and pushing his head as far between your thighs as he can. he's messy with it too, kissing and licking so sloppy and just doing everything he knows will get you to finish. when he doesn't use his fingers, which he doesn't like to unless you ask, his hands are either holding your legs apart or keeping your hips pinned down while he makes sure his nose bumps against your clit. occasionally, he'd throw an arm over your lower stomach to keep you down while his hand either held yours or pawed at your chest.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 lowk might make another one thats more brief and scattered but idk 😭