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shaiyasstuff · 4 months ago

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the marriage contract | rafayel

synopsis : When your mom said, “Come out for dinner.” You expected just a normal meal, filled with laughter and your mom’s usual sarcasm. Not her dropping an atomic bomb on you—she already signed your marriage to the playboy of the century, the Lemurian Heir. content : comedy, fluff, implied smut, arranged marriage!au, model!reader, rich heiress!reader, wealthyaf!rafayel, and just, rafayel being rafayel

“You’re getting married to the Lemurian heir.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Surely, you misheard. It’s the only reasonable explanation.

Maybe it’s the soft clink of silverware, the low hum of jazz from the restaurant speakers, or the fact that your mother said it like she was commenting on the weather.

She flips the menu with one manicured hand, as if she just told you the risotto was good tonight.

A beat passes.

Then another.

“What??” you blurt, half-standing in your seat so suddenly that your thigh bumps the table and nearly sends your water glass toppling.

Your mother doesn’t even flinch. “Sit down. You’re drawing attention.”

“I am attention,” you hiss through gritted teeth, hastily steadying the glass and sinking back into your chair. “What do you mean, I’m getting married? To who?”

“I literally just said—to Rafayel. The Lemurian heir. Don’t make me repeat myself, darling. It’s exhausting.”

You stare at her, your mind screeching to a halt like stilettos on marble. Rafayel.

You know that name. Everyone knows that name.

Playboy. Arrogant. Insufferable.

That Rafayel.

You’ve seen his face plastered across magazine spreads—smirking, shirtless, probably whispering lies into someone’s ear.

He’s the definition of a tabloid headline.

A scandal waiting to happen.

The man has an entire section on social media dedicated to his worst quotes, and a separate one for his abs.

You, a model with a rising career and a deep love for routine, green tea, and sanity, are apparently now contractually obligated to marry the human embodiment of chaos.

“No,” you say flatly.

Your mother finally glances up, her brow lifting with polite disbelief. “No?”

“No,” you repeat, more firmly this time. “I’m not marrying a man who once got banned from a yacht party on his own yacht.”

“That was blown out of proportion,” she replies, waving a dismissive hand. “He was merely expressing himself artistically.”

“By setting fire to the dessert table?”

“Flambé is fashionable now.”

You gape.

“This is a joke,” you say, reaching for your phone. “Is this one of those weird publicity stunts? Did he put you up to this? Is there a hidden camera—?”

“It’s real,” she cuts in, her voice cool and clipped. “And finalized. Our lawyers signed the agreement yesterday. The ceremony is in a month. Try not to look so surprised; this sort of thing used to be standard practice among noble houses. We’re just… reviving tradition.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “We own resorts, Mom. Not kingdoms.”

“Same thing these days,” she murmurs, glancing at the wine list.

You pause. “Wait. Is he even okay with this?”

Your mother’s lips twitch. “He said—and I quote—‘She’s pretty. I can work with that.’”

You nearly fall out of your chair.

“He can work with that?!”

“That’s what he said, yes. I found it charming. Shows he’s open-minded.”

“Mom,” you say, through what you’re sure is a burgeoning aneurysm, “he’s been photographed with a different woman on his arm every week.”

“And now he’ll have just one,” she replies, taking a sip of her water. “Progress.”

You stare at her, chest rising and falling like a storm tide. “I don’t even know him.”

“Perfect,” she says. “No baggage. A clean slate.”

You inhale sharply, about to launch into a very eloquent monologue about autonomy and personal choice when your phone buzzes. You glance down at the notification—and freeze.

Unknown Number.

You free tomorrow at 4? Let’s get this doomed romance started. I’ll bring flowers. Or bribe you with dessert. Whatever works.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

Your mother looks immensely pleased with herself. “He got your number from his assistant. Isn’t that romantic?”

You turn your phone over and look at her, horrified. “This is blackmail.”

“No,” she says. “This is high society.”

She flags the waiter with a perfectly timed smile.

Meanwhile, you lean back, mind spinning with visions of silver-haired smirking heirs and one very unwanted bouquet.

So this is how it starts.

An arranged marriage.

With him.

You’d rather fight a swarm of seagulls in six-inch heels.

But still…

You glance at the text again, at the cheeky way he signed it off.

—R.

Trouble.

Wrapped in silk and flames and smirking punctuation.

And somehow, despite yourself, the corners of your lips twitch.

Just a little.

—•

Rafayel is attractive, no doubt.

But it’s his insufferable playboy attitude that really irks you.

The door swings open, and there he is—leaning against the frame like this is a cologne commercial, not your new apartment.

One hand in his pocket. Shirt slightly unbuttoned.

Expression set to come hither, like he didn’t just waltz in fifteen minutes late to your very first meeting as an almost-married couple.

“Didn’t know models kept such tidy homes,” he says, gaze trailing over your minimalistic living room. “Where’s the chaos? The broken champagne glasses? The disgruntled photographers?”

“Where’s the punctuality?” you shoot back, arms crossed.

He grins, sharp and unapologetic. “You’ll learn I like to make an entrance.”

“Maybe next time make it through the door on time.”

He steps in, unbothered, and takes a casual look around like he owns the place.

He probably does.

His family has enough wealth to casually purchase countries, let alone condos. He flops onto your sofa, long legs stretched out, hands behind his head.

“So,” he says, eyes flicking to yours, “how do you want to do this?”

You blink. “Do what?”

“This whole marriage thing.” His voice is smooth like honey left too long in the sun—sweet, but dangerous.

“We pretending to be in love for the cameras? Sneaking off with secret lovers behind closed doors? Scheduling monthly dinners so our families don’t throw a fit?”

Your nostrils flare. “That’s your idea of marriage?”

“It’s the practical one. Less risk of broken hearts. Or broken dishes.”

“Thanks, but I’m not interested in being one of your PR arrangements.”

“Ouch,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “And here I thought you were the soft-spoken one.”

“Not when I’m being married off like a parcel.”

There’s a beat of silence, and for the first time, something flickers across his face. Not mockery. Not amusement.

Something quieter. Maybe even guilt.

“I didn’t ask for this either, you know,” he says, eyes drifting to the window. “My family’s been trying to clean up my image ever since I lit that cake on fire.”

You raise a brow. “So the rumors were true.”

He smirks. “Technically, the flambéed cherries caught the tablecloth.”

“Very dignified.”

He chuckles. “You should’ve seen the flames. It was glorious.”

Despite yourself, a laugh nearly escapes.

You clamp it down. Hard.

“We’re not doing this,” you say, shaking your head. “I need rules. If we’re stuck with each other, there needs to be rules.”

“Rules?” he echoes, as if the word is foreign.

“Yes. Boundaries. Expectations. Terms and conditions.”

“Like a contract?” he asks, amused. “How very unromantic of you.”

“Call it self-preservation.”

He sits up, intrigued. “Alright then. Lay them on me.”

You grab a pen and your planner from the table—because yes, you’re that person—and start scribbling. He watches, bemused.

You hold it up.

Rules of Engagement

1. No touching.

2. No flirting.

3. No overnight guests.

4. Shared public appearances only when necessary.

5. No falling in love.

Rafayel whistles low. “Number five. That one hurts.”

“It’s for both our sakes,” you say firmly. “We don’t do feelings.”

He leans forward, taking the paper from your hands. His fingers graze yours. You pretend not to notice.

“Fine,” he says, folding it neatly and slipping it into his coat pocket. “But if you break a rule first, I get to choose the honeymoon destination.”

“We’re not having a honeymoon.”

“We are now.”

You open your mouth to argue—but stop. Because somehow, he’s already standing, heading for the door like he didn’t just derail your entire week.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“To buy toothpaste. If we’re living together, I’m not sharing yours. I draw the line at dental hygiene.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Leaving you standing in your spotless living room, rules in hand, reality crashing down around you.

You’re engaged to Rafayel. Heir of the Lemurian dynasty.

Public menace.

Serial heartbreaker.

And now, your flatmate.

You sigh and flop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Rule Number Five echoes in your mind.

No falling in love.

Easy enough.

Right?

—•

You’d like to clarify—this is not a date.

You were tricked. Lured.

Bribed with lunch and the vague promise of an stress-free afternoon.

Also, he said dessert was on him, and you, tragically, are only human.

So now you’re walking beside Rafayel, trying very hard not to look like someone who willingly spends time with a lilac-haired demon in designer sunglasses and a smug attitude.

Which is difficult, since he keeps flashing that perfectly calculated I-don’t-care-but-I-look-good smile.

“People are staring,” you mutter.

“They’re always staring,” he replies breezily. “The key is to give them something worth photographing.”

As if summoned by his own ego, a girl in oversized glasses practically skids to a stop in front of you.

She clutches her phone like it’s a sacred relic and looks between you and Rafayel like she’s about to faint.

“Are—oh my god—you’re—can I—?”

“Of course,” Rafayel says, already tilting his head for optimal lighting.

The girl shoves her phone toward you. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

You blink. Smile. Take the phone. Absolutely do not roll your eyes.

He drapes an arm over the girl’s shoulder, leans in with that practiced grin, and you snap the picture—twice, because she begs for one ‘candid’ and Rafayel, never one to waste an opportunity, dips his chin like he’s starring in a fragrance ad called Sins and Champagne.

“Thank you!” she squeals, bouncing away.

You hand his sunglasses back wordlessly.

“What?” he says as you start walking again. “It’s good PR. Plus, she’ll post that with some ridiculous caption like ‘he’s even hotter in person’ and we’ll both benefit.”

“From your cheekbones?”

“From my brand,” he corrects, slipping the glasses back on. “You should try being nicer to my fans. Builds character.”

“I have character,” you mutter. “I just choose not to market it on sidewalks.”

You arrive at a rooftop café—his pick, obviously.

Something about the natural lighting and imported oysters.

You’d been hoping for sandwiches. Maybe fries.

This place looks like it charges extra for butter.

The waiter seats you, and Rafayel slouches into his chair like he owns the skyline. “Order whatever you want,” he says, tossing the menu aside. “My empire can afford it.”

“Oh good,” you say sweetly. “I’ll take the most expensive dish and two of whatever you hate.”

He laughs—actually laughs.

Not the smug kind. Not the flirtatious chuckle.

A real, amused sound that makes you pause, just for a second.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

“Let me guess. You thought I’d be some breathless heiress desperate for your attention?”

“I was hoping for breathless,” he says, smirking. “The desperation was optional.”

You flick a sugar packet at him. He catches it.

The food arrives—too pretty to eat, but you dig in anyway because being around Rafayel burns calories in emotional energy. A few bites in, the conversation unexpectedly… shifts.

“I hated it growing up,” he says, sipping his wine. “The pressure. The expectations. Every move watched. They groomed me like I was some… polished statue to roll out at galas.”

You arch a brow. “So naturally, you set things on fire.”

He grins. “Exactly. They wanted a prince. I gave them a wildfire.”

You study him, fork paused mid-air.

For a moment, he’s not the Lemurian Heir. He’s just a guy raised in a glass cage, throwing stones for fun and freedom.

“What about you?” he asks. “You’re not exactly low-profile either.”

You shrug, suddenly more relaxed than you expected. “Modeling wasn’t supposed to be a career. I did a few gigs to annoy my parents. Then I actually liked it. Go figure.”

“Why did it annoy them?”

“They wanted me in finance,” you deadpan. “Crunching numbers. Marrying someone boring with a yacht and a title. Instead, I wore latex on magazine covers and dated a drummer who spoke exclusively in song lyrics.”

He chokes on his wine, laughing. “You’re full of surprises.”

“So are you,” you admit. “Unfortunately, most of yours are lawsuits waiting to happen.”

He leans back, watching you with an unreadable expression. “You know, you’re different when you’re not trying to strangle me with your eyes.”

“And you’re tolerable when you’re not being a narcissist.”

There’s a pause.

A comfortable one, oddly enough.

The sun’s lower now, painting his purple hair in warm light.

For a moment, the city noise fades and it’s just the two of you, seated between who you were and who you’re pretending to be.

You don’t swoon.

You just… notice.

Briefly.

He reaches for the dessert menu.

“Rule-breaker,” you say.

He smirks. “I promised you dessert, didn’t I?”

You raise a brow as Rafayel waves down the waiter like he owns the establishment—honestly, at this point, he probably does.

“You realize ordering dessert is a clear violation of Rule Number Five,” you say, watching him flip the dessert menu like he’s reading War and Peace.

“Rule Number Five was about feelings, not fudge,” he says, without looking up. “Unless you’re telling me a slice of tiramisu is going to make you fall in love with me.”

You level him with a look. “You’re not my type.”

He grins. “Not yet.”

The waiter returns, and Rafayel orders two desserts without consulting you.

You don’t even protest.

You’re too full and mildly annoyed and slightly curious what dessert a Lemurian heir thinks will ‘win’ a lunch date that was never a date to begin with.

“Why do I get the feeling you do this often?” you ask, drumming your fingers on the table. “Lunch with models. Public flirting. Slow seduction via sugar.”

“I don’t do public flirting,” he says, affronted. “It’s vulgar. My seduction strategy is much more refined.”

“Oh, forgive me.” You roll your eyes.

“You’re forgiven,” he says smoothly. “Though you should know—this is the first time I’ve taken someone to this place.”

You snort. “You expect me to believe that?”

He leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, smile still present but softened around the edges. “Actually… yes.”

Something in his voice changes—just a shade quieter, a little more honest.

“I usually avoid these places,” he continues. “Too many cameras. Too many expectations. But I thought maybe… this time, it could be different.”

You pause.

Not because you’re swooning—obviously—but because you weren’t expecting him to say that.

And because it’s unnervingly close to something real.

“I didn’t think you were capable of sincerity,” you mutter.

He shrugs. “I fake a lot of things. But not everything.”

You look at him for a long moment, unsure what to do with the sudden shift in temperature.

He’s still smirking, still smug—but there’s something else underneath.

Something quieter. Like even he doesn’t know how to hold it properly.

The desserts arrive, thankfully breaking the moment.

Yours is a delicate slice of pistachio cake with honey drizzle.

His is a dramatic tower of chocolate and edible gold leaf because of course it is.

You pick up your fork.

He watches you. “What?”

“You ordered this just to show off.”

“I ordered it to see if you’d smile.”

You almost choke. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs again, biting into his mountain of sugar and ego. “You’re always so put together. All edges and clever comebacks. I wondered what you’d look like if you actually enjoyed something.”

You stare at him, stunned.

And, annoyingly… flattered.

Which is worse.

“You’re exhausting,” you say.

“And yet, here you are.”

You do not dignify that with a response.

Instead, you take a bite of the cake—and damn it, it is good. Soft, rich, and just the right amount of sweet.

You glance at him and catch him watching you like he’s won something.

“I’m not impressed,” you lie.

“Of course not,” he says, licking chocolate from his fork. “That’s why you’ve finished half your plate in two minutes.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse. Usually by people who later invite me back.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He laughs again—deep, genuine—and you hate how easily it fills the space between you. Hate that, for one stupid second, you don’t hate being here.

That the sun feels warmer, the silence feels easier, and the sarcasm feels more like a shared language than a wall.

And maybe you let yourself relax. Just a little. Maybe you let your smile slip out, crooked and fleeting.

Not because of him, of course. Because of the cake.

Definitely the cake.

—•

Three weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since your life turned into a weirdly expensive soap opera.

Three weeks of shared living arrangements, awkward press appearances, passive-aggressive coffee orders, and one increasingly complicated non-relationship with the Lemurian heir.

It’s not like you’re counting, of course.

You just happen to know how many times he’s left his socks in the hallway.

Or how many times he’s fallen asleep on the couch after some late-night meeting, suit jacket draped over the armrest like he’s auditioning for a melancholic perfume ad.

You’ve settled into a rhythm. Of sorts.

Which is exactly why the shift—when it happens—feels like slipping on a patch of black ice in heels.

It starts with a knock on your door. Not the loud, arrogant kind Rafayel usually delivers when he wants to borrow something—more like annoy you.

No, this one’s soft. Hesitant.

You’re already annoyed.

“Yes?” you call.

The door creaks open.

He steps in, a little more disheveled than usual.

His tie is gone, shirt half-buttoned, hair a wind-tousled mess.

You blink. “Did you get in a fight with a hurricane?”

“Dinner ran late,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Some board meeting with my uncle. Lemurian politics. Very thrilling stuff. Would’ve invited you, but I figured you’d rather stab yourself with a breadstick.”

“You’d be correct.”

He doesn’t leave.

You glance up. “Something else?”

He hesitates. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Ah. So that’s what this is about.

You slide your phone out and wave it. “I was working.”

“You left me on read.”

“I didn’t realize I owed you a response to ‘Is the curry still in the fridge or did you emotionally eat it all?’”

“That was a serious question,” he mutters. “I had a long day.”

“And I’m not your personal food tracker.”

His brows knit, and for the first time, the familiar teasing spark isn’t there. Just quiet frustration.

“You’ve been shutting me out lately,” he says. “Every time we talk, it’s like I’m… irritating background noise.”

“Maybe because you are.”

He flinches—just barely. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

There’s a beat. You think maybe he’ll walk away. But instead, he does something worse.

He sits on the edge of your bed.

“I’m trying here,” he says, voice low. “I know I’m not… easy. Or conventional. Or whatever it is you want. But I show up. I stay. I’m not out there making headlines anymore, I’m here—with you. And sometimes it feels like you’re still waiting for me to screw up.”

You cross your arms, defenses rising on instinct. “Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You signed the same contract I did.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect to actually like you.”

That stops you cold.

The air goes still. Your heart trips over itself. You hate that it does.

You laugh—short, sharp, sarcastic. “Well, that’s your mistake.”

He stares at you. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. Pushing me away. Acting like none of this matters.”

“Because it doesn’t,” you snap. “Because the second I start thinking maybe you’re not the egotistical headline I assumed—maybe you’re real, and messy, and sincere—you’ll remind me exactly why I should’ve kept my distance.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer.

“Has someone hurt you like that before?”

You look away.

“That’s not your business,” you say, but it sounds thinner than you meant it to.

He nods slowly, like he hears what you didn’t say.

“Well,” he says, standing, “I’m not here to be another person who lets you down. But I’m not going to spend the next six months proving I’m harmless just because you’ve decided I’m a walking red flag.”

“Don’t worry,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

He exhales.

And for the first time, you see him really tired.

Not in the usual I partied too hard way.

In the I don’t know what else I can say way.

He turns to leave. Stops at the doorway.

“For what it’s worth,” he says without looking back, “I didn’t touch the curry. Even after the board meeting. Because I thought maybe… you’d want to share it.”

And then he’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You stare at the space he left behind.

Empty plate. Empty room.

And for the first time, your chest feels just a little too full.

You don’t move for a while.

The room feels quieter without him in it. Like his absence took something with it—heat, maybe. Or air.

You stare at your phone for a moment, then at the door.

Then at the fridge.

Dammit.

You find him where you always seem to, sprawled on the couch like he owns the universe, remote in one hand, eyes half-lidded.

The TV is on, muted. A documentary about space or fish—hard to tell.

He doesn’t look up when you step into the living room, barefoot, bowl of reheated curry in your hands.

“I didn’t come to apologize,” you say flatly.

“Didn’t think you did.”

You hold out the bowl. “You were right. I ate half. But I saved enough for two.”

He glances over.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

He takes it anyway, and for a while, you eat in silence.

Shoulder to shoulder on the couch, knees brushing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just shared proximity. Shared food. Shared silence.

And yet.

“You don’t really like curry, do you?” you ask after a moment.

“I like that you made it.”

You glance at him, only to find he’s already watching you. The light from the TV flickers across his face, casting shadows across the sharp line of his jaw. His silver hair is tousled, eyes softer than they have any right to be.

You look away first.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

“Looking at you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it feels like you’re trying to see me.”

“I am trying to see you.”

You set your bowl down on the coffee table, suddenly tense. “Don’t.”

He leans back, mirroring your posture. Still close. Still too close.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says softly.

You laugh—dry and a little bitter. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re afraid of what it might mean to actually trust me.”

The silence stretches like thread pulled taut.

And then—softly, so softly—you ask, “Why are you trying?”

It’s not sarcastic.

Not accusatory.

Just quietly, achingly sincere.

He pauses.

“I don’t know,” he says after a beat. “Maybe because this—you—is the first thing in my life I didn’t win by being charming or rich or reckless. Maybe because, for once, I want something that doesn’t come easy.”

Your chest twists. You hate how much you feel it.

You shift, meaning to stand. Or move. Or just get some space.

But then he catches your wrist.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just… there.

You freeze.

His fingers are warm against your skin. His touch gentle. Uncertain, even.

Your eyes meet.

The moment hangs.

And there it is—that unbearable closeness. That electric, breath-stealing almost.

You hate that your pulse stutters.

That your throat goes dry. That something unspoken curls beneath your ribs like smoke.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” he murmurs. “Not unless you want me to.”

You swallow.

Hard.

And then, deliberately, you pull your hand away.

His face doesn’t fall—but you see the flicker of something retreating. The door he cracked open quietly swinging shut again.

You stand.

Smooth your hands down your shirt like it matters.

Like it helps.

“I’m going to bed,” you say.

He nods. Says nothing.

You make it halfway to your room before you stop.

“Rafayel.”

He glances up.

“Thanks for saving me half the curry.”

His mouth twitches. “Anytime.”

You close your door gently behind you, back pressed against the wood, heart pounding a little too loudly in your chest.

You didn’t swoon.

You didn’t.

But god, you almost did.

—•

It starts with a harmless visit.

Or at least, that’s what Rafayel tells himself when he shows up at the studio, hands shoved in his coat pockets, sunglasses perched like armor, and a single iced coffee balanced in the other hand.

The assistant at the front desk gives him a look that says oh god, it’s him again—but hands him a visitor’s pass anyway.

He doesn’t know why he came.

He just… wanted to see you.

Maybe bring you coffee.

Maybe tease you about how serious you get during fittings.

Maybe catch another one of your rare, unguarded smiles when you’re not being ‘the model’ or ‘the reluctant fiancée’ or whatever it is you pretend to be when you’re not curled up beside him eating leftover curry.

But then he sees you.

And you’re not alone.

You’re smiling—laughing—with some guy who’s tall and objectively handsome in a ‘men’s fragrance ad’ kind of way.

Shirt unbuttoned just enough for it to be indecent.

He’s standing too close, helping adjust a clasp on your dress, his fingers brushing the back of your neck.

It’s innocent.

Of course it is.

Rafayel knows that.

But logic is no match for jealousy.

He turns around before you can see him, coffee forgotten on the edge of a table, his jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

When you get home that night, the first thing you notice is the silence.

The second is Rafayel.

He’s sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes dark.

And glaring.

No sign of the boyish, playboy grin that he usually dons.

You blink. “Hi?”

No answer.

“Okay,” you say slowly, dropping your bag by the door. “Did someone die or did you burn another diplomatic dinner?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move.

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“I came by your shoot today.”

That stops you cold. “You what?”

He uncrosses his arms, pushes off the counter. “I thought I’d surprise you. Bring you coffee. Be supportive, or whatever it is couples are supposed to do.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

He’s pacing now, hands raking through his hair.

You’ve never seen him like this—tense, clipped, frustrated in a way that’s not performative.

“I saw you,” he says. “With him.”

You blink. “Who—? Oh my god. Leo? The other model?”

“Is that his name?” Rafayel snaps. “Fantastic. Now I know what to engrave on the urn.”

You stare. “You’re jealous.”

“No,” he lies. Terribly.

You blink again, slowly. “You thought something was going on?”

He says nothing.

You fold your arms. “Seriously? You’ve been photographed half-naked with actresses for years, but the moment a guy helps me zip a dress—”

“It’s not the same,” he growls.

“Oh? Because I’m supposed to be the good one?”

“No,” he says, stepping closer now. “Because you matter.”

The words hit like a punch.

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You matter,” he says again, softer this time. “And I hate that I care. I hate that I see you smile at someone else and feel like I’m about to lose something I never even had.”

You can’t speak.

“I didn’t want to fall for you,” he says. “But here I am. Completely wrecked.”

Silence.

It stretches between you like a live wire.

And then you say the stupidest, bravest thing you’ve said since this whole arrangement started.

“Then kiss me.”

His eyes widen.

“Rafayel.”

You step closer. “If you mean it. If you’re not playing. Then kiss me.”

A second passes.

Then another.

And then he does.

He surges forward like a man starved for something he didn’t know he needed, hands cupping your face, mouth crashing into yours with enough heat to burn.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not careful.

It’s weeks of tension unraveling in one breathless, heated pull.

You gasp against him, fingers fisting in his shirt.

He presses you back against the wall, lips trailing down your jaw, your throat, before coming back up to kiss you again, slower this time.

Deeper.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours.

“No more rules,” he says.

You nod, dazed. “No more pretending.”

He laughs, breathless and shaky. “God, I’m in so much trouble.”

You kiss him again.

Because yes—so are you.

And you don’t care anymore.

Your back hits the bedroom door.

You don’t remember walking there.

Or maybe he carried you.

Or maybe time just folded in on itself the second you kissed him.

Either way, the world’s a blur and he’s the only thing in focus.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice husky, lips brushing your jaw.

You smirk, breathless. “Is this the part where you ask for written consent?”

“I like to be thorough.”

You curl your fingers in the front of his shirt and tug. Hard. “Consider this my signature.”

“Very professional,” he murmurs, leaning in again.

His kiss deepens—hotter now, lazier.

Like he’s savoring it.

Like he has all the time in the world to learn the shape of your mouth and exactly what makes your breath catch. His hands find your waist, thumbs sliding under your shirt like he’s tracing a map.

“You know,” he murmurs against your lips, “I expected you to resist a little longer.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, come on. I’m irresistible. It’s in my genetics.”

You laugh—actually laugh—while he fumbles with your top, cursing under his breath when it gets stuck halfway over your head.

“You undress like a man who’s never taken a bra off without summoning a priest,” you tease.

“It’s a complicated mechanism!”

“Is it though?”

You reach back, unhook it yourself, and toss it onto the lamp. He pauses, visibly impressed.

“Show-off.”

“Amateur.”

He grins—wolfish, cocky, entirely himself—and you hate that it only makes you want him more.

The bed hits your knees.

Then you’re down, tangled in sheets, heat blooming across your skin like wildfire. Rafayel moves like he’s memorizing you with his hands, like he’s collecting data for some unholy research project titled Ways to Ruin Her on a Tuesday Night.

And okay, fine, you’re definitely not not enjoying it.

“You’re staring,” you murmur as he hovers above you, breath uneven.

“I’m admiring.”

“Same thing.”

“Not when it’s you.”

For once, the sarcasm fades. Just a flicker.

Because the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re something rare, something his—makes your chest ache.

You reach up, fingers tracing his jaw. “You’re so smug.”

“You like me smug.”

“I tolerate you smug.”

“Mm.” He kisses your collarbone. “Let’s see what else you tolerate.”

What follows is a blur of heat and friction and whispered curses—mostly yours.

He’s infuriatingly good at this. Predictably. And yet, somehow, every touch feels more like discovery than performance.

No games.

No roles.

Just him. Just you.

And the sharp, dizzying ache of something that might be real.

Later, when you’re tangled together under your ruined sheets, the room heavy with silence and post-storm warmth, he says, “You know I’m never letting you go now, right?”

You hum against his shoulder. “Good thing I’m contractually obligated to stay.”

He snorts. “Romance. Alive and well.”

You grin. “Just wait until I start stealing all the covers.”

He laughs quietly, arm tightening around you.

And for the first time since this whole mess began, you think, maybe this won’t end in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, you’re already home.

—•

You wake up to an empty bed.

For a second, it feels normal.

The way sunlight filters through the curtains, the warmth lingering on the sheets, the scent of something distinctly Rafayel—cologne, mischief, and sandalwood.

But then the silence registers.

And the fact that his side of the bed is cold.

You sit up, heart doing that annoying thing where it tightens even though nothing is technically wrong.

You find him in the kitchen.

Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, hair mussed, jaw tense. He’s staring out the window like he’s waiting for the apocalypse or a dramatic soundtrack to kick in.

“Hey,” you say, voice still rough with sleep.

He doesn’t look at you.

You pad in barefoot, wrapping one of his shirts tighter around your body.

“I checked the mirror,” you add. “Still stunning. You can stop brooding now.”

Nothing.

That’s when the dread creeps in.

“Okay. Are we pretending last night didn’t happen? Because I’ll need time to emotionally detach from the blanket fort we made with our bodies.”

His jaw clenches.

You stop teasing.

“What happened?”

He finally looks at you.

And it’s not the same look he gave you last night—hungry and tender and slightly awed. This one’s guarded. Cold around the edges.

“You got a call.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“From Leo.”

You frown. “The model?”

He nods once. Tight.

“Oh my god, are you still on this?”

“He called you babe.”

You stare. “He calls everyone babe. He calls his cat babe.”

“You smiled.”

“I smiled?”

“You were different with him.”

You set your mug down with a sharp clink. “Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I let myself believe it,” he says, voice low. “That this was real. That maybe we weren’t just playing house until our families got what they wanted. But maybe that’s all this is. A beautiful lie.”

You freeze.

It’s not what he’s saying—it’s what he’s not saying.

It’s the fear in his eyes. The old wound resurfacing in a prettier suit.

“You think I’d sleep with you, laugh with you, fall asleep in your arms—just for show?”

“I don’t know,” he says. And that’s worse than if he’d said yes.

The silence feels colder than his words.

You exhale shakily. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust myself,” he corrects. “I’ve ruined everything good I’ve ever touched. Why would this be any different?”

Your voice is quiet. “Because I’m not them.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that.

But can’t.

Not yet.

“I need air,” he mutters.

You move aside as he brushes past.

The door closes behind him.

And for the first time since all of this started—since the first headline, the first sarcastic quip, the first rule scribbled in your planner—you feel completely and utterly alone.

Hours pass.

You don’t call.

You don’t text.

You want to.

God, do you want to.

But some stubborn part of you—some still-bruised fragment—refuses to be the one to chase him.

If he wants to walk away from this, from you, he can.

You’ve survived worse.

Right?

…Right?

—•

The door creaks open just past midnight.

You’re on the couch, pretending to read a magazine.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Then.

“I’m an idiot.”

You flip a page. “We agree on something.”

“I panicked.”

You close the magazine.

He steps further into the room, looking wrecked. Hair windblown, shirt rumpled, regret in every inch of him.

“I saw something that scared me,” he says. “And instead of asking, instead of trusting you, I lashed out.”

You stand, arms folded. “You think that fixes it?”

“No,” he says. “But maybe this will.”

He pulls something from his pocket.

Your planner.

The one with the Rules of Engagement.

He opens it, flips to the page with your old list, and crosses out the last rule.

“No falling in love,” he reads aloud. Then draws a thick, dark line through it. “Too late.”

Your heart skips.

He looks up at you. “I’m in love with you.”

It’s not smooth. Not polished. Not smirking or smug.

It’s raw.

Vulnerable.

Terrified.

You cross the room slowly.

Take the pen from his hand.

And next to where he crossed it out, you write, “Me too.”

When you look up, he’s already pulling you into his arms.

This kiss isn’t fire—it’s gravity.

Like you were always meant to fall.

And finally, finally, you stop fighting it.

—•

The wedding is in three days.

The guest list is ridiculous.

The venue is twice as ridiculous.

There’s a seven-tier cake named after constellations and an entire chandelier that had to be flown in with a crane.

And you? You’re on the windowsill, veil forgotten, staring at your phone like it might offer clarity.

It doesn’t.

The door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look. “Nice of you to show up.”

“Thought I’d be mysterious,” Rafayel says. “You know. Add drama.”

“You’re late.”

He steps beside you. “I was going to call it off.”

That gets your attention.

“What?”

“The wedding,” he says. “I didn’t want you marrying me out of obligation.”

You stare. “I wasn’t.”

“I know. But I panicked. Because this is the first time I actually care what someone thinks of me.”

He pauses.

“I love you,” he says. “And it scares the hell out of me.”

You take a slow breath.“I choose you, Rafayel. Not for the headlines. Not because I have to. But because somehow, you’ve become the only place I feel like myself.”

He looks like you just handed him the stars.

The wedding was pure chaos.

Too many cameras. Too many roses.

Rafayel’s suit shimmers ever so slightly—he claims it’s subtle.

A drone nearly crashes into the flower arch during your vows.

But none of it matters when he squeezes your hand and says, loud enough for the world.

“I choose you. No matter how many rules we break.”

You can’t help smiling.

“Even when you leave your socks everywhere?”

There’s laughter. There’s confetti. There’s a signature cocktail named after your first public argument.

You slip away from the reception to breathe, heels dangling from your hand.

Of course she finds you.

Your mother, dressed immaculately, holding a champagne flute like it’s part of her anatomy.

“I told you so,” she says, smug as ever.

You groan. “Seriously, Mom?”

“I told you you’d like him,” she says. “Eventually. Once you got over your tragic taste in musicians.”

You stare. She sips. And walks off, victorious.

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Then Rafayel appears—tie undone, hair a little messy, smile all soft edges.

He holds out his hand.

You take it.

And just like that, everything falls into place.

“Do you like curry now?”

“No.”

masterlist

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sunshineangel0 · 1 month ago

Text

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD —﹙ K.SM ﹚

⌁ wc 9.1k warnings marriage of convenience, single dad!seungmin, nsfw content, unprotected intercourse, light choking, emotional tension, slow burn, fake marriage, mild angst, soft comfort, small town meddling. a/n wow i didnt think i would write almost 10k words!! but here i am and got carried away with seungmin (i should study but lets ignore that). ive just finished reading "wild side" by elsie silver and this idea immediately sparked in my head!! this was so seungmin coded and i just needed to write it. i hope you all like it!! 💕 ⌁ part two of the "twin heart series"

The sky over Summerdale wasn’t just darkening, it was bleeding out. A deep lavender haze rolled in slow from the water, swallowing the last threads of daylight like it had something to say and no rush to say it. The tide lapped against the cliffs below the bluff, whispering its secrets through the pine trees that edged the shoreline, soft and rhythmic, like breath against a sleeping body.

Down on Main Street, the neon sign above The Scallop Heaven blinked in its usual broken pattern "Sca op Heaven" thanks to the leftmost ‘L’ giving out sometime back in February. Nobody had fixed it. Nobody cared. That was the thing about Summerdale: things broke, people shrugged, and life just went on. You either made peace with the cracks or you left. Most people didn’t leave.

You pulled into the back lot, headlights sweeping over the dumpsters and salt-stained siding. The gravel under your tires made that familiar grinding sound, like bones rolling in a socket. You turned the engine off and exhaled a breath that felt like it had been aging in your lungs for years. Your body slumped just slightly in the driver’s seat, caught in that strange twilight stillness where movement felt like too much to ask.

The envelope on the passenger seat stared up at you, sealed but scuffed, the corner bent, the weight of it far heavier than the ounces it contained. It wasn’t just paper. It was intention. Agreement. Consequence. It might as well have been a brick.

You didn’t reach for it. Not yet. Just kept your hands on the wheel and watched the lights flicker off in the upstairs apartment, one room at a time. Soft glows blooming behind worn curtains. Minseo’s bedtime routine was unfolding exactly as expected: the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon staying on, the lullaby playlist humming from the old Bluetooth speaker, and three bedtime stories, in the same order every night. God help you if you swapped them. She was stubborn like that. Solid in her routines. Maybe because everything else in her life had already shifted too much.

Finally, you picked up the envelope and stepped out into the thick, salt-touched air. The car door shut behind you with a quiet, final thud.

Inside the bar, the world was dim and warm in a way that didn’t invite questions. The lighting came mostly from mismatched neon signs advertising brands like Schlitz and Genesee, none of which had been stocked in the fridge since at least 2014. The air smelled like lemon cleaner, spilled whiskey, and wood soaked with too many conversations people pretended not to remember. The kind of place where silence spoke louder than music.

A TV in the corner muttered through a baseball game, the announcer’s voice low and static-filled. Nobody was paying attention.

Behind the bar, Seungmin moved like a man trying to keep from unraveling. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms tensed as he wiped the countertop in slow, punishing strokes. His face was unreadable, carved from quiet resolve and low-grade irritation. Like he was always one memory away from breaking something he couldn’t fix.

He didn’t look up right away when you walked in. Just kept working the cloth like it had insulted him personally.

Then the bell over the door jingled, and his head lifted. His eyes met yours. No smile. There never was, not lately. Not with you. Not because he didn’t want to—but because with you, he didn’t allow himself to slip. Not even for a second.

“You’re early,” he said, voice even, low.

You lifted the envelope slightly. “You’re always here.”

That earned you a shrug—one of those quiet, almost imperceptible movements that said more than words could. A shrug that meant so what, what else is new, what choice do I have.

You crossed the room and slid onto the barstool closest to the register, dropping the envelope between you like a gauntlet. He looked at it like it might bite.

“Everything’s in there,” you said. “License forms, witness sheet, affidavit, notarization schedule. We just need two signatures. And someone willing to lie with a smile.”

He nodded once, then reached for a clean glass and started drying it, gaze fixed somewhere behind you.

“Minseo asleep?”

“Out cold after book number three,” he said. “Same one she always picks. The penguin with the astronaut helmet.”

You smiled without meaning to. “She likes the ending.”

“Because it makes sense,” he said. “It’s the only part that does.”

And there it was again—that stretch of silence. The kind that settled in when two people didn’t know how to name the space between them. Or maybe they did, and neither one wanted to say it out loud.

“I talked to the social worker today,” you said, voice quieter now, like it might spook something. “She asked if we’d set a date.”

His hands paused for just a second. A flicker.

“And?”

“I told her February fourteenth.”

That got his attention. He looked at you for real this time, not just the flick-and-glance. His stare pinned you—focused, assessing, familiar in its intensity.

“Valentines day,” he said. “Day of lovers. Good omen.”

“It’s also three weeks from now.” “I know.”

You studied him—jaw clenched, scar on his knuckle still visible from the bar fight last spring, a faint smear of blue ink on his wrist. Minseo’s markers. Her favorite color.

“You still okay with this?” you asked.

For a beat, he didn’t answer. Just dried his hands slowly, folded the towel, and leaned forward onto the bar.

“I’m not doing it for me.” Soft. Quiet. Unflinching.

“I know,” you said, almost on a breath.

Because this wasn’t about him. Or you. It wasn’t about whatever unfinished history lived in the way he never quite met your eyes when you got too close. This was about the girl upstairs, whose parents had vanished under the weight of their own failures. About keeping her out of the foster system. Out of the trauma mill. Out of courtrooms that didn’t care if she still slept with a stuffed giraffe.

You’d offered your name. He’d offered his time. Together, you’d offered a lie that looked enough like stability to pass as truth.

“This place smells like regret and fried seafood,” you muttered, fingers tapping on the bar. “We couldn’t have met literally anywhere else?”

Seungmin lifted an eyebrow. “This is where I work. This is where I live. This is where she eats.”

He didn’t add and this is all I’ve got, but it echoed anyway. Subtext carved into every breath.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” you said. “I figured.”

“And if you snore, I’m buying noise-canceling headphones.” “Be my guest.” “And if this gets weird—” “It’s already weird,” he said. “But we’re still doing it.”

You looked down at the envelope again. It didn’t look heavy anymore. Just final. Your name, written beside his, in ink that wouldn’t wash off.

“You ever think we’re gonna wake up one day and regret this?” you asked.

Seungmin didn’t flinch. “Every day.” And then, with the same calm he used to pour drinks, he peeled the envelope open, pulled out the first form, and flattened it against the counter like it was just part of the job. You watched him. The steadiness of his hands. The restraint in his voice. The quiet ache tucked in the corners of his expression. This wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was something. Duty. Survival. A pact made over coffee and desperation. And somewhere beneath all of it—rising, quiet and patient—was the beginning of something else. Not fake. Not anymore.

You watched Seungmin slide the paperwork out of the envelope like it might disintegrate if he moved too fast. His fingers were steady, precise—the kind of steadiness that comes from trying to hold it together when everything else is coming apart. He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. This wasn’t someone signing a few forms for convenience. This was someone about to step out onto a high wire, fully aware there was no net.

He didn’t speak. He almost never did when the stakes were high.

Instead, he read. Line by line. Eyes scanning the page like every word might bite. That was Seungmin’s armor—silence. Careful, controlled, and sharp-edged. But you saw the way his gaze caught on a single line near the top of the form:

Minor child: Minseo Kang.

The name was printed in a government-issued font, uniform, cold, sterile but it still made his jaw tighten. His shoulders shifted, almost imperceptibly, like the weight of her name landed somewhere real. Somewhere that hurt.

He didn’t say Yeji’s name. You didn’t either. That part of the story lived under your tongues now, heavy and unspoken. But the memory didn’t care about silence. It showed up anyway.

Three months ago, your phone rang out of nowhere. The name on the screen stopped you cold: Seungmin. It looked like a mistake, like a ghost dialing from a part of your life you’d already packed away.

You hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. Not really. Just a handful of polite holiday texts. A few heart reacts on mutual friends’ photos. Enough to say we still exist in the same orbit, but nowhere near enough to call it closeness.

Back in high school, you’d barely lived in the same world. You ran with the loud ones, the party crowd, the kids who cut class and vacationed in the Hamptons like it was a birthright. Seungmin had been the quiet boy in the back row, always scribbling in the margins of his textbooks, always turning in homework on time even when no one else bothered.

Then, junior year, he surprised everyone by trying out for the baseball team. Surprised them even more when he became the best batter your school had seen in years. His swing was clean. Focused. Brutal. You remember someone saying he hit like he had something to prove.

But after graduation, when the rest of your class scattered, NYU, UCLA, study abroad programs, gap years in Europe, Seungmin stayed in Summerdale. That always stuck with you. That he stayed. Like the town had something left to hold him, even when most of you couldn’t wait to run.

You picked up expecting awkward small talk. Instead, his voice hit like a car crash. No hello. No lead-in.

Just: “She’s gone. She left her at the apartment and she’s gone. Might need a lawyer at hand.”

She was Yeji. His ex-wife. A hurricane of a woman with pretty lies and a self-destruct button she kept pressing. You remembered her as beautiful, brittle, always halfway out the door. Addiction clung to her like a shadow, quiet at first, then louder, then everything. It had eaten her slow, until there was nothing left but smoke.

Minseo had been six. Alone in the apartment. Crying. Clutching a crumpled lunchbox and a handful of crayon drawings like they could keep her safe.

By the time CPS showed up, the caseworker took one glance at Seungmin, a bartender, single, rent two weeks overdue, and started filling in the foster home recommendation before he’d finished his sentence.

That’s when he called you. Not because you were the best option. Not because you were qualified. Not even because you were particularly close anymore.

He called because you were the only person who wouldn’t ask why him.

Minseo wasn’t his, not on paper. Not biologically. But Yeji had been four months pregnant when she and Seungmin met and got married a few weeks later, and that had never mattered to him. Not once. He’d been twenty-three and drowning in side gigs, barely making enough to cover groceries, but when Minseo was born, he’d signed the birth certificate without hesitation. He’d rocked her to sleep at three a.m. He’d learned how to braid hair. He’d shown up for parent-teacher meetings when Yeji stopped pretending to care. He’d never called her his stepdaughter. He never would.

That night on the phone, you remembered his voice cracking just once. Then he swallowed it down and said, “She’s mine. Even if the paperwork doesn’t say it. She’s mine.”

And before you could even think it through, you said, “Then I’ll make the paperwork say it.”

And then, a breath later: “We’ll get married. For you to get custody.”

There was silence on the line. Heavy. Shocked. Real. He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask if you were joking. He knew you didn’t joke about things like this.

Finally, he said: “Okay.”

And now, here you were. In a half-lit bar that smelled like regret and lemon cleaner, watching him flip slowly to the last page.

The pen between your fingers felt heavier than steel. He paused. Voice low. Careful. “You don’t have to keep doing this. If it’s too much, if you want out, say so now.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m serious.” “So am I.”

You stood. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just moved, steady and quiet, around the bar until you were close enough to see everything. The faint hollows under his eyes. The smudge of ink on his wrist, still there from Minseo’s last doodle session. The scar on his chin from the fight two springs ago, when some drunk said something about Yeji and didn't walk away fast enough.

“She’s a kid,” you said. “A good one. She says thank you when people hold doors. She remembers birthdays. She cries every time Bambi’s mom dies even though she knows it’s coming. She’s still soft. Still kind.”

His throat worked once. He didn’t speak. “She deserves more than being handed off to a stranger just because the system can’t figure out what love looks like without a blood test.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. “And you deserve more than a fake husband with joint custody trauma.”

You huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. This is strictly bureaucratic foreplay.” A beat of quiet. Then—dry, but soft:

“Liar.” Your stomach flipped.

Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.

But you didn’t let it show. Instead, you held the pen out between you, steady and certain. “Let’s get married, Min.”

He looked at you.

Really looked. Like he was cataloging every piece of you—hair, expression, the resolve in your spine—so he’d remember what you looked like before things changed.

Then he took the pen. And signed.

The Marigold House looked like a set designer’s fever dream, whitewashed clapboard siding gleaming under the late afternoon sun, every window framed with blue shutters that matched the hydrangeas blooming in the front garden. The walkways were lined with crushed shell gravel, crunching lightly under dress shoes and kitten heels, and a trellis of marigolds curled over the gate like the house had grown into the name. It smelled like vanilla, orange blossoms, and something sugary-sweet, like a candle shop or a memory you couldn’t quite place.

You hated it.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful. It was. Everything was, too much so. Too coordinated. Too pretty. The kind of place where people threw real weddings, not legal chess moves disguised in tulle.

The courtyard out back was a honey-drenched watercolor, rows of white folding chairs, cream ribbons fluttering in the breeze, mason jars full of wildflowers perched on every other aisle. It was staged to perfection. Like someone had tried to manifest joy with Pinterest boards and afternoon light.

You stood just off-center from the archway, draped in gauze, strung with fairy lights, clutching a bouquet you didn’t like. Too much lace. Too many peonies. But Minseo had gasped when she saw it that morning and whispered, “You look like the fairy queen from the movie,” and that was the only reason you kept it. Not taste. Not tradition. Her.

Your hands didn’t shake. But your stomach was a war zone.

Across the aisle, Seungmin stood like a man sentenced, navy suit crisp, jaw locked, posture stiff like he was daring the moment to knock him down. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink. Just watched the archway like it might collapse on him. Like maybe he was hoping it would.

He looked good. Too good. Tailored in ways that were unfair, broad shoulders in clean lines, throat dusted with stubble he hadn’t shaved close enough. A bruise-like shadow under one eye from too many sleepless nights. Still, somehow, he looked like gravity. Like a person you’d follow off a cliff if he asked with that voice of his.

In the second row, Chan leaned toward F/N with something snarky on his tongue. She elbowed him before he could finish. You caught her looking at you, and for a moment, her smile softened into something almost tender.

You looked away.

The officiant, a woman named Dottie who gardened with combat boots and baked lavender scones for the PTA, stepped forward with a clipboard in one hand and dirt still under her nails. She cleared her throat with theatrical warmth. “Let’s begin,” she said, a little too loud, her consonants clipping like she was used to reading storybooks to children. “Today, in front of friends and family, we gather to celebrate the union of Kim Seungmin and Y/N L/N”

Union.

The word hit your chest like an elbow. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to leave.

Instead, you felt the small, certain tug of a hand at the hem of your dress.

Minseo. She sat in the front row in a white cotton dress and a flower crown too big for her head, eyes wide, face glowing with the kind of happiness that didn’t know how to question itself yet.

She beamed up at you like this was the best story in the world, and you were the hero.

And just like that, the ache in your stomach stopped mattering.

The ceremony became a blur. Words like commitment, home, forever washed over you like fog. You didn’t hear half of it. You nodded in the right places. Smiled just enough. You remembered the feel of sunlight on your cheek and the way your bouquet weighed heavy against your wrist. You remembered the moment Seungmin reached for your hand.

His touch was calm. Unflinching.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t acting. He looked at you, not like a friend, not like a partner in some plan, but like someone seeing something for the first time that he’d known all along. Dottie smiled like she could feel the shift. Like she’d seen it before in other people and was already rooting for you.

She turned to Seungmin. “Did you prepare something?” He nodded. Slowly. Pulled a folded page from his jacket pocket. But he didn’t unfold it. Didn’t read it. He just held it. Like he needed to know it was there. Then he spoke. Low. Steady. No theatrics.

“You already know I’m not good at this. I don’t do speeches. Or… gestures. But I do what matters. I show up. I stay. I try. Even when it’s hard. I know Im not the best man or... lover or father. But as long as were married I promise to give my best to ensure that you, and Minseo will always have a warm home and a... person you can come home to. I know Im a hard guy. But you said yes. When you didn’t have to. When no one else did. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be someone who deserved that.”

Silence. Thick and dense. No one moved. No one breathed. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat sharp and unfair. Your chest ached like someone had pulled it open and replaced your ribs with strings. His words were so honest. Raw, Truthful. It made you wonder how long he had thought about them. About what to say. An now you felt bad.

Because you didn’t have vows. You weren’t supposed to have anything.

But then Dottie looked at you, that warm-patient-knowing expression, and suddenly you were speaking. You didn’t remember deciding to.

“I...", you looked up, directly into Seungmins steady brown eyes. They look like hot chocolate swirls, the ones after you stirred the liquid in the mug for minutes with a spoon. They look warm. Sincere. And like theyre holding the world together. Your troath went completely dry, but you continued talking:" I didn´t say yes because someone had to, but becasue I wanted to. Because you never asked for anything, even when everything hurt. Because you carry more than you should. Because the second you said Minseo was yours, I believed you. Ive known you since high school, Seungmin. Even though I didn´t always acknowledged you back then, ignored you most of the time in class, to be honest, I still always had an eye on you. On the hardworking student doing his homework inbetween classes, trying to keep his 90 average just so he can get a scholarship for college. I always saw more in you than just the quiet boy. I always knew you deserved more. And I hope that I will be the one who can give you that”.

Seungmin’s hand gripped yours just a little tighter. Behind you, Minseo sniffled. “That was so good,” she whispered. Way too loud. Someone laughed. Someone else wiped their eyes. You smiled, small. But real.

Dottie beamed. “By the power vested in me by the great state of California and the overwhelming desire of everyone here to see you kiss already—kiss your wife.”

Seungmin didn’t move. Not at first. Then, slowly, like gravity had to decide for him—he stepped in. Closed the distance.

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone, and he leaned in like he was stepping over a line neither of you had dared touch before.

And when his lips met yours, it was quiet heat.

He kissed you passionately. Not like he was following a script. Not like he owed anyone anything. But like he was choosing it. Choosing you. Choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

His hand stayed steady, fingers curled at your neck. Your mouth opened slightly—only slightly, and he breathed into it, like he was trying to remember the shape of you. It ended before it could deepen.

But you knew. He was choosing you. Choosing this. Like you daydreamed about in class when you were a teenager. About the quiet boy, whose plush lips you wanted to feel against yours so so desperately and who you just wanted to feel close to you. And how you punished yourself back then for being this dumb and not befriending him because you belonged to the popular kids.

But now, he was choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

No lie. No paperwork. Just lips. Just warmth. Just the sound of your heart saying finally, finally, finally.

The sun was sinking fast behind the cliffs, casting long shadows over the bluff as guests trickled into the reception space—once a quiet garden, now transformed into a makeshift ballroom draped in paper lanterns and fairy lights. Tables sprawled beneath the open sky, centerpieces spilling with late-summer blooms, wax-dripped candles flickering in rhythm with the coastal breeze. Someone had already hit play on the playlist: soft indie-folk weaving between clinking glasses and easy laughter.

You didn’t let go of Seungmin’s hand right away. Neither did he.

Then Minseo came bounding toward you, arms flung wide, crashing into his side like she’d waited all day for this moment. He caught her without flinching—solid, instinctive—one arm around her tiny frame. The other let go of yours. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. Like maybe he shouldn’t have.

Back to the plan.

You slipped into the crowd like a shadow in tulle. Smiling when you had to. Nodding through small talk. Thanking people for coming. Hugging people too tightly or not tightly enough—people who didn’t know half the story. Most of them thought this was love. That was the point, wasn’t it? Selling the illusion. Convincing them. Convincing yourselves.

Chan found you by the dessert table, which had already been ravaged—cupcake casualties thanks to sugar-hyped toddlers and nostalgic uncles. He had a wine glass in one hand and that unreadable smirk in place.

“So,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “That kiss?”

You gave him a flat look. “Let me guess. Looked fake as hell.” Then, quickly, to not raise any suspicion, you added: “You know… because we had to do it in front of family and all.”

He tilted his head. “Well actually? Looked pretty damn real.”

You took a sip of champagne instead of answering. Not because you were hiding anything—because you didn’t know what the answer was. Not anymore.

Across the patio, Seungmin caught your eye.

He was crouched by Minseo again, adjusting the strap on her glitter-covered sandal while she chattered wildly, arms slicing the air. He nodded along, completely absorbed. Like nothing else existed. Like this—her, now—was the only thing that mattered.

F/N came up beside you, slipping her arm through yours. Quietly anchoring you.

“You okay?” she asked. Light tone, but real. You nodded. “I think so.”

She glanced toward the empty arch where the ceremony had been, lights still strung across its frame like stars caught in the wood. “You looked happy up there.”

You followed her gaze. “I was.” Just for a moment. Just long enough to think—maybe you weren’t pretending anymore.

Dinner passed in a blur: speeches you half-heard, bites you barely tasted. The dance floor opened. Chan spun Minseo until she collapsed into laughter. Seungmin stood at the edge, hands in his pockets, eyes on her like she might vanish if he blinked.

You drifted off again—habit by now. Toward the edge of the garden, where the lights thinned and the music turned into a distant hum. The grass felt cool under your bare feet when you slipped off your shoes. Finally, the air had cooled too, kissed with salt and stillness.

Then came footsteps. Measured. Familiar. Seungmin.

He stood next to you, saying nothing at first. Just quiet presence. Shoulders a little tight. Hands in his pockets.

“She had fun,” he said eventually. “Said she felt like a princess.”

“She looked like one.” You both smiled. Yours faded first.

“This is going to get harder, isn’t it?” He didn’t play dumb. Just nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.” You turned to look at him. “What does it feel like?” He didn’t answer right away. So you did.

“Like I’m in something I don’t know how to want… but I don’t want to lose it either.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

The silence between you didn’t stretch awkward—it stretched heavy. Full. Like it had weight. Like it was holding everything you couldn’t name. Everything that kiss had awakened, shifted, stirred. Then he said, “Thank you. For today. For… all of it.”

You didn’t say “you’re welcome.” Instead, you said, “If this is what faking it feels like… I’m scared to know what real would even look like.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just stepped closer.

Close enough for you to smell the faint citrus of his aftershave, the warmth rising from his skin, the lived-in softness of him that always felt a little like home.

“Then let’s find out,” he said—so soft you almost missed it.

You didn’t kiss him again. Not yet. But you didn’t walk away either.

The bridal suite looked exactly how a stranger would imagine it: One bed, drowned in rose petals you didn’t ask for. A bottle of unopened champagne sweating in a silver bucket. A clawfoot tub in the corner, positioned like it was waiting for a romance novel cover shoot. Everything white and soft and staged, like someone tried to force intimacy into the decor.

You stood in the doorway for a moment too long, shoes dangling from your fingers, unsure what to do with all that... expectation. It hung in the air heavier than the jasmine-scented diffuser on the vanity.

Seungmin stepped in behind you, hesitated, then shut the door with a soft click. The noise of the party downstairs vanished, sealed off in an instant.

Silence, now. Just the two of you. No Minseo, no guests, no cameras, no pretending.

Only you. And the one bed.

He scratched the back of his neck, already tugging at the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “So... this is what we’re working with.”

You gave a short laugh. “It’s aggressively romantic.”

“Feels like a setup.” You glanced at the petals on the bedspread and snorted. “That’s because it is.”

He didn’t answer, just moved toward the window and cracked it open an inch. The sea breeze filtered in immediately, tugging at the curtains and carrying with it the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers. You walked to the armchair in the corner, dropping your heels beside it and sinking into the cushion.

Your feet were sore. Your back ached. Your head buzzed with champagne and things left unsaid.

“We can flip for the bed,” you offered after a beat.

Seungmin glanced over his shoulder. “Flip?”

“Yeah. Winner gets the bed. Loser gets the... uh.” You looked around. “The chaise lounge that looks like it’s built for Victorian fainting, not sleep.”

He gave a half-smile. “Or, hear me out, we’re adults. Were... officially married. It’s a big bed. We can both fit.”

You stared at him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

You stood and padded toward the bathroom, peeling out of your dress with practiced movements. You folded it neatly over the back of the chair and pulled on the hotel-provided robe, soft, oversized, impersonal. The makeup wipes felt cool on your skin, like an eraser dragging away the bride mask you’d worn all day. You shortly cleansed your face and dabbed on a serum and moisturizer, before fiddling your hair into a quick braid.

When you stepped back into the room, Seungmin was already on his side of the bed, facing the window. Still in his dress pants and undershirt. The top three buttons undone, tie tossed over the bedside table. He hadn’t touched the champagne either.

You crossed to the opposite side, climbed under the covers cautiously. The sheets were crisp and cold and smelled faintly of bleach.

The mattress dipped with your weight. The room felt smaller somehow.

You lay on your back at first, arms pinned close, staring up at the ornate crown molding. He did the same. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then “Can’t sleep?” His voice was low. Barely more than a murmur.

You smiled at the ceiling. “Didn’t even try yet.” More silence. Not awkward. Just... thick. Pregnant with whatever was pressing at the edges of this whole night.

“I keep thinking about earlier,” you said eventually. “The kiss. What Chan said.” Seungmin’s voice came slower this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you. Eyes open. Vulnerable. Like he didn’t know what the hell to do with how close you were now, physically or otherwise.

Your knees bumped under the covers. Neither of you moved away.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” you admitted. “Me neither.”

Another beat. Then you asked, “What did it feel like to you?” He licked his lips, eyes darting across your face like he was searching for the safest way to answer. “Like I was breaking a rule... but it was a rule that never made sense in the first place.”

That stopped your breath for a moment. The quiet pressed deeper between you, wrapping you both in it. Your fingers shifted beneath the covers, brushing against his by accident—or maybe not. He didn’t pull away. His pinky grazed yours. Then lingered.

A whisper of contact. Stupid and small and devastating. Your breath hitched.

He heard it. Of course he did. His hand turned palm-up, open. Waiting. You didn’t think. You just slid your fingers into his.

The sheets rustled as he shifted slightly toward you. Closer. So close now, your knees aligned. The line of his body was heat and muscle and hesitation.

“Do you think we’re making a mistake?” you whispered. He shook his head, the motion barely visible in the dark. “No. I think not doing anything would be the mistake.”

You exhaled slowly, heart thudding so loud it felt like he could hear it. Then he said, “Can I touch you?”

The question landed like a drop of warm honey in your chest, slow, deliberate, sweet.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers lifted to your face, brushing your cheekbone. Gentle, reverent. He traced the line of your jaw, then your bottom lip, his thumb barely grazing it.

You leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. Everything in the room faded—the rose petals, the champagne, the fake romance. What remained was something quieter, rawer. The truth, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

You shifted closer, chest to chest now, knees tangled.

You could feel his breath on your skin, the hitch of it as your hands explored the space between shoulder and waist, slipping beneath the edge of his shirt. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. Every inch felt like a confession.

Neither of you rushed it. But the ache was building. Slow and hungry.

And this time, when you kissed him, there was no audience, no plan, no pretending.

Just you. Just him. Just real.

The kiss started slow.

Cautious. Soft. A testing of boundaries neither of you had dared cross before now. His lips brushed yours once, featherlight, almost reverent. Like he was asking permission even as your bodies already answered.

You kissed him back. That was all it took. Something inside Seungmin snapped, some invisible thread that had held him in check all day, through the ceremony, the photos, the act. It unraveled in a heartbeat.

He surged forward, mouth hungry, hands threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss like he wanted to climb inside you. His tongue licked into your mouth, desperate and sure. You moaned, breath caught, thighs instinctively parting beneath the sheets.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to look at you, hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips already swollen. “Sorry. Im so sorry, but gosh, Y/N. Do you know how long ive wanted to do this? Do you know how hard it was all day, marrying you, making you my wife and having to pretend you haven´t been showing up in my wet dreams since high school?", he growled. "Pretty, popular Y/N L/N. You know how bad I wanted to fuck you back then? Do you know how bad I want you right now?"

"Show me,” you whispered. That did it.

He moved fast, tugging the robe off your shoulders, baring skin inch by inch like unwrapping something sacred. His hands didn’t fumble. They claimed. Traced. Gripped.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down your throat, over your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful. My wife.”

The word sent a jolt straight through you. You weren’t used to hearing it like that, hot and reverent in the same breath. You didn’t think it would turn you on the way it did. But Seungmin said it like a vow. Like a right. Like he was ready to worship you with his mouth and his hands and every sharp edge of him.

“If we’re already married,” he said against your chest, licking a slow stripe up your sternum, “we might as well act like it.”

Then his mouth closed around your nipple and your back arched hard.

He sucked deep and slow while his fingers slid between your thighs. No teasing. Just heat and friction and filthy, slick pressure. You were soaked already—your whole body trembling, wrecked from a day of pretending.

He kissed lower, dragging the sheets with him, settling between your thighs with a low groan.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you today,” he admitted, breath hot against your core. “That little white dress. You didn’t even know how good you looked, did you?”

You whimpered as his mouth found you, tongue firm and greedy, licking you open like he was starving. You couldn’t stay still, hips grinding, thighs clenching around his head. He didn’t stop. He held you there, hands anchoring you down as his tongue fucked you deeper and his voice vibrated against your skin:

“Take it, baby. You can take it. That’s it... that’s my girl.”

You were already close, embarrassingly fast, but he pulled back just before you tipped over.

“No,” he muttered. “Not yet. I want you to come on my cock first.”

He crawled up your body again, his chest flush with yours, cock heavy and hard between you. One hand grabbed your jaw, angling your face to meet his eyes.

“Last chance,” he said, voice dark and low. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head fast, desperate. “No. Don’t you fucking dare.”

He growled and kissed you again, messy and deep, grinding against your core like he was already inside you.

“I’m going to fuck you raw,” he whispered into your mouth. “I’ll pull out. I swear. For now. But I need to feel you. All of you.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, yes, just do it, Seungmin, please.”

The blunt head of his cock slid against your entrance, wet, hot, perfect. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might snap.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You feel... fuck, baby, you feel like heaven.”

You weren’t quiet either. You dug your nails into his back as he bottomed out, the stretch too much and not enough all at once. The feeling of him bare, skin to skin, filled some kind of void you hadn’t realized was aching.

Then he started moving. And the rhythm wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was raw.

He fucked you like he owned you, like he’d earned it after every second of pretending, every fake smile, every polite touch that meant nothing compared to this.

The bed creaked. Your moans turned high and desperate. His grip bruised your hips as he drove into you harder, faster, head pressed to your shoulder.

“You’re mine tonight,” he groaned. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “All yours.”

“Fucking right you are.” One hand reached up and wrapped around your throat, not tight, but enough to claim. To hold. To make your breath catch as he pounded into you, each thrust snapping something loose in your brain.

You clawed at him, pulled him closer, whispered his name like a prayer.

When your orgasm hit, it was violent, body locking, back arching, vision gone white. You sobbed his name, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

Seungmin cursed low and pulled out just in time, spilling hot across your stomach with a strangled noise that sounded half-pain, half-devotion.

He didn’t collapse immediately. He stared down at you, panting, flushed, ruined and whispered, “You’re everything.”

Then he kissed you again. Slow now. Gentle. Full of wonder. And for the first time all day, the act was over. This was real.

The room was warm now. Too warm.

The air felt thick with sweat, breath, and everything unsaid. Your heart still pounded in your ribs like it hadn’t caught up with the rest of your body yet. Your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves, the world quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted whistle of the breeze through the cracked window.

Seungmin was still above you, braced on his elbows, forehead resting gently against yours like he couldn’t quite let go yet. Like if he moved, the spell might break.

You weren’t in a rush either. His breath ghosted over your cheek. Warm. Human. Steady. “I wasn’t supposed to do that,” he said, voice low and ruined.

You didn’t move. “But you did.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, more to himself. “I did.” His thumb brushed your jaw. Just once. Soft. Reverent.

“I should’ve taken it slower,” he murmured. “You deserved more than that.”

You turned your head, met his gaze in the dim light. “That was more,” you said, quietly. “That wasn’t nothing, Seungmin.” He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for days. You reached up and pushed the damp hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

He nodded, slow and quiet. “Yeah. I just—”

His mouth opened. Closed. He rolled onto his side, pulling you gently with him so your body settled into the curve of his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist. Not tight, but firm. Protective.

You felt safe. It startled you a little, how safe. “I kept thinking about it,” he said into your hair. “All day. You. Us. I told myself I wouldn’t... not unless it meant something.”

You pressed your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. “And did it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It did.” Silence stretched between you again. This time, it felt like a blanket. “I used to think about you,” you said, your voice a murmur in the dark. “In school. In class. I’d pretend I didn’t notice you, but I did. Every time.”

He let out a quiet breath, the hint of a laugh buried in it. “I used to imagine you were way out of my league.” You smiled into his chest. “I kind of was.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You were. And now you’re... my wife.” The word made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to keep calling me that,” you said, light but careful. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his expression unreadable.

“I want to.” You swallowed. “Okay.”

His hand stroked down your back, slow and soothing. “This doesn’t have to be anything we’re not ready for,” he said. “But I’m not going to pretend anymore, either.”

You blinked. “Pretend what?” “That I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you for a long time. That this... doesn’t feel like the start of something.”

Your throat tightened. “We made a plan. For Minseo. For—”

“I know,” he said. “And I meant it. I’ll keep my promise. We’ll raise her right. We’ll keep her safe.” His hand slid under the blanket, palm warm against your spine. “But I’m allowed to want the rest too. If you want it.”

You turned in his arms, meeting him fully, heart raw and exposed. “What if I’m scared?” you asked.

He cupped your face again, his touch almost unbearably gentle now. “Me too,” he whispered. “But if we’re going to build a lie that feels this real... maybe it’s not a lie anymore.” Your breath hitched.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “You didn’t have to say yes. But you did. And I want to be the man who makes that mean something.”

You felt the tears sting before you could stop them. “Seungmin...”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice breaking just slightly. “Whatever this turns into. However long it takes. I’ve got you.” He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth. Slow. Tender. Nothing urgent, just connection. Just care. He held you like something precious. Like something he’d finally been allowed to keep.

THREE WEEKS LATER

The mornings had started to find their rhythm.

Not perfectly. Not smoothly. But real.

You woke to the smell of pancakes, again. Seungmin had a thing about breakfast, apparently. Said it anchored the day. You suspected it was more about giving Minseo something constant, something warm to start from. She still clung to her routines like a life vest.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, robe slung haphazardly around your body, hair in a loose braid that had barely survived the night. The sound of cartoon voices filtered in from the living room, Minseo’s Saturday morning ritual, and over it all: the low sizzle of batter on a skillet, and Seungmin humming some unidentifiable tune under his breath.

He looked up when you walked in.

His hair was a mess. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour on his wrist and a smear of something syrupy on the hem of his shirt. He looked like someone who belonged in a kitchen at 8:07 a.m., tired but present.

His eyes lingered for a beat too long on your legs. “Good morning, wife,” he said, voice still sleep-scratchy.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “We’re still doing that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels right.” You walked over and stole a piece of half-cooked pancake off the spatula.

“Hey,” he protested, swatting at your hand half-heartedly. “That’s illegal.”

You shrugged, mouth full. “Sue me. But as far as Im concerned Im the lawyer in this household. You can punish me if you want, though”

“I already married you. Isn’t that punishment enough?” Behind you, a tiny voice shouted from the living room: “I heard that!” Seungmin snorted. “She’s always listening.”

You leaned against the counter and watched him flip the next pancake, his movements efficient and quiet. You could tell when he was tired, he moved slower, less crisp. There were new shadows under his eyes. He’d been picking up extra shifts again, covering for a coworker who disappeared without warning.

You crossed the kitchen and slipped your arms around his waist from behind.

He paused for half a second, then relaxed into it, leaned back slightly so your cheek fit into the curve of his shoulder.

“This okay?” you murmured. “Yeah,” he said. “Better than okay.”

He turned the stove off and let the last pancake settle in the pan. Then he turned around, arms sliding around your waist now, pulling you in close.

It was still new, this touch. Familiar and strange at once. Domestic. Intimate. The kind of thing people didn’t notice when they’d been doing it for years. But for you, every brush of skin still felt like a step forward.

He looked down at you, eyes soft. “I like this,” he said. “Us. Here.”

“Even with Minseo insisting on watching that weird octopus show every morning?”

“Even then.” You reached up, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“You could sleep in once in a while, you know.”

“And miss Saturday pancakes?” You rolled your eyes again, but your heart ached a little. With love. With guilt. With everything you still didn’t quite know how to say out loud. Minseo called from the couch, “Is it ready yet?”

Seungmin kissed your temple. “That’s my cue.” You watched him go, watched the way he moved toward the small girl sprawled on the carpet in her dinosaur pajamas, plate in hand, grin already blooming.

She squealed when she saw him. He sat cross-legged beside her, balancing the plate on his knee, feeding her bites between episodes like it was the most natural thing in the world. You leaned against the doorway and just… watched.

Watched the man who used to be a stranger to you, now barefoot in your house. Watched the girl who used to cry herself to sleep, now giggling through a mouthful of pancake. This wasn’t love yet. But it was something. And it was growing.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The laundry never stayed folded.

Minseo had this habit of digging through the baskets looking for the dress, the blue one with the sparkles and the spaghetti straps and the small ink stain that hadn’t washed out. It didn’t matter that there were six other perfectly fine outfits. That was the one. Always had been.

So when you walked into the bedroom and found her standing triumphantly on the bed, arms up, mismatched socks already on, blue dress clinging to her sides like a second skin, you didn’t bother arguing.

Seungmin looked up from the dresser with a crooked smile and no energy to stop her.

“You wanna tell her it’s not weather-appropriate?” he asked.

You looked at Minseo’s messy braid, her socks pulled up to her knees like legwarmers, and shrugged. “I’m not trying to die today.”

“She’s terrifying when she’s committed.”

“Gets that from you.”

He smirked and walked past, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw on the way to the kitchen. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. It wasn’t new anymore, this casual touch, this quiet affection. It happened all the time now. In the mornings, when you passed each other at the bathroom sink. At night, when you reached for his hand in the dark. Mid-conversation, when he tucked your hair behind your ear like he’d been doing it forever.

It had crept in slowly. The love. It hadn’t arrived like fireworks. It hadn’t needed to.

It came in the form of grocery lists and hair detangler and "I already took out the trash" and “Did you eat today?” and the way Minseo had stopped correcting people when they called you her mom. It came in the form of a fully lived-in life.

The apartment reflected it. Messy in the corners, clean where it mattered. A basket of crayons on the coffee table. Three jackets by the door. A fridge full of leftovers in takeout containers labeled in Seungmin’s blocky handwriting. Pictures on the wall, Minseo in the park, Seungmin asleep on the couch with her on his chest, a blurry photo Chan had taken of the three of you, laughing so hard it looked fake. But it wasn’t.

You spent Sunday mornings in bed now, all three of you, tangled in sheets and limbs, cartoons playing quietly in the background. Seungmin called it “the family puddle.” Minseo insisted on pancakes every time. Sometimes he burned them. You still ate them anyway.

He never said I love you with words. But he said it when he kissed your shoulder in the kitchen. When he pulled you back into bed after the alarm. When he wrote “get home safe” on the inside of your wrist with a marker before you left for court one morning.

One night, long after Minseo had gone to bed, her nightlight casting blue stars on the ceiling, you sat on the couch, half-draped over Seungmin’s chest, and whispered, “Do you ever think about how this all started?”

His fingers kept tracing slow circles on your back. “All the time.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. “Do you think we were faking it at first?” He shook his head. “I think we were afraid to believe it was real.”

Silence passed like a heartbeat. “And now?” you asked.

Seungmin looked down at you. The smallest smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s just us.”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, over the spot where his heart beat slow and steady. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Minseo stirred in the next room. The wind rustled the trees outside the window. The clock ticked. The radiator clicked.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t extraordinary. It was real. And for the first time in your life, real felt like enough.

The windows fogged faintly from the heat inside and the chill of the ocean air outside. Salt crusted the edges of the glass, and the soft clang of pans echoed faintly from the open kitchen. The smell of frying bacon, buttery toast, and strong coffee settled into the booths like an old friend.

It was early enough that the rush hadn’t started. Just a few regulars with coffee cups refilled without asking and a waitress wiping down the sugar dispensers with a rhythm born from muscle memory.

Minseo sat in the booth, legs swinging, a chocolate chip pancake face-down in syrup, her cheek smudged with powdered sugar. She was in one of her moods, singing quietly to herself, narrating her breakfast like a cooking show host. You and Seungmin sat across from her, shoulder to shoulder, a shared cup of coffee between you, half-sipped.

You were barefoot in sneakers. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. This was your life now. Breakfast booths. Sticky menus. A child quietly humming a melody to her strawberries. And it felt… good. It felt settled.

“Be honest,” Seungmin said, leaning in, voice low and conspiratorial, “You think she’s going to finish that pancake or wear it as a hat first?”

“She’s definitely wearing it,” you whispered back. “Excuse me,” Minseo said through a mouthful, “I can hear you.”

You both laughed, one of those quiet couple-laughs, full of shared language and affection that didn’t need names. The bell over the diner door chimed.

Yang Jeongin stepped through, carrying a clipboard and a half-zipped jacket, his hair still damp from the ocean air. He moved with the kind of ease you only earn when you’ve come home and decided to stay.

“Hey,” he called, nodding toward the booth as he passed. “Morning, folks.” Minseo perked up immediately. “Mr. Jeongin! You’re late!”

Jeongin grinned. “I prefer fashionably delayed.” He ruffled her hair as he passed and headed behind the counter, slipping into a soft rhythm, checking the order forms, restocking napkins, greeting the cook with a backhanded high five. The place already looked more alive under his care, like it remembered how to breathe again.

Seungmin watched him for a moment, then leaned toward you. “Can you believe he came back?”

You raised a brow. “You mean the boy who once said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather eat my diploma than run a diner in Summerdale?’”

Seungmin smirked. “The very same.”

“You guys still talk?”

“Sometimes. Late shifts. He’s… different now. Softer. In a good way.”

You glanced over to see Jeongin talking to F/N by the pastry case. Her eyes lit up in that way that was half surprise, half defense, like she hadn’t expected him, and yet somehow always had. Something unspoken passed between them.

Seungmin followed your gaze. “He’s not here just for the diner.”

“No,” you agreed. “He’s not.”

Then Seungmin turned back to you. Minseo was now constructing a pancake tower with a level of engineering brilliance that might win her a scholarship someday. The diner clinked and buzzed around you. And suddenly, everything slowed.

You looked at Seungmin, and he looked at you, and it wasn’t one of those cinematic, heart-racing, swell-of-music moments. It was quiet. Steady. Earned.

“I love you,” he said. Just like that. Your breath caught, but you didn’t freeze. You just smiled. Slowly. Like something inside you had clicked into place.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured. He kissed the back of your hand, soft and sure. “I know.” From across the table, Minseo looked up.

“Is this one of those gross love moments?” she asked.

You both nodded, grinning. “Good,” she said. “Because I want waffles next time.”

You laughed, leaned into Seungmin’s side, and let the moment settle.

Outside, the sea crashed in its usual rhythm. Inside, your family ate pancakes in a booth under flickering fluorescent lights. And it was perfect.

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shouyuus · 6 months ago

Text

─── Ⅵ CHAPTER THREE: LOVE'S DREAM

violet; 1,823 words; fluff, drama, smau-intermission, hockey!vi, figure skater!reader, bff!mel, platonic gym soulmates!vijayce, vander doing his vander thing, fake dating, no "y/n"

summary: in which mel and jayce are trying their best to be supportive best friends.

a/n: this is a super short chapter compared to the others, i know buT ! we have some cute lil text interactions so i hope u guys enjoy those ;) FIRST DATE coming up next chapter so this is just setting up the stage for that ! <3

< table of contents

─── Ⅵ “— YOU HAVE TO GET LOWER in that sit spin — and the footwork after your Triple Sal needs work —”

You nod, frowning at the tiny little scribblings in Amara's notebook as you fidget with your gloves.

Amara sighs, reaching out to cup your cheek, “Speak to me, sweet girl. You’ve been so distracted.”

You purse your lips, blinking at her as the cold presses against your back, ever the reassuring friend.

“It’s nothing — I just… I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

Amara’s sharp eyes flicker over your face, and her lips thin into a terse line as you pull away, reaching for your water bottle.

“Hm. Well, let me know if you need anything prescribed — I know you don’t like them but sometimes, it really does help —”

“I’ll be fine, Amara. Let’s — let’s go through it again from the top.”

You push away from the barricade, your eyes catching on the hockey team as they file in from the doors, joking and jostling, huge sports bags slung across their shoulders.

The music starts, slow and sparkling, the piano notes working up in arpeggios, and through the fogged up plastic, your eyes meet Vi’s for a second before you slip into the routine.

On the other side, Vi’s breath catches as she watches you flow through the opening steps of your program. On the speakers, the piano music builds into a rising crescendo — someone behind her bumps her to get her moving again, and she stumbles forward, her eyes still caught on you as she lets the tide of her teammates carry her towards the lockers, her neck on a swivel as you fly across the ice.

“Good, isn’t she?”

Vi jumps at the sound of Vander’s voice, and he grins, watching her watch you with a knowing sort of smirk before his expression softens and he reaches out to pat her shoulder.

“So what’s this I hear about you dating Amara’s top girl?”

Vi balks, “I — uh — it’s —”

Vander lets out a booming laugh, “’S alright, you’ve always liked the pretty, talented ones, eh?” he ruffles her hair and she pushes at his large hand.

“Shut up,” Vi murmurs, rolling her shoulders as she turns back to watch you.

The music swells around you, gathering like sunlight, and you, buoyed up by the sheer magnetism of it all, spinning through the air in a flawless jump, landing with a smooth hiss of blades on ice. Your body lengthens as the music slows, and Vi finds herself once more gasping for a breath she doesn’t remember holding.

“The song’s nice,” she says, watching as you work through a complicated series of steps and spins, Amara tapping her hand against the barricade to each of your changes of edge. Vi feels her heart threading up her throat as Vander chuckles.

“It’s called Liebestraum. Know what it means?” He glances at her.

Vi shakes her head, not daring to take her eyes from you as you swirl into a spin so fast you’re nothing more than a blur of thin limbs and wispy hair. She can taste her heartbeat pulsing on her tongue as you spiral out of the spin, your cheeks red as you work through the final few steps of the routine and the music trails off into silence.

Your lashes flicker and again, your eyes find hers through the paneled plastic.

“Love’s dream,” Vander says, nudging her lightly before turning to herd the rest of the hockey team towards the lockers, leaving Vi standing there, dizzy as she stares at you and you stare right back.

On the ice, you’re chest is burning, your head spinning as you tear your eyes away from Vi and skate back towards Amara, who’s smiling just wide enough for you to know she’s pleased.

“Excellent,” she says, snapping her little notebook shut, her wine-red lips pressing in triumph, “good — whatever you were picturing then, darling, you’d best keep a hold on it. Because that’s what’ll get you to Olympics gold, my dear.”

You give her a faint nod, your heart thumping somewhere near your jugular as you chance a glance back at where Vi was standing.

But, she was already gone.

You waltz out of the rink, humming to yourself. A second later, a pair of arms loops through yours, and you’re accosted by the scent of lavender perfume.

“What’s got you in such a good mood, hm?” Mel asks as the pair of you turn into the parking lot, bracing yourselves against the mid-autumn chill.

“It was a good practice,” you say, not quite able to keep the skip out of your step as the pair of you make your way towards your car, pulling open the back door to toss your skating things inside.

“Yeah, so I saw,” Mel says, her voice low as she slips into the passenger’s seat, ��Amara was nearly floating when you got off the ice.”

You smile, starting the engine, letting out a sigh of relief as warm air blasts out of the vents.

“So. Violet.”

You slam on your break halfway through pulling out of the parking space, sending the pair of you jolting in your seats, Mel yelping as her torso jerks forward.

“S-sorry —”

“What on earth was that?”

“Nothing!” you insist, easing your foot off the break and pulling out of the space to turn towards the main street. “You just… caught me off guard.”

Mel folds her arms, “Don’t waste your breath lying to me, darling.”

You sigh, pausing at stop sign before turning right onto campus.

“Fine. What about Violet?”

Mel glances at you, “Have you… spoken to her at all?”

“Yeah. A couple times.”

“And?”

“And, what?”

Mel scoffs, “Have you guys —” she motions vaguely with her fingers, “worked anything out?”

“We —” you lick your lips, “we’re going on a date this weekend.”

“A date? Are you — are you sure this is a good idea?”

You pull the car into student parking and sigh, switching off the engine.

“Mel, you were the one that set us up in the first place!”

“I — I just thought it’d be nice for you to get a little action, that’s all — I didn’t think you’d go and land yourself in a situationship with the hockey team’s most infamous bleeding heart!”

You gape at her for a solid three seconds before groaning and slumping back in your seat, tugging off your seatbelt.

“Yeah well — what’s done is done and —” you run a hand down your face, frowning at your phone screen as another text from Vi pops up on your notifications.

Mel has the base decency not to peer over your shoulder, though you don’t miss the way her eyes flash towards it.

“Fine,” Mel concedes, “where’re you going for this date, then?”

You shove your phone into your school bag and grab a scarf from the back seat.

“The boozy cupcake place.”

“Oh! That’s a good one. Me and Jayce went there a lot in the beginning —”

“Yeah, I know,” you say, grinning as the pair of you duck out of the car, the door slamming closed behind you.

The wind picks up and you both make for the main building, heads bent.

“Just —” Mel turns to you as the pair of you part ways at the foot of the stairs leading up to your separate lecture halls, her eyes flickering over your face, “be careful, alright? And…” her smile is warm as she reaches out to tap your cheek, “if she ever does anything to hurt you… you let Jayce and I know, hm?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, “Thanks, Mel.”

She pulls you in for a quick hug before you turn down the hallway towards the Stats lecture hall, a tingling warmth spreading through your chest all the way out to your fingertips.

“— ninety-seven, ninety-eight — c’mon Lanes, I know you got a few more in you — ninety-nine — one-hundo —”

Vi huffs, grunting as she readjusts her grip on the pullup bars and hoists herself up again, her arms burning as she holds it for a three count before dropping down with a loud exhale.

“I thought we were takin’ it easy today, pretty boy.”

Jayce chuckles, lying back on the bench press even as Vi hovers over the bar, staring down at him.

“No such thing as easy on a pump day,” he says, even as Vi rolls her eyes, settling in to watch him grip the bar and push it off the rack with a grunt.

“S-so —” Jayce says, his voice slightly strained as he works through his sets, “how’ve things been going with —” he cuts off as he sucks in a breath and holds it.

“With little miss Olympics?” Vi supplies.

Jayce makes a grunting noise.

“We’re going on a date this weekend.”

Jayce nearly chokes as his grip slips on the bar and Vi’s hands shoot out to catch hold of it before it can crush his trachea.

“What? Where’re you taking her? Does Mel know?”

Vi snorts, “Probably, since Mel’s like her self-assigned den mother — uh, this… boozy cupcake place?” Vi frowns as she grabs her phone to try and pull it up.

“Oh! I know that place — on Centre street — Mel and I used to go there a lot when we started dating. The cupcakes are huge though.”

Vi stares, her thumb hovering over her phone screen as she stares at Jayce. Then, she breaks into a soft, exasperated laugh.

“Yeah… she said she’d been meaning to go but… she didn’t have anyone to share the cupcakes with.”

Jayce opens his mouth, but he pauses as Vi drops her eyes back to her phone, a faint smile playing at her lips as she scrolls through something on her screen.

“Careful there, Lanes,” Jayce says, reaching out to nudge her with a leg, “you’re starting to sound a little lovesick.”

��We haven’t even gone on a real date,” Vi says, looking up sharply.

Jayce nods, putting a solemn hand on her shoulder, “Yeah, I know.”

Vi’s mouth drops open as she gapes at him for a second before slamming her mouth shut again with a groan.

Jayce grins, “Hey, look on the bright side — at least half the campus is convinced you guys’ve been official for weeks. So even if someone does see you simping, it’s not that weird, right?”

“You better watch yourself, Talis. Next time, I’ll just let that bar drop on your fuckin’ throat,” Vi says, but she’s grinning as Jayce lays back down to start a new set.

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vunblr · 2 days ago

Text

Five Dollars and a Hook

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: 18+ only. Established relationship. Fluff. Smut

Summary: Bucky navigates the impulse of being a provider, struggling with the rules of the human world.

Word Count: About 7.3k.

note: Follow-up/Side story of Tangled.

Almost a full year had passed since she moved into the coastal cottage. The sea had watched over every season with its endless tide, but now the sun was lower, the breeze cooler, and the first copper leaves had started to gather at the corners of her porch. Autumn was around the corner.

Summer hadn’t been kind to Bucky.

It wasn’t just the heat -though he grumbled about that too- but the crowds. That year, the coast had seen more tourists than usual, loud and unfamiliar bodies spilling into the sleepy town like waves. Bucky had kept to himself more, either hiding away in the deeper parts of the cove or spending time at her home when he was done with the noise and the smells.

Sometimes he'd lean against her kitchen counter with a glass of ice pressed to his wrist, watching her cook like the smell of garlic hypnotized him. Other days, he’d stretch out on her rug under the ceiling fan, arms behind his head, the long line of his body still betraying something briny and feral.

On quieter evenings, he would join her in the shallows, his human half visible while the rest of him lingered in the water, eyes tracking every movement on the beach like a sentry. Even in his more generous moods, he scowled at the thrum of speakers echoing from open car trunks, at the barking laughter of people who didn't belong there.

She tried not to laugh when he muttered curses under his breath about "landwalkers" and their inability to respect a nesting ground.

In late July, during the worst heatwave, she introduced him to ice cream. It was one of the rare things he didn’t question, no sniffing, no wary prodding. He just accepted the cone.

He bit too much off the top, of course.

The freeze hit his palate, and his eyes went wide, as his jaw worked slowly like he was trying to decode the sensation. She’d nearly dropped her own cone laughing. He didn’t speak for a full minute, just stared at the melting vanilla dripping over his knuckles like it was some small, personal miracle.

"You're meant to savor it," she’d said, breathless with amusement.

After that, he ate it constantly. She’d never seen him take to anything so quickly.

By August, the night swims had become a routine. She’d meet him down there after dark, sometimes in nothing but her underwear and a worn t-shirt. He’d be just offshore, his shape breaking the silver surface, tentacles swaying slowly beneath him like smoke.

Sometimes she slid into the water and let him pull her under gently, hands on her waist, the soft friction of his skin against hers as they drifted. Sometimes she just floated on her back while he circled below, trailing his limbs across her body in lazy figures.

He didn’t talk much in the water. Neither did she.

He hadn’t retreated. Not to another coastline, not to a deeper trench.

He stayed.

Not because it was easy.

Because she was here.

---

The dining table was a battlefield of notebooks, half-dried markers, and crumpled practice sheets. Bucky sat on one side, hunched slightly over his paper, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the page. She was across from him, one leg tucked under her, a pen behind her ear, and a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Alright,” she said, tapping the notebook in front of her. “Last dictation round. Ready?”

He nodded, a little grunt escaping his lips.

She dictated the words slowly -companion, thread, silence, tangled, anchor- and he wrote them down one by one, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Once he was done, she leaned over to check. “Four out of five right,” she said, clearly pleased. “That’s your best yet.”

His brows lifted just slightly, a flicker of satisfaction showing in the subtle twitch of his mouth.

“And now,” she added playfully, “your final boss: read me this paragraph.“

He stared at it, and the words swam a little. He groaned, but took the paper from her fingers anyway. Tried to remember how she told him to break it up. He started slowly, stumbling here and there, his accent flattening some vowels and twisting others, but he got through it.

When he was done, he slumped back in the chair with a frown. “Stupid. I sound stupid.”

“Bucky.” Her voice was firm and fond all at once. “You read an entire paragraph. Out loud. Not even two months ago, you couldn’t recognize your own name on a page. That’s not stupid, that’s amazing.”

He glanced at her. She reached across and softly nudged his knuckles with hers.

“You’re doing something completely outside your world. It’s brave, Bucky. And I’m proud of you.”

Something passed over his face then, a flicker of discomfort difficult to name. He looked away, but not before she caught the way his mouth pressed into a crooked line, half-embarrassed, half-something else.

“…Thanks,” he muttered.

She closed the notebook with a satisfied thump, tapping her pen twice against the cover before glancing his way.

“I’ve got news, by the way,” she said, a bit too casually.

His gaze slid toward her. Suspicious. Waiting.

She smoothed her palms over the tabletop. “I walked past the Shipyard Supply Office yesterday, you know, the one by the ferry docks? They had a job notice posted on the window. They were looking for a new clerk to help organize inventory and process shipments.”

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the shift in his body, the slow tensing of his shoulders, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I went in,” she continued, “and asked about it. They were doing interviews on the spot, so I figured, why not? I didn’t expect anything, but they called me this morning. I got the job.”

Still, he said nothing.

“Only four times a week. Good pay, “she added, trying to keep it light.

“You applied,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur. “Without telling me.”

She blinked. “Well, yeah. It just happened fast-”

“You didn’t even mention it.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. I wasn’t even sure I’d get it.”

His frown deepened. “The shipyard supply.”

“Yeah?”

“The clerks there,” he muttered, “they’re all males.”

Ah. There it was.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So?”

His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again. “You’ll be surrounded by them. In a closed space. For hours.”

She exhaled slowly, already sensing the spiral forming behind his eyes, the same one during Chris’ brief crocheting career.

“They’re coworkers, Bucky. I’m going to earn money. That’s all.”

“They’ll want more than that,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Just like Chris did?” she teased gently, resting a hand on his forearm. “Come on. We’ve been through this.”

His eyes darkened. “They won’t be old. Or married. Or uninterested.

She gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “How can you possibly know their age and relationship status? Did you conduct a census while I wasn’t looking?”

He frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“And again,” she continued, trying to rein in a smile, “you think all of them will want something else from me? What is this, some reverse-harem novella?”

She chuckled, but Bucky didn’t.

“You were right about Chris,” she added quickly, “I’ll give you that. But come on, Bucky. You’ve seen the beach crowd this summer. My body type isn’t exactly top of the ranking-”

“Your body is mine,” he said firmly, pouting now. “You are my mate.”

She arched a brow. “I thought it was mine. Don’t remember gifting it to you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The moment the words left her mouth, she saw it, the way his expression shifted. His eyes darkened, not with anger but something far more raw. Hurt. Betrayal. Like she had just broken something sacred between them.

Because to him, that bond wasn’t playful or theoretical. It was everything.

And what she’d just said, even in jest, sounded dangerously close to rejection.

He looked like she’d slapped him.

Her smile faded the second she saw his face. One of his hands curled into a slow, deliberate fist where it rested on the table, the other flexing with a need he didn’t seem to know what to do with. His gaze had dropped, not out of shame, but restraint. His chest moved shallowly, like even breathing around the hurt took effort.

“Bucky…” she began softly, already regretting the jab.

He didn’t look up. Just shook his head once, slow and stiffly.

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“You did,” he said. Voice low, controlled. “You meant it.”

“No,” she stood from her chair, walking around to him. “I was teasing. That’s all. It was stupid, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t flinch when she reached out, but he didn’t lean into her either. Just sat there, still. Guarded. Wounded.

“I don’t understand your world,” he muttered finally, eyes lifting to hers. “But you understand mine.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Then you know what that kind of bond means. What it costs to say it. What it gives.” His voice dipped even lower, one hand pressing against his chest. “I told you I don’t share. I don’t steal. I chose, and you yielded to me.”

She swallowed, with her heart aching. He was trying so hard to adapt, to live in her world without sacrificing what made him him. But every now and then, their languages still clashed.

She stepped closer, slipping between his legs, gently cupping his jaw.

“I know,” she murmured, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with her thumb. “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of what we are. I’d never throw that away. Not for a job. Not for a joke.”

His breath shuddered in relief, but his eyes stayed locked to hers, needing something more than words. Needing her to see it.

So she leaned down, resting her forehead against his.

“This body is mine,” she said softly, “but it’s yours too. Always has been.”

That did it.

His arms wrapped around her waist in a swift motion, dragging her into his lap with a strength that was still startling sometimes. He buried his face against her neck, nuzzling the skin just below her ear with a low hum that bordered on a growl.

“Still don’t like it. The job.” he muttered.

She leaned against his chest, playing with his long hair. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I extended my stay here. Arthur’s been charging me cheap for the place. I made the fixes that had to be done, which kind of evened things out… but it’s still not fair to him. He could’ve rented this place out during the summer for way more.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

“I want to do the right thing,” she continued. “Pull my weight. I like it here, and I want to earn the right to stay.”

That made something twist in his chest again.

Pull her weight. Earn it. The idea of her working to keep her lair… it rubbed something raw and ancient in him. Now it wasn’t about the job or the men. It was the fact that he wasn’t the one securing her comfort. That she had to seek help -worse, coin- from others to keep what should be protected by him.

It made him feel less. Not a protector. Not a provider. Not a proper mate.

He didn’t speak, just stayed nestled in the crook of her neck, pensive.

She tilted her head slightly, reading the tension in his posture. “Bucky.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I’m doing it because it’s something I can do, it seems easy, and also it’s a way to belong here. I don’t want to impair Arthur, and I don’t want to move from this house either.”

That got him. He looked at her, reluctantly. “Move?”

“If I can’t pay him the right fee, maybe I should look for a place that I can really afford.”

His whole body went tense.

The idea of her leaving this place -their place- made his stomach drop with a cold, sick weight. His arms pressed harder around her instinctively. “No.”

She blinked. “It’s not-”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “You don’t leave your nest. Not after we made it ours.”

His voice had gone low, dangerous. Not to her, but to the very thought of her packing up and going somewhere else, away from the cave, somewhere he couldn’t protect her.

“You think this place is just walls?” he growled, pulling back to look her in the eye. “This is where I came to you as a man. Where I sleep most of the time now, this is our lair now, besides the cave. That doesn’t change just because Arthur could earn more.”

His words were clipped and harsh.

She cupped his cheek again, gently despite the sharpness in his tone. “Bucky-”

“I should be the one to handle it,” he muttered, guiltily. “Should hunt, bargain, do something. Not have you scraping your hands to keep what I’m supposed to protect.”

Her fingers slid into his hair again, soothingly. “You do protect me. This is just a job. Something I can do while you’re at the shore or learning new things here. And, must I remind you what I told you about genders and chores?”

That calmed him a bit, but only just. His brows remained knitted, his expression stormy. “If you must… I’ll allow it. For now.”

She laughed softly at that. “Oh, thank you, almighty lair-lord.”

He didn’t smile.

But he did hold her tighter.

And after a pause, voice barely audible, he muttered, “Still don’t like it.”

She sighed against his collarbone. “I know.”

His hand traced idle shapes along her back, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, thoughtful. After a moment, he spoke again, low and rough, “What kind of work could someone like me even do in town?”

She sighed. “Bucky, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he interrupted, in a quiet but firm voice. “I can’t read properly yet. Don’t know your machines. Can’t sit in one of those loud rooms with people and… type.” He frowned, flicking away his stare. “But I can do things. Build. Carry. Fix.”

She watched him for a moment, measuring his frustration, the way he tried to cage it behind a calm surface. Carefully, she reached up and ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

“With no papers,” she said gently, “at the age you appear to be… with no schooling, no official record, it’s hard.” She said it slowly, choosing each word with care, not wanting to bruise his pride. “There’s only a handful of jobs that don’t ask questions. Maybe something down at the port, loading and unloading. The fishermen might need an extra hand. Or maybe out at the lumberyard near the ridge.”

His brow furrowed deeper. “So many rules. Just to do a job. Just to carry things, or fix what’s broken.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Mainland life is… a different kind of wilderness.”

“I hate it.”

“I know that, too. But you’re doing great, you know. Reading. Writing. Talking to people, even if it’s just a grunt.”

“Too many steps,” he muttered, but leaned into her hand anyway.

She cupped his jaw, nudging his gaze back to hers. “You’ve already come so far. And whatever path you choose, it doesn’t have to match mine. Or anyone else’s. You’re not behind. You’re just… different.”

He held her gaze for a long, silent beat. Then, gruffly, “Still don’t like it.”

----

The sun had barely cleared the edge of the horizon when Bucky slid beneath the waves.

The sea was still cold this late in the season, but he welcomed it. Needed it.

His body sliced through the currents as if trying to shake the frustration that had nested deep in his chest the second she told him about the job.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. But something inside him bristled at the idea of her going out for hours, surrounded by strangers -males- with whom she’d share her time, her focus, and her voice.

And he couldn’t follow.

So, he dove. Again. And again. Deep enough that his ears buzzed with the pressure, far enough from the shore that nothing human could reach him.

----

She’d been surprised how much of the job was just… boring. Sorting through old inventory. Stocking shelves. Typing up backorders. Her supervisor, a man named Reynolds who had the body of an old linebacker and the patience of a turtle in traffic, roamed more than he helped, but it was gentle.

“This here’s delicate,” he said while handing her a box of literal nuts and bolts. “You drop one of those, you’ll be pickin’ ‘em up all day.”

Most of the workers were polite and nice. A few younger ones were even friendly. Still, being her first day, she didn’t relax, trying to absorb everything that was instructed to her.

It wasn’t until she stepped out onto the gravel drive after her shift that her shoulders felt lighter.

Because there he was.

Leaned against the far fence, all black hoodie and shadowed eyes. One leg crossed at the ankle, folded arms, not even pretending to hide the way he watched everyone around her like a sentry.

She smiled, walking toward him with her messenger bag slung across her shoulder. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I did.” His voice was flat. “Was already nearby.”

“Doing what?”

He blinked. “Swimming.”

That explained the faint briny scent beneath the hoodie. And the slightly damp locks behind his ears. She knew better than to tease him when he looked like that, tense and quiet, with his gaze still fixed on the building behind her.

“You alright?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. When she was within reach, he brushed his hand across her hip and leaned in a little. Inhaled. Subtle to anyone else. Not to her.

“Smell like them,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on,” she sighed.

He growled low, a sound meant more for himself than for her. “You talked to them.”

“I also talked to my supervisor, and to the guy at the vending machine who gave me his extra coffee pod, and to the printer that jammed twice. It’s a workplace, Bucky, you are supposed to communicate with people.”

“Hm.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped her arm around his waist.

“Want to walk me to the car, or are you going to keep inspecting my skin for traces of other males?”

He didn’t laugh, but his jaw shifted, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Instead of answering, he reached over and took her bag from her shoulder without a word, slinging it across his own as they started walking.

Once inside the car, she clicked her seatbelt into place and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life and Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was trying not to flinch at the sound. Still didn’t like the machine.

As the car rolled forward, he noticed the turn wasn’t one she usually took. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I need to pick something up before heading home,” she said casually, glancing at the dashboard clock.

“What thing?”

She grinned. “Not telling.”

He scowled. “Why not?”

“It’s a surprise.” She stuck her tongue out at him like a challenge, eyes back on the road.

“I don’t like surprises,” he grumbled and crossed his arms, clearly not enjoying being left out.

“Oh, cheer up already,” she said, laughing as she pulled into a small gravel lot and killed the engine.

He glanced up, blinking at the familiar sign. The smell hit him first, rich, oily, mouthwatering. The crispy fish place.

Bucky watched her go, with his arms still folded, tracking every movement. A few heads turned when she reached the counter, mostly curious people waiting for their orders, and his jaw ticked once.

But she came back just a minute later, triumphant, holding one of the warm cones of whitebait in both hands. She opened his door and leaned in, pressing the paper cone into his palm.

“For you, mister grumpy,” she said with a teasing smile. “Freshly made and hot.”

He stared at the food, then up at her. Then back down again.

She raised a brow. “What? Thought you liked these.”

He took the cone slowly, brushing her fingers. “Didn’t say I didn’t.” And without much ceremony, he popped one of the tiny, crispy fish into his mouth.

She watched him chew. “Good?”

His silence said it all. That, and the way he immediately reached for a second one.

She grinned and shut the door behind her as she slid back into the driver’s seat.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the occasional crunch of the whitebait the only sound between them. She had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh, humming faintly to the tune playing low on the radio.

Bucky glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then down at the half-eaten cone in his lap.

“...How was it?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked, turning to look at him briefly. “Work?”

He gave a small nod, chewing a handful of fish. “Your first day.”

Her mouth lifted into a soft smile. “It went alright, actually. A little chaotic. Everyone’s rushing around like they’ve done it a thousand times and forgot I haven’t. But the team was nice, and the supervisor was too. There’s still a lot to pick up, but I think I’ll get there.”

Bucky glanced at her hands on the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly as she navigated the road. His eyes drifted to her gaze, catching the faint drop on her eyelids, then the way her back was pressed against the backrest, and he frowned.

He didn’t really understand the ins and outs of human jobs -rushing around, orders, clocks dictating their time- but he could tell she was tired. And he hated that part. His jaw worked for a moment, like he wanted to say something but decided against it.

“That’s good,” he said finally, leaning his elbow on the window. “That they were nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, glancing at him.

----

By the time they got home, he tossed the empty paper cone into the trash and she flicked on the small kitchen light, casting a soft amber glow across the cozy space.

Bucky grabbed two mugs from the shelf without being asked, putting them on the counter. “Tea?”

She smiled as she pulled off her jacket. “You offering to make it?”

His shrug was slow and a little smug. “Don’t act so surprised. I can boil water.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen in a way that made him feel… calmer.

“I’m glad you asked, you know,” she said. “I know it’s hard. But you did. That matters.”

He turned the burner on and glanced over his shoulder. “Still don’t like you being tired from something that isn’t for you.”

She came over, arms wrapping loosely around his middle as she leaned into his back. “I’ll be fine. You’re allowed to not like it. But you asking means a lot.”

He grunted softly in response, already moving to make the tea like he’d seen her do dozens of times before, his motions a little clunky, but sure. She used the moment to peel off her shoes and make herself comfortable on the couch, and tugged one of the throw blankets over her lap.

When he returned, he handed her the mug she liked -the one with the chipped rim and faded paint- and set his own on the coffee table without a word. Then, without asking, he sprawled out along the couch and rested his head on her thighs.

She smiled, already threading her fingers into his damp hair. “You know you’ll have to shower if you plan on sleeping in the bed. You smell like seaweed and salt.”

“Maybe you could help with that,” he said, turning just slightly so his face pressed closer to her stomach. His voice came out lower, rougher. “Make sure I don’t miss a spot.”

She huffed a soft laugh, stroking her fingers behind his ear. “Is that what you’re calling it now? Help?”

“I’m learning euphemisms,” he muttered. “Thought you’d be proud.”

----

He didn’t tell her he was going.

She had left that morning with a kiss pressed to his cheek, muttering something about inventory day and that she’d be home late. The moment the car disappeared down the narrow coastal road, Bucky turned toward the sea.

The water was cold early in the day, but it felt like home. He swam with purpose, gliding along the jagged shoreline, keeping low beneath the surface. He surfaced only once, far enough from the docks not to be seen, but close enough to make the final stretch.

He carried a waterproof bag. Something she’d bought him months ago, for him to change when coming to the cottage from the cave and vice versa. Inside of it, there were dry jeans, a worn t-shirt, and a flannel button-up, along with a towel and a pair of sneakers. He shifted slowly, his limbs and muscles contorting and compressing under the strain.

It used to hurt more.

Not anymore, not as much. Not since he’d started spending more time in his human form. Not since he started choosing to do it for her.

Once dressed, hair still damp, he climbed up the stone slope toward the port.

He hated the place immediately.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

He loitered near the edge for a while, half-shadowed by a stack of pallets. Watching men move with purpose. Crates were hauled. Nets were tossed. Jokes and shouts flew through the sea breeze. His presence didn’t go unnoticed for long.

“Hey-” someone barked. “You loiterin’, or lookin’ for somethin’?”

The man approaching was stocky and old, his hands were scarred from rope burn and time. He looked Bucky up and down, sizing him like a head of cattle.

“Work,” Bucky answered simply.

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Don’t care.”

The man’s brow rose. “You lift?”

Bucky nodded.

The answer came in the form of a sharp look and a sack of cement dropped at his feet.

He picked it up like it weighed nothing.

The man squinted. “You on something?”

“No.”

“Show me again.”

Bucky bent down and grabbed two sacks this time. Made it look like it cost him.

The man gave a grunt of approval. “We’ve got a guy out with a busted back. You can fill in. You show up, keep your head down, don’t break shit.”

“No paperwork?” Bucky asked.

The man shrugged. “Not for this. Temporary’s temporary.”

He handed Bucky a folded piece of paper. “Name?”

He paused a bit. Then-

“Erm- James.”

“Show up at six. Don’t be late.”

And that was how Bucky got his first human job.

No ID was asked. No résumé. No one cared where he lived, who he knew, or what he’d done before. Just muscle and silence, which turned out to be the only language that really mattered there.

Half the men grunted more than they spoke anyway.

He kept his strength in check. Always pretending to strain just enough to seem impressive, but not inhuman. He lifted. He moved things. He kept his gaze down.

No one noticed him.

No one asked questions.

And strangely, that felt good.

----

Even if she only worked a few days a week, Bucky kept heading to the port daily.

Each morning, he’d tell her he was going for a swim, pressing a kiss to her shoulder or nuzzling under her ear before vanishing toward the shoreline. She never questioned it. He was sea-bound, always had been. She didn’t know he changed into dry clothes behind the rocks, walked through the back alleys of the port, and lifted crates and sacks until his shoulders ached, not from strain, but from holding back.

He didn’t tell her.

Not yet.

And on Saturday, when the foreman handed him his pay -a modest wad of bills folded with a paperclip-, he pocketed it and made his way through town.

Straight to the yarn shop.

He pushed the door open, and the little bell above jingled. The air smelled of cotton, lavender soap, and something faintly briny and sharp. The clerk was behind the counter, sorting a box of embroidery floss.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

For a beat too long, neither of them moved.

“Octopus,” she greeted dryly.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Herring,” he returned.

Her chin lifted a touch as she raised a single brow. “Well. You’re a long way from your rocks, aren’t you?”

“I want one of those hooks,” he said gruffly, ignoring her tone and nodding toward a row on the wall behind her. “The kind with the silicone handle.”

She squinted at him, twitching her lips. “Size?”

A pause.

He blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

Her mouth curved, and not in a kindly way. “Don’t even know which one she uses most, do you?”

He exhaled through his nose, sharply and annoyed, and his hand twitched at his side. He imagined flipping the entire counter over. “Just tell me what kind of yarn she buys.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because, old hag, you want coin.”

Her cackle was almost musical. “The nerve of calling me a hag, you ancient squid.”

His nostrils flared at the throwback insult, fisting his hands at his sides.

She turned around before he could spit fire back, plucked a 3.5mm hook from a drawer, and dropped it on the counter.

“Five dollars.”

He scowled at the price. “You gouge everyone, or just me?”

“What? Can’t pay with seashells and rusty fishhooks?” she teased, propping her chin in her hand like she had all day to enjoy this.

He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, tugging out the folded bundle of bills the dock foreman had handed him. As he fumbled through it for the right number, she tilted her head, looking at the money.

She smirked. “Tell me, octopus. Who’d you eat for it?”

He slapped a five on the counter with more energy than necessary. “Didn’t eat anyone.”

“Pity,” she said sweetly, dragging the bill across the wood.

He snatched the hook and turned.

“Always a pleasure,” she sang-songed at his back.

He didn’t answer.

But the door swung closed with enough force to rattle the bell like a warning.

----

She was slicing an apple when the door opened and closed with a familiar creak.

Bucky stepped inside, hair damp from sea-spray, smelling of salt and wind. He kissed her cheek in passing, a firm press of lips to skin that made her smile.

“I’m gonna shower,” he muttered.

She hummed in response, too focused on not cutting her fingers.

He disappeared down the hallway, already taking off his sneakers.

A minute later, when she carried her plate to the table, something else caught her eye.

A crochet hook lay near the placemat. Not hers, she could tell at a glance. The handle was smooth, matte silicone in a soft sea-glass green. Ergonomic. Just like the one she'd mentioned a dozen times but never actually bought.

She blinked at it. Picked it up. Turned it slowly in her fingers.

A smile bloomed across her face before she could stop it.

She padded softly down the hall. The bathroom door was closed, steam slipping out through the gap at the top. She knocked once and let herself in, sitting on the toilet lid like she sometimes did when he showered. Her favorite perch for idle conversations and teasing.

“So…” she started, “I saw something pretty on the table.”

Behind the curtain, water hit the tiles. A pause.

“Did you?”

“Hmm. Might’ve appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe… someone put it there.”

Another pause. Then, a low, almost grumbling answer: “Maybe.”

“Any idea where it came from?”

His voice was flat but betraying the tiniest flicker of pride. “The yarn shop.”

She let the silence stretch before whispering, “Thank you, Bucky.”

A grunt.

She leaned back, still twirling the hook between her fingers. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”

“I don’t,” he shot back. “But this one was for you.”

She laughed, soft and delighted. “You’re such a cutie.”

“I’m not.” The curtain shifted slightly, and his silhouette moved toward the edge. “You like it?”

“I love it.” She smiled at his shape through the steam. “Almost as much as I love that you listened.”

“I always listen,” he said simply.

She tilted her head and bit her lip.

Then, without a word, she stood up and began to undress. Quietly. Purposefully.

When the curtain rustled and she stepped in, Bucky blinked at her through the steam. His eyes dropped, then rose again, a glimmer of surprise that was chased quickly by something darker, pleased and hungry.

“You never come in here with me,” he murmured.

She shrugged, already reaching for the soap. “You always get handsy. And it gets messy.”

A half smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t say that.”

He grunted, stepping closer, water streaming between them. “Good.”

His hands found her waist, pressing his fingers as if he’d been waiting for this moment forever. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Let me wash-"

"I'll wash you first," she cut in smoothly, stepping into him. "You're the surprise guy today."

He scowled, just a little, more out of habit than anything else. But he didn’t protest. Her soapy hands on him were more than welcome, warm, slow, and familiar.

"So..." she murmured as her hands roamed across his chest, tracing old scars, "may I ask how you bought it?"

His eyes narrowed faintly, water dripping from his lashes. “Oh, I followed your example.”

She glanced up at him, arching a brow.

“Got myself an occupation,” he said, a little too casually.

Her hands stilled. “You what?”

He smirked then, that rare, crooked thing that always felt like it held secrets. “Temporary. Port work. Told you I could be useful.”

“Wait- you’ve been working?”

His shrug was all muscle and pride. “You’re not the only one who can bring something to the lair.”

“How do you get there every day?” she asked, gliding her fingers down his sides, suds slipping through her touch. “How did they even hire you? And what kind of work do you do at the port?”

Bucky tilted his head back into the spray with a satisfied sigh. For once, he wasn’t the one interrogating, and he found that he liked it.

“I swim,” he said simply. “Carry my things in that waterproof bag you gave me.”

She blinked. “That’s a long swim.”

He cracked a crooked grin again, arching a brow cockily at her. “I get there without breaking a sweat.”

She gave him a look, halfway between impressed and exasperated.

“And they hired you just like that?”

“They saw my potential,” he said smugly.

“Bucky…” she started, the warning in her tone was unmistakable.

“I’m not stupid, mate,” he cut in, lifting a hand to push wet strands from her face. “I feign to struggle a little.”

She snorted, biting back a smile, then let her gaze drop -just for a beat- before her hand followed, sliding down his slick chest and lower still, wrapping her fingers around him with a teasing squeeze.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Any manly co-worker I should be worried about?” she murmured, stroking him lazily. “Being a little too friendly with you?”

He snorted, rolling his eyes before narrowing them in a slow, pointed glare. “They barely speak. One barked at me for loitering and asked if I was on something after I lifted a couple of sacks.”

She chuckled lowly, grazing the head of his cock with her thumb just to hear him inhale sharply through his nose. “So no charming carrier with broad shoulders and twinkling eyes?”

He arched into her touch, resting a hand on the tile behind her. “None of them smells like you. So no, mate, you’ve got no competition.”

She laughed, slow and satisfied. “Mm, I like that answer.”

“And I like that hand,” he muttered, cock twitching against her palm. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna end up making a mess.”

She looked up at him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, do you?”

Instead of answering, she leaned in, giving a playful lick to his nipple. He twitched again in her hand.

That was enough to snap his restraint.

In one swift motion, he lifted her effortlessly, backing her against the cool tiles. Her legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation, gripping his shoulders with her hands.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “I do. And now I’m wondering…” He shifted his hips, teasing, testing, “…if you can take me just like this. No stalling. No fingers first. No cheating.”

His nose brushed her jaw as he nuzzled close, voice getting rougher.

“You think you’re ready for that, mate?”

She seemed to weigh it for a heartbeat, her gaze locked on his with a look that was equal parts challenge and surrender. Then she leaned in, nipped softly at his jaw, and whispered against his skin, “There’s only one way to find out.”

His hands clenched under her thighs, the slick heat of her pussy pressed flush to him, and for a beat, he just held her there, chest to chest, heartbeats thrumming in sync.

“Brave little thing,” he muttered, more reverent than mocking.

His hips rolled upward, slow and deliberate, teasing her just enough to make her whimper before he pulled back again. Her breath hitched.

His mouth found her throat, then her collarbone, licking and biting and making her head tip back. He moved with purpose now, grinding deliberately and relentlessly against her, slick skin on slick skin until she moaned as he finally pushed into her, slow at first, stretching her inch by inch with no buffer, no hesitation. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t unkind either. It was all raw, all heat, all him.

“That’s it,” he hissed, rocking deeper. “Take it. Take all of me.”

She did, with trembling thighs, fluttering breaths, hands tangled in his wet hair as he pressed her harder to the tiles, chasing every gasp, every whimper like it was a reward.

His thrusts became deeper, rougher, hips snapping with purpose. Not just from desire. That raw satisfaction rumbled in his chest and put a smirk on his lips against her neck.

He’d earned this.

Not just her gasps, or the way her nails dragged down his back. But the moment, the right to feel proud. To feel like a male who could provide, who could give her something she needed, even if it was small. Even if it was just a damn hook with a better grip.

“You liked that gift?” he growled against her ear, voice low and strained as he drove into her again,

She moaned in answer, hips rolling to meet his. That was enough.

“Good,” he grunted, pushing her higher against the tile, water cascading down their bodies, “Because I got it with my own hands. My work. My coin.”

He bit gently at her jawline, then licked over the mark. One hand slipped beneath her thigh, lifting her higher to get deeper still. Her head rolled back with a sharp cry.

“You feel this?” he growled, every word rough with the effort of holding back. “This is what you do to me. Every day. When you smile. When you kiss me.”

She whimpered something incoherent -his name, a plea, a yes- and he slammed into her again, his pace brutal now. His satisfaction, his triumph, all of it pouring into the way he took her.

His fingers dug into her thighs.

“You’re mine, mate,” he bit out, hips pounding, pelvic bone grinding against her clit. “And I’ll earn a hundred more hooks if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

She shattered with a cry, her legs trembling, arms tight around his shoulders as her climax hit her hard. And still he moved, drawn in by the way she clenched around him, the way she gave in fully to him, again and again.

His release came soon after, stuttering hips, forehead pressed to her shoulder as he groaned her name against her skin, spilling deep inside her.

For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of their panting breaths and the water streaming down.

----

The sheets were soft and warm, still faintly damp where their bodies had pressed on them after the shower. Her fingers drew idle patterns across his chest, tracing the old scars while the weight of his arm rested around her waist. He was unusually quiet, eyes half-lidded but not asleep, his breathing deep and regular.

She shifted slightly, angling her face toward his shoulder.

“You know…” she began gently, “you don’t have to work, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly, as though choosing his words. Then, his jaw clenched a little, and he spoke without looking at her.

“I do.”

There wasn’t anger in it, but there was a certain weight. Finality. She stilled her hand on his chest, and in that pause, she understood.

It was about pride. It was instinct. It was the need to contribute, to pull his weight beside her in the strange new shape of the life they were building. In his world, in his upbringing, a mate who didn't provide was less than. Worth less. And he had already spent too long hiding, watching from the fringes of her life.

Trying to coddle him or dismiss the effort would only wound him.

So instead, she shifted up slightly and pressed a kiss just below his collarbone.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Then I hope it’s not too hard on you.”

He finally looked at her then. Not with surprise, but something softer. Something grateful.

“It’s not,” he said after a beat, dragging his fingers lazily along her back. “I like earning things for you.”

She smiled into his skin, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

"That's flattering," she murmured, voice low against him, "but I want you to get things too."

He made a quiet sound in his throat, and she could feel the frown forming in his face before she even looked up.

"I know what you said about your kind and possessions," she added quickly, drawing slow lines on his stomach, "but you live here now. So maybe you can indulge yourself a little."

Still no answer. His body remained still under her, unreadable. She softened her tone further, shifting so she could rest her chin just below his collarbone.

"Like tools. Or food you enjoy. Not just... gifts for me."

He shrugged one shoulder, not quite dismissively, not quite accepting either. But after a beat, he muttered:

"Yes. That could be."

She smiled against his skin, brushing her nose along the warm line of his throat. The scent of soap remained faintly on him, mixed with salt and something that was just his.

“Then we’ll make a list,” she murmured. “What you want. What we want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just breathed in, as his hand slid to rest low on her back. Holding her there. Tethering.

But the way his thumb traced lazy circles against her skin… the way his chest rose calmly… it told her he was already thinking about it. Already imagining it.

Their nest.

Their life.

A future neither of them had expected, slowly taking shape like the tide reshaping the shore: patient and inevitable.

Taglist based on the main story: @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian @queergalpal97 @gentlelimerence @moogles93 @tentacle-priestess @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @lemonylover @wintrsoldrluvr @x-press-it

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #merman! Bucky #cecaelia! Bucky #cecaelia #bucky x curvy!reader #Mer! Bucky #Tangled #mermay 2025 #mermay

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dakusan · 1 month ago

Text

S U N K I S S E D

Lee Felix x Reader | beach date, piña coladas, salt-sweet kisses

🏖️ synopsis: one piña colada. two hands. three kisses you didn’t mean to mean that much. he dragged you to the beach. dunked you in the ocean. tasted your smile like it was sugar and sunburn. said i love you and now the world smells like salt and him. this was just a day, right? just one day? then why does your chest still feel like it’s holding the tide.

💌a/n: I’M SO TIRED I COULD BITE DRYWALL. fuck work. fuck capitalism. anyway. here’s some sun-dazed soft chaos with lee fucking felix. it’s piña colada flavoured. p.s. reblogs = piña colada kisses p.p.s. if this made your spine curl or your feet kick, tell me. validate me. i’m delicate. p.p.p.s. YES I SAW THE ASKS. I WILL GET BACK TO YOU. DON’T PANIC. STAY CALM. I LOVE YOU.

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers.

🎧 » Our Summer — TXT « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:30 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You feel the ocean before you see it.

Warm wind tousles your hair through the rolled-down car window, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen, distant grills and crashing waves. The sun hangs lazy in the afternoon sky—no longer sharp, but melting, golden, like butter smeared across the horizon. It paints the car in warmth and shadow as Felix hums along to some lo-fi remix playing from the aux cord, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel, completely at peace.

He glances over and grins.

“You ready, baby?”

You nod, but he’s already parking—spinning the wheel with one hand, sunglasses slipping a little down the bridge of his nose. He parallel parks like he’s done this a hundred times, probably because he has. This is his spot. You know that now. His beach. Felix grew up near the water, and the ocean seems to respond to him like an old friend.

“Let me grab everything,” he says, taking off his sneakers and hopping out barefoot like the sand won’t burn him.

You blink.

“You’re not wearing shoes?”

“Shoes are for people who hate joy.” he shrugs, already circling the car.

You watch as he opens the back and starts pulling out so much stuff you didn’t know he packed: a striped beach umbrella, a folded blanket, a massive tote bag, his mini JBL speaker, a portable cooler—wait, is that a pineapple-shaped cup?

“You’re unhinged,” you laugh.

Felix beams, tucking the tote under one arm like a surfboard. “Incorrect. I’m prepared. You’ll thank me when you’re sipping cold piña coladas while other people suffer with warm water bottles and broken Bluetooth speakers.”

You raise a brow. “You actually brought piña coladas?”

“Homemade,” he says proudly, lifting the cooler with both hands like a trophy. “One with rum, one without. Because I love you and you’re a lightweight.”

You feel your face heat up at that. He didn’t have to say it like that. Like he loves you. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s nothing.

“I’ll carry the blanket,” you mutter, grabbing it before your heart combusts.

The two of you trek toward the shore. The sand is soft and hot beneath your sandals—Felix doesn’t flinch, of course—and you pass families packing up for the day, towels dotted with sunscreen bottles, and kids squealing as the waves lap at their ankles. The air is rich with summer: salty and sticky and full of distant laughter.

Felix leads you to a quieter area, not too far from the lifeguard tower, but away from the crowd. He plants the umbrella like a flag and spreads the blanket with practiced flair. Within seconds, the little beach setup looks like something out of a Pinterest board—cosy and colourful, with two folded towels, the cooler nestled between them, and the pineapple cup sitting on the blanket like a mascot.

He collapses dramatically onto the towel. “Beach achieved.”

You lower yourself beside him, brushing grains of sand off your knee. “This is impressive.”

He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand, and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your outline.

“You haven’t even seen the playlist I made.”

“There’s a playlist?”

Felix grins, slipping his phone out of the tote and connecting it to the speaker. Music spills out—something breezy and slow, warm vocals over acoustic guitar and soft drums.

“There,” he says. “Perfect.”

You take a deep breath. The wind cools your sun-warmed skin and your shoulders start to relax. You lean back on your elbows, eyes closed, letting the sound of waves and Felix’s music wrap around you like a lullaby.

Then—

“Babe,” Felix whispers, voice suddenly close.

You open one eye. “Hm?”

“You’ve got five seconds to run before I throw you in the ocean.”

Your eyes fly open.

“What?!”

He’s already standing, shirt half-unbuttoned, mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and god, he looks like every summer daydream you've ever had.

“Five!” “Felix—” “Four!” “I will end you—” “Three!”

You’re on your feet before he hits two, sprinting toward the shoreline with his laughter chasing you through the sand.

You hit the water first, crashing in up to your knees, heart racing, lungs burning from laughing too hard. The sea rushes around your legs, cool and foamy and endless. You barely manage to turn around before—

“GOT YOU!”

Felix barrels toward you with wild purpose, arms outstretched like a kid on a sugar high, and you scream—half genuine terror, half pure delight—as he lunges.

You try to dodge but he catches your waist mid-turn, lifting you clear off the sand like it’s nothing.

“Felix, no—NO—”

Your words cut off into a shriek as he drops you into the water, both of you splashing down in a dramatic mess of foam and limbs.

You resurface, gasping and soaked, hair clinging to your cheeks, saltwater stinging your lips—and Felix is already laughing like he just won a Nobel Prize.

“You’re a menace,” you splutter, wiping your eyes.

“A charming menace,” he grins, ducking under again.

Before you can recover, he pops back up with water dripping down his temple, eyes sparkling. The ocean turns him golden, kissed by sun and salt—his wet hair curling at the ends, skin glowing, lips pink from smiling too much. He looks like summer made a boy and gave him freckles.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing on this beach.

“You okay?” he asks, a little softer now, still panting from laughter.

You nod, breath catching.

“Yeah. Just—cold.”

“Come here,” he says immediately.

Then his arms are around you—warm despite the water, firm as he pulls you against his chest. Your soaked shirt sticks to your skin, your legs bumping his underwater, and your cheek rests over his heart, which is still beating fast from running. He holds you close like he forgot how to let go.

“I’m sorry I dunked you,” he murmurs into your hair. “Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I mean, you screamed in the funniest way—”

You pinch his side and he yelps, pulling back just enough to laugh, to catch your face in his hands.

There’s a pause.

The kind that stretches, heavy and full.

The waves hush beneath it. The breeze slows. And the look he gives you shifts—bright amusement melting into something quiet, raw. More than playful. More than just a joke.

You can feel the moment tipping. Like something about it might last forever if you let it.

He leans in close.

But doesn’t kiss you yet.

Just presses his forehead to yours, skin damp, noses brushing, breath tangled.

"This feels like the kind of memory I'll dream about in winter."

You don’t say anything—you don’t need to, you can't. You just wrap your arms around his waist and stay there a while, half-floating, pressed chest to chest in the shallows like the tide only exists to hold you both.

Eventually, he pulls back, water dripping from his chin, and smiles like mischief reborn.

“…Now I’m gonna need a piña colada. You?”

You snort. “Only if you don’t steal mine.”

“No promises.”

Back on the blanket, everything feels slower. Softer. The air is thick with heat and the sharp citrus of sunscreen, the kind that clings to your skin no matter how many waves you’ve let wash over you. Felix hands you a towel, then flops beside you like he’s been shipwrecked. “I’m officially eighty-five percent ocean now.”

You laugh, squeezing water from your hair as you sit beside him, knees brushing. The breeze picks up slightly, salty and warm, and you pull the towel tighter around your shoulders. Felix reaches for the cooler without lifting his head.

“Okay,” he says dramatically. “Now it’s time for my pièce de résistance.”

He opens the lid and pulls out two mason jars, chilled and dewy with condensation. Inside: icy piña coladas, the color of sand and sunshine, topped with tiny wedges of pineapple and paper umbrellas bent just slightly from the cold.

You stare. “You really went all out.”

Felix just hands you one with a proud grin. “Try it first. Tell me I’m not the boyfriend of the year.”

You raise an eyebrow, but take a sip.

Oh. Oh no.

It’s good.

Cold and creamy, just the right amount of coconut and pineapple, with a hidden but sharp edge of rum. Enough to warm the back of your throat.

You let out an embarrassingly loud groan. “Felix.”

His grin widens. “Right?!”

“This is dangerously good. Like, blackout-on-a-beach good.”

“I’d carry you home,” he offers sweetly. “Like a drunken princess.”

You take another sip just to spite him. “I’d haunt you forever if you let me embarrass myself like that.”

He hums, lying back on the towel with a lazy stretch, arms folded behind his head. “That sounds worth it.”

You shake your head and settle beside him, resting on your elbows again. The sun is lower now, skimming just above the waterline. The sky is dipped in pastel brushstrokes—peach, lavender, gold bleeding into a dusky blue. Everything feels slow and stretched out. Like time’s holding its breath.

You sip again, then glance sideways.

He’s looking at you.

He’s been looking at you.

And something about the moment changes—shifts in the breeze, sharpens behind your ribs. His smile fades into something quieter, deeper. Less playful, more real.

“Can I…?” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

Instead, he reaches out and brushes your bottom lip with his thumb, gentle and grounding. You hadn’t realized the drink left a little sheen of coconut on your mouth until he swipes it away.

He lingers there, thumb just barely touching skin.

“You had some…” he murmurs. His voice is lower now. Tinted with want.

Your breath catches.

“Is that your excuse?” you whisper.

He nods, almost bashful. “Kinda.”

You tip your head forward. Just a little.

“I won’t stop you,” you say softly.

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s slow. Warm. Not rushed, not showy—just his mouth on yours with a kind of tenderness that melts right through your bones. He tastes like coconut and salt and something sweet that might just be him. His hand cups your cheek, thumb tracing light shapes along your jaw, like he’s making sure this is real.

You shift closer, knees brushing, breath syncing. He sighs into it—low and content—and deepens the kiss just slightly, tongue sweeping gently across your lower lip before pulling back.

When he opens his eyes, they’re softer than the sky.

“You taste like summer,” he whispers.

You blink. “That’s cheesy.”

He grins, a little sheepish. “Yeah, but it’s true.”

You pause.

Then lean in again, close enough your noses bump.

“Then kiss me again,” you murmur, “before summer ends.”

And he does.

Right there, under the half-open umbrella, on a towel that smells like sunscreen and him, with piña colada melting in the sand beside you. This kiss is deeper. Felix leans into it with more certainty this time—his hand sliding around the nape of your neck, his thumb brushing behind your ear like he’s learning you by feel.

You melt into him like the tide pulling at your ankles earlier—inevitable. His lips part just enough for your breath to sync, and when your hand slips up to rest on his chest, you can feel his heart beating like a secret he’s been holding in all day.

Felix kisses like he’s memorizing. Like he’s planning to replay it on loop, forever.

When you finally pull back, your eyes meet his own, breath slightly heavy.

You exhale slowly. “That was…”

“I know,” he says, smiling, but his voice is quieter, softer now. “I know.”

The sunlight catches in his eyelashes as he looks at you, and you’re struck—again—by just how beautiful he is. Not just the freckles, or the glint of mischief always hiding behind his grin.

It’s all of it. It’s him.

You lie back on the blanket, breath still uneven, and stare up at the sky.

Felix joins you a second later, lying close enough for your arms to touch. His pinky brushes yours, and he hooks it gently. For a while, you both just lie there—watching the sky bleed into deeper pastels, listening to the waves, your hands tangled like roots. His thumb strokes slow circles into your palm, rhythmic and grounding, like he needs to be touching you to believe this is real.

After a minute, he speaks.

“I think I wanted today to be perfect,” he murmurs.

You turn your head. “It is.”

“Yeah, but… I wanted it to feel like something you’d remember. Like something you’d want to come back to.” He looks at you then, eyes soft. “I want to be someone you come back to.”

You don’t answer immediately.

Instead, you reach over and brush a wet curl out of his face. Your fingers trail along his jaw. He closes his eyes at your touch.

“I already do,” you whisper.

His eyes open again—glassy in the gold light, mouth parted like he’s about to say something but can’t quite find it. Then he scoots closer, pulling you gently into his side. His arm drapes over your waist and you rest your head on his shoulder where he presses a kiss into your hair.

The world tilts a little. Slows. Becomes small and full and sweet.

Somewhere down the beach, a guitar strums out of someone’s speaker. Children laugh in the distance. Seagulls cry overhead.

But here? Here it’s just Felix. The sun. Your skin still damp with ocean. His thumb brushing lazy shapes against your hipbone.

“I don’t want to go home yet,” you say.

He hums. “Then don’t.”

“Is that allowed?”

“With me?” His voice is low now, warm and sleepy. “Anything’s allowed.”

Eventually, the sun began to dip. Leaving behind indigo skies and soft wind as the last of the beachgoers started packing up and wandering off. The tide pulls long and low in the distance, gentle and rhythmic.

You slip your feet into your sandals, but Felix crouches next to you before you can finish, fingers brushing over your ankle. He gently takes the straps out of your hands and shakes his head.

“Nuh-uh. You’re not walking through this sand after I made you soft all day.”

“I can carry my own shoes, y’know.”

He grins up at you, shoes in one hand, other already reaching for yours. “I know. But I like doing it.”

You don’t argue.

The two of you begin the slow walk back across the darkening sand. He walks close, arms brushing. His fingers curl around yours like a habit. Every now and then, he swings your joined hands gently, like he can’t help it.

It's quiet between the two of you but not awkward. Comfortable. Warm. Warm like the sun. And you don't dare break that silence. Neither does he.

And when you reach the car, he opens the passenger door for you without a word, like instinct. Like love. You slide in slowly and he puts your shoes in the back, tosses his towel in, then closes the trunk with a thud. And for a moment, he just stands there.

Looking at you.

The sky behind him is streaked with faint stars and the first breath of night, but you can still see his face clearly in the dusky blue. He looks a little flushed. A little like he’s trying not to fall into something he already fell into hours ago.

You get out of the car again before he can talk himself out of whatever he’s about to do.

“I’m not done kissing you,” you say softly.

He exhales a sound that’s almost a laugh—almost a gasp—and takes two steps forward before his mouth is on yours again.

This kiss isn’t sun-drunk or playful or sugar-sweet. This kiss is wanting. His hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you in with a low sound in his throat like he needs this—needs you. Your fingers slide under the open collar of his shirt, gripping his shoulder as he presses you gently against the side of the car. The metal is cool against your back, but his body is all heat.

His other hand settles on your waist, thumb stroking slow and possessive. His kiss deepens—like he’s trying to tell you something without language. Like this is the part where I mean it. Like I’d stay here forever if you let me.

When he pulls back, barely, your noses still brush. You’re both out of breath.

He’s looking at you like you hung the stars he parked under. “You feel like the rest of my life,” he says, almost afraid of it.

You blink, stunned silent.

He doesn’t wait for a reply—just kisses your forehead, gentle and soft. Almost feather-like. Then he opens the passenger door again and helps you inside like he didn’t just shift the entire axis of your world.

You settle into the seat. Your legs are still sandy, your lips a little swollen, and your chest’s doing that thing where it doesn’t know what to do with too much feeling.

He closes the door gently, walks around to the driver’s side, and gets in.

Keys in. Engine humming low. And right before driving off, Felix takes one more look at you. Smiles. Eyes sparkling.

"I love you."

#stray kids #skz #stray kids fluff #lee felix #필릭스 #felix x reader #felix fluff #tendertuesday

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francesderwent · 8 months ago

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*beach jail is a hole in the sand into which water pours in when the tide comes in. you stay there until you’ve built a nice sandcastle or found 5 pretty shells

**the hats are provided by the community and passed down from baby to baby

***not per note, but per annoying reply, rude tag, etc

#fun polls fun polls fun polls #cate polls

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littlelamy · 8 months ago

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Request: Maybe Rafe and Reader have been dating for awhile but his cocaine addiction is getting worse and he thinks she is to pure/good for him, so in order to ''save her'' knowing she won't just leave if he tries to break up, he says he does not love her.......cue to him saving her when she is about to get hit by a car (but happy ending)

a/n: thank you for requesting!!☺️💕 pngs from @saizun

the moon hung low in the dark sky, its silver glow painting the beach in a cool, otherworldly light. the stars above flickered like distant candles, barely visible against the ink-black horizon. you knelt in the damp sand, your breath clouding in the chilly night air as you carefully cupped a baby turtle in your hands.

the little creature’s legs flailed against your palms, desperate to reach the sea. its determination was a stark contrast to the ache in your chest that hadn’t dulled in the two weeks since rafe cameron had shattered your world.

“this way, little guy,” you whispered, placing the turtle closer to the waves lapping gently at the shore. you sat back on your heels, the water soaking into the hem of your pants, and watched as the tide carried the tiny creature away.

you felt at peace in moments like this—away from everything, especially the memories of rafe.

but peace never lasted long when it came to him.

rafe sat in his truck a short distance away, his fingers twitching against the steering wheel. he shouldn’t have come here. seeing you again, after what he’d done, was a mistake.

yet here he was.

from where he sat, he could see you crouched on the sand, your figure illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. you looked serene, your hair tumbling over your shoulders as you reached toward the water.

he clenched his jaw. he didn’t deserve to look at you, let alone love you.

but it didn’t stop him from being here.

two weeks had passed since he’d told you he didn’t love you anymore. two weeks of torturing himself with the memory of your face—hurt, confused, desperate to understand. he’d lied because he thought it would save you. because he thought pushing you away would keep you from sinking with him.

instead, it had only made him sink deeper.

on the seat next to him, a bag of cocaine lay unopened. for once, he didn’t even want it. what he wanted was impossible—to turn back time and undo the damage he’d done.

his stomach churned when he saw the headlights.

you heard the rumble of an engine before you saw the headlights sweeping across the sand. you turned your head, squinting against the glare as the vehicle sped closer.

it was a blue jeep, its music blaring loud enough to drown out the waves. your stomach twisted when you recognized it.

topper.

the bass from the speakers shook the air as the car barreled toward the shoreline, its tires kicking up clouds of sand.

“seriously?” you muttered under your breath, standing up. you waved your arms, your voice cutting through the night. “hey! slow down!”

the jeep didn’t stop. instead, it swerved closer, the headlights making it nearly impossible to see.

your heart hammered as the car bore down on you, its speed relentless.

rafe’s blood ran cold as he watched the jeep hurtling toward you.

it didn’t take much to guess who was behind the wheel. ruthie and topper had been drinking all night—it was obvious from the way the car swerved recklessly across the sand.

the jeep was getting closer, and you weren’t moving.

“goddammit,” rafe hissed, throwing his truck into drive and flooring the gas.

the sound of tires skidding on sand drowned out the crashing of waves.

the jeep’s headlights blinded you, freezing you in place like a deer caught in a trap. your legs refused to move, your breath caught in your throat as the car sped closer.

“y/n!”

the shout snapped you out of your trance, but it was too late. the car was almost on you.

suddenly, a solid force slammed into you, knocking you off your feet. you hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from your lungs as sand scraped against your skin.

the jeep swerved at the last second, speeding past with a deafening roar and disappearing down the beach.

you lay there, stunned, the world spinning around you.

“baby! are you okay?”

you turned your head and saw rafe kneeling beside you, his face pale and drawn, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon.

“rafe?”

“you could’ve been killed!” his voice shook with anger and fear.

“i—what are you doing here?”

“are you serious right now?” he snapped. “i just saved your life, and you’re asking me that?”

his hands were all over you, checking for injuries. the touch was rough, desperate, and achingly familiar.

“i’m fine,” you muttered, sitting up slowly.

“you’re not fine,” he shot back, his voice cracking. “what the hell were you thinking, standing in the middle of the beach like that?”

“i was helping the turtles!” you exclaimed, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“turtles?” he stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “you almost died because of some turtles?”

“why do you even care?” the words spilled out before you could stop them, sharp and laced with bitterness. “you don’t love me, remember?”

rafe froze, his expression crumbling.

“y/n…”

“no, don’t. you don’t get to act like this after what you did.” tears burned your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “you don’t get to pretend like you care.”

“i do care,” he said, his voice raw. “i never stopped caring.”

“then why did you say it?”

“because i thought i was protecting you!” his voice rose, echoing over the waves. “i thought if i let you go, you’d be safe from me. from all of this.”

“rafe—”

“no, listen to me.” his hands cupped your face, his blue eyes searching yours. “i didn’t mean it. any of it. i said it because i’m a coward. because i didn’t want you to see what i’ve become.”

tears spilled down your cheeks, blurring your vision. “you didn’t have to do this alone. i would’ve helped you.”

“i didn’t want you to.” his voice cracked, thick with emotion. “you’re too good, y/n. too good for someone like me.”

“that’s not your decision to make,” you said, your voice trembling. “you don’t get to decide what’s good for me. i do. and i chose you, rafe. i always chose you.”

his thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “i don’t deserve you.”

“then be someone who does,” you whispered.

he closed his eyes, his forehead resting against yours. “i don’t know how.”

“we’ll figure it out. together.”

the words hung in the air between you, fragile but full of hope.

for the first time in weeks, rafe felt like he could breathe again.

“i love you,” he said, the words breaking free like a dam finally bursting. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i ever made you think i didn’t.”

you pulled him into a hug, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck. he held you like you were his lifeline, his anchor in the storm.

“i love you too,” you murmured against his shoulder.

the night stretched on, the waves crashing softly in the background as you clung to each other. the future was uncertain, but for now, you had each other.

and that was enough.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl l @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

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the-sky-queen · 4 months ago

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There where no Sonic and Shadow variants in Sonic prime. I have always wondered about them. You're au of new yoke made me think about their variants even more. No place is an interesting world because of Sonics fear of water. They didn´t really use it much in the show. A bit of a shame really. They could have used it in an interesting way.

My question is what would Sonic and Shadows variants be like in No place? I could see Sonics fear of water being very important. If every variant is a piece of his personality this one would definitely represent all his fears and anxiety. His fear of water would leave Sonic isolated, he maybe a bit of an outcast. Since everybody else here is a pirate.

No place has very small islands and there´s water everywhere. He shouldn´t be able to run on water it should definitly be a huge obstacle for him. He might get bullied because of his fear. Being so isolated could make this version of Sonic a bit timid or shy.

As for Shadow he could stumble upon him and be a big brother figure. Kind of like Sonic was when he found tails. I know you´re versions of Sonic and Shadow in you´re new yoke au are very different in personality and with different powers. So what do you think? What would there variants be like in no place?

Hello! Very interesting analysis you've got here! I love it! I agree that doing a deep dive into Sonic's fear of water would be fascinating, but I had a different idea when I was designing his and Shadow’s No Place counterparts. (And Sonic's fear and anxiety is going to manifest in a different Shatterspace 👀)

The No Place part of With Great Power Comes is called The Delicate Balance Between a Blessing and a Curse. The Sonic variant is Splash and the Shadow variant is Torrent! Splash represents Sonic's love of adventure and his upbeat attitude. I decided to completely flip Sonic's fear of water on its head for Splash and make his powers center around water. He was rescued from drowning as a baby by what is essentially the goddess of the ocean. She raised him and blessed him with her powers. So Splash can run on water, has hydrokinesis, and can't drown. Splash is still isolated like you suggested though, which is why he is going to end up joining with the crew of the Kraken once I actually get around to writing his story. XD

As for Torrent, he's Splash's mirror. He has the same water powers, with a couple extra. It's funny that you suggested them becoming brothers, because Splash and Torrent kinda are? At least in the sense that both their powers stem from the ocean goddess. Torrent however isn't on good terms with her or Splash at the beginning of the story. (He's not coping with what happened to his Maria very well.)

Anyway, here's some art of the two of them! I love them dearly. :D

#thanks for the ask!#i love asks #asks #Sky Queen #sonic the hedgehog #sonic au #sonic prime #sonic prime au #sonic #shadow the hedgehog #Splash the Hedgehog Son of the Ocean #Torrent the Retribution #Tide the Water-Speaker #lore dump #art #my art

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thatsmzbitchtoyou · 2 months ago

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Royal Duties Chapter 2

Summary: Princess Y/N is betrothed to Prince Bucky Barnes, a political match to form bonds and alliances. A friendship is formed between them built on understanding and allyship. But can real love grow from forced circumstances?

Warning: Language, eventual smut, miscarriage/pregnancy, mentions of possible cheating

Previous chapter Next chapter

The honeymoon was a nice reprieve after feeling so high strung for the past month and a half. Bucky was always patient and polite with her, giving a show to the cameras that they knew were hiding around every corner documenting their newly wedded bliss. She really didn’t want to admit to herself how much she liked those moments when he would hold her hand while walking along the beach, playfully push her toward the water then chase her through the shallow tide until he inevitably caught her around the waist then would kiss her neck. Or the moments during dinner at the restaurants in the resort when he would constantly be touching her somewhere. Or the moments when she would sunbathe by the pool and subtly watch him swim, enjoying his naked torso and the metal arm glittering in the sunlight. When he would get out of the pool and approach her, sitting on his own chair, then she would get up and sit with him next to his legs, helping reapply sunscreen and then hold his metal hand affectionately and play with his wedding band on his finger as they talked. He even picked up a nickname for her, calling her “Peaches” since she tended to snack on them often or choose peach flavored drinks.

The cameras were eating it all up, and Steve would give her proud winks whenever he checked in with them. They were pulling off the ruse, giving their now allied peoples hope and faith in their combined futures together. The news cycle was constantly about them, and Y/N was grateful that the hardest part seemed over.

Well, mostly over. Her mother and father would not stop trying to contact her. A flood of calls and texts and messages being sent to her and even to Steve came in with subtle questions about her sexual advances on Bucky. She ignored them, trying to enjoy her holiday before they would be forced back into regular life, where she would have to put on her mask as the princess she was, and soon-to-be-Queen. Bucky’s coronation would happen a few weeks after their humanitarian campaign, which meant she would automatically become Queen consort.

On their last night as she packed her clothes and got ready for their departure the next morning, her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. She picked it up and rolled her eyes at seeing her mother’s contact on the screen. Bucky was taking a phone call out on the porch, so she decided to finally answer, putting it on speaker so she could keep packing.

“Y/N! What is going on? Why haven’t you been answering our calls or texts? I sent messages to the Royal Advisor! Did you not get them–”

“Mother,” Y/N interrupted her firmly. “I got them all, but I was trying to enjoy my honeymoon.”

“Oh,” her mother sounded more pleased. “I see. Very good, my dear. Have you kept him busy this whole week?”

Y/N’s jaw ticked in irritation. “No, Mother, I haven’t.”

“What?” she hissed. “What do you mean? Why not?! After all the time and effort your Father, the advisors and I have put into teaching you…after all the diplomatic bullshit we had to pull to make this deal, and you haven’t fucked him?!”

“For Christ’s sake, Mother,” Y/N scoffed, folding her new swimsuits.

“What is wrong with you? Why couldn’t you do this one thing right? It’s not that hard, just lie there and take it!”

Y/N bristled at that. “I’m not some bitch for you to sell off and breed,” she snarled. “I knew my role in all this, and I wasn’t happy about it, but I did it, didn’t I? I have helped make peace, true peace, for our people for the first time in decades.”

“But–”

“An heir will come when it comes. Thankfully Bucky is much more than the ravenous, power-hungry dictator you painted him to be,” she said. “You, Father and the advisors failed me. They don’t expect me to reproduce in a year.”

“What?”

“They don’t want me to starve myself for the sake of keeping up propriety and appearances,” she continued, getting louder as she hovered over the phone. “I’ve learned so much within just a week of being with him, with them, the supposed enemy, and now I’m realizing that everything you taught me was a ridiculous lie or a means to control me and the narrative.”

“You little–”

A metal hand snatched Y/N’s phone off the bed, and she gasped as she watched Bucky bring it close to his mouth. “Choose your next words carefully, ma’am,” Bucky said, his voice low and gravelly. Her mother gasped, and Y/N could just imagine her shrinking away from the phone. “You are speaking to the next Queen of Brooklyn, and will treat her with the respect and austerity that she deserves.”

“Y-Yes, Your Majesty,” her mother’s voice shakily replied.

“If you ever reach out to her again, I expect that all communications will be of the highest praise of her character,” he continued. “And if I may be frank, she is your daughter. How dare you treat her the way you have?” There was silence on the other end, then a short sniffle. “Consider this your one and only warning,” he grumbled. “She and I outrank you now, Your Highness. You would do well to remember that. And I’ll send a little reminder to your husband and his court. When or how your daughter fucks me is none of your business or concern. Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N blushed deeply, biting back a chuckle at his wording. There was another pause, then the sound of a deep inhale echoed through the phone. “Yes, Your Majesty. My apologies,” she said.

“Apologize to her,” Bucky commanded, then held the phone towards her.

There was a longer pause, the sound of some kind of shuffling, then a huff of breath. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” her mother said, sounding like it was coming from gritted teeth.

“Very good, Your Highness,” Bucky cooed sarcastically at her as he raised the phone back up to his mouth. “Goodnight.”

He hung up on her before she could say anything, then flung the phone on the bed, closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. Y/N watched him, frozen on the spot. Neither of them said anything for a long moment, then he opened his eyes, turned to her and stepped forward, kneeling down before her. She was surprised once again, seeing the future king kneel in front of her, then again as he hugged her, wrapping his arms around her waist and tucking his face into the crook of her neck. Y/N froze for a moment, her heart beating rapidly, before hugging him back.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, his flesh hand rubbing her back.

“I’m fine,” she answered.

“Are you sure?” he asked, pulling away to look at her but keeping himself close as he studied her face.

Y/N’s hands stayed on his shoulders, grounding her as she thought for a moment. Was she okay? She didn’t realize she was crying until his hands reached up and swiped tears away from her cheeks before cupping her face in his hands. “I…I’m fine,” she repeated, staring at him.

Bucky looked unconvinced. “I’m sorry for intervening. You were standing up for yourself fine, and I’m proud of you,” he said with a smirk. “I just couldn’t stand hearing her speak that way any longer.”

Y/N chuckled, sniffing quickly before moving her hands to his wrists. “You snuck up on me. I didn’t mean for you to hear any of it,” she said, squeezing his wrists reassuringly.

Bucky smiled sheepishly. “Sorry,” he laughed. “Sometimes I forget to make my steps louder. Product of the war, I guess,” he trailed off.

Y/N’s thumbs rubbed the back of his hands comfortingly. She had witnessed his nightmares over the past week. He had warned her before they married about his bouts of PTSD flashbacks and nightmares, and usually at night he did well at waking himself up and calming down, but her heart broke for him as she watched the pain and memories roil behind his eyes. She gathered her courage and leaned forward slowly, watching for his reaction. Bucky didn’t move, his expression turning from sadness to curiosity as she got closer. She closed the distance and kissed him. It was short, just a quick peck, but he kissed her back before she pulled away. “Thank you for standing up for me,” she said, slightly nuzzling his nose. “And for reminding me that I can do it for myself.”

Bucky’s eyes flickered across her face, his brow turned upward now. “You deserve better than that,” he replied. “I know we don’t know each other that well, but just within what we’ve learned about each other this last week, you deserve better. I hope you know that.”

Y/N smiled. “I do now,” she said.

The air between them suddenly felt like it was vibrating, a strange tension and anticipation hanging in the air. Bucky’s gaze flickered to her lips repeatedly. “Can I kiss you?” he asked. “I mean…really kiss you?”

Y/N blinked rapidly, desire flowing through her veins insanely fast, making her cheeks blush as her eyes looked at his lips. “Yes,” she breathed.

Her desire was reflected in his eyes and in the way his expression shifted into something she could only call yearning. He barely nodded, his fingers slightly tightening on her face, before he leaned in and kissed her. It was soft at first, both of them seemingly holding their breath. He broke it off first, but didn’t move away. His lips hovered over hers, the featherlight touch igniting an excitement deep in her belly that she hadn’t felt in a long time. A short whimper escaped her throat, and his eyes snapped back up to hers. His breathing picked up and his metal hand moved to the back of her neck, like at their wedding, pulling her in to close the distance and kiss her hard.

She gasped against his mouth, her eyelids fluttering shut as he angled his head to deepen the kiss. All the kisses and touches that they’d exchanged over the week for the public eye were nice, but this was exhilarating. Her hands instantly moved from his wrists to around his waist, hugging him close and scratching down his mid-back. He moaned at that, the sound vibrating into her mouth, and she opened her mouth and licked at his lower lip, silently asking for permission. He almost sagged against her at that, letting out a long sigh through his nose as he opened his mouth and let her taste his tongue. Their touches became more insistent, the sound of their breaths becoming more frenzied and shaky, and the more she touched him, the more Bucky moaned and whimpered. Her heart broke again realizing he was touch starved, and her hands slid from his chest up to his neck, then cupped his face in her hands. Her thumbs slid along his cheeks, and his fingers gripped her sleep tank at her back tightly. She then moved her hands up and ran her fingers through his hair. He shivered hard, a deep groan vibrating in his chest, then he suddenly pulled away gasping for air.

“Mmh, I’m sorry,” he huffed, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m sorry…I told you I wouldn’t push you–”

“No, no no,” Y/N quickly shook her head, also trying to catch her breath. “I liked it, it’s okay.” She kissed the tip of his nose to lighten the sudden somber mood, her fingers gently scratching through his hair at the back of his head. “You can kiss me like that anytime.”

Bucky laughed, dropping his head down to her shoulder as she joined in laughing with him. He hugged her again, giving her shoulder a small kiss. “Even so, I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to take advantage of you. I haven’t done…this…for a long time and I think I’m just a little too excited–”

“You’re touch starved,” Y/N said gently. He pulled up to look at her. “It happens to soldiers a lot,” she explained, keeping her left hand in his hair as her right hand moved toward his shoulder where skin met metal. “Especially those who have been hurt,” she said, glancing at the scarred skin and softly running her fingers over it.

Bucky’s face crumpled in sorrow, glancing down at his shoulder and watching her fingers touch him so easily. He raised his metal hand between them then met her gaze. “You’re not afraid of it?” he asked, looking and sounding perplexed. “You’re not afraid of…me?”

“No,” she replied immediately. Her hands left his face and shoulder and took his metal hand in both of hers. He watched her as she brought the hand toward her mouth, spreading his fingers open then lowering her face as she kissed his palm. She moved his hand to cradle her face again, leaning her head into it as she looked at him.

Bucky’s eyes brimmed with tears, his lips trembling as he fought back tears. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers again. “Thank you,” he whispered.

@unicornqueen05 @greatenthusiasttidalwave @roslynsworld

#marvel #bucky barnes #smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #series fanfic #chapter 2 #prince!bucky barnes #princess!reader #prince!bucky barnes x princess!reader #royal #royalty #arranged marriage

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mariasont · 4 months ago

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DAY ONE — CHECK-IN

welcome to the official start of our beach week! today the bau is arriving at rossi's luxurious beach house — here's everything you need for the perfect vacation kickoff!

road trip tunes — maria's beach playlist

💌[click here to listen!]

what's in everyone's bags?

reader archetypes

shy!reader -> lots of suncreen, oversized cardigan, retro sunglasses, huge straw sunhat, polaroid camera (may or may not be discreetly taking candids of spencer...)

sweeetheart!reader -> homemade baked snacks, extra blankets, her favorite tumblr, her cute planner that she takes everywhere, customized friendship bracelets

bimbo!reader -> sparkly lip gloss, tanning oil, giant heart-shaped sunglasses, fluffy slides (impratical as hell), two full bags of makeup

translator!reader -> kindle loaded with international books, comfy linen shirts, minimalistic sandals, travel-size aromatherapy diffuser, pocket size trivia cards

bau team

hotch -> plain black swim trunks, spf 50, extra cash for emergencies, aspirin, noise cancelling headphones (only essentials)

reid -> clean organic sunscreen, a dozen books, waterproof playing cards, ocean-life travel guide

rossi -> premium wine selection, designer swimwear, expensive cigars, a backup wine opener, monogrammed beach chair

garcia -> themed swimsuits and matching accessories (think pineapples, flamingos, cherries, etc.), emergency snack stash, colorful floaties

morgan -> speaker, portable workout bands, extra towels, multiple water guns (don't ask)

emily -> like three flasks, thriller books, do not disturb oversized sunhat, pictures of sergio

jj -> extra hats, bandaids, portable cooler, multi purpose wipes, bug bite relief cream

BAU BEACH HOUSE SPRING BREAK GROUP CHAT

Penelope: helloooooo my sun kissed angels ☀️✨ how are we doing? status reports pls and thx

Morgan: On the road. Spencer is riding with me. Genius here is explaining ocean tides. Again. 🙄

Reid: I'll smother you in your sleep.

Reid: That is, if you don't kill us first by texting and driving.

Penelope: derek. DONT do that.

JJ: Emily and I just picked up the rental car. ETA around noon! Emily has road-trip snacks covered :)

Emily: Correction JJ brough healthy snacks. I brought road-trip essentials. AKA chocolate and caffeine.

Hotch: Dave and I flew ahead to finalize the rental paperwork and get the keys. House looks good.

Penelope: oh thank goodness, mom and dad are already there to welcome us. hotch, i trust you'll put mints on our pillows? 💖

Hotch: Not exactly on my priority list, Garcia

Rossi: Priorities aside, the house is gorgeous. Fully stocked kitchen, perfect ocean view, and most importantly a wine fridge big enough for my personal stash. We're all set.

Emily: Wine fridge? Rossi, you truly get me.

JJ: Wait send pics! I wanna see!

Penelope: im sending the airbnb link !!! prepare yourself for some serious swooning 💖🏖️ [click here to view house]

#mariasspringbreakgetaway #mariaversegetaway #criminal minds x reader

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iwantmyprizepet · 3 months ago

Text

𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽 ℐ𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 3/?

Summary: Agatha was becoming a problem. A big all encompassing gorgeous problem. (I fucking hate writing these)

Warnings: Alcohol Consumption.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: I meant for this to come out so much sooner than this. Life has been a thorn in the side the past couple of weeks, but hopefully back to regular posting. I hope someone out there is still interested in my silly little story. To any who see this I hope you’re doing well. - Mich :)

AO3 Previous Part Next Part Chapter Playlist

Monday creeped along in a dragging way. I busied myself for a while with tedious tasks. Cleaning the house, grocery shopping and any other boring chore I could come up with. All to divert my mind from her.

That damn note in my desk pulled me to the drawer like a tide over and over.

Night finally drew in and I ran a bath.

I released a long sigh slipping into the warm water with a healthy helping of red wine. Each sip of my glass seemed to press her into my mind more and more.

I didn’t stay in long.

I climbed into bed after the bath. It was only eight o’clock, but all I could think about was getting to see her. A mix of excitement and guilt.

It felt wrong thinking about her this much, almost intrusive. A hint of doubt ebbed it’s way in, maybe I wouldn’t even see her tomorrow.

Sleep was a tossing endless thing. I ended up in the cafe far earlier than I had in a while. Just sitting, sipping a coffee and waiting in the dark early morning.

The pastry delivery came and I placed every last sweet meticulously. Perfectly lined up ready for a picture in a magazine.

It was a relief turning the open sign on. Chloe and Janice were a well needed distraction along with the customers. The day creeped into a slow Tuesday. Thanksgiving was this Thursday, so it wasn’t surprising how dreadful the day was. It was either dead or insane on the week of a holiday.

When two thirty rolled around I let Janice and Chloe leave. If a straggler or two came in the last hour and a half, I could handle it.

With a smirking remark from Chloe as she walked out hoping I’d see Agatha today, I was left to my thoughts again.

At this point of the day, I’d pretty much given up hope on seeing her.

I’d just finished organizing the stock room. The plan was to organize and take inventory, but…I got lazy. I ran out of the brains for it at this point of the day. With less than an hour to go, it could wait until tomorrow. I felt bogged down and I knew I’d fuck something up if I did it now.

Walking back to the front I hummed along to the Jim Croce song quietly playing through the speakers. I looked up and my shoes squeaked loudly to a stop.

There at the counter waiting with a smile stood Agatha.

My face felt hot having got caught carelessly humming along.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how I missed the bell.” I jumbled out stepping closer to her. “Hi.”

Her smile grew before she spoke. “I don’t believe it made a sound actually.” Both of our eyes traveled to the bell above the door, then she looked back to me. “I figure I’d let you finish your song before I bothered you.”

She finished her remark with a teasing wink. I forced a laugh and walked fully to the counter.

The two feet of the counter, the only thing separating us. Another sweeping glance to the door shown the bell was stuck at the top again. I made a mental note to fix it later.

“The usual.” She said eyes observing me widely. “For here.”

I nodded waiting for my brain to catch up with my mouth. My heart ticked up when she said it was for here.

“Of course, have a seat I’ll bring it to you.”

She turned with a nod and seemed to observe the layout. As if choosing her seat was a very important decision.

Turning my back to her, I grabbed a green mug with our logo on it. I poured her black coffee and turned to find her in the farthest corner. Her gaze cast out the window to her left, chin resting on her hand. I tried to ignore that she chose the farthest seat. Ignored the part of me that wished she would have sat right at the counter.

Walking over quietly, I watched as her left leg crossed over the right bobbing slowly. I could have stopped and stared at her for a long while. Her head shifted to me, still smiling with her chin on her hand. Every time she looked at me, a rush zipped through me.

I placed the mug in front of her, careful not to spill under her fixed gaze.

“Thank you.” It rolled off of her tongue so gently. “Of course.” I replied almost breathless.

Every second near her left me feeling more and more screwed. I started back to the counter when her easy voice stopped me.

“Busy?”

I glanced back to her waiting expectantly.

With a laugh I turned back. “It’s been dreadfully slow today actually.”

With almost no hesitation she asked. “Care to sit with me?”

She almost left an ounce of nervousness at the end of the question. Like maybe she thought I’d somehow deny the request.

If it was there, it disappeared before I could fully place it. Replaced by the familiar confidence she oozed.

Nodding, I moved back over and sat across from her at the two seat diner table.

Smiling she took a sip of her coffee, bringing it up to her mouth carefully with both hands. I had to remind myself it wasn’t normal to stare at a persons hands for that long.

Her coat was draped over the back of the chair now. She wore a purple turtleneck, sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. Setting her mug down, she brushed the left side of her hair behind her shoulder. Her perfume settled over to me in gust from the air it created.

I let myself lean back fully in the chair, legs stretching out to the side of the table. A tired I hadn’t even recognized began to blanket over me.

Despite it being slow, I was like a constant motion all day. I couldn’t relax for a second. Not to mention the lack of sleep I had last night. Thanks to the woman sat directly across from me now.

“Did you get my note?” She asked taking another sip.

“Yes.” A bashfulness washed over me. Clearing my throat I continued. “Of all times to have milk spilled on me.”

I rolled my eyes trying to stay calm. Realizing the sentence I just said snuck the truth to her. I was disappointed in the timing.

“Is that an often occurrence for you?” She asked teasingly over her mug.

I laughed eyes closed tilting my head back. “Fortunately no.” I looked back to her, eyelids feeling heavy from the day.

An easy pause hung between us as a mellow song played over the room.

“I see you’ll be closed a couple of days for the holiday?” Agatha asked breaking the quiet.

I’d put a sign up Monday announcing our Thanksgiving week schedule.

I nodded “Yeah, I’ll be with my parents, Chloe the same and Janice hosts her family. Anne and I, the owner figure everyone will survive two days without us.”

“Debatable.” She answered quickly.

My mouth minutely hung open at her words, breath catching.

“The coffee that is.” She continued a pinching smirk on her face as she held up her mug. “It’s unmatched.”

I nodded after a few seconds, eyes locked with hers. Stupid, crooked and dazed smile on the corner of my mouth.

The door slamming open startled the both of us with a jump. The force of it knocked the bell back down.

Dennis.

“Now, I know you’ll be closing soon, but this car out front has been parked incorrectly for far too long.” Dennis wagged his finger approaching me as I stood.

“Dennis, what are you on about?” I asked the exhaustion evident with my words as I stood.

“This black car out front is parked against the flow of traffic. It is not only against the law, but very dangerous. I’ve held my tongue long enough. It needs to be moved.” He finished his annoyingly punctual statement with both hands on his hips.

I let out a sigh with closed eyes pinching the bridge of my nose, my other hand on my own hip. I had a suspicion the car he was referring to was in fact Agatha’s.

“You have to be kidding me. Dennis it’s almost the end of the day, the week of a holiday. She’s been here for ten minutes. Are you really coming to cause a stir over this?” I asked with a clear annoyance.

“The law is the law, whether you like it or not. As the head of the town hall committee, I must see the law is being met.” He lashed out smug with his chest puffed out.

With a sharp scrape of her metal chair leg against the floor, Agatha stood turning to Dennis. Casual confidence poured out, hands in her pants pockets relaxed with a calm irritation on her face.

“Dennis was it?” She asked with a low sharpness, similar to the phone call the day I met her. “Agatha Harkness. I don’t believe we’ve officially met before.”

Harkness. Agatha Harkness.

His jaw dropped “Oh, Miss Harkness I didn’t realize.”

Dennis proceeded to stare at her speechless. Something I have never seen in all the years of knowing him. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of her as she fixed on him with a casual distaste.

“Now, I can understand your urge to adhere to the law. Not that I’m sure how it would effect you if I received a ticket for my incorrect parking.” Taking a breath she stepped closer causing him to backup. “So, while I understand my parking is a minor problem. I’m not sure what has driven you to barge in here and treat her the way you just have over such a silly thing that she is certainly not to blame for.”

She stopped, holding a silence for him to respond. Dennis just stood staring at her speechless going red in the face. The words came out of her with such a direct ease. Like it was a practiced speech.

She made a humming noise and continued amongst his silence. “I’ll go ahead and make sure I park correctly form now on, as long as you carry around a little more respect.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a command. His still lack of response earned an expecting sharp head tilt from her.

“Yes, well of course. Ladies, enjoy your evening.” Dennis blurted out quickly turning on his heel to leave.

My eyes couldn’t hold back tracing her stance. She turned to me suddenly and my eyes shot to hers trying to hide the traveling they were up to. Her face had changed to a soft smile for me, a hint of pride behind it.

“I’ve never, and I mean never have I seen anyone put that man in his place.” I said with a disbelieving laugh.

She shrugged smirking and stepping closer to me. “I made a rather large donation to the committee last year. I assumed he’d recognize the name.” Confidence was still dripping off of her.

I wanted to reach out and touch her in the most innocent way. Hold my hand over hers, just to see what it felt like. Walk her out to her car arm in hers. Reach in for a hug.

Her full name passed my thoughts again as I took her in. Agatha Harkness. Clearing my throat I looked down breaking my eyes from hers.

“Well, thank you.” I looked back up as she stepped just an inch closer. “I’d already had to deal with his nonsense on Sunday. I appreciate him being cut short today.”

“Anytime, you just let me know.”

A buzzing against the table earned attention from both of us. Agatha’s phone lay lit up with a call.

Adam Pontes shown on the screen against a plain black background. Her long fingers reached for the phone pressing accept. My brain absorbed her ringless finger. Not that it mattered.

“Hey, Adam. Yes.” She looked to me with a smile. Her right hand still in her pocket. “Listen, Adam.” Her face fell, eyebrows pinching into an anger. “I told him there was no way that was going to happen.”

Agatha turned away from me now facing the table. Feeling intrusive I turned myself and started to stack the chairs on the nearest table.

It was only ten minutes to four now.

“Adam, I will call you back in five minutes. We’ll call him together and figure it out. Okay. Yes. Bye.”

I busied myself still with the chairs after she hung up.

“Sorry about that.” I turned back to her as she spoke, annoyance still tinging her words. “My assistant, Adam seems to always find a way to bother me at the most unnecessary times for the most unnecessary things.” Each word emphasized with a hand twitch or wave.

I felt myself relax a tension I didn’t realizing I was holding at the word assistant.

“No worries.” I replied easily stepping back over to her.

She lent over to the chair she was sat at to grab her coat. A warm wave of her scent pushed towards me wrapping me up again as she pulled it on with a tug.

My right foot crept forward just an inch. Images of slipping my arms under the coat, around her waist and pulling her in for a hug swept through my mind.

After her hands reached up to untuck her hair from the coat, she leant over for her purse.

“The coffee is on the house today, please.” It rushed out of my mouth almost begging with my hands held up.

She turned to me grinning then let out a loud laugh. My eyes lit up at the sight tugging out a smile and laugh of my own.

She slipped her purse on up to her shoulder fixing me a troubling gaze. Troubling as in I couldn’t read all that was behind it. All I know is it felt like she could see into my every thought, smirking as she did.

“I’ll be sure to stop in tomorrow.” Her head turned to the coffee then back to me. “Get one last fix before the holiday.”

My lungs felt full with stuck air. “Okay.” It was a pathetic small response from me. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Her head dipped down with a smile, hand reaching up to tuck the hair that fell behind her ear.

“I hope you have a nice night.” Agatha looked up to me as she slowly started to back up towards the door.

“You too. Good luck with Adam.” I responded knowing it sounded stupid as it came out of my mouth.

I was desperate to continue our exchange. Grasping for anything to say to get just a second longer with her.

Another laugh sounded from her. “Oh I don’t need luck for that. Maybe an aspirin.”

I laughed now too, unconsciously following her to the door. It felt impossible not to laugh along with her.

She paused with her shoulder pressed to the glass door, hand laying gently on the handle captivating me as it did.

“See you tomorrow?” It came from her like a question.

As if I’d be doing anything but pacing and waiting for her arrival tomorrow.

“I’ll be here.” I replied tucking my hands into my jeans pockets.

“Good.”

“Safe travels home.” Again, the words left my mouth leaving me feeling foolish.

Assuming she was even heading home. I shook my head minutely scolding myself for how stupid it sounded.

“You too.” She replied a smirking glint in her eye.

I laughed nodding my head. “Yeah, it’s quite the trek.”

Another soft humming noise sounded from her as she eyed me.

“Goodnight.” She pushed open the door as she said it.

The cold air rushed in as if just to blow her perfume to me one last time.

“Night.”

“Oh.” She paused turning back. “Don’t be too cross with the tip jar.”

With a wink she left, wind shutting the door harshly behind her. It took a minute for my brain to catch up with her words. When it did, I quickly shot my eyes back to the tip jar.

I’m not sure how I missed it before, she was the only customer after Chloe and Janice left. We split the jar right before they did.

There in the jar that should have been empty, lay a neatly folded fifty. As if she prepared for me protesting her paying for the coffee. Expected it and slipped it in as I stood distracted in the storage room.

My head flung to her car just catching her head turning away from me. She pulled away and I stared after her shrinking tail lights.

Tomorrow I would make sure she wouldn’t pay. I simply wouldn’t allow it.

After finishing the closing ritual, I slumped up the stairs.

I replayed every second with her throughout the night. A special focus lingered on her full name.

Sleep came easier tonight, but still Agatha Harkness remained the last thought on my mind.

——————————————————————————

A call from my mom and dad passed the morning easily until open. Confirming what we were making for tomorrow and what time I’d get there.

I hadn’t seen them in over a month. After the first cold snap they flew off to Florida. I’d missed them more than I realized.

It was always nice when they’d first leave for their Florida condo. The distance between my mom’s worrying intensity about my life always did me some good.

When I first came out to them, things were rocky for a bit. My dad took it easily. My mom on the other hand took time. She hadn’t flat out cut me off. It was just constantly tense when we’d talk or see each other. My dad consistently assured me she didn’t hate me, but it was hard.

After finding my ex under that douche bag, I drove home instantly. I barely choked out the reason for my tears when I got home. It changed instantly then, she held me for hours.

There was never a problem with my sexuality after that. She’d actually ended a few friendships over it.

My mom just had this way of being in a constant state of concern for me. Worried I’d be single forever. Worried that I was too lonely and never put myself out there. She meant well, but….yeah.

——————————————————————————

The day started swinging, a constant flow of customers coming in.

During a lull, I found Chloe eyeing me expectantly. I knew it would come up at some point. She had rolled in late today and couldn’t bother me until now.

“So.” She dragged out arms crossed. “Did you see her yesterday?”

I nodded, trying but failing to hide a smile.

“Janice, we’ve got a blusher!” Chloe called out through the window.

I threw the nearest towel at her hushing her. Her announcement earned a few questioning looks. I shook my head as they both laughed.

“Well?” Chloe asked clearly expecting details.

“Well, nothing.” I started tapping my pointer finger repeatedly on the counter. “She stopped in, we sat and talked for a bit that’s it.”

Rolling her eyes she scoffed. “That’s all I get? I’m your best friend and thats all I get?”

I laughed “Actually, she did scold Dennis.” I laughed again at the memory. “No, she actually fully put him in is his place.”

Chloe made an oohing sound. “Do tell.”

“He came in yelling about someone being parked against the flow of traffic, against the law blah blah, head of the town committee blah blah. Well the parked car was hers, she stood up and greeted him with her full name, dude, his face dropped.” I laughed remembering it, Chloe’s face shifted to shocked amusement. “Turns out she wrote a hefty donation check to the committee last year. Needless to say, he left fumbling and red in the face. It was a sight to behold.”

“I would actually give anything to have been a fly on the wall for that.” Chloe said through a laugh.

“Me as well.” Janice sounded through the window. “That man sends an anger through me.”

She held up her first at the end, all three of us erupting in laughter.

——————————————————————————

Business slowed gradually again today. You could hear a pin drop on the street. Sally even popped in complaining about how bored she was.

The only movement of the afternoon was the boats docking across the street. I felt an eager excitement shoot through me every time Agatha crossed my mind.

“You guys can head out early again. Seems like it’ll be another dull afternoon.” I said to Janice and Chloe.

The three of us had been sat at a table for the past hour with but one customer. Still, I tried to sound as casual about dismissing them as possible. Leaning back with my arms crossed totally nonchalant.

“She’s just trying to get rid of us before Agatha shows up.” Chloe teased wiggling her eyebrows at me.

“Yes, I think so.” Janice replied nodding with an annoying smirk on her face.

Rolling my eyes I nudged my foot into Chloe’s leg. “Shut it and take my generosity.”

To be fair, she wasn’t incorrect. If Agatha did show up, I certainly would rather it be without the troublesome two around.

“I have so much to cook.” Janice said standing up. “Gladly, I will leave.”

“Hey, you have a great Thanksgiving. Your check is on the board in the back.” I said leaning back watching her head to the kitchen.

“You too, I will see you both Saturday.” With a wave she pushed through the kitchen door.

Chloe called out a goodbye as well as she groaned standing up. “I still have to go to the damn store.”

I laughed shaking my head at her. “Same, I only have a few things to grab but I am dreading it.”

“Do we hate ourselves? Why do we wait?” Chloe asked throwing her head back dramatically.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Alright, well” She scooted her chair in walking towards the back. “I hope your dear Agatha doesn’t keep you waiting for too long.” I sighed shaking my head. “Get out of here would ya?”

Chloe laughed walking through the push door.

“Tell your parents I said hi. Have a good Thanksgiving grumpy.” She yelled out from the back.

“You too. Let me know how crazy the store is.” I called back.

With a final agreement and goodbye, Chloe was gone.

So there I found myself close to an hour before closing again, waiting for the blue eyed beauty to grace me with her presence.

I groaned getting up, the inventory list still awaited me. With a quick check of the front door, to make sure the bell was ringing loudly today, I walked into the storage room.

The list went by quicker than usual. I usually tried to squeeze it in throughout a work day. I was just finishing with the last thing, our decaf coffee when the bell rung out.

“Just a second.” I called from the back.

“Take your time.” Agatha’s now familiar voice sounded.

With the final count, I took a shaky breath and headed out front.

She stood, eyes trained to where my voice came from waiting. Hands that always seemed to be flitting about resting on the counter.

“Hi.” I said softly placing the clipboard on the back counter.

“Hello.”

The usual waviness of her hair hung straight today, sleek and shiny. My mind instantly sunk into thoughts about what it would be like to run my hands through it.

“For here.” She said smiling and sitting on a stool at the counter. “Add a sugar to it today, I’m feeling wild.”

I laughed nodding my head. Turning, I grabbed a mug then quickly shot my eyes back over to her. She was waiting and watching stopping me in my tracks for a second. The idea of her watching as I poured her coffee held a weight on me.

“No money today.” I rushed out forcefully.

Her smile grew, blue eyes glinting with a mischief.

“I’m serious.” I said turning back to her coffee. I tried to hold as stern a tone as I could. “If I find even a quarter in that jar, or anywhere for that matter from you I’ll.” I paused mid pour trying to think of something good, shaking my head I continued. “Well I’m not sure what I’ll do, but it’ll be well…I don’t know.”

Every word had me internally face palming. I felt exasperated by the end of my spiel. A running theme whenever I found myself in her presence.

After stirring the sugar in I turned back to her. She seemed to be holding in a laugh watching me. The corner of her bottom lip lay tucked under her top teeth. I moved my eyes away from it as quickly as possible, hoping she didn’t notice.

“Seriously this ones on me, please.” The end of it felt like begging.

Her lip popped out from her teeth, lips forming into a purse with those blue eyes squinting.

“As tempting as it is to see what you’d come up with if I did.” She let it linger in the air before finishing. “I promise, no money today.”

I swallowed hard at her words. It felt like a battle in my head fighting off thoughts of what I could do to her in retaliation. Things that seem much too much for acquaintances over coffee. I felt a slight fear layered over me as she watched me. Her eyes felt as if they’d be able to read my mind. The thought of it sent a chill up my spine.

“Join me?” She asked, her hand tapping the stool next to her as she took a sip of coffee.

I nodded with a hesitation, my feet seemed to move on their own rounding the counter. She turned then, back against the counter eyes roaming out the front windows.

I sat slowly next to her thoroughly ignoring the little space between us.

“This view really is something.” She said after a comfortable moment of silence.

“Yeah, I’ve never found myself tiring of it.” I admitted looking on with her.

Golden hour had just begun to dust over the water. The perfect time of day to look out here, apart from sunrise and nights that held a full moon.

“I bet it’s even better from your apartment.” She cast it into the air around us with ease.

I felt my throat dry at her words. The idea of her in my apartment watching the sunset. Her in my apartment watching the sunrise.

“The roof.” I blurted out too loudly. My cheeks warmed as she looked at me with that damn smirk. “The roof is the best.” I said turning away from her willing my face to cool. “I find myself up there all the time in the summer.”

I could still feel her looking at me. I chanced a side glance that made my heart flutter with how I found her. My leg started bouncing on the stool leg nervously.

“Well, hopefully I’ll get an invite some day.” She said in a playful way after a sip of her coffee.

I turned to her again with a nod. “Absolutely.”

A charged silence fell over us. Charged for me, maybe just casual for her.

“Exceptional parking today.” I joked gesturing to her car out front. Anything to move on and pull myself from the spiral of thinking about her in my apartment.

She laughed tilting her head back, her neck flexing in the fading sun. “Well, I am exceptional.” She replied with that dripping confidence.

I thought to myself, staring at her with a dumbfounded smile, yes you are.

Her eyes settled on mine and I felt like I was drowning.

Loud laughter outside broke our eyes apart. Two local boys, Teddy and Ben came into view through the window. The two of them parked their bikes on the curb.

Every week or two, they’d show up with an assortment of coins and small bills looking for sweets.

I leaned my elbow back on the counter as they walked in. They both collected their laughter after walking in, throwing out a greeting in unison.

“Hello boys.” I smiled to them. “The usuals?”

Teddy was obsessed with danish, any danish really. Ben, I think he would sell his soul for snickerdoodle cookies.

Teddy was already fumbling coins in his jacket pocket as Ben clung to a few bills in his hand.

“We gotta count first.” Ben replied walking over to the register next to Agatha.

“I’ll tell you what.” I said rising from my seat walking back behind the counter. “You guys keep your money for something else. It’s on the house today.”

I knew we’d never sell all these pastries today. I’d bring most to Thanksgiving tomorrow, but even then some would go to waste.

“Teddy, don’t I always says she’s the best?” Ben asked, schmoozing as if I hadn’t already offered up the pastries.

I snorted out a laugh shaking my head.

“Alright, take it easy kid.” I said playfully folding a small pastry box together.

I made sure to put several of their favorites in the box, along with a few other things. I felt Agatha eyeing me as I did so. The two boys stood joking amongst themselves.

“There you go guys.” I said closing the box and sliding it over. I glanced at Agatha. Her eyes were on me, expression soft. “Don’t forget to share with your family. Have a good Thanksgiving.”

“Thank you.” Teddy said quietly.

He was always the bashful one. Ben held enough exuberance for the both of them.

“The best I say.” Ben shouted grabbing the box and running out.

Teddy followed stumbling calling for Ben to wait.

I chuckled at the two and closed the case. Leaning my elbows across the counter, I rested my chin in my hands.

Agatha shot me with a playful look.

“To think, the amount of times I’ve been in and I haven’t been offered a sweet treat yet.” She said holding her hand to her chest, mockingly appalled with a gasp.

I laughed standing up straight. Sliding the case back open I looked to her.

“Well, they do have you beat in visits” I teased looking up at her. “But…come and help yourself. You can have anything you want.” A curious hum sounded from her throat before she stood, making her way back. Her right hand dragged its way down the counter the whole way, fingers tapping a rhythm.

I felt my breathing take on an unsteadiness as she crept closer. I inched to the side a little farther leaning on the counter, out of the way of the pastry case door.

When she finally approached me, she stood so close I could feel the warmth radiating off of her. Her hand leaned on the counter just shy of my arm. I could feel the ghost of her whole right side on my back and down my arm.

“Decisions, decisions.” She said low and slow, close enough to my ear that I just barely felt a trace of it.

My body wanted to lean back into her with the force of a tidal wave. It was almost draining fighting the urge. All I could do was stand still and focus on my choppy breaths.

“What do you recommend?” She questioned in a near whisper.

She seemed closer than she was just a second ago.

“Uhm.” I cleared my throat. “I’m partial to the…dark chocolate cookies.”

It amazed me that I got the sentence out. The warmth and scent coming off her felt dizzying. I could feel her eyes on me, but refused to look back.

It felt like an eternity passed after I spoke. I feared she’d hear my heart racing over the music softly playing.

Her hand stayed on the counter as she leaned forward. Pressing into my back, her hand touching the bare skin of my arm. I couldn’t get any oxygen in, hands white knuckling the side of the counter.

Her hand reached out for a cookie. My body betrayed everything I was screaming in my head not to do and ever so lightly push back into her touch. It felt like I moved back less than an inch, but still she froze at it. Hand hanging in the air just shy of picking up a cookie.

My eyes looked to her in my peripheral. She was looking at me, face serious and eyes wandering.

She pushed further, her hand continuing its movement. Every nerve felt like a live wire in my body. Her fingers grabbed a cookie and she pulled back slowly. The only touch that remained was her hand against my arm on the counter. The time and air around us felt like jello.

The phone on the back wall ringing startled me with a jump. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my throat. I could’ve sworn her thumb brushed against my arm right as I made my way to the phone.

It was almost a relief getting a distraction away from the supercharged moment.

“Fairfield cafe, how can I help you?” I asked absently, still in a daze.

“Yes, I was wondering what your hours were for the rest of the week?” The deep voice asked on the line.

“Uhm, yeah.” I paused a moment collecting myself. “We close at four today, we’ll be closed tomorrow and Friday. Saturday and Sunday we’ll be open seven to five.”

“Great, thank you.” The voice replied.

“Of course, have a good night.” I said into the receiver.

“You too, have a happy holiday.” The line hung up before I could reply.

I secured the phone back on the receiver slowly. My hands held a shake to them still from the encounter with Agatha.

I turned to find the case closed and Agatha back on her stool. The top of her cheekbones held a light dusting of red. She was looking down at her coffee, hands playing with the mug. It was rather warm in here I convinced myself as I watched her.

I started to walk back as she held her head up to look at me.

“You’d think nobody knew how to use google with how many calls I get about hours.” I said trying to lighten the atmosphere.

She nodded with a soft smile, eyes seeming distant but looking at me.

Now that she’d touched me I felt like it was all I could think about. I’d thought about it before, but now it was consuming.

Raising the cookie to her mouth, she took a bite. Her head hung back, neck stretching out as she chewed. The noise she let out sent a feeling low into my gut. I felt my hands clinging to the counter hard again. I couldn’t do anything but watch her, mouth just barely open watching her.

“You have good taste, excellent recommendation.” She said casually as if she hadn’t just altered my brain.

I let out a soft sigh and nodded at her. I don’t know how, but I had to reel it in. I looked to the clock, fifteen minutes until closing.

I was desperate for four o’clock, but also never wanted it to strike.

She took another bite, eyeing me as her phone started to ring in her purse.

She leant over to fish it out, eyes rolling at the screen. She showed it to me, revealing the same name that shown yesterday. Adam Pontes. She answered and took another bite.

“Busy right now.” She said through a chew.

A few nods and hums came out of her. A complete disinterest in anything he had to say to her, eyes staying on me.

“Did I mention I was busy?” She asked winking at me.

I let out a far too audible sigh at her gesture.

“It can wait.” She said into the phone, tone taking an annoyed turn. “Bore me with it tomorrow, goodbye.”

She pulled the phone from her ear. The faint sound of Adam still talking as she hung it up and dropped it to the counter.

“Tomorrow?” I questioned loosening my hands steel grip. “No rest for Miss. Harkness on a holiday?”

Her jaw visibly clenched, eyes flicking to mine with a seriousness. A long pause had me thinking I said something wrong.

Eyebrows shooting up lazily, she looked down to her almost finished cookie.

“Holidays are just another day.” She waved her hand up at this.

I wasn’t sure what to say at that. Was it actually possible this woman had nowhere to go on a Holiday?

“I can understand that. Family can be overwhelming at times?” I left it in a question. I wasn’t sure what else to say.

She wordlessly nodded at me, the atmosphere seemed to take a sullen turn.

“Enough about me, what are your plans for tomorrow?” She asked smile not quite reaching her gorgeous eyes. The lines near them only faintly shown.

“Heading to my parents in the morning.” I quickly replied, fully realizing she wanted to change the subject. “I help them cook before the rest of the family arrives.”

“That sounds nice.” She seemed to really mean it as it sweetly rolled off her tongue.

“I’ll admit.” With a nod. “I haven’t seen my parents in a bit, I kind of miss them.” I said the end in a whisper like it was secret.

The smile caught up to her eyes again as she leaned the side of her head onto her hand.

“You have a good relationship with them?” She asked curiously.

“Yes.” I replied halting before I continued. “When I first came out to them, my mom was distant for quite a bit. Now she’s amazing, pride socks in June and all.”

There it was, out in the open for her to take. It felt like an unnecessary comment, but something forced it out. Something inside of me desperately wanted her to know.

The lines next to her eyes beautifully deepened with her smile. A light laugh left her mouth as she straightened her head up from her hand.

I breathed a laugh out of my nose along with her, taking this reaction as a good sign.

“And are you bringing anyone home for the occasion?” She asked a slight clip to her voice.

I laughed shaking my head and looking down. “I haven’t had someone to bring home in.” I stopped myself. “Well, let’s just say a very long while.” It felt almost embarrassing to admit how long it had been to her. Uttering the word years at the end of that sentence felt too telling.

She tapped her phone screen after a moment, both of our eyes traveled to it. Four o’clock loomed just a handful of minutes away.

“I should let you close up.” She said standing gracefully.

I wanted to ask her to just stay. See if she felt like keeping me company at a grocery store. Wanting to ask her if she’d like to come home with me for Thanksgiving dinner.

Everything about her was so elegant, even the way she picked up her phone. I suddenly felt self conscious with everything to do with myself. The difference in our age glared in my mind crashing me to reality.

I made my way around the counter to walk her to the door, shutting the lights off as I did. The room was now only covered in the flow of the retreating sun and the distant light in the kitchen.

Just the same as yesterday she leaned her shoulder against the door, pausing to look back at me. She was absolutely breathtaking and I was just some girl pouring coffee. I felt my mood sinking as the seconds ticked by. “I’ll see you after the holiday.” She said into the air earning a nod from me.

There was a shift, both of us seeming to be consumed in our own thoughts now.

“I look forward to it.” I forced out as she opened the door.

She turned fully back to me, spare hand slipping into her pants pocket.

After what seemed like an eternity of her eyeing me she spoke.

“Me too.”

With that she left, coat waving in the wake of her turn and the wind outside.

I stared foolishly out the door after her. She seemed to make a point not to look back at me, or maybe it just didn’t even cross her mind to look. She drove off leaving me questioning every second of the interaction we just had.

#agatha harkness #agatha x reader #agatha x you #soft agatha #agatha harkness fluff #agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha all along

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