#but when i was finally vulnerable after years of knowing you

[all4yoi]

𝓛overs 𝓓on't 𝓛ast (𝓦e 𝓓id 𝓞nce)

𝓳ake x fem!reader 🪷 cw ໒꒱ 4.4k word count. exes to lovers angst !! angst ?? 2nd chance romance, mild profanity, yearning, silent longing, did i say yearning? confrontation under the rain!! the rain!! tiny bit of jealousy, eventual fluff, there is like a duet scene but trust me on this!! hear me out ok.. lmk if i missed anything else, mentions of enhypen characters and 2 ocs, not proofread 💔

synopsis ໒꒱ They were lovers once.. quiet, constant, and inseparable, until love slipped through the cracks of silence and unsaid words.

When Y/N agrees to join a weekend getaway with old friends, she expects campfires, lake swims, and group games. Not Jake, the boy she once called home. The boy who drifted away without a storm, just a soft fading into silence. Now, in the cozy confines of a remote cabin, with nowhere to run and too many memories between them—they’re forced to coexist for five days of shared meals, fun activities, and lingering glances.

But as buried feelings resurface and conversations tiptoe into vulnerability, the question isn’t just "what went wrong?" it’s "is there still something worth fighting for?"

notes ໒꒱ i drafted this spontaneously after i heard lovers by anna of the north xd! anyway, it was supposed to be sunghoon but i was like.. nah jake would fit sm better so heres another full fic for jake grah.. also like finished this in one seating i think i write better with music motivation dude anyway, i hope you all enjoy as much as i did while writing!!

"You've been locking yourself up for God knows how long, just come with and unwind." the voice of your best friend Aina whined through your phone.

It has been exactly three days since your friends have been calling you nonstop trying to convince you to join their getaway somewhere in the woods in between mountains.

"It's just for five days, please Y/N.. just, think about it, okay?"

That's exactly why you're now here, in the middle of the woods with your big friend group. Looking around, you spot their respective cars parked near the big cabin, you felt your chest tighten at the familiar black honda civic with a bumper sticker that said "my dog is cooler than your boyfriend" that you remember buying two years ago.

"Y/N! Oh my gosh you actually made it!" you felt the arms engulfing your body before you could process who's voice it belonged. Momentarily forgetting what you've seen, you wrapped your arms around Aina, smiling against her hair.

She pulled away with a big smile before her brows furrowed slightly.

"Look, I didn't know he was coming okay? If I'd have known, I would've told you." she said with guilt, following your gaze towards the black car. You shook your head, waving her off telling her it was fine and that you've moved on.

You didn't know if you were assuring her or yourself.

-

"There she is!" "You cut your hair?!" "I thought you died, lowkey." were your friends' words to you as you entered the cabin with Aina. One by one, they gave you tight hugs, muttering how much they've missed you and asking if you were fine now.

While everyone was gathered around you, eager to see you again after so many months, one person remained seated on the couch his eyes softly trained to your figure as if he was trying to memorize you again.

"Y/N, we're sharing rooms. Alright with you?" you looked back towards the voice and accidentally looked at him.

Jake.

Jake in all his glory, his hair was still fluffy, long sleeves instead of a shirt, his chunky shoes and ripped jeans. He was still the same. He was still Jake, just not yours anymore.

Your eyes met and he sent you a small polite smile, his smile faltered when he saw your face fall. Guilt spreading all over his body and face.

"Y/N?" Sunoo's voice brought you back to reality, finally breaking the awkward interaction with Jake.

"Ah, yeah. No problem, Sun."

"Gotcha!"

-

The sun is setting and everyone is at the back of the cabin, others were coming in and out from the back door bringing food, blankets, and utensils out.

Heeseung came marching holding a cup with sticks in it.

"Okay, listen up! Everyone's going to pick a stick and the two who gets the shortest ones will be the one grilling. Fair?!" everyone agreed. Others were rubbing their hands, some wanting to grill and others just wanting to relax near the bonfire beside the pool.

Everytime someone pulled a long stick, everyone either cheered or groaned.

"Ah, well shit." you heard Jake from beside Sunghoon who laughed out loud. Turns out, Jake got a very short stick, meaning out of the two sticks in Heeseung's cup is short as well.

You and Ni-ki stared at each other before lunging towards Heeseung who stumbled back with a laugh, everyone watching in anticipation.

Ni-ki laughed in triumph upon seeing the length of his stick.

You stared at your ridiculously short stick, raising a brow at Heeseung who put his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't blame me, blame fate." he snickered as he walked away, patting Jake's back.

Everyone 'ooh-ed' in realization. You playfully rolled your eyes while successfully avoiding Jake's gaze, walking towards the grill silently and turning it on.

You could feel your heart beating faster than normal when you felt his body heat to your left. He rubbed his nape in embarrassment but said nothing. He kept glancing at you while also flipping off the boys behind him when they would teasingly pinch his side making him stumble closer to you.

"Sorry. It's- you know how they are.." he muttered once, only receiving a tight lipped smile from you. You both cooked silently, you placed the raw beef and pork, while he was in charge in plating them and delivering it to your friends.

As you finally wiped your hands with paper towel, Jake spoke beside you. "Hey.. uh, you look nice." he silently whispered.

You stared at him, first in shock then disbelief. You scoffed, brushing past him and seating beside Aina. Jake was left standing there in front of the grill, lowering his head and turning to look at you at the table.

You were so near yet so far, but he had no right to yearn for you back when he was the first one to pull away.. right?

-

"So, Y/N. How's nursing school?" Nari, another girl friend, asked from beside Jungwon who nodded at the question.

"Yeah, you like totally ghosted us after you and Jake- ah!" Ni-ki was quickly silenced by Jay who kicked his shin from under the table. "Oh, right. Sorry." the youngest whispered before stuffing his face with more beef.

Jake hung his head low across you, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

"Uh.. um. It's fine, hard. But I'm managing, I have to." you awkwardly laughed before putting another piece of pork in your mouth.

Heeseung noticing the tense tension spoke.

"Come on, Y/N didn't ghost us, she was just busy. You know how nursing school can get..." everyone stayed silent, at another attempt to bring the mood back, he asked. "Uh- Anyway, anyone up for some karaoke?" his question definitely broke the tension as everyone except for two people agreed loudly, jumping from their seat.

You sighed, standing up and beginning to clean up the table, deciding that you'd join karaoke later. Jake silently helped, he wiped the table clean and threw the trash while you washed the dishes.

You didn't even notice your hands were shaking until Jake held your wrist gently, his thumb rubbing lightly on your skin, grounding but too familiar. "Hey, relax. Come on, let me do it." he said it in that soft, affectionate way only he could, the tenderness in his tone that made your chest ache.

"What are you doing, Jake?" you shakily asked, staring at his fingers still wrapped around your wrist.

"Just trying to help, Y/N."

You finally looked up at him, eyes glassy while his were filled with concern and guilt. "Well, I don't-" your voice cracked, "I don't need your help. Not anymore, okay?"

Jake swallowed the lump in his throat, his fingers detaching from your wrist as he nodded. "Okay.. got it."

-

You exhaled through your nose, hearing the laughter and lyrics being yelled in the living room, and just as you had entered, Ni-ki pointed at you in glee.

"Just in time! Y/N and Jake, you're next!" your brows shot up in surprise, confusion and nervousness snaking up your spine as a tipsy Nari pulled you beside her while Jake was pulled beside Heeseung.

Before you could protest, two mics were shoved into your hands. Jake gripped his a little too tightly.

"I haven't sang in 2 years-"

"So what?! This isn't a competition, just have fun!"

You looked towards the TV, the words Just Give Me A Reason by Pink and Nate Ruess making your heart beat faster.

Of course, they'd pick this out of everything.

"You both- killed! and I mean, killed it! Last time we had karaoke. We had to hear it again." a clearly drunk Sunghoon exclaimed as he sat cross legged on the carpet, looking at both you and Jake as if this was a concert he was attending.

You sighed, but lifted the mic anyway—heart hammering, throat dry, forcing yourself to sing. You didn't glance at Jake. Not when he sang his part, not even when the room erupted in cheers.

Then came his voice. Lower, quieter, and so full of something you tried to ignore.

"I've never stopped, you're still written in the scars on my heart.." he sang deeply, his eyes locked on your face before looking down at the floor once realization dawned onto him that you were not looking anytime soon.

"Everyone shut up! The bridge is coming. Stand up, stand up." Aina shouted, urging you to stand while Jake did the same while singing his line.

"Oh, tears ducts and rust, I'll fix it for us.."

"We're collecting dust but our love's enough."

"You're holding it in, you're pouring a drink."

"No, nothing is as bad as it seems."

"We'll come clean."

Each lyrics were sang with something heavy and deep, emotions seeping through the microphones but no one seemed to notice except you both.

As the final lyric was sang, everyone drunkenly cheered, hooting for you both, oblivious to the war in your chest. You laughed awkwardly and coughed before excusing yourself in the kitchen.

You suddenly remembered two years ago, when you last sang that song with him. You had both pretended to break up with each other so that you and him "channel the pain" into the duet, and aftering singing, you'd both hug and kiss each other.

"That was the worse two minutes of my life." he'd say, kissing you softly and smiling in it while he held you close, ignoring your friends' protest on the pda.

It was something to be laughed about in your relationship back then, and now, you just sang it with him but there were no hugs after it.

No kisses.

No hugs.

No soft teasing from your friends.

Just silence.

You flinched when someone slid a glass of water beside you. Jake opened his mouth but decided against it, remembering your words from a while ago.

"I don't need your help anymore."

He pursed his lips before he walked away but without a last glance at your slumped figure on the kitchen counter, alone.

-

You didn't know what time everyone decided to retreat to their respective rooms. Sunoo was passed out beside you, his limbs sprawled in uncomfortable positions yet he snored soundly.

But your eyes stayed open.

You kept replaying everything that happened tonight. Jake's car in the driveway with the stupid bumper sticker you bought him, the two of you cooking, eating across from each other, God, you even sang together. Yet, you still felt empty. The lingering question in your chest threatening to come out.

"Was I not worth fighting for?"

You could remember vividly the silent apartment. Two people, one couple, yet it was so silent. It had been weeks since you have spoken properly with your boyfriend. Weeks since the last shared kiss, the last meal shared, everything.

"Are we okay?" you had asked him one night on your shared bed, his back towards you. Your voice silent, cautious and afraid.

He sighed, replying with a silent "yeah."

"It doesn't feel like it."

Jake sat up, brushing a hand through his hair.

"It's just- maybe we're just tired. Maybe we need space." and after weeks of longing, he had finally looked at you in the eye, but he wasn't saying what you had thought he'd say when he finally looks at you.

"Space?" a whisper. "Or a way out?"

"I don't want to hurt you more than I already have."

Then that was it. No one shouted, no one begged, no one cried. Just silence and the sound of your heart breaking softly.

You nodded, getting up from the bed before you left and never came back ever again.

Sometimes you had thoughts, if you have not asked him that night, would the both of you still be together?

You would've willingly accepted his silence, just the mere presence of his warmth was enough, but you respected yourself and didn't want to be selfish.

If you had not asked, would he have fought? Would he have stayed? Would he have chosen you, even quietly?

-

Morning came quickly, the sun peeking through the drawn curtains. Sunoo was still knocked out beside you, his sleep shirt riding up due to his constant moving. You carefully slid it back down before leaving the room.

The cabin was quiet, each room's door was still closed. Everyone was asleep still, or so you thought.

You heard him before you saw him.

"Fuck." Jake sleepily cursed at himself, hurriedly washing his hand on the sink as he weakly stomped his barefoot on the wooden floors.

You watched him silently, slipping beside him and grabbed a mug from the cabinets. He looked at you sheepishly, his pale hand turning red.

"Good morning." he greeted silently, turning the faucet off and carefully dabbing his reddened hand with a hand towel.

"Morning," you whispered back, your eyes still trained to his hand. "You 'kay?" his eyes widened at the question, gulping before nodding.

"Yeah, totally- um. You know, just accidentally spilled boiling water on me, nothing bad haha.." he cleared his throat, mentally slapping himself for how much he rambled. He noticed the corners of your mouth twitch, and he smiled.

A genuine Sim Jaeyun smile. Not an awkward or forced smile. Just him.

"You were always bad at handling burns." you said softly, placing your mug down before opening the cabinet below the counter and taking the first aid kit you spotted yesterday.

Jake blinked. "You remember that?"

"You cried over a curling iron once."

Jake choked before laughing. "That was scalding! You said it was on low!"

You nodded your head mockingly with a soft smile on your lips, putting your hand out, waiting for him to place his injured hand on yours.

He let you treat him in silence, eyes following every movement you made. Your delicate fingers rubbing a soothing cream on the red spot on his hand. It was still soft and light, still so you.

His eyes trained over your face, memorizing every feature.

"Thanks.." he muttered.

You hummed, putting everything back on the cabinet. "You should keep it dry." you said, patting his now bandaged hand. He begrudgingly took it back from your warm hands.

"Yes ma'am." he said in a light teasing tone, testing the waters if you'd respond to his humor.

You didn't respond, merely smiled and went back to making coffee. There was a pause, the air suddenly tensing. Then he spoke.

"I missed this." he said quietly, as if he had not intended to say it out loud.

You froze, hand stilling from mixing your coffee. "Sorry?"

Jake shook his head, smiling hesitantly as he gestured to the both of you. "This. You. Talking, laughing over stupid stuff," a slight pause, then, "Everything, really."

He scratched his nape with his unharmed hand, "I didn't realize how quiet things got when you left."

You resumed in stirring, not sparing him a glance.

"I didn't think you noticed."

"I notice everything."

Silence. Then footsteps from the stairs.

"Uh- breakfast." you said quickly, brushing past him to go over the fridge. Jake deflated but kept it to himself, knowing he had no right to feel this way when he was the one who let you go.

"Right, let me help."

-

Breakfast was surprisingly light. For the first time since the trip started, it actually felt like a vacation. There were no awkward silence or dead air like yesterday. Everyone joked about their hangovers, inside jokes were thrown.

"So, Jake and Y/N cooked breakfast?" Jay, who was the last one to wake up suddenly exclaimed from the stairs, walking towards the crowded dining table.

Ni-ki paused, "Wait, Jake," he pointed at the said man who raised a brow and had a strawberry on his mouth. "Made these pancakes?" he pointed towards the overflowing pancakes on his plate.

"I did Ni-ki, don't worry." you said lightheartedly, your brows quirking at him, playful and knowing.

The youngest visibly sighed in relief before he stuffed his mouth with the pancakes. Jake took offense and raised his arms.

"So what if I made the pancakes? Does it make it taste different?" he defensively asked making everyone stare at him in disbelief.

There was a beat of silence before everyone spoke over the other.

"Seriously?" "It's like he's not ashamed at all." "Just eat, Jake."

"Last time you tried cooking pancakes for everyone, you gave everyone food poisoning." you spoke, pointing at him then everyone else with your fork. Someone choked, either from holding back a laugh or the way you said it.

Jake's jaw dropped, putting a hand over his chest. "Slightly undercooked doesn't count as food poisoning! No one even threw up!"

Sunoo snorted and Jungwon raised a brow before nodding towards the youngest. "Ni-ki literally cried."

"Ni-ki threw up." you corrected, a brow raised as you kept your eyes on Jake who was fighting back a smile.

Breakfast was chaotic but fun. That morning, before you stepped out, you decided to push back every hard feelings you carried. Your friends planned everything and wanted to enjoy their small break. You didn't want to ruin the atmosphere by constantly being a moping cow, so even if it did hurt throwing jokes here and there with the person who broke your heart, you'd bear with it for the sake of your friends' happiness.

-

Once everyone was full and energized, you all gathered in the living room again. Nari had invited everyone for truth or dare to pass time.

You all sat in a circle in the middle of the living room, suddenly feeling like middle schoolers again. An empty coke bottle sat on the middle before it was spun by Heeseung.

"Okay! Sunghoon, truth or dare!" Heeseung exclaimed when the bottle stopped and pointed at Sunghoon. Said man groaned but picked truth anyway.

"Kiss, marry, kill, Aina, Nari, and Y/N go!" you audibly laughed while the two other girls made face.

"Obviously marry Y/N, kiss Nari and I'd kill Aina." there was a roar of laughter after he answered, Aina loudly complaining on why'd she be killed.

Jake furrowed his brows, his grip on the throw pillow on his lap tightening. "Obviously?" he whispered to himself but unfortunately, Sunoo heard.

"What? Jealous?"

Everyone 'oohs' awaiting his response. Jake shook his head, laughing slightly. "Of Sunghoon? Come on."

Sunghoon cackled but pointed at him anyway, "'Kay big boy, truth or dare?"

"Truth." everyone groaned, someone calling him a coward, someone saying two truths in a row was boring but he didn't care.

"Oh wait! I have one!" Ni-ki exclaimed, mischievous smile on his face. "Shoot." Jake nodded at him.

"What happened to the girl you were hanging out with in the city? Mira, was her name?" the room oohs, not noticing the way you subtly froze.

Jake stiffens, his gaze turning towards your uninterested figure. You were biting your lip, playing with the rim of your glass filled with juice.

He laughed hesitantly. "I was just walking her to class. Nothing happened, we're just groupmates."

Jake's eyes danced from your figure who remained still, to Ni-ki, to Aina who was now looking at him with furrowed brows, to everyone else who was now silent.

You looked to your left and see Jungwon's half filled bottle. Grabbing that opportunity, you snatched it from him and stood up.

"I'll get you your refill." and before he could stop you, you were already up your feet and left the living room.

"Nice going, she was actually starting to opening up more." Nari said, sparing a single glance at Jake and Ni-ki before standing up and following you.

Jake sighed, "Dude, seriously?"

Ni-ki sat back in guilt. "Sorry, I thought she's moved on."

"Okay, only a stupid person would think that." Jay said exasperated.

"Can we stop talking about this without her here? Seriously." Aina yelled, eyeing everyone with a hard gaze.

Heeseung stood up from his position and straightened his shirt. "I'm going to my room and coming out once the tension has cleared."

Jake watched as everyone left the living room, he could hear the faucet in the kitchen and faint murmuring from Nari. The room was silent but his heartbeat stayed loud. He needed to talk to you. Before the silence between you grew too loud to fix.

-

You kept your head low as you refilled Jungwon's glass, Nari standing beside you with her arms crossed over her chest.

"You don't have to pretend with me, you know?" she said softly, stepping closer. You nodded absentmindedly, screwing the lid back on the juice and tucking it back in the fridge.

"I'm not pretending."

"Come on, Y/N. Who are you fooling? You laughed when Sunghoon said he'd marry you, but Jake? One mention of a girl you don't know and you bolted." she whispered yelled, not wanting to be overheard by anyone.

You let out a sharp breath and messed your hair. "I'm just tired, Nari."

Nari's eyes softened, "You can talk to me, to anyone. We're your friends."

"I.. I think it was a bad idea, coming to this trip, I just-" you sighed, pulling the hem of your hoodie lower as if it would protect you from everything you were feeling. "I need a breather."

Nari didn't stop you but she watched as you walked away, biting her lip in worry and concern.

You hugged yourself tightly as you walked over the dock while the wind danced with your hair. You sat at the edge of the wooden platform, thoughts spiraling in your head.

Were you that easy to replace? But you couldn't blame him, it's been two years and he can date whoever he wants, but the unanswered questions still lingered.

Was I not enough? Did I give him too little? Maybe I was too clingy? Was I too pushy? Did I annoy him?

Did he fall out of love because he's seen everything you lacked with someone else?

You were so deep in thought you hadn't even realized the cold pattering of the rain dropping on your cheek. Just as you looked up in the dark sky, the rain poured, as if the world was crying for you.

The universe was crying for your pain, as if it could feel what you carried. And at some point, you didn't know anymore if the liquid dripping down your cheeks were your tears or the salty rain.

"Y/N!" you ignored his voice, choosing peace with the world who shared your pain. "What are you doing?! You're gonna catch a cold!" you were abruptly pulled up by your forearm but you snatched it away from his grip.

"Since when did you care, Jake?" you questioned, voice finally firm but shaking still. Jake's breathing was heavy, from the running or the question, you don't know.

"Since always. I've cared since always!" He screamed through the loud thunder, looking at your soaked figure. Your hair sticking to your face, your hoodie getting soaked, and yet, you were still the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

"I'm telling the truth, nothing ever happened to me and that girl. She was a groupmate, nothing else." he added, desperation slipping through each word he muttered.

You laughed. "It doesn't matter, Jake. I don't need your explanation, we aren't together anymore."

He didn't know his heart could break all over again. His breath stuttered, his eyes blinking rapidly. "I thought.. I thought we were getting better." he murmured.

"So did I." you smiled, but broken. "But maybe that was stupid of me, really."

Jake shook his head, stepping closer and his arms hovering over you as he hesitated whether he should hold you or not. "No, don't say that." his voice cracked. "I'm just- God, I'm trying not to mess this up all over again. Please just hear me out."

You looked at him in confusion and disbelief. "Why now, Jake? Why now that I'm finally building myself back up, now that I'm finally learning how to live without you?" your voice shook, sadness, anger, confusion. You didn't know anymore but you wanted it to stop.

"Because I still love you." he paused, his voice cracking. "I loved you then, I love you now, especially now." he whined, tears falling from his eyes.

"That's.. you-" your scoffed out a short laugh with a tear falling. "That's not fair, Jake."

"I waited months for you to reach out. I walked away, expecting, hoping that you'd follow me and tell me you still loved me." you cried, your fist clenched at your side. "But you didn't.. Jake.. you didn't fight for me, for us."

Jake hesitantly brought you to his arms, melting in you when you didn't pull away. His neck was wet, with the rain and your tears but he didn't care. You were shivering and crying and he desperately needed you warm.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't know how to, we were young." he whispered in your soaked hair. "But now I do. I'll fight now, for you, for us."

You shake your head against his neck, sobbing harder.

And somehow, the words you've been meaning to hear were finally uttered. Under the pouring rain while the world weeped with you in the arms of the boy you never really unloved.

EPILOGUE (One Year Later)

"Baby, seriously it's not that serious." you deadpan at your sulking boyfriend, his body was on top of yours, his weight crushing you comfortably.

He exhaled against the crook of your neck and you whined with a chuckle at the ticklish feeling. "It is serious. That lego set was the final piece for my collection," he pulled away, not all the way but just enough to look at you.

"I already had it in my hand, but boom! The kid gets it 'cause he's younger? What kind of policy is that?" he whined again, dropping his face back into your neck.

You chuckled at your boyfriend's whining, playing with his hair while he continued to ramble on how he deserved it better.

The journey to this relationship wasn't smooth, there were times you hesitated, scared that whatever happened then would happen again, but he always reassured you.

There were also times where he'd get overwhelmed but instead of pulling away, he'd talk to you with that cute eyes of his, asking for comfort and just talk, and you both did, for hours until he felt better.

No one pulled away anymore, no one was going to walk away anytime soon.

"I deserved it better, right baby?" he sulked, puckering his lips as he looked at you.

"Yes, you big baby. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"What does that even meannn." he grumbled into your shoulder.

Your relationship with Jake wasn't perfect, but what's a real relationship without imperfections?

You were lovers once, you are still, and until evermore.

(fin.)

[im-some-lionheart]

Fully agree that Michael was the one to convince Justin to go fix things with Brian, and fans don't acknowledge that enough...

But I also think that wouldn't have been necessary if he himself hadn't butted in in the first place. If he hadn't been so hypocritical as to tell Justin not to say anything only to turn around and tell Brian himself. He *should* feel guilty, because *he's* the one who fucked up. Especially because he knows Brian allegedly better than anyone. He knew exactly how Brian would react and how angry he would get about the fact that Justin knew too. And we know this because he told us himself. He warned Justin about not telling. So him spilling bc *he* got emotional about how much *he* cares so much about Brian when a couple of days before he basically told Justin "it doesn't matter how much you care about him, you have to keep it shut".. Idk, feels hypocritical to me.

Now, that doesn't absolve Brian from treating Justin like shit. But by that point in the show we've all also read the Kinney operation manual. We (the audience) can read through Brian's temper tantrums. We know it's a defense mechanism. We know his lashing out is not about him being truly angry at Justin, it's about him feeling vulnerable and powerless and emasculated bc of it. It's him trying to protect himself from the hurt of being dumped by Justin yet again by, instead, making sure to dump Justin first. And to do so in such a horrible, childish, fucked up manner, that it erases any desire in Justin to come back to him. But, in this scene, Justin proves him wrong (granted, after Michael intercedes, but only to fix what he himself fucked up lol). I read this scene as it finally clicking in his brain: "Oh. He loves me loves me. He's not gonna leave me that easily."

So that's kinda what I meant in my original post. Not that they're end game in the literal scene that they stick together forever. But more so in a "Justin is the first make it past Brian's defenses enough to finally make Brian let his guard down enough to allow himself to be loved, even when he's taken the mask off". And he manages to do this by challenging Brian in a way that no one else really does. Because even when Michael spills the beans, he does so tip toeing around it, around Brian. He gets emotional and not that that's a bad thing, but it does make it harder for Brian to get out right angry at him like he does with Justin bc Justin barges in with the caring and the movies. He doesn't waltz around Brian like Michael does. He doesn't "yes and" Brian. He "yes but"s him over and over again throughout the show.

Which is, in part, why I disagree that Justin only sees the Brian Kinney ™️ persona and not the true Brian. He simply is, as you say, young and inexperienced. He's baffled by the enormity of Brian's cancer. And honestly, who wouldn't? Your formerly invencible boyfriend now has the extremely deadly disease that killed his father less than 5 years ago. How does anyone deal with that? How does a 20 year old? Justin insisting on sex is him fumbling, trying to be supportive and helpful, trying to get Brian to feel "normal" again, and failing miserably. But I think it's unfair to attribute that failure to a lack of depth in their relationship or to an inability or unwillingness from Justin to see the Real Brian behind the mask. We get plenty of text and subtext throughout the show confirming that they constantly talk about the real stuff off camera, and from S1 Justin has been reading Brian like a magazine, spying behind the mask when sometimes not even Debbie and Michael can.

I think his portrayal during that whole arc is simply someone trying to be there for their partner but being unable to provide exactly what Brian needs because really no one could because what he wants (to not have cancer, to not feel like shit bc of his treatment) is simply impossible. And this is a beautiful parallel to how Brian fumbled with being there for Justin after his bashing and through the Pink Pose arc, trying and failing to make him feel better because what Justin really wanted (to have his brain intact, to get revenge) wasn't possible.

As for the s4 finale, honestly it's been a while since I last watched it and this post is already long enough and I already took far too long to reply lol (sorry about that btw) so when I get there in my next rewatch I'll send you an ask with my thoughts ✨

This fucking moment right here!!!! This is the moment when Brian finally understands that him and Justin are endgame. That Justin is it for him. That no one ever has nor ever will be a more perfect match for him than Justin.

Because only Sunshine can take care of him while also calling him "a mother fucking piece of shit". And mean it. Mean both things at the same time: you're a fucking asshole and I still choose to love you. Only Justin can see through him, and accept him and love him for who he is, while also challenging him and rising to his level.

And I think this is the key difference between how Justin relates to Brian vs how other characters do. Even the other characters who have some romantic feelings for Brian, like Michael and (arguably) Linds. To them, "loving and accepting Brian for who he is" means "playing by his rules". They let Brian dictate the dynamic of their relationship to him, and they mold their expectations to fit that.

But Justin doesn't do that.

Yes, he sees and understands and accepts who Brian is, and he loves him for it. But he's also the first and only character to ever challenge Brian's bullshit. Not just call him on it, like we see many characters do many times (Debbie, Michael, Linds...). But actually challenge it.

Everyone else just takes Brian's rules at face value. Some, like Mel, out right reject Brian's rules. Others, like Linds and Michael, accept them (either passively or begrudgingly) in order to keep Brian close. But they all still accept that "that's just who Brian is" and that's how things are with him.

But where everyone else takes Brian's rules as immobile, Justin is the first and only one to say, "ok, we'll do things your way, BUT we're also doing them my way". He bring his own set of rules to the table. He negotiates with Brian. And he does so multiple times throughout the show: when he tops Brian, when he asks for the no-kissing-others rule, when he convinces Brian to let him intern at Vanguard... And in this moment as well.

This moment is Justin telling Brian yet again, "Ok, we'll do things your way (angry and cursing at each other and with you trying to keep me at arms length bc it scares the shit out of you to be this vulnerable), BUT we'll also do them MY way (you'll let me in and I'll take care of you, because I fucking love you, you fucking asshole)."

And I think this is the moment it finally sinks in for Brian: that Justin loves him in a way that no one else has before. In a way that probably nobody else ever will: understating and respecting him, but also challenging him. This is the moment Brian realizes that Justin loves him exactly the way that he needs to be loved.

And I think that's beautiful.

[rwandacatboy]

Gojo Satoru isn’t an easy person.

Sometimes, he doesn’t even consider himself one — so maybe it’s more accurate to just call him complicated. And he knows it. Too well.

As the years passed and he grew older, he didn’t grow softer — he grew colder. Sharper. He built more walls, wore more masks. He got better at pretending, worse at feeling. And after what happened with Suguru, it all just… collapsed inward. What little light he still held onto flickered behind locked doors and forced smiles.

He doesn’t do relationships.

Not serious ones, anyway.

He might let someone into his bed for a few hours. Maybe. On a bad day. But they never stay. He doesn’t let them. They don’t even make it past the hallway — no one gets into his space. His apartment, his thoughts, his real life — that’s all off-limits.

His friendships? Old. Familiar. Safe. The kind that don’t ask questions.

They don’t talk about emotions. They don’t say “I miss you” or “Are you okay?”

Feelings are a trap.

Connection is dangerous.

And vulnerability? That’s a knife waiting to be twisted.

He doesn’t need anyone.

He doesn’t need feelings.

And he definitely doesn’t need love.

But then… you.

You didn’t storm into his life.

You didn’t demand attention.

You just… stayed.

You were there when Suguru left. When Satoru broke in ways he didn’t even understand yet. You didn’t offer empty words. You didn’t try to fix him. You just made sure he ate. You made sure he slept. You waited at his door with warm food and quiet presence and the kind of patience that felt almost cruel, because he didn’t know what to do with it.

You were a teenager too, but you carried yourself with a calm that made him feel both safe and exposed. Like you could see through him. Like you knew exactly how much he was pretending. You didn’t flinch when he lashed out. You didn’t leave when he shut down.

You were more than a friend.

But you never asked for more.

And that? That’s what ruins him.

You didn’t want his power. You didn’t want his name.

You weren’t impressed by his strength.

You just… cared. In the most terrifying, unconditional way.

And he hates it.

Because he can’t make you leave.

And you won’t let him destroy you like he destroys everything else.

So he tells himself, You’re just friends.

It doesn’t matter that you held him while he cried, shaking and silent.

It doesn’t matter that you saw him fall apart and didn’t look away.

You’re just a friend.

He’s been repeating it like a mantra for years.

Every time he sees your smile.

Every time you call him “Satoru” in that voice that makes something tighten in his chest.

Every time he watches you walk into danger and his heart stops.

Because the truth is —

You’re not just a friend.

And now he’s 27.

Still the strongest. Still smiling. Still alone.

Suguru’s death hangs like a shadow over the season, and he’s spiraling just a little more than usual.

And then he sees you — laughing — with someone else.

Someone who doesn’t look afraid to touch you.

Someone who gets to have the pieces of you that he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t crave.

And maybe it’s jealousy.

Or maybe it’s panic.

Or maybe it’s that final thread of self-control snapping —

Because before he can stop himself, he’s grabbing you.

Teleporting you.

Dragging you into his space like a storm, breath shallow and hands shaking.

And it’s definitely not because he’s in love.

It’s not because he’s thought about you every single day since he was sixteen.

It’s not because he’s imagined a thousand different versions of what it would be like to touch you like he means it.

It has nothing to do with how he’s sought out strangers who looked like you.

Nothing to do with the way your name has slipped past his lips in the dark.

Nothing to do with the fact that you are the one thing he’s never been able to bury or break.

…

The point is:

Gojo Satoru doesn’t do love.

He doesn’t believe in it.

He doesn’t trust it.

But whatever this is —

Whatever you are —

It’s tearing him apart.

And he’s so damn tired of pretending he doesn’t feel anything for you.

[wordsofelie]

🍧just like that

bokuto koutarou x f!reader

words count: 1.2k

When you first met Bokuto, he was a teenager. Loud, awkward around girls, convinced he could win a fight against a bear if it came down to it. The kind that devoured bowls of rice bigger than his stomach and laughed like he was the only one in the room.

Still, you fell in love with him. It was in the way he was too honest with his emotions. In the way he treated strangers like friends and teammates like family. In the way he saw the world—great, kind, infinite.

You started dating in the final semester of your last year of high school. He asked you out on the festival day.

“I like your hair like that.” He declared out of the blue even though you were carrying heavy boxes. Your hair was up in a ponytail, and there was sweat dripping from your forehead. Your heart skipped a beat, and at this moment, you knew that if you turned him down, you would regret it for the rest of your life.  

He left for Osaka a few months after, while you stayed in Tokyo. Long distance was never a problem, not when the person on the other end always made sure to finish his calls with sweet words and loud ‘I love yous’. Despite starting his professional career and becoming a promising player,  Bokuto was the best boyfriend you could ask for.

Ten years have passed since then.

There have been highs and lows for sure, but nothing dramatic. You remember a few mismatched expectations, a handful of miscommunications, but that’s all. You moved in together two years ago and, for the most part, it had been easy. Soft. Full of delicious meals, long mornings in bed, shared clothes, and the certainty that this is what you want forever.

Simply perfect. Well—except for the past month.

You can’t say when or even how it started. Maybe it was your new job that drained you more than you expected. Or maybe it was Bokuto’s frustration after losing the world championship. Or maybe it was both.

Usually, you’d say you were each other’s anchors. Steady and always together. But lately, you’ve felt like you were tugging away, and at times you even wondered if you weren’t going in complete different directions.

You never imagined you'd really fight with Bokuto one day. Yes, he could be clumsy—mixing whites and colours in the laundry, deleting tax emails by mistake, showing up an hour late to medical appointments (even though you wrote it down on the fridge in bright letters!). But those things meant nothing compared to all the joy he gave you; those could even be endearing.

But what happened today wasn’t endearing.

You snapped for something you can’t even pinpoint now. He yelled back. You called him an asshole, and he slammed the front door on his way out.

You waited for him to come back only to find yourself alone for the last four or five hours. Tonight’s meal has turned cold, and you miss him now.

You’ve never gone this long without fixing things. The only times you didn’t hear from him for more than an hour were when he was having a game, or when he was on the plane. Never because you were mad at each other.

You don’t realise you’ve bitten your lips so much, your mouth tastes like metal. You’re slumped on the couch in his hoodie with a melting tub of ice cream on the coffee table. A thought goes through your mind, telling you how cliché and desperate you must look. It’s almost laughable. You’re even watching some k-drama about a girl chasing her childhood friend who doesn’t know she loves him.

“She should have told him,” you groan at the TV like an old lady getting angry at the news. “Before he left.”

You think you might cry at some point, for the fight or the silence or the fatigue that you have both been enduring. And you regret every word you said to him. Gosh, if only you could rewind the last hours. You never used to be so vulnerable, so raw with your feelings. You were the kind to keep everything locked tight, but Bokuto cracked you open over the years—gently, patiently. How are you supposed to feel better without him?

The door opens and it startles you.

You fumble for the remote to turn off the TV, but in the rush, you knock over your tub of ice cream. It drips down your jumper.

“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand to the stain.

“Oh—wait, I’ll…find something.” Bokuto’s voice sounds like he has been crying.

He kicks off his shoes and disappears into the kitchen. You hear the clatter of a drawer, the rush of the tap, then his hurried footsteps as he returns with a sponge.

He drops to his knees beside you. You catch a trail of waterdrops behind him, following the path he took. The sponge is the wrong one—this one is meant for scrubbing dishes, not cotton—but you don’t correct him. You just watch the way his hands tremble slightly, how his brows pull together in worry.

“It’s fine now Kou,” you tell him.

You pull the jumper over your head and toss it aside. He tries not to look at you, but fails. His cheeks turn red at your almost bare chest. You find it cute, the fact that, after nearly a decade, he still gets flustered like it’s your first summer together.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry again.

So instead, you clear your throat, and he finally lifts his head to meet your eyes.

One of you has to talk first, yet you can’t seem to collect your thoughts to form a sentence, an apology. You feel stupid, so immature. How do people usually make up with each other? How do they regain one’s trust? And how are you supposed to show him how much he matters to you when you’ve let him down. All of a sudden, everything seems incredibly complex, too complicated—

“I like your hair like that,” he admits.

Your brain stops. The sentence is all it takes for your muscles to release. You move an inch towards him and fall into his arms; he steadies himself, and hugs you back—tight and warmly. His hand finds the back of your head, burying into your hair (messy, up in a quickly made ponytail).

“I’m sorry for calling you an asshole,” you whisper.

“And I’m sorry for leaving,” he says as he presses his lips to your temple. “I don’t ever want to leave like that again.”

“You better not,” you murmur with a pout.

Of course, making up with him is that simple. That evident. Like it’s always with him. How could you forget?

“What were you watching?” He asks after a few minutes.

You try to act as if you weren’t hooked on the series, as if you hadn’t been binge-watching the entire season. “Ahh… just some stupid k-drama.”

He reaches for the remote to turn it on again, “I’ll watch with you.”

“Wait, I’ll go warm up the food first.”

He smiles, and you kiss the corner of his lips. Just like that.

a/n: i went to ed sheeran concert and the song tenerife sea inspired me haha

[mist-see]

Do you still want me after this?

Pairing: Ghost x Tall, Dominant Black Female Reader

Setting: Quiet barracks room, late night.

Tone: Emotional intimacy, confession, vulnerability.

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: Mentions of abuse, suicide, war, torture, PTSD, implication of SA. Gentle but heavy themes.

You don’t ask for the story.

Not with words, anyway.

You trusted him to tell you whenever he was ready. It could be tomorrow, three months, 10 years. So when he one day just pulls you to your bunk, away from your peers. You knew it was serious, because he never was so obvious with your romantic life.

You sit across from him. One leg drawn up, arms resting loose on your knee. The way your eyes don’t demand, don’t prod, don’t pull — just wait. Open. Ready.

The room is dim, storm hissing gently against the barracks windows. Power’s stable but flickering. It smells like rain, like skin, like cotton and old gun oil.

Simon pulls off his mask.

Lays it gently on the desk that was pushed underneath the window. Not of surrender — but of trust. He sits down on the creaky wooden chair and faced you head on.

And then he says:

“You sure you want to know?”

You just nod.

So he begins.

⸻

“My name’s Simon Riley.”

“Born in Manchester. Eldest son of a bastard.”

He introduced himself to you, even though he already knows you. But you really don’t know him.

His voice is low, calm. Like someone reciting a list of coordinates. But there’s something trembling underneath.

“My dad was the kind of monster that didn’t need to roar. All he had to do was walk into a room, and the whole house’d fall silent.”

He jumps right into it, he watches as you blink, obviously caught of guard. He huffs before continuing.

“He beat my mum. Me. My brother, Tommy. I got the worst of it, ’cause I was older. Tried to shield him. Failed, mostly.” He rubs his jaw, like muscle memory. Like his father’s ghost still lives under the skin. “Used to lock me in the dog kennel overnight. Said I needed to learn loyalty.” “Said fear was the same as love.”

You feel something cold settle in your gut.

Not pity.

Rage.

That old man knew to get killed before you got to him. He recognized that look on your face, but he just shakes his head: it’s been over ten years, he’s dead. we both let this go.

And so you breathe out, and continue listening.

“I enlisted young. Eighteen. Joined up, climbed ranks. SAS eventually.”

“It felt right. Orders, discipline, no room for softness. Killing was clean. Quiet. Straightforward. I could disappear into missions. Didn’t have to feel.” He leans forward, elbows to knees. Still not looking at you. “That worked for a while. Until Mexico.” Your breath hitches.

He notices. Nods.

“Yeah.”

This is where his trauma comes into play. The touching, the zoning out. No sex, no long kisses, rare sleep overs.

“We were tracking a cartel splinter cell. Los Almas. I went in with a small team. Thought we had a lead on Hassan.”

“They set a trap. Grabbed us, took us underground. Into tunnels and pits and cages. They weren’t after intel. Just wanted to hurt us. Break us.” You stay still. Let him speak. His fingers tap the tabletop, slow and steady — like Morse code. Like counting breaths. “They flayed one of mine alive. Made us watch. Drugged me so I’d stay lucid. Heard every scream…called me pretty. Said they liked my voice. Said they’d make me talk.” He stops. And you feel that dreadful feeling in your stomach. He didn’t need to elaborate, you knew.

For a long moment, the only sound is thunder.

Then:

“I played dead for three days to escape. Dragged myself out of a pit of corpses. Flies, blood, rot… one hand, two fingers.”

“When I got back, I thought it was over.”

“But they found me again. Buried me alive in a coffin. Pumped me full of ketamine and let me scream ‘til my throat bled.”

You feel the breath leave your body.

Ghost finally looks up.

And it is Ghost now — not just Simon.

The man who came back from the dead and decided he’d never be buried again.

“I clawed out. Again.

And when I did — Simon Riley was gone.”

“Ghost was what survived.” He leans back. Exhales slowly. “It wasn’t just the cartel. My own command left me. Said I was compromised. That it was better PR if I didn’t come home. They buried the op. Deleted the files. I wasn’t a soldier anymore — just evidence. So I erased everything. Burned IDs. Cut ties. Masked up. You know how people say the mask hides you? For me, it’s the only thing keeping me seen.”

He lets that hang there.

Like it hurts more than anything else.

And you realize—

He never wanted to vanish.

They just made it easier than being human.

Then his voice softens.

“Tommy… didn’t make it.”

You blink. “Your brother?”

Simon nods.

“Got hooked on pain meds trying to help Mum. I was deployed when he OD’d. Didn’t leave a note. He was the best of us. Didn’t deserve what we grew up in. I was supposed to protect him.”

Your hand moves toward him instinctively.

But he takes yours instead.

Grips it tight — tight enough to hurt, but you don’t pull away.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever told this to,” he says.

“All of it. From start to now.”

You can barely breathe past the emotion choking your chest.

But you manage.

“Why now?”

He swallows.

“Because if I didn’t… I’d lose you without you ever knowing who I was.” He pauses, his eyes staring down at your bruised knuckles, blue a stark contrast to your brown.

“And that’d kill me…” he sounded like a whisper.

“You’ve seen the worst of me. In the field. In pain. Losing control…But this…This is the real worst of me. The boy who survived all that and never learned how to be loved without bleeding.”

Then, quieter:

“Do you still want me after this?”

You don’t answer.

You move.

Slide from the bed. Walk over and climb into his lap without a word.

Arms around his neck.

Legs locking him in place.

Your body — grounding his.

Your voice — steady as your heartbeat.

“You were never hard to want, Simon. Just hard to reach… don’t say no shit like that ever again..” He breathes in like he’s been underwater for years.

And breathes you out.

Like coming home. “…yes ma’am.”

He doesn’t cry.

But he breaks.

In your arms, face in your neck.

[ghostlynightpanda]

HELLO!! Im writing this to ask if you could make a Aib characters x a reader who is Ado? But they find out after hearing reader hum or sing a song when they think no one is listening. Or reader simply tells them. I hope you’re not getting tired of writing Aib character requests because I LOVE how you write them. As always, take your time, no rush!

AIB Characters react to Reader being Ado (J-Pop star)

A/N: I didn’t know her before this request, but she really has a great voice. Thanks for requesting this (and for introducing me to her this way)

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, 3.335 words

Ann

The Borderlands were silent, save for the soft rustle of wind against cracked pavement. You sat on the edge of the crumbling rooftop of the Beach, swinging your legs absentmindedly as you stared at the bruised sky, a soft hum trailing from your lips.

It wasn't deliberate. Music was muscle memory to you, woven into your bones after years of performing, singing, screaming your heart out on stages before thousands. Even here, in this desolate world of games and death, the music remained, stubborn and alive.

You didn't realize anyone was nearby—until you heard footsteps behind you. Quiet. Controlled.

"That song…" Ann's voice broke the silence, smooth and steady, but with a note of curiosity that made you glance back at her.

Her dark eyes were focused on you—not accusing, but searching, like she was trying to connect threads in her mind.

"That melody—you've been humming it a lot lately," she said, sitting down beside you, her movements precise, almost cautious. "'Usseewa,' right?"

You froze for a split second. Your cover here wasn't a disguise, not exactly. You hadn't announced who you were because… well, who cared about pop stars in a place like this? Fame didn't save anyone from the laser in the sky.

"Yeah," you admitted finally, eyes turning toward the cityscape. "Old habit."

Ann studied you in that thoughtful way of hers, analyzing more than your words. "Not many people would know that song unless they followed the J-Pop scene. And your voice…"

You bit your lip. No point lying to Ann. She was sharp enough to see through it.

"Okay. You caught me," you finally said, a small laugh leaving your throat. "I'm Ado. Was, I guess. Doesn't really matter here."

Ann didn't look shocked, or awestruck, or anything dramatic. She simply nodded, as if a puzzle piece had slid neatly into place.

"It makes sense now," she murmured. "Your voice. The way you hold yourself, like you're used to being watched, but you hate it."

That last part made your chest ache. You hadn't expected her to read you that well.

"You going to tell anyone?" you asked, voice quieter, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be.

Ann shook her head. "No. It's not important here, unless you want it to be. But…" She paused, something gentle softening the lines of her usually stoic face. "I think it's impressive. Not because of the fame—but because you're still you, here, after everything."

The wind stirred your hair. For the first time since arriving in the Borderlands, you felt seen—not as a player, not as a pawn, but as yourself.

Without thinking, you started humming again—softer this time—but this time, it wasn't just habit. It was for her.

And beside you, Ann just listened, silent but present, like a steady anchor in a world gone mad.

Kuina

The two of you sat near the edge of the empty pool that served as camp for the night. The stars above the Borderlands flickered with that eerie sharpness, too bright, too unreal.

Kuina leaned back on her hands, flashing you that signature grin of hers—playful, yet warm beneath the surface.

"You're weird, you know that?" she teased, bumping your shoulder gently with hers. "Whenever you're thinking hard, you hum. Cute."

You laughed quietly. "It's a bad habit."

"Nah," Kuina said easily, stretching her legs. "It's nice. Familiar, almost. I swear I've heard that voice before, though. Something about it… it's driving me nuts."

There it was, the opening. You could have dodged it with a joke or brushed it off, but something about Kuina made you want to be honest. Maybe it was the way she never made you feel like you were being watched for weaknesses, just seen for who you really were.

You looked over at her, heart beating faster than you liked.

"Kuina," you said softly, "there's something I haven't told you."

She raised an eyebrow, interest piqued immediately, but her teasing dropped, replaced with that steady, calm focus you'd come to admire.

"I used to be someone back in the real world," you continued. "A singer. You might've heard of me… Ado."

Silence. For a second, you wondered if she hadn't recognized the name, and you almost regretted saying anything. And then Kuina's eyes went wide.

"Wait. The Ado?!" Her jaw dropped in disbelief, then quickly turned into an excited laugh. "No way! That's why your voice has been bugging me! I used to blast your songs at the dojo when no one was around."

The thought of Kuina, practicing martial arts to your own vocals, was enough to make you laugh for real, the tension melting from your chest.

Kuina caught your hand in hers before you could shy away. Her grip was steady—not demanding, not possessive, just there.

"Thank you for telling me," she said, her tone soft, sincere. "That's not an easy thing to trust someone with here."

You glanced down at your intertwined fingers. "It doesn't really mater in a place like this."

"It matters to me," she countered. "Not because of the fame crap. But because it's you. And I like you."

Heat rushed to your face, but Kuina just winked at you playfully. "Besides, if we make it out of this hellhole, you better believe I'm dragging you to karaoke."

The image of singing your own songs at karaoke with Kuina made you laugh harder than you had in weeks.

For once, this world felt a little less heavy.

Mira

The rooftop garden was eerily beautiful—ivy climbing shattered concrete, wildflowers blooming where they shouldn't. Mira liked places like this. Beautiful things in broken places.

She sat across from you at a small stone table, a teacup balanced delicately in her fingers. Watching you with that infuriating, knowing smile.

"You've been humming again," she said, swirling the tea lazily, her gaze sharp even as her tone remained soft. "A distinct melody. Not something I recognize, which is odd considering how much I pride myself on knowing… everything."

You looked at her carefully. Talking to Mira was never just conversation. It was always a match—a game of mental chess dressed in polite words and porcelain teacups.

And yet… maybe that's why you chose her to tell.

"Do you want to know why?" you asked softly, matching her steady gaze.

Her smile curved. Elegant. Dangerous. "Of course. Secrets are such lovely things."

You took a breath, knowing that once you said it, there was no taking it back.

"I used to be Ado. Before all this."

For the first time since you'd met her, Mira's smile faltered—not entirely, just a flicker. Fascination replaced it. Interest, sharp and predatory, gleamed behind her eyes like a cat catching sight of a rare bird.

"Oh…" she whispered, savoring the revelation like a sip of fine wine. "Now that is interesting."

You braced yourself, ready for the manipulation, the poking, the peeling back of layers.

But instead, Mira leaned forward, resting her chin on the back of her hand, studying you like an art piece she hadn't quite figured out yet.

"You chose to tell me that," she mused. "Knowing what I am. Knowing what I do with people's weaknesses."

"It's not a weakness," you replied evenly. "It's who I am."

For a heartbeat, something genuine—almost—sparkled behind her gaze. Respect, maybe. Or something colder, but no less intense: hunger for the truth of people.

"Clever girl," she purred. "Fascinating and bold. I like that."

You weren't sure if that was a promise or a threat. With Mira, it was probably both.

She stood, smoothing her dress, then leaned in close enough that you could smell the faint floral scent of her perfume. "Perhaps you'll sing for me one day," she murmured near your ear, the words almost a dare.

Then she pulled away with that same smile—sharp, sweet, dangerous.

The game wasn't over. It had just begun.

Aguni

The walk back to the Beach was quiet.

The city stretched around you, hollow and broken, the kind of silence that made your own voice sound too loud whenever you spoke. But for once, you didn't care. After everything that had just happened—the blood, the shouting, the desperate run to survive—you needed something normal, even if it was just talking to fill the air between you and Aguni.

He walked slightly ahead, rifle slung across his back, shoulders tense but steady. His presence was comforting, in its own way—solid. Safe, at least as safe as anyone could be in this hell.

"I used to hate walking," you said out of nowhere, almost laughing to yourself. "Always took taxis or trains. Guess I'm making up for it now."

Aguni glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. Not much of a reaction, but enough to tell you he was listening.

You kept talking. "What about you? Miss anything? From before?"

His gaze flicked forward again. "Bars. Drinking with friends."

Simple. Honest. Pain threaded through the words like worn fabric. You didn't push further. Aguni wasn't the kind of person you cornered with questions.

"I miss music," you said, kicking a loose piece of rubble with your boot. "Not just hearing it. Performing it. Screaming until my voice almost gave out. Stupid, right?"

"Not stupid," Aguni said quietly, surprising you.

You glanced at him, curiosity finally pushing the words past your lips. "Do you know who I am? Who I was, I mean."

He frowned slightly, thinking. "Name?"

You inhaled slowly, deciding to just say it. "Ado. That was my stage name."

Aguni actually stopped walking for a second, like he was rewinding a distant memory. "…'Usseewa.' Heard that one."

It caught you off guard, the way the word sounded in his voice—rough, deep, completely unfitting for a J-Pop title. You laughed under your breath. "Of all my songs, of course that's the one you'd know."

He started walking again. "Someone I knew played it all the time."

That answer hung between you both for a moment. Another piece of the old world, drifting like smoke.

"I'm not really sure who I am here," you admitted. "Ado doesn't matter much in a place like this. Doesn't help you win games or stay alive."

Aguni glanced at you again, and this time there was something steady, grounding, in his gaze. "But it's part of you," he said simply. "Keep it."

No lecture. No judgment. Just fact. You weren't sure why that made your chest feel both heavier and lighter at the same time.

You smiled—small, but real.

"Maybe when we get out of here, I'll sing something good for you," you teased lightly.

Aguni didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Looking forward to it."

And in that broken, silent world, that small promise was enough.

Niragi

The old mall was falling apart, a skeleton of what used to be a buzzing, fluorescent world of shopping and overpriced coffee. Now it was nothing but shattered glass and silence, broken only by the occasional bird or the crunch of your boots on cracked tile.

You kicked aside a fallen display stand when something caught your eye—magazines, scattered across the dusty floor, the glossy covers dulled by age and grime.

You crouched down and picked one up. The headline was bold, dramatic, desperate for attention even now:

"WHO IS ADO? FACE REVEAL SOON?!"

It made you laugh—soft, almost disbelieving. God. That used to matter. Your real face, your identity, people gossiping and clawing at something that felt so important then. And now?

Now, who cared if you were a J-Pop star or a street vendor or a nobody? Everyone was just trying not to die.

"Pfft."

The sudden sound of Niragi's amusement behind you broke the moment. You didn't even need to look—he always gave himself away by the cocky tone in his voice, dripping with equal parts boredom and cruelty.

"Who the hell gives a shit about some pop star now?" he muttered, stepping closer. He leaned over your shoulder, his rifle hanging loosely in his grip. "Bet she's not even hot if she had to hide her face all the time. Probably some freak."

You laughed again, louder this time, glancing up at him. "Wow. That's your expert analysis?"

Niragi smirked, clearly entertained by your reaction. He liked poking people, but you never gave him the flinches or fear he wanted, which only made you more interesting in his eyes.

Without standing up, you held up the cover to him. "Want to meet the freak?"

He blinked. "What?"

"That's me," you said, grinning now. "Ado."

For once, Niragi hesitated. His smirk faltered for just a second, replaced with confusion, then disbelief. "Bullshit."

You stood then, brushing dust off your pants, still smiling like you knew a secret—and you did.

Then, you hummed it. Just a bar or two of that song—"Usseewa"—your real voice cutting through the empty mall like something sharp and alive.

Niragi froze. His eyes narrowed, brain clearly spinning, trying to line up the image of you with that voice.

"…You're kidding."

You just shrugged, tossing the magazine aside like trash. "World's full of disappointments, huh?"

For a second, Niragi was actually quiet. Not because he was stunned by your fame—he didn't care about that. But because you had done something unexpected. Interesting. Different. It broke the script he usually wrote for people.

Finally, he scoffed and gave you that crooked, dangerous grin of his. "Tch. Never thought I'd be looting malls with a pop star. Wonder how many people would've killed for that privilege back in the real world."

"Now they just kill for water," you muttered.

Niragi laughed, shaking his head. "You're fun."

And that was the closest thing to respect you were going to get from him.

But weirdly… it felt kind of good.

Last Boss

It was strange how quiet the Beach could get at night, despite all the games and madness and scheming that happened there. Out here, just beyond the buildings, close enough to be safe, far enough to breathe—you could almost forget.

The sky above was sharp with stars, cold little pinpricks of light in a world that had grown brutal and colorless.

You sat on a piece of broken concrete, knees pulled to your chest, staring up at them.

You didn't hear him approach. Of course you didn't—he moved like a shadow, silent and smooth. But out of the corner of your eye, you saw the leather jacket first. Then the sword glinting faintly under the starlight. Last Boss.

Without a word, he sat down next to you. Not too close. Not too far. Just there. Solid. Present.

No conversation started, but the silence wasn't heavy. It was… companionable, in its own strange way.

After a while, you smiled softly to yourself. "Didn't think you were the stargazing type."

No response. Just a slow blink, the faintest curl of his lip at the corner. Not quite a smile. But close.

The words slipped out after that, quiet, like you were talking to yourself. "Wanna know something funny?"

His gaze shifted toward you, a slow tilt of his head, giving permission to continue.

"I used to be a singer. Ado. Most of my life back there… it was songs, concerts, rehearsals. Picking out stage outfits. Arguing with producers about lighting setups." You shook your head, amused at yourself. "It all seems so far away now. Like someone else's memory."

For a few seconds, Last Boss didn't react. But then, he nodded once. Thoughtful. Not dismissive.

"You any good?" he finally asked, voice low and gravelly, like he hadn't used it much lately.

That made you laugh—really laugh, soft but real. "I mean… yeah. My biggest concert was a two-day event at the Japan National Stadium. Around 140.000 fans were there."

Another nod. Accepting. Not amazed, not starstruck—just… impressed. If you could stand in front of crowds, bare your soul through music, let them judge you? That took guts. Maybe not the kind of fight he was used to, but a fight all the same.

"Don't know your songs," he said after a moment. No shame in it. Just fact.

"That's okay," you said softly. "Doesn't really matter anymore."

Silence again. Comfortable again.

If he was surprised, if he was curious, he didn't show it. But—

The next morning, somewhere behind the Beach's main building, Niragi looked up from cleaning his rifle when Last Boss drifted by.

"Hey," he mumbled, surprising the other — he wasn't one for small talk, after all. "You ever heard of 'Ado'? Saw a magazine about her in the trash. Thought you'd know. You're into all that stupid celebrity crap."

Niragi blinked, then gave a sharp laugh. "Pfft. Yeah. Screaming pop star. Was trending a lot. Why?"

Last Boss just shrugged, gaze distant, thoughtful, like it didn't really matter.

"Just curious."

No one's business but his.

Chishiya

The rooftop was quiet except for the wind stirring broken signs and loose cables. From here, the ruined city stretched endlessly, glittering faintly under the distant stars and shattered neon signs. The Beach was restless below, players laughing or fighting, drunk on fleeting survival.

But up here? Peace.

You heard the footsteps before you saw him—soft, deliberate, casual. Chishiya's silhouette leaned against the doorway to the roof like he owned the place, hoodie slightly unzipped, that lazy smile curling the edges of his lips.

"You're not exactly hard to find," he said lightly.

You didn't move from where you sat on the ledge, one leg dangling dangerously over the edge. "Didn't know I was being looked for."

"You aren't," Chishiya replied smoothly, stepping closer. "But you have this… habit of wandering off alone. It makes people curious."

You smirked faintly, glancing at him sideways. "You don't get curious. You get entertained."

He tilted his head, conceding the point with a soft hum.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of wind against broken glass. Then you broke it, voice soft, almost like talking to yourself.

"You know, before all this, I didn't do much wandering around alone. Didn't have time for it. Rehearsals. Recordings. Endless meetings."

Chishiya's eyes narrowed slightly. He liked patterns, puzzles, unfinished pieces clicking into place. And you'd just given him one.

"What were you?" he asked, more statement than question. "Idol? Actress?"

"Singer," you answered. "J-Pop. Maybe you've heard of me. Ado."

For once, the ever-present smirk on Chishiya's face faltered—just a flicker, not shock, but interest. "Ado," he repeated. "Mm. Heard the name. Something about hiding your face, right?"

"Guilty," you murmured. "Kind of funny, right? All that effort to keep people from knowing what I looked like. Now I'm practically invisible."

Chishiya stepped closer, folding his arms loosely across his chest. "Fame doesn't exactly win Hearts games."

"Doesn't win anything here," you said softly. "But… back then, it mattered."

For a second, the weight of that life—the distance between who you were and who you'd been forced to become—pressed against your ribs.

Chishiya's gaze was unreadable, sharp and thoughtful, the way a cat might look at an interesting toy it wasn't sure whether to break or admire.

"Most people here lie about who they used to be," he said after a beat. "Or they bury it like it's shameful."

You just smiled faintly. "I'm tired of hiding."

A pause. Then that knowing smirk crept back over his lips, like a chess player seeing a new move unfold.

"I always did enjoy a good performance," he murmured, eyes glinting.

"Sorry," you teased, standing from the ledge, brushing off your pants. "Tickets are sold out."

Chishiya huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, more entertained than annoyed. "We'll see."

And as you walked past him, the weight of his gaze stayed on you—not sharp, not judgmental. Just interested. Like you were a game he hadn't finished playing yet.

Masterlist

[gingerf1]

You said you would write this anon prompt: “Would you consider writing about Max overhearing Charles talk to Seb and/or Kimi about how in love he is with Max and how Max is the best thing that’s ever happened to him, etc… and Max bursts out crying and runs to Charles and collapses into his arms. And Charles thinks something is wrong with his baby until Max finally is able to get out that he loves him so so much? 🥺🥺”

But consider that as this all is happening, Seb and Kimi are sitting there watching their son and his soon to be husband, and then maybe if Max is crying in Charles’ lap after telling him how much he loves him, they’re cooing at Max and once they leave and get somewhere private, Seb just starts bawling into Kimi’s chest because he’s so happy about his baby finding an angel like Max and whatnot!

I know I said I was going to post this yesterday, but just as I was about to hit publish, I received this ask, and I loved the idea so much, I decided to include it! 💕

So here it finally is! ✨

I hope you both enjoy it, thank you so much for the inspiration. 💗

🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽

Max woke slowly from a nap, his body still warm and heavy with sleep. The afternoon sun filtered through the gauzy curtains of their bedroom, casting soft golden patterns across the wooden floor. He stretched, yawned, and rubbed his eyes before padding barefoot through the quiet house. He was looking for Charles, or one of their pets, maybe Jimmy curled in a sunspot, or Leo lazing in the kitchen.

It was a lazy Saturday. That morning, they’d spent hours together finalizing the last few details for the wedding, flowers, playlist, and even the seating chart, which Charles insisted was a diplomatic minefield. Max had dozed off not long after lunch, lulled by the soft clinking of tableware and the gentle hum of Charles’s voice.

Now, as he moved through the hallway toward the terrace, he paused when he heard a low voice outside. Kimi.

“How are you feeling?” Kimi asked from the balcony, his voice steady but kind.

Max’s brows furrowed. He didn’t know Kimi was here. Why hadn’t Charles woken him?

Then Charles’s voice came, quiet and honest. “I’m fucking nervous,” he admitted with a sigh. “But I try to stay calm for Max. He already has so much on his shoulders.”

Max stopped just before the glass doors, his heart skipping. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, he just… froze.

Seb’s voice chimed in with a soft hum of agreement. “Isn’t it a bit soon?”

Max’s breath hitched. Too soon? Was this about the wedding?

But then Seb added, “I don’t mean the love, obviously. I mean the timeline. Planning a wedding in less than a year is always stressful. I can’t wait for the day to come, but maybe Max needs to hear it’s okay to take a breath. He’ll remember this day forever, and the days leading up to it too.”

“Yeah,” Charles said, and Max could hear the way his voice dropped into that soft, vulnerable tone only a few people ever got to witness. “Maybe it’s a little my fault. I was so excited, so fucking anxious to marry him, to see him wear my name… I just wanted everything to happen now.”

He let out a slow breath.

“But maybe I pushed too hard. Maybe I rushed him. I didn’t mean to pressure him, I just love him so much I couldn’t help it.”

There was a pause, and then Kimi’s voice, steady and warm.

“Tell him it’s okay to slow down. If something doesn’t feel right, or if something still needs time, change the date. This isn’t a deadline. It’s his fairy tale wedding. And he deserves to enjoy every second of it.”

He added after a beat, “You both do. And whether you get married tomorrow, next year or in five years, we’ll be right there with you.”

“Yeah, I’ll let him know,” Charles said, his voice thick with emotion. “I just want the wedding to be perfect. I want him to have everything he ever dreamed of, his fairytale, his happily ever after.”

He groaned softly, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, I love him so much. He’s my angel.”

Max stood frozen by the door, his breath catching in his throat. Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. He was used to Charles saying sweet things, he always did, but hearing him speak like that to Kimi and Seb, when Max wasn’t even supposed to be listening… it hit deeper. It was raw and unfiltered. It was real.

And it wasn’t just Charles.

“He’s the best,” Kimi said, quiet but firm. “I’m glad you found him. He’s perfect.”

“I’ve told you this a thousand times already,” Seb added, a warm laugh in his voice. “But we’re so, so happy for you.”

Max felt his tears break free, falling silently down his cheeks. His chest ached, in the best possible way.

“Thanks,” Charles said, and Max could hear the smile in his voice, the disbelief. “I still can’t believe he’s going to be mine. That I get to call him my husband. He’s so pretty, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And I just… I can’t wait to spend the rest of our lives together.”

A quiet, involuntary sob escaped Max’s throat.

Chairs scraped softly behind the glass, Charles must have turned toward the sound, but Max was already moving. He pushed the door open with tear-streaked cheeks, crossing the threshold with shaking hands and a heart so full it hurt.

Charles’s face went pale, panic flashing across his features as he rose halfway from his seat, probably thinking something was wrong.

But Max said nothing.

He just walked straight into his arms, wrapped himself around him, and buried his face in Charles’s chest.

Charles caught him instantly, arms wrapping tight around Max’s waist as he sank back into the chair, pulling Max into his lap protectively, reverently, like he was the most precious thing in the world.

“Baby, are you okay?” Charles asked softly, worry etched into every word.

Max nodded, but he couldn’t speak. The knot in his throat was too tight, and the tears wouldn’t stop. He just buried his face deeper into the warm curve of Charles’s neck, sobbing quietly.

“Mon Ange,” Charles whispered, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other around his waist, steady and reassuring. “Is everything alright? Are you hurt?”

Max whined, a soft, involuntary sound, because God, he loved him. He loved how Charles was holding him, strong but gentle, how his lips brushed tender kisses into Max’s hair, how his voice was filled with nothing but concern. He didn’t deserve this. Or maybe he did. But it still overwhelmed him.

“Schätzchen,” Sebastian called gently. “Geht es dir gut? Charles sieht aus, als würde er gleich ohnmächtig werden.”

Max nodded again, still trembling in Charles’s arms. Then finally, through the thick ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat, he managed a whisper, “Ich… Ich habe die schönen Dinge gehört, die du gesagt hast.”

Kimi let out a quiet chuckle.

“What?” Charles asked, completely lost, his hand frozen mid-stroke along Max’s back.

Seb laughed softly. “He’s fine. Just overwhelmed. We broke him a little, in the good way. Hold him tight like he deserves.”

Charles didn’t need to be told twice. He tightened his embrace instantly, pulling Max flush against his chest, anchoring him like a promise.

Max leaned in further and whispered against the curve of Charles’s neck, so soft it was almost nothing, “I love you too. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Apparently not soft enough, because Seb chuckled again somewhere in the background.

Max flushed, his cheeks turning warm with embarrassment, but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t. Not when Charles was holding him like this, strong, steady, devoted. So soft and so fierce all at once.

Wrapped in Charles’s arms, pressed against the steady rhythm of his heart, Max finally began to calm. The world slowed. The voices of Seb and Kimi blurred into a distant murmur, like the tide retreating from shore. Max’s eyelids grew heavy. His breath evened out.

And then, in the safety of the man he loved, Max fell asleep, peaceful, protected, and so deeply loved.

🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽

“I think I should go,” Charles said quietly, shifting slightly as he adjusted Max in his arms, still dozing with his face tucked into Charles’s neck.

Seb nodded, his voice just as soft. “Yes, let him rest a bit. He looks like he’s finally relaxed.”

“Are you staying for dinner?” Charles asked, pausing at the doorway to the terrace.

“Yes,” Kimi answered without hesitation.

“Perfect,” Charles smiled. “I’ll see you later, isä. See you, papa.”

“Take care of him,” Seb said, voice filled with gentle affection as he watched them go.

“I will,” Charles promised, pressing another kiss to Max’s hair as he stepped inside and disappeared into the house.

The terrace quieted.

Seb exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing as he turned toward Kimi, who was watching the doorway with a soft smile. Seb moved closer, slipping his arms around Kimi’s waist, and rested his head on his shoulder.

“I can’t believe our baby boy is getting married,” Seb murmured, emotion thick in his voice.

Kimi hummed in agreement, his hand rubbing slow circles on Seb’s back. “I know. Feels like yesterday he and Arthur covered in mud were screaming at each other in the backyard over that little red toy car…“

Seb let out a fond laugh. “God, they were such little monsters.”

“And now Charles is getting married,” Kimi said, his voice low with wonder. “And I couldn’t be happier that it’s to Max.”

Seb smiled, eyes soft as he nodded. “Right? Max is… perfect for him. He brings out the softness in Charles. The best parts of him.”

Kimi hummed again, thoughtful. “I can’t wait for their little monsters.”

Seb laughed, eyes crinkling with affection. “Yeah. Me neither.”

He tilted his face up, and Kimi leaned down to kiss him, slow, sweet, familiar. Just like the first time. Years had passed, but the love hadn’t changed.

The sun dipped lower over the lake, casting the terrace in gold, and the two of them stood there in the quiet peace of a family that had grown, and would keep growing, in all the right ways.

[whxrecxre]

.

[bejeweledinterludes]

touch starved.

OR dean winchester needs a damn hug! specifically from me, so of course i wrote about it! pretty much based off of my own headcanon that i wrote because this dean is canon— TO ME!

my masterlist

read part 2 here!

「 pairing 」 : touch starved ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 6.1 k (would y’all believe me when i say this started out as a drabble… faith be normal over dean winchester challenge level: IMPOSSIBLE!)

「 content / warnings 」 : late seasons soft!dean, vulnerability to da max, emotions, emotions, EMOTIONS. no smut (for once!), starts off kinda sad BUT HAS A HAPPY(ISH) ENDING I SWEAR! PLEASE PLEASE DON’T KILL ME

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

AFTER CENTURIES IT’S FINALLY DONE! just saying once again thank you all so very much for 400 (+87 ?!?!?) followers! this fic is my gift to you! can’t believe over 400 of you want to see my bullshit (and unabashed horniness) on the daily but i love and appreciate every single one of ya! shoutout to my lovely mooties as well!

𖤐 ─────────────────────────

dean winchester knew he had something called a touch problem.

and he didn’t know exactly when it started, but after years and years of the only touch he received being hits, punches, the cold feel of steel from a knife or the heat from the barrel of a gun—he craved something gentle.

he needed it.

and goddamn, he was getting desperate.

at first, he usually just sought it out with one-night stands. whether it be holding their hand during it, or sticking around for longer just to lay in bed with whoever the fuck he’d met that night— that kept him at bay. that’s how he got the touch he needed.

but then he got greedy.

it had been a particularly rough hunt. you, dean, and sam were lucky to get out alive. you’d pulled into a town that had a vamp nest terrorizing its inhabitants, and when you saw the familiar hot faces of the winchester brothers at the only decent bar in a 30-mile radius, you’d decided to work together— as you’d all done a million times before.

but still, it was rough. you three each took a floor of the abandoned farmhouse— you on the highest, dean in the middle, and sam on the ground floor. you clambered down the stairs after you had finished clearing your floor, only to be met with two snarling vampires— which you quickly ganked with a schwing of your machete.

after verifying that no threats were coming your way, you started looking for dean— and the panic that flooded through your chest when you saw him crumpled over on the floor in one of the rooms almost made you freeze.

almost.

years of experience and split-second decisions snapped you out of it, immediately falling to your knees by dean’s side, turning him over on his back.

your hands were gentle but swift as you quickly flipped out the sides of his jacket, making sure there were no large gashes or wounds— and the sigh with the feeling of pure relief you let out when you realized he was just knocked out was a little more intense than you had expected it to be.

and you told yourself that was definitely normal.

right?

right.

“dean,” your hand had gone to the side of dean’s face, the other remaining on his shoulder as you shook it gently, trying not to startle him completely as you masked your worry. “come on ya lug, rise ‘n shine.”

despite your efforts, dean still woke with a start— but you caught his arm with the hand not on his face before he could do anything.

“hey— hey,” your voice was quieter, softer. because despite being one bad mother when you were hunting, your soft side came out frequently when it was needed, without fear of judgment and with absolutely no shame. it was one of the things dean wished he could do as seamlessly as you. “it’s jus’ me, alright? come on—”

you then proceeded to stand all six feet and some change of dean up with you, keeping a hand on his back and shoulders and giving him another once over when he stood over you again.

“you all good?” you murmur quietly, your hands resting on the sides of dean’s arms as you stood back, your eyes continuing to rake over him for a moment before looking up at his face— and the expression you were met with wasn’t anger, or even frustration from being knocked out.

no.

dean looked almost… sad.

you’d never been exactly ‘close’ with dean. of course you considered him a friend— for years now, but in all honesty, even that was a stretch sometimes, too. because he was a very closed off and mistrusting person.

but hell, you respected that. especially in this line of work. he did talk to you once in a while, though— on those lulls during a hunt or a case, or when he dropped some crazy lore about himself or his childhood, then going right back to his usual behaviors afterwards.

that being said, you knew dean better than he thought you did— because he didn’t have to say much for you to know what he was going through. despite what he thought, his emotions were always kinda just… written on his face.

but now, back to the farmhouse. back to the look dean had on his face right now. it was a look you saw only after he had consumed enough alcohol to kill a baby elephant, which is why it threw you off and made your usual easygoing attitude with him falter.

“dean,” you voice had gotten quieter, even softer, “w—” but before you could say or even do anything else, sam called from the floor below that it was all clear, snapping dean out of it, his expression hardening again.

in the days coming after, you didn’t ask dean to explain himself, or push about what had happened that night. you knew if he wanted to, he’d come to you about it— maybe not right away, but when he was ready.

little did you know how soon that would be.

you’d been living in the bunker for probably only a couple months at this point after the apocalypse world had opened up, and a bunch of hunters were living in the bunker too— but less than a week later after the vamp nest, both sam and dean embarked on solo hunts, sam in maine, dean in nevada. both brothers had warned you not to ‘burn the joint down’.

come on. like you would ever do that— on accident. besides, you had the bunker all to yourself.

which was fun—

for all of five minutes.

now, almost six days after sam and dean had left, you’re sitting in the library, surrounded by a scattered array of books, papers, and weapons alike on the tables in front of you— another late night of research and catching up on lore.

because there was always lore to catch up on.

you’d been lost in the words in front of you when you heard the unmistakable noise of the bunker’s door creaking open. you stiffened slightly, instincts on alert, lifting your gaze from where you were standing— but relaxed and went back to scanning the page when you realized it was just dean.

because here’s the thing: over the years, you’ve realized that it’s not a good idea to talk to dean after he’s fresh off a hunt— and especially knowing that he’s probably just drove almost or even over 24 hours straight to come home?

yeah. no way were you about to be running up to dean as he trudged down the stairs, doting on him. to your knowledge, he hated touching people, especially other people touching him.

besides, usually after a hunt, dean would just go to his room, the infirmary, or immediately hit the showers— and not look once in your direction while he did it, much less talk to you.

it hurt, but you understood that the reason he does it wasn’t exactly anything you were doing wrong— it was just what dean did.

but tonight was different.

dean was on his way to his bedroom (or actually, maybe the infirmary might be better so he could patch himself up)—

but then he saw you.

you were still stood at one of the tables, eyes scanning through books of lore you dug up from the bookshelves, illuminated by the golden lamps lining the wooden tables. god, you were pretty. even though you weren’t looking at him, he didn’t blame you. he wasn’t exactly the most cheerful after a hunt.

especially this one.

and because of that, dean’s feet were moving before he could even think twice about what he was doing.

you’d glanced up from the book you’d been completely engulfed in— and was a little surprised to find dean looking right back at you as he walked up the few steps to the library.

you opened your mouth to say something, but before you could even register what was happening, dean had already made it to you— and without warning, wrapped you in a tight embrace, slamming against you and holding you like you were the only thing that would keep him upright.

your eyes widen slightly at the feeling of dean’s arms around you before you could register the fact that he’d even crossed the threshold of the bunker— a little ‘oof’ sound escapes you completely involuntarily.

“hey,” dean let out a shaky breath against some strands of your hair and shoulder, his voice slightly raspy with…was that relief?

despite how caught off-guard you were, you don’t reject dean’s unexpected hug, though. you let your body adjust to him and your arms wrap around him too, returning the gesture right back. the faint smell of baby’s exhaust, something earthy along with the familiar scent of dean fills your lungs as your fingers ever so slightly grasp onto the back of his jacket, keeping him against you.

the muscles in dean’s shoulders relax the second your arms gently wrap around him. and oh god, he just really missed you—

“hi,” your voice is just as quiet when you greet dean in return, chin resting on his own shoulder. “how did it—”

you’re trying to ask how his hunt went, but before you finish, dean’s pulling you closer to him and squeezing the words from you. his hands slip more around your waist to hold you against him tighter, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder. he just wants to feel you. you’re so warm, so soft— and goddamn, you smelled good, too. you always did. it was a little infuriating, actually.

dean knows he should probably let go, or at least respond, but he can’t find it in himself to let go yet— so instead he just holds onto you tighter. he still doesn’t respond to your unsaid question, simply standing there, holding onto you like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

you assumed something had happened on his hunt for dean to be acting this way— but you don’t press or force him to tell you what. you just wanted to be there for him right now.

“oh,” is what you end up softly replying with a little nod of your head against dean when he simply doesn’t answer your unfinished question. but you don’t let him go. hell no. you just pat your hand on the back of one of his shoulders, tightening your own grip on him in return. “sorry, de.”

and dean lets out a slow breath of… was that relief at your voice, at the nickname you’d had for him since the second (or was it third) hunt you’d ever worked on together? who the hell knows. he’s just so thankful you’re here, you’re hugging him, not pushing him away, you’re holding him— that you’re so close.

“no, it’s okay,” dean’s unusually soft voice, barely above a whisper, cuts through the silence.

“it— it was rough, that’s all," he mutters after a even longer while, his words tinged with a mixture of fatigue and… something else that you can't quite place.

you and dean were so close and pressed together with your combined tight grips— so much so that you swore you could almost feel his heartbeat. but it wasn’t uncomfortable. and it didn’t feel awkward. it never seemed to be with him. besides, by his (few) words, you could tell he needed this a lot more than he was letting on.

in all honesty, you were just glad dean was finally letting himself seek comfort for once in his goddamn life—

in you.

“yeah, i get it,” is what you reply with, just nodding against dean’s shoulder while tightening your own grip on him. without really thinking about it, you start to gently run one of your hands up and down his back while still wrapped up in him, palm and fingers trailing on the material of his jacket. “just glad you’re back.”

you can feel dean’s breath hitch at your touch— and for a moment, you hesitate your motions of your hand tracing along his jacket, but his grip on you unconsciously tightened, like he was clinging to you. so you continue doing it after that.

“yeah,” he murmurs, a faint huff of something like a laugh escaping him. “me too.”

and for a long while, dean just stands there wrapped up in you, his face still buried in your hair and part of your shoulder as he lets himself lean into that touch, absorbing its comfort. he grips onto the back of your shirt— and he could feel the tension start to melt away, the warmth mixed with the scent of you filling his senses and working magic on him.

dean stays quiet for several more moments, his face still buried deep in your shoulder, as if he was trying to hide himself from the outside world. his grip on you doesn’t loosen as he stands there, his body against yours. every breath he takes is deep, steady— like he’s grounding himself in this moment with you.

his words break the silence as a whisper against you after a while, the vulnerability clear in his low voice, his words almost like a confession.

“i… missed you.”

a small exhale you didn’t know you were holding releases when dean says that— and your hand falters. dean winchester, king of bottling up feelings and keeping them to himself just said he missed you. this was completely different than how he usually acted around you, but you didn’t mind.

“i missed you, too,” your own voice also quiet when you respond. it was only a few words, but you had understood what dean meant— in more ways than most would. which is why you don’t even attempt to tease him about it, replying with something between a sigh and a laugh at the realization. “like, a lot.”

dean’s grip tightens even further at your response, as if your words had a more profound impact on him than you could've ever imagined. he pulls you closer against him, the hardness of his body against yours should’ve been more uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

there’s a moment of silence as dean just holds you, face still hidden, his chest rising and falling right against yours. each breath he takes is deeper, almost shaky, and for a moment, you can feel the slightest tremble in his grip.

his voice are soft, vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen from him. like he almost didn’t believe you.

“really?”

and you don’t falter your own grip for one second, despite the fact that this was completely out of character for him. you return the action, tightening your arms around dean before resuming running your hand up and down his back.

“yeah, really,” you nod against dean to confirm, letting out a soft exhale into his jacket. “i dunno, it was just… quiet here without you guys. always is.”

your words seem to soothe him— almost as much as your touch, your hug does. despite being strong both physically and mentally, dean seems to need this— and he doesn’t even really know why. he relaxes even more at your words, his body slumping against yours. it’s almost like he’s seeking every bit of comfort and warmth he can get from this— from you.

dean lets out a small, soft scoff, tinged with weary amusement. “yeah, i bet it was,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your . “must’a been like a vacation for you, huh?” there's a note of sarcasm there, like he’s trying to mask the intensity of the moment with something familiar— like he always did.

and you could have played along with dean’s attempt at lightheartedness— but honestly, you were too tired to make that effort right now. so you just shake your head a little against dean, voice much quieter than before.

“first day was nice,” you admit to dean, hands grasping the back of his jacket to keep him close to you before you close your eyes. “the rest were just…”

there’s a beat of silence as you trail off, and dean’s grip on you— if possible, tightens even further at your unfinished sentence, as if he was hanging on your every word, waiting for what you were going to say.

he lets out a small, soft breath, warm against your hair. “just... what?” he asks, his voice just as low as yours. there’s a hint of subtle unease at what you were going to say.

your arms don’t loosen when you feel dean’s grip grow just that much tighter— but you weren’t about to complain. you don’t answer right away, because the rest of your sentence was almost too embarrassing to admit.

but then again, you remind yourself: this was dean who you were talking to. he didn’t judge you for a lot of things you had once assumed he would judge you for. so you just huff out a quiet laugh into his shoulder that wasn’t really one at all— containing no humor and mostly self-deprecation.

“lonely.”

your admission hangs there between you both. it’s a simple word, but it hits dean harder than any blow he’s ever taken in a fight. because you get it. there’s a hitch in his breathing— the kind that gives away more than mere words ever could. he goes still for a moment, just letting your confession sink in, the quiet of the bunker feeling even more pronounced in that moment.

“yeah,” dean finally breaks the silence with a soft exhale against you, pulling you even tighter against him. “me, too.”

you relax a little after dean says that. it meant more than he knew. you weren’t sure how to explain it, but it felt like you and him… kind of supported each other, in a way. like the burdens you both carried separately, your own issues that you had, they seemed to be less overwhelming whenever you were even near each other. even if you and him didn’t actually know each other’s burdens.

there’s always been an understanding between you, a silent knowledge that sometimes words didn’t need to be said for the other to know what that person is thinking.

the atmosphere in the room feels different now, the silence less heavy than it was before, but the intensity and weight of the moment still weighs heavily in the air between you. it must be an interesting sight from the outside looking in— a six-foot hunter clinging onto you like you were the last thing on earth. but you didn’t mind. hell, it was comfortable.

dean’s grip on you remains just as tight— almost like he’s afraid to let go, afraid that you’ll slip away like some dream he only has once in a great while. he takes a deep breath, chest rising against you as he inhales, then exhales slowly. before he’d realized it, his fingers absentmindedly fiddle with a strand of your hair.

this level of closeness between you two was unfamiliar. of course, you’d hugged each other before and spent numerous times in close proximity—whether it be in the backseat of the impala when sam had to drive that one time or when you had to hide in a not-so-big broom closet from a wraith.

but this... this was different.

and you knew the uncomfortableness of seeking comfort better than most— but somehow, you never had an issue when you were the one who was comforting others. but still, this was new territory. you certainly hadn’t expected dean to hug you for this long tonight. truth was, you didn’t really didn’t want to let go. but you couldn’t say that to him. that would be too weird.

the library is silent, only the soft tick-tock of the old clock on the wall filling the air. there’s a vulnerability, an understanding greater than words in this moment that neither of you are used to— but strangely enough, it's also the most comfortable you’ve both felt in a long time.

and then, dean breaks the silence again— his voice so low, so quiet, that you almost miss it.

“don’t wanna let go.”

your gaze softens when dean says that— but you don’t loosen your grip on him. you weren’t sure exactly why he was so adamant on not letting go, or why he’d been hugging you like you’d almost died. but you don’t ask questions.

besides, dean’s been more vulnerable with you tonight than i’d ever seen or heard in all the years you’d known him. and when he admitted that? you knew you had to be there for him, in whatever way he wanted. so when you reply back, your words are just as quiet as his.

“well, you don’t have to.”

the words feel like a weight being lifted off dean’s shoulders. he clings to you even tighter, burying his face even deeper into your shoulder, like he was ashamed. he doesn’t say anything for a moment— instead, just taking deep breaths. because he’s struggling to keep his emotions intact.

finally, he mumbles into you again, his words muffled by your shirt.

“you promise?”

“yeah,” you echo back quietly, nodding your head against dean’s buried into you. “promise. we can stay like this as long as you want to.”

there’s no malice hidden in your words, or any hint of teasing— because it was nothing but the truth. you’d stay with dean for as long as he wanted you to. and you bury your face a little more into him when he does the same to your shoulder.

there’s another long moment of silence as dean holds onto you, his face still buried in your shoulder. normally, he’d be making some smartass comment by now, acting like his usual self— but he can't seem to find the words. or the energy.

dean huffs softly against your shoulder after a moment— the closest thing to one of his usual snarky remarks. but there’s a hint of hesitation in his voice when he speaks.

“what if i wanted to… all night?”

you’d half been expecting dean to brush off your words with a joke or at least something, but the tone of hesitation told you that he was being anything but that. you hesitate, but ultimately lift your head off of his shoulder— you don’t pull away fully, though.

and dean’s body visibly tenses when you pause and pull away slightly to look at him, and he’s almost immediately on the defensive— but relaxes a little when you don’t go far.

your gaze silently searches dean’s as you scrunch your eyebrows slightly. you knew that what he’d just asked you for was… different. and you didn’t have to ask him for clarification. you knew what he meant, why he was so hesitant. because this wasn’t going to be just hugging him anymore.

this would be all night.

and there’s a vulnerable look in his eyes when he lets his guard down just enough as you let your gaze linger on him. dean almost looks like a wounded dog right now, the exhaustion, the weariness making him drop his typical persona in favor of honesty— maybe even desperation, just this once.

from that look on dean’s face, he was not kidding about what he asked. the expression he had was one you hadn’t seen this intensely in a long time. you knew he wasn’t one to just ask something like this, either. not unless he needed it.

the thought of being so close to dean all night makes you a little nervous, but not as much to outright say no. so keeping his gaze, your voice is just as quiet as his was when you nod, breaking the silence of the library once again.

“then i’d say ‘get your pj’s on’.”

the way dean’s body relaxes in relief at your words is almost overwhelming. he’s still staring right into your eyes, the vulnerability almost raw. he manages to nod, searching your gaze. he’d been expecting a boatload of teasing with a side of humiliation— but he’d been proved wrong.

“yeah?” he almost whispers as he holds your gaze, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read your mind. like he’s unable to determine if this is real. if you’re real.

“yeah,” you nod in return, a pang of warmth hitting you again as you look at dean right back. you’re both still standing so close together— and the air felt different, thicker when you take another breath. “s’long as you don’t kick me.”

dean appreciated the break in seriousness, more than you would ever know. something resembling a smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“no promises,” he murmurs back, something softer in his gaze as his eyes continue to rake over your face. “but i’ll try.”

“good,” you nod a little again, your own smile tugging on your face as your hands almost absentmindedly trail on dean’s arms— and his eyes literally almost flutter shut at the contact. “and you’re comin’ to my room. and you’re showering.”

dean raises an eyebrow and tries to ignore the warmth that stirred in his chest when you said that all authoritative-like— he swallows before he talks again.

“yes, ma’am.”

. • . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . 𖤐

dean knocked on your door before he entered your room not twenty minutes later— don’t ask him, but he showered faster than he ever did in his entire life. he wasn’t too keen on the why.

your head perked up from your pillows when you heard the knock, already under your blankets and— well, let’s be honest here: waiting for him you’d even already moved to the left side of your bed, so dean would have a spot.

a stupid, small part of you had doubts that dean would actually ultimately show up, but it was a little embarrassing how much relief you felt when you call out a soft “yeah”, signaling him to come in.

dean stepped into your room, the only light being from your barley-lit desk lamp. it doubled as a night light, so you didn’t trip over yourself after a midnight snack break.

dean might as well have been in heaven. or something pretty damn close.

of course, he’s been in your room before— but this felt much different than all the other times. because he was going to be sleeping here tonight.

everything felt heightened, more intense— but as dean shut your door, he also had an almost overwhelming sense of comfort. of home. like this is where he was supposed to be this entire time. he pushed those recurring thoughts and feelings he always felt when he was around you, but without first reminding himself that you had agreed to do this. the thought alone was almost enough to make dean’s heart do that thing it always did whenever he was around you.

he’d been lost in his own thoughts, barely even registering the fact that he’d made it to the edge of your bed. your bed. not his, not some old, dingy motel’s. it almost made him chicken out. until—

“as much as i’d like to see you stand there all night, i think you should probably lay down.”

there it was. your incomparable capability to snap dean out of his head, back to reality. he didn’t know how you did it— and to be honest, you didn’t really know, either. but you always could, even giving sam a run for his money.

dean doesn’t hesitate again. you’d already peeled back your covers for him, so he just lifted them up and got under them. like he belonged. as if he’d done so a million times before. 

your bed, your sheets, your pillows— it was warm. and it smelled like you, tenfold. an equal blend of your fabric softener that only you used because dean said the teddy bear on the bottle looked at him weird and your shampoo that was way too expensive and you had to go to a separate store for. 

dean knew you smelled good, that was no debate— but this was like he was wrapped in it. like he’d been earlier when he hugged you. and so close to how he’d always wanted to be wrapped up in you. yet he knew that wasn’t going to happen tonight.

besides, when was the last time dean winchester got what he wanted?

the answer?

right now.

your eyes hadn’t left dean’s figure when he finally lays down next to you, both now facing each other— it was strange actually seeing him in your bed after years of restless nights wishing he was.

and you could smell him, too— the faint scent of the soap you’d gotten him for his birthday, along with the tea tree shampoo sam kept hidden in the back medicine cabinet (but not well enough, apparently). you decided right then and there that the pillow dean’s head was currently resting on was the one you were going to sleep on after tonight, just so you could smell him after he was gone.

“how you wanna do this?”

dean’s uncharacteristically soft voice broke your thoughts, and you met his eyes when he spoke. his expression looked softer, too— almost hesitant. like he was uncertain. it was a look you rarely ever saw on his face. to see it now, in this way, was bittersweet. then it clicked. 

he was nervous.

“however you want to,” is what you reply with, voice just as quiet as his. you reminded yourself that dean had asked for this. in your mind, it was only fair that he get a say. “whatever you need.”

whatever you need. well, dean needed to kiss you silly if it was the last thing he did, but not tonight. not here. he wouldn’t be able to take it if you rejected him in that way. 

but he had to take some sort of risk right now. he couldn’t deny himself of it— of you any longer.

so before dean can talk himself out of it, he wraps an arm around you, closing the remaining distance— and to your surprise, he buries his head right into your chest, nuzzling against your shirt.

your breath hitches, and you hope to god that he didn’t hear that. but you don’t reject him. you just wrap your own arms around him, accepting him and his touch just as you had done earlier in the library. 

dean would’ve made some joke about basically burrowing his face into your boobs. he didn’t really mean to— but his eyes had fluttered shut already, because you letting him, and you were warm, and you smelled good, and you were so soft.

he’d always loved that about you. from a distance, of course. it didn’t matter how many hardships you’d gone through; you were soft in every sense of the word, both physically and emotionally. and once when he’d taken a shower in your bathroom since sam was hogging the main one in the bunker, the whole damn place smelled like you. he found himself wanting to drown in it.

and hell. he wouldn’t even complain.

your free hand went into his hair at some point, and it took everything in him not to let out a noise. dean sighed a little into your shirt, his breath warm on your chest— he finally let himself relax. go slack.

and he was so grateful that you didn’t tease him, or point out the fact that all six feet and one inch of him was in your grasp and snuggling into you like some damn koala. like a little kid who had a bad dream. but then again, his life felt like a never-ending bad dream most of the time.

you were his one exception to that.

not that he’d ever admit it out loud.

you weren’t sure how long you both stayed like that, wrapped up in each other before dean breaks the warm blanket of silence— it could’ve been hours or seconds. but his voice is so low, so soft, you almost didn’t hear it.

“thanks.”

the word was spoken against you, dean still remaining unmoving. he didn’t necessarily think himself as weak at the moment, even though he thought he should— and he dared not to say it out loud, knowing that you’d immediately shoot his insecurities down. 

but dean was finally letting himself get comfort. warmth.

something he’d had for a fleeting moment, then lost. something he had deemed too precious for a man as ragged and as sinful as him a long time ago. he didn’t deserve this. you.

he’d never be one to just take something like this, to ask this of you, without any regard for how you felt. but you showed— all you ever showed to him was the love he thought he’d never receive. the love he’d given so much away, but it never got returned back to him.

because you made him feel like he actually meant something. like he was the hero people he’d saved described him as. like he wasn’t some piece on a chessboard, a punchline in someone’s story, a puppet on a string, or a cog in some eternal machine. 

truth was? the big secret?

you made him feel normal. human. 

it was almost overwhelming, how safe, comfortable he felt right now. the last time he felt this safe, he’d been a child. the last time he felt this comfortable in himself— damn. it was before hell.

when it was just monsters of the week, the only big goal being finding his dad. staying at bobby’s. you had visited that summer. he can still remember your laugh echoing off of the wallpaper and the piles of books. it was before demons.

and the only angel he saw daily was you.

it was in the way the light shone in through the stained glass of one of bobby’s kitchen windows and hit your face, you making him coffee without being asked. when you smiled at him just because.

you treated him like a real friend. like family. like an equal.

sometimes, when everything in his head was too loud, dean missed it. when the only thought of lucifer he had was when he saw the cartoon on the bottle of the devil’s hot sauce at that barbeque place in texas. when everyone he loved and cared about was still alive. when the world wasn’t ending. when you kissed his cheek after not seeing him for a while.

you still did that last one, though.

“anytime, de.”

dean had flinched a little, but didn’t open his eyes after you replied—he had been too lost in the comfort. in you. he could die right now instead of sleeping, and honestly? it’d be a good way to go out. he’d prefer it over going down swinging any day, he decided. 

dean got most of what he wanted tonight. maybe someday he’d get it all. but for now, he’d just dream of it, like he always did.

the only difference?

he was actually in your arms this time.

───────────────────────── 𖤐

you have one ( 1 ) more new message from the author ! ↓

i know i said it already, but i need to hold this man so so so BADDDDD 💔💔💔 he deserves everything and more like that’s my shayla ☹️ my baby my world my everything (he’s a murderer and monsters fear him)

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bittersweetfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

[cbeargyu]

assigned to you

summary: in a dystopian future where the government enforces arranged marriages to combat plummeting birth rates, you’re assigned a husband—choi yeonjun, a stranger you’ve never met.

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

genre: dystopia, slow burn, romance, angst, smut, fluff.

warnings: explicit sexual content, soft breeding kink, language, forced marriage system, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, domestic intimacy, power imbalance due to forced pairing, first time sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex,

wc: 19,1k

notes: hi everyone! ✨ so recently this idea popped into my head—i’ve been wanting to write something with an arranged marriage trope but the whole cold ceo x neglected wife thing was starting to feel a bit repetitive, especially since i’ve already written something in that genre (which i still LOVE btw, but i just wanted to try something new) 🥲 then i remembered this anime called koi to uso — it’s about this dystopian world where the government assigns you a partner and yeah… i never finished it because it turned super harem-y and that’s not really my vibe AJSJHSKJJH but the concept really caught my attention, so i thought hmm maybe i should give it a try 🫣

hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶

everything begins the day you turn twenty.

you wake up to the faint noise of birds outside your window, sunlight filtering through the pale curtains, painting quiet shadows across your bedroom floor. your mother is already in the kitchen, humming lowly, but there’s something off in her tone. a tremble, maybe. or maybe it’s just you. maybe you’re imagining it because today’s the day you have to register.

the day you officially surrender your right to choose who you’ll love.

in this country, love is not a decision. it is a number, an equation, a state-mandated obligation for survival. for years now, the country’s birth rate has been plummeting. desperate to avoid demographic collapse, the government instituted the pairing system: when you turn twenty, your data—genetic markers, temperament, emotional intelligence, compatibility rates—is run through the database. the algorithm does the rest. your match is chosen, your future locked in, and within the year, you are expected to marry and attend compulsory family planning. you have one job: produce offspring.

love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.

you walk into the government building with your hands shaking, your mother squeezing your fingers too tightly, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. she’s been crying in secret, you know. she didn’t want this for you. no one does.

and yet—there is no other choice.

the registration is swift. a photo, a signature, your blood drawn for one final compatibility cross-check. they tell you the letter will arrive in three to five business days. the envelope will be yellow. unmistakable.

“please return home and prepare for assignment.”

you try to keep your days normal after that. university lectures. cafeteria lunches. walking home with your head down, ignoring the couples holding hands across campus, each one with an official barcode tattooed on their ring fingers—a symbol of government approval. your own hand feels heavy just looking at them. branded love. manufactured desire. they never really chose each other.

sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.

three days later, the yellow envelope is in your mailbox.

you freeze when you see it. fingers trembling, breath caught, skin going cold. the paper almost burns in your hands. you don’t open it right away. you walk straight to your room, lock the door, sit on your bed with your heart racing so violently you think you might throw up. and then, slowly, carefully, you tear the seal.

your eyes skim the top. the official logo of the bureau of demographic affairs. your name, your assigned number. and then:

assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.

a small, passport-sized photo is attached to the right side of the letter.

you stare.

he’s... beautiful.

cat-like eyes, tilted just enough to make him look a little wild. dark lashes, long and thick. a soft, upturned nose with a gentle slope that suits the elegant structure of his face. lips—full, plush, the kind that look perpetually kiss-bruised even in monochrome. his jaw is sharp but not too much, softened by a slight pout in his mouth. he’s unnervingly symmetrical. there’s a balance to his features, a harmony, like he was designed—crafted—to be attractive.

your throat feels dry.

beneath the photo, there’s a line of text confirming the date of your preliminary meeting—next friday at 2 p.m., government center, family conference room 2B. both sets of parents are expected to attend. your wedding will be planned based on that meeting’s outcome.

you lie back on the bed, letter pressed to your chest, and stare at the ceiling.

it feels... wrong to think this—but he’s attractive. unfairly so. and that terrifies you even more. because you were always taught not to feel. not to dream of fairytales or meet-cutes or falling for someone in the rain. love at first sight is a myth now. it's forbidden. it would disrupt the system. too much emotion, too much unpredictability. and yet—

yet here you are, cheeks warm, heart skipping, staring at the grayscale face of a boy you’re about to marry.

a boy you’ve never met.

friday. 2:00 p.m.government center, family conference room 2B.

you’re early.

your dress is navy, modest, but it hugs your figure in a way you wish it wouldn’t. you didn’t pick it to be pretty—you picked it because it was formal, appropriate. your mother insisted on curling your hair, and your father didn’t speak the entire ride over. only your little brother tried to smile at you, but even his usual mischief was subdued. he kept playing with the sleeves of his hoodie in the backseat, pretending not to be upset.

the building is tall and silent, cold in a way that doesn't come from the air conditioning. it's the sterility of a place that sees life as a series of documents and laws. a place that doesn’t care about dreams.

you sit on one side of the long glass table, your family beside you. your mother keeps wringing a tissue in her lap. your father’s jaw is clenched, his hands crossed tightly. this is the last time they will sit with you like this—before you are someone else's.

and then the door opens.

you hear his voice before you see him. low, warm, laughing quietly at something one of his parents said. and when he walks in, it’s—

it’s hard to breathe.

he’s wearing a black suit that fits too well. slim, tailored, crisp like a page never touched. his hair is pushed back, soft and styled, a few strands falling delicately onto his forehead. and his face—his photo didn’t do him justice. his features move with his expressions, eyes gleaming like obsidian, mouth curved just slightly at the corners as if he’s always on the edge of a smile.

choi yeonjun.

his mother is elegant, her hair in a low twist, expression unreadable. his father looks composed, dignified, already halfway through a handshake with the government official present. this isn’t their first pairing. you remember reading his file—third son. they’ve done this before.

you feel like you’re being auctioned off.

“this is my assigned partner?” yeonjun asks, voice lilting, curious—not judgmental. he’s looking straight at you. and then he bows.

you stand and bow too, polite. your voice stays caught in your throat.

“you’re pretty,” he says softly, once he straightens. “i’m glad.”

it shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t. and yet your stomach flutters, just for a second, before you kill the feeling dead.

you don’t say anything. not because you’re rude—but because this isn’t real. this is a performance. this is a sentence.

the government mediator begins to speak, outlining the stages of the arrangement: the preliminary meeting. the planning process. the mandatory cohabitation. the one-year marriage trial before reproduction is expected.

you zone out after a while. your mother is crying again. your father’s voice is hoarse when he answers the legal questions. your little brother won’t look at you. and across from you, yeonjun looks like he’s done this in another life. calm. collected. but not cruel.

then, the mediator clears her throat.

“now, if the parents could please give the pair some time to speak privately. it is customary.”

your mother hesitates. she squeezes your hand until her knuckles turn white. she whispers something—"don’t let them take your heart too, okay?"—and then lets go.

and just like that, you are alone with him.

just the two of you, in a silent room that smells like paper and polished wood.

yeonjun exhales once your families are gone. his shoulders relax a little.

“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”

you nod. your hands are in your lap, clutching the fabric of your dress.

“you don’t talk much, huh?”

you glance up at him. he’s watching you with a soft kind of curiosity. not the kind that pries. more like he’s observing the weather—trying to guess if rain is coming.

“i do,” you say finally, voice quiet. “just... not today.”

he smiles. “that’s fair.”

a pause. he sits across from you again, legs crossed, posture easy, like he’s not under the weight of state surveillance. like this is his decision.

“i know this is strange,” he says. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s not. they pick someone for you, give you a name and a photo, and you’re supposed to start building a future. it's... a lot.”

you say nothing. you’re watching the way his fingers tap on the edge of the table. rhythmical. patient.

“i’m not here to make this harder for you,” he says, gentler now. “i know some people get assigned to assholes. i promise i won’t be one.”

your brows knit together, surprised.

he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.

“if we have to go through this, we might as well not suffer through it.”

and you look at him then, really look.

his gaze is steady. not forceful. not manipulative. he’s not trying to make you like him. he’s just... honest.

"you’re used to this,” you murmur.

his smile falters. “not really. i’ve just watched my brothers go through it. and i learned what not to do.”

there’s something about the way he says it. like he’s seen what happens when the system doesn’t pair people right. like he knows how love can die before it’s even born.

you swallow, throat tight.

“i didn’t want this,” you admit.

he nods. “me neither.”

silence settles between you again. it’s not awkward. just full. like both of you are trying to breathe in a place with no air.

“but...” he says softly, after a while. “i think you’re interesting. and you’re easy to talk to. even if you don’t say much.”

your cheeks flush, and you hate that you can feel it. he notices, of course. but he doesn’t tease you. he just smiles to himself, quiet and pleased.

“so,” he says, tilting his head. “can i know something real about you? not government data. just... you.”

you blink.

he waits.

slow burn. that’s what this is. he’s not rushing. he’s not playing pretend. he’s offering you a chance to make something human out of something cold.

and even though everything in you is screaming don’t trust it— you speak.

you tell him a little. not much. just enough.

and he listens. attentively. sincerely.

maybe that’s how it starts. not with a kiss. not with a confession. but with someone sitting across from you, asking who you are when no one’s watching.

two weeks later.

the wedding is on a thursday.

you don’t get a white dress. there’s no music, no flowers. no ceremony beyond a document and a pen and the sterile voices of government officials making sure everything is binding and accounted for.

you wear beige.

yeonjun wears black again. no tie this time. his hair is messier, like he didn’t bother too much. he looks good anyway, like he always does. like someone who never had to try.

the room is almost identical to the one where you met: glass, steel, a flag in the corner.

your mother sobs quietly during the signing. your father doesn’t let go of her hand. your brother tries not to look, but when you lean down to hug him goodbye, he hides his face in your shoulder and mutters a broken, “please don’t forget us.”

and that’s when you finally cry.

not loud. not messy. just silent tears running down your cheeks as you sign the paper that says you no longer belong to them. your name next to yeonjun’s. your status: married. active participant in national repopulation initiative.

they even stamp it. a red seal. final. absolute.

you don't remember the ride to your new shared apartment. only the sound of the car, the blur of the buildings, your hands gripping the hem of your coat in your lap like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.

yeonjun doesn’t speak for a while. and when he does, it’s soft. careful.

“you don’t have to pretend around me,” he says, eyes on the road. “i know this hurts.”

you don’t answer.

he pulls into a residential complex. government-provided. modern, quiet. two bedrooms, a shared kitchen, everything fully equipped. it smells like fresh paint and new plastic. not like home.

your boxes are already inside. so are his.

the apartment is... neutral. beige walls. grey couch. chrome kitchen. there’s a small balcony, but it faces another building.

you walk into your assigned bedroom and close the door without saying a word.

and to his credit, he doesn’t follow you. not right away.

but now, days pass like fog.

there’s a schedule pinned to the fridge now. a printed routine from the bureau: acclimation period, cohabitation adjustment, health preparation. underlined: mandatory hospital check-up before family planning begins.

you go to the hospital together a week later.

the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.

yeonjun jokes to break the tension—something dumb about feeling like a robot in a factory—and you don’t laugh, but you glance at him sideways. just a little. he notices.

you both go through blood work, fertility testing, infectious disease screening. the nurse asks personal questions. too personal. about cycles and hormone levels and sexual history— you flinch.

yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.

“she’s not comfortable,” he says simply. “ask me first.”

his voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. the nurse adjusts her tone after that.

on the ride home, you stare out the window. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh, nervous energy he never shows in his posture. it’s the little things you’re starting to notice.

“you didn’t have to speak for me,” you say, finally.

“i know,” he answers. “but i wanted to.”

and again—there it is.

that kindness you didn’t ask for. that warmth he keeps offering, even though you haven’t given him much back.

nights are the hardest.

you pretend to sleep early, even when your eyes stay open in the dark for hours. the room feels too still, too foreign. the bed smells like the laundry detergent they gave you in the relocation kit. the ceiling fan turns slowly, quietly. your chest feels tight, like grief has found a home inside your ribs and refuses to move out.

sometimes, you press your ear against the bedroom wall. you can’t hear much. just the occasional soft shuffle, the hum of yeonjun’s voice when he speaks on the phone in hushed tones. he never speaks long. never laughs out loud. not anymore.

you miss your mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, your brother’s heavy footsteps running down the hallway. the scent of warm rice and grilled mackerel. the sound of your father clearing his throat before calling everyone to eat.

now, there’s only silence.

until one night, a knock.

not loud. not urgent. just... present.

“hey,” comes his voice through the door. “you don’t have to open. i just wanted to say... i know this feels like the end of everything, but it isn’t.”

you sit up slowly. your hand hovers near the handle but doesn’t reach it.

“i know we didn’t choose each other,” he continues, voice low and careful, “but maybe that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be good to each other.”

you swallow. your throat feels raw.

after a pause, your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse but steady. “okay.”

you don’t open the door. but you walk to it, lean your back against the cool wood. and then—almost imperceptibly—you hear the sound of him lowering himself on the other side. sitting with you. just like that. no pressure. just presence.

you stay like that for a while. breathing the same air, separated by a few centimeters and a thin barrier. but somehow... it feels closer than anything else has in weeks.

you don’t talk more that night. but when you finally slide back into bed, you sleep without crying.

that’s a first.

the next morning, there’s tea waiting on the counter.

he doesn’t say it’s from him. but he’s the only other person here, so you thank him anyway.

a nod. a tiny smile. you sip it, and it’s sweet.

from that night on, something shifts. neither of you says it aloud, but the air is different now.

you start having breakfast together. simple stuff—toast, boiled eggs, fruit. you sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table and talk about nothing. weather. uni schedules. news updates.

one afternoon, you both arrive home soaked from the sudden rain.

you were out grocery shopping. he met you on the walk back by chance. no umbrella. you ran together. you laughed—really laughed—for the first time since being assigned. your clothes clung to your skin, your breath short from the sprint.

in the elevator, he looks at you and says, a little breathless, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad at the rain.”

you blink at him. cheeks warm. you don't know what to say.

that night, he passes you a hairdryer through your door.

“so you don’t catch a cold.”

you murmur thanks. he lingers in the hallway a moment, like he wants to say something else. but then he leaves.

the next few nights, he knocks more often. never asks to come in. just talks through the door. sometimes you join him on the floor again, your backs pressed to opposite sides of wood. you start to open up. a little at a time.

one night, just past midnight, you both end up in the kitchen again.

you couldn’t sleep. neither could he. you make tea, he brings a packet of cookies.

the city outside is asleep. your apartment is bathed in soft fridge light.

you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs to the counter.

he asks, voice low, “did you ever fall in love before all this?”

the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.

“no,” you answer honestly. “i didn’t let myself. what was the point, if it was forbidden? if we were all going to be assigned anyway?”

he nods slowly. you notice the way his eyes flick toward the window, as if remembering something far away.

“i did,” he says finally.

your heart stirs.

“in high school,” he goes on, “i fell for this girl in my class. she had this ridiculous laugh and used to bring snacks for everyone. i liked her for three years. never told her. i thought... i don’t know. part of me really believed she’d be assigned to me.”

you watch the way his lips twist into something halfway between a smile and a wince.

“i used to daydream about it,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “our names printed together on the envelope. hers next to mine. like it was meant to be.”

you don’t say anything. you let him speak.

“and then she got married last year. to someone else. she posted a photo with her husband and... i laughed. like, really laughed. because it was so stupid. how much hope i’d put into something that was never mine to decide.”

you imagine it. the version of him in a classroom, heart racing every time she turned around. young, hopeful. painfully innocent.

you don’t know her name. you’ll probably never meet her.

but you hate her a little.

you hate that she had his love, his dreams, his belief. something you were too scared to even touch.

and you hate that your chest aches when he says her name without saying it.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “that it didn’t work out.”

he looks at you, and there’s something tender in the way his eyes soften. “i’m not,” he says after a beat. “i wouldn’t have met you if it had.”

the silence after that is heavy, electric.

you don’t answer.

but you stay there with him. knees almost touching. the scent of tea between you. eyes a little too full. hearts slightly ajar.

the email arrives quietly, with the mechanical ding of a notification breaking the silence of your morning. it’s nothing dramatic—just a government seal, a cold subject line: YOUTH EMPLOYMENT PROGRAM FOR NEWLYWEDS.

you’re still in your oversized sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of barley tea as you sit at the small kitchen table. the place smells like toasted bread and laundry detergent. yeonjun walks in a few minutes later, yawning, dressed in sweatpants and a faded university hoodie, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. he glances over your shoulder to see what you're looking at.

you click the email open. it’s from the ministry of social and familial affairs—another mandatory policy. another thing the government arranges for you, like you’re pieces on a board.

“because both parties are currently enrolled in higher education,” you read aloud softly, “the government will provide access to part-time employment opportunities and offer a financial subsidy for essential living expenses during the first year of marriage.”

you don’t say anything for a long while after that. the words hover in the air, bureaucratic and impersonal. but somehow, they make this life feel more real. more permanent. like you’re not just living in a temporary dream—you’re expected to stay here. build something.

“well,” yeonjun finally says, mouth half-full, “that’s... something. we should check it out later.”

you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.

you still think about that night. the night he told you about his first love. about how he spent three years loving her in silence, convinced she'd be the one fate would give him. the girl with snacks and a bright laugh. the one who got married last year. not to him.

and no matter how much you tell yourself it’s ridiculous, it still gnaws at you sometimes. there’s this faint, irrational heat in your chest whenever she crosses your mind. you don’t even know what she looks like. you don’t know her name. but something about the way he talked about her—with such tender resignation—makes something sour rise in your throat.

you hate that it lingers.

you hate that it hurts.

that night, the rain starts late.

it begins with a steady tapping against the glass, the kind that would normally soothe you—white noise for your thoughts. but then the wind picks up, howling through the narrow alley between your apartment and the building next door, and you know what’s coming.

the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.

your fingers curl around the blanket. your chest tightens. you try to breathe slowly, like your therapist taught you when you were younger. but then comes another one—louder, deeper. it shakes the walls. it shakes you.

you’ve always hated storms. they made you cry as a child, and when you were too old to crawl into your mother’s bed, you forced your little brother to sleep beside you just so you wouldn’t feel alone.

now you’re in a place that doesn’t smell like your mother’s laundry, that doesn’t hold your brother’s sleepy warmth.

you’re alone again. except you’re not. not really.

you don’t think. you just move.

barefoot, your steps light across the cold floor, you open your bedroom door and cross the hall. you knock on yeonjun’s door twice, already feeling embarrassed, but unable to stop.

he opens almost immediately, wearing a gray t-shirt and sleep-tousled hair. his eyes are soft when they meet yours.

“are you okay?” he asks gently, already understanding.

you hesitate. “can i… stay here tonight?”

there’s a beat of silence. he nods, stepping aside without a word, and gestures for you to come in.

his room is dim, smelling faintly of his cologne and clean linen. it’s warmer than yours. there’s a stack of books by his bed, an open laptop with half-written notes still on the screen, a navy blue hoodie slung over the chair.

he grabs an extra blanket and starts to lay it out on the floor, but you shake your head, already trembling from another rumble of thunder.

“i… don’t want to be alone,” you whisper.

yeonjun pauses. and then, slowly, he walks back toward the bed and lifts the corner of the blanket for you.

you crawl in on one side. he lies down on the other. space between you, but not coldness. not indifference.

“i’ve always been scared of storms,” you murmur into the dark. “when i was little, i’d run to my parents’ room. then i made my little brother stay with me. i thought that when i grew up, i wouldn’t be scared anymore. but i guess… i still am.”

you feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. his voice is low, almost a hush.

“nothing’s going to break tonight.”

those five words feel like something heavier than comfort. they feel like a promise. and they make something fragile inside you twist.

you’re quiet for a long time after that. the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that lets your heartbeat slow. the kind that feels full of something new—something you don’t have a name for yet.

you fall asleep to the sound of rain and his breathing, even and steady beside you.

and when you wake up in the early morning light, his hand is resting over yours.

you slept like a baby.

it's the first thought you have when you blink your eyes open, bathed in the pale light of morning seeping through the curtains. the room smells like faint detergent and something unmistakably yeonjun—warm cotton and the slightest trace of his cologne. the air is quiet now, no more thunder shaking the walls, no rain tapping restlessly against the windows. and your chest feels… calm.

it surprises you, how rested you feel. how deep your sleep was. how safe.

you remember all those nights with your younger brother, clinging to him as the storm rattled outside, whispering stories or counting sheep until your mind shut down from exhaustion. sleep was never easy back then. it was something you wrestled for, clawed your way toward, until it finally overtook you like mercy. but last night... last night, it came softly. it held you.

and now you realize why.

yeonjun’s arms are around you.

not tightly, not possessively—just gently draped, like he forgot to move in the night, like his body instinctively curved around yours in sleep. one of his hands rests over your wrist, the other loosely against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. and his face is so close, calm and boyish, lips slightly parted, his breath even and soft against your skin.

your heart pounds immediately, panic fluttering low in your stomach—not because you’re scared, but because this is unfamiliar. because you don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness.

you want to pull away. you should. you really, really should.

but instead you stay.

you stay because there’s something about this moment that feels too fragile to break. something inside you, some cracked place, is being filled just by existing in this quiet closeness. and you realize—though you’ve never wanted to admit it—that you’ve been touch-starved for a long time. that there’s a part of you that’s been aching for connection, for warmth, for someone.

his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, adjusting against your hip, and your breath catches. the movement is innocent, unconscious—but your skin reacts like it’s been branded. you swallow hard, trying to still the storm inside you, even though the one outside is already gone.

you stay like that for several more minutes, listening to the soft hum of the apartment, watching the way the sunlight plays over his features. you trace the line of his brow with your eyes, the soft curve of his lashes, the shape of his lips. he looks so peaceful like this—unguarded, almost boyish. and for a second, you wonder what he’s dreaming about. if he ever dreamed of something like this.

he stirs eventually, a sleepy sound escaping his throat as he blinks slowly awake. his gaze is unfocused at first, but then it lands on you, and something warm flickers in it.

“…morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.

“morning,” you whisper back, suddenly aware of how close you are, of how your bodies are still tucked together like pieces of the same story.

neither of you moves.

there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.

“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”

you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”

he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”

you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.

“i felt safe.”

his eyes soften.

you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.

but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.

yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”

you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.

because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.

the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.

he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.

the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.

“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”

you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.

you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.

“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”

you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.

“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”

“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”

you shift in your seat. trials.

“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.

your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.

yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”

ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”

your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.

you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.

“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.

the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.

you don’t speak on the way home.

you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.

because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.

you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.

you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.

you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.

but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.

and now you can’t not think about it.

when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.

but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.

you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.

an hour passes. maybe two.

you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.

a soft knock at your door.

you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”

yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.

“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”

you nod. “it’s okay.”

he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.

“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”

your breath catches.

he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.

his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.

“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”

you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat. and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.

but this time, it’s not outside.

it’s you. it’s him.

and it’s not fear anymore.

it’s something else entirely.

you don’t kiss that night.

you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.

he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.

after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.

in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.

you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.

when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.

it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.

“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”

you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”

he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.

but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.

and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.

you think about it too much. think about him too much.

and you think about her.

the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.

you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.

how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.

and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.

but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.

you’re not in love.

you’re not supposed to fall in love.

yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.

one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.

you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.

“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”

you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.

“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”

he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”

“yeah.”

there’s a pause.

“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”

you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”

the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.

“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.

you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.

“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”

his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.

your heart stumbles.

neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.

the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.

you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.

you don’t move. you can’t move.

it feels too good. too right.

his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.

you stay there until the sun begins to rise.

you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.

but he doesn’t move either.

and neither do you.

because something’s changing. you both feel it.

you just don’t say it. not yet.

not until it’s too loud to ignore.

and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.

you try not to overthink the moments.

you try.

the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.

you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.

he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.

you nod, throat dry. “morning.”

neither of you moves.

and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.

whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.

but things are still complicated.

you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.

“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”

your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.

“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.

and then yeonjun.

his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.

“not yet.”

not yet.

those words echoed for hours after.

the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.

“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”

you had never wanted to disappear more.

the walk home was silent.

yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.

but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.

you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.

he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.

the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.

his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.

you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.

“is that mine?”

you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.

“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”

“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”

you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.

and things only build from there.

he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.

“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”

he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.

but your heart stutters anyway.

one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.

yeonjun finds you there.

he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.

“can’t sleep?” he asks.

you shake your head. “not really.”

“you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure.

the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.

you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.

his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.

“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”

he’s quiet for a moment.

“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”

“like what?”

he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”

you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.

you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.

this is the moment where maybe everything could change.

but you don’t kiss. not yet.

you breathe in together.

and for now, that’s enough.

the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.

you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.

then the soft sound of rain begins again.

but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.

yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.

he joins you without asking.

“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.

you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”

“don’t tempt me,” he grins.

the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.

your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.

you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.

“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.

yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”

“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”

he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”

“the girl you were in love with.”

his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”

you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”

that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”

you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”

“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”

but you don’t smile back.

you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”

yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.

“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”

you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.

“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”

he leans closer.

“you make me forget her name.”

you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.

“yeonjun…”

“can i kiss you?” he breathes.

you nod.

slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.

when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.

you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.

it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.

when you finally part, you’re breathless.

he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”

you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”

“me too.”

you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.

you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.

you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.

and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.

you feel chosen.

the next morning, something has changed.

it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.

you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.

when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.

“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.

he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.

and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.

at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.

you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”

“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”

“you asked first.”

“still counts.”

the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.

the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.

until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.

you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.

he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.

you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.

a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.

it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.

the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.

he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.

“so, are you pregnant yet?”

you freeze.

your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.

“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”

“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”

your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.

yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.

“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.

he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”

“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.

“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.

you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.

and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.

the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.

and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.

the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.

you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.

and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.

you break the silence first.

“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”

he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”

you turn to him, a little surprised.

“really?”

he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”

you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.

“thanks,” you whisper.

you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.

“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”

you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”

“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”

“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.

his eyes flick down to your lips.

“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.

your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.

you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.

and then he pulls over.

not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.

you feel your pulse in your throat.

“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”

you nod, heart racing.

“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”

you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.

“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”

he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.

“do you think i’m not happy?”

your throat dries.

“are you?” you whisper.

he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.

“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”

and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.

it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.

you melt into it.

your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.

“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”

you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.

and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.

you’re not lovers. not yet.

but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.

you fall asleep like that.

and neither of you says a word.

you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.

“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.

walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.

“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.

he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”

you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.

the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.

at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.

he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.

your breath hitched.

you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.

he said nothing.

neither did you.

but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.

the light turned green.

he drove on.

his hand didn’t move.

the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.

you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.

by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.

inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.

you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.

“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.

you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.

his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.

and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.

“thanks,” he said, voice still low.

you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.

that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.

your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.

later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.

you thought he’d say something.

he didn’t.

he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.

“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.

you turned your head toward him. “about what?”

he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”

you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”

silence again.

and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.

it felt dangerous.

he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.

your pulse roared in your ears.

his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.

you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.

his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.

his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”

his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.

and then—

his phone rang.

the sound shattered the moment like glass.

you both froze.

you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.

you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.

after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.

“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.

you blinked. “oh.”

he didn’t explain.

he just walked away.

and something cold settled in your chest.

you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.

you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?

you couldn’t take it anymore.

you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.

but then you froze.

because you heard it.

soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.

a low groan, deep and drawn out.

then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.

your breath caught.

you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.

then, you heard it.

“y/n...”

your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.

your knees weakened.

another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.

and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.

he was close.

he was touching himself.

thinking of you.

you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.

you didn’t know what this meant.

but you knew one thing.

he wanted you.

and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.

you didn’t mean to lean closer.

you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.

but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.

and then—thud.

a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.

then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.

“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.

before you could react, the door swung open.

and there he was.

yeonjun.

bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.

on the floor.

his shirt up around your waist.

your bare thighs. your panties exposed.

your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

time froze.

he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.

you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.

“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”

“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.

you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.

“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.

your breath hitched.

“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”

you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.

he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”

you couldn’t speak.

“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”

“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”

his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”

your lips trembled. “me too.”

something inside him snapped.

he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.

you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.

“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”

“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”

his eyes burned into yours.

his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.

“maybe i want you to.”

his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—

a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.

you both froze.

his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

another knock. then a voice from outside.

“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”

“fuck,” he hissed.

he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.

you looked at each other.

your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.

you wanted to scream.

but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered.

you didn’t respond.

because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.

you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.

his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.

you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.

every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.

he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.

you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.

just him. just you.

and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.

his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.

"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"

"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.

he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.

and then.

he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"

you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."

every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.

his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.

“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.

the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.

it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”

you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”

your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”

you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”

when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.

"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.

"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.

and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.

his.

yours.

the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.

the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”

your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.

“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”

you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.

“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”

you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”

“perfect. when was your last period?”

you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”

you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”

“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”

you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.

the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”

his hands stilled on the steering wheel.

“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.

“oh.”

another silence.

“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”

“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”

but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.

and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.

“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.

yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”

“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.

he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.

you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.

“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”

his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”

your breath caught.

the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.

this wasn’t just about reproduction.

not anymore.

and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?

set your blood on fire.

you didn’t even make it past the front door.

as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.

your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.

you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.

"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.

"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.

he didn't need more encouragement.

he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.

you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.

“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”

he didn’t make you ask twice.

he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.

"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.

you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.

“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”

he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.

“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”

“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”

he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.

"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”

you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.

“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”

“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”

but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”

he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.

his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.

neither of you said anything for a long time.

but you both knew.

there was no going back.

the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.

the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.

and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.

sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.

it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.

you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.

“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”

you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.

later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.

and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”

the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.

he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.

“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”

your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.

back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.

he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.

and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.

“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”

the world stilled.

you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.

“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.

the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”

you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.

the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.

a baby.

your baby.

with him.

“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”

“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”

you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.

he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.

and it did.

you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”

the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.

when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”

you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”

he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”

you’d never felt more seen. more loved.

later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.

and now it had shifted again.

you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.

you were parents.

you were a beginning.

and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.

of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.

but now, it was here.

growing inside you.

growing between you.

and it was love.

the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.

she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.

your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.

it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.

now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.

“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.

you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”

he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”

“barely.”

you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.

you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.

“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.

“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”

“or jumping each other.”

he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”

you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”

“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”

“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”

he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”

“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”

“then take me,” you breathed.

you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.

“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”

you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”

he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.

“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”

“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”

he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”

you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.

“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”

“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”

your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.

“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”

you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.

he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”

you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.

and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.

because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.

and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.

[solxamber]

Holding Them and Not Letting Go with: Housewardens + Jamil

a little something before i go all in for the milestone events <3

Other parts: Vice Housewardens + Rollo, Neige ; First Years

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle goes bright red the second you wrap your arms around him, stiffening in your hold like he’s forgotten how to breathe. He tries to splutter something coherent—maybe a reminder about PDA rules, maybe a request to know what’s going on—but his voice gets tangled up, and all that comes out is a confused murmur.

You don’t let go, though. Instead, you squeeze him a little tighter, prompting him to look down at you, his eyes widening with soft confusion. “Is… Is something wrong?” he stammers, gently pressing his hand to your shoulder, trying to read your face.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you answer with a warm smile. “I just love you, Riddle. That’s all.”

For a moment, he’s frozen. Just love him? He feels his heart stumble, so unfamiliar with this kind of simple, generous affection. In his childhood, hugs were formal gestures, love was measured and conditional—a reward to be earned, rarely felt freely. But here, with you… you’re holding him because you want to, with nothing expected in return.

Slowly, Riddle’s hands find their way to your back, and he pulls you close with a tenderness that surprises even him. There’s a quiet ache in his chest, an overwhelming mix of joy and disbelief, like he’s filling up with something he never knew he was missing. He clings to you, unable to speak, as though afraid that words might shatter the beautiful warmth settling between you.

You both stay like this, tangled together in silence. In this simple embrace, Riddle feels more seen, more loved, than he ever has before. It’s a feeling he wants to hold onto forever—a happiness he never thought he’d be allowed to have. For the first time, he feels completely at peace.

Leona Kingscholar

You wrap your arms around Leona, your grip firm as if you’ve decided you’re never letting go. At first, he’s as stoic as ever, arching an eyebrow in mild confusion. “Oi, herbivore…what’s this all about?” he mutters, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

But when you stay silent, he lets out a chuckle, amused by your stubborn clinginess. “If you’re hoping to trap me, you might wanna try harder than that.”

After a few more moments, his teasing fades. You’re still holding him, your head resting against his chest, heartbeat steady against his. He tries to check if youre upset and realizes then that you’re not sad, nor do you seem upset; you’re simply content. When he starts to pull back to look at you, you give him a warm smile and quietly say, “I just…love you.”

The words wash over him, soft and simple yet deeply affecting. His expression shifts, from nonchalance to something much more vulnerable. To Leona, who’s spent much of his life overshadowed, unwanted, and fighting for recognition, the idea of being someone’s first choice feels like an impossibility.

And yet, here you are, holding onto him like he’s the only thing that matters. He swallows hard, not saying anything, but the look in his eyes says it all.

He finally allows his arms to come around you, drawing you in with more intensity than he’d probably ever admit aloud. His tail snakes around your waist in a protective loop, pulling you even closer, as if anchoring himself to you. “Don’t go getting mushy on me,” he mutters, trying to sound unaffected, but his grip tightens just a bit more.

But despite his usual attitude, he’s never felt this…full. Full of pride, full of warmth, full of something he’s struggled to admit he even wanted. And it’s all because of you, the one person who looked past his rough edges and stubborn exterior.

He chuckles softly, burying his face in your shoulder, whispering, “Guess you got yourself a lion for life, herbivore.”

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is hunched over his desk, papers and ledgers strewn around him, eyebrows furrowed as he works late into the night. He’s so engrossed that he doesn’t even notice you approaching until you gently climb onto his lap, resting yourself against him without a word. His body goes rigid in surprise, the usual control he wields over his composure completely shattered.

“Are you... feeling alright?” he asks, voice a little breathless, struggling to keep himself calm as you press your face into the crook of his neck. “Are you sick? Is there something wrong?”

You just shake your head, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “I just love you, Azul,” you whisper softly, a warmth in your gaze that sends his heart into overdrive. “And I’m so proud of you.”

With that, you wrap your arms around him again, holding him close, and suddenly, all the strength in him unravels. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this—how much he craved reassurance, wanted to know he was worth it.

All his insecurities, fears, and memories of feeling out of place resurface, but they’re softened by your presence, and with just one hug, you’re able to ease away all that self-doubt he keeps buried.

Without another word, he wraps his arms tightly around you, his grip firm and filled with an unspoken desperation. He clings to you as though you’re his lifeline, as though you’re the single steady point in his otherwise frantic world, and for a few moments, he allows himself to just feel—to let go of the worries, to set aside the constant weight of expectations.

The mountain of paperwork on his desk feels meaningless compared to the comfort you bring, and all he wants is to stay like this, holding you as closely as he can, reveling in the feeling of being loved for who he is.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is in his element, animatedly discussing ideas for his next big celebration. His hands gesture widely, his voice bright, detailing elaborate plans for decorations, food, entertainment—he's clearly in his happy place, and you can’t help but feel utterly captivated by his joy.

Without even thinking, you throw your arms around him, hugging him tightly mid-sentence. Kalim laughs, hugging you back with his usual enthusiasm, though a bit of surprise colors his expression when you show no signs of letting go. “Hey, is everything okay?” he asks, a smile in his voice.

You lean back just enough to grin up at him, eyes shining. “I’m perfectly okay. You just looked so radiant talking about the party—and I love you.”

He stares at you for a beat, completely dazzled, and then his face breaks into the brightest smile as he spins you around, laughter bubbling from both of you. When he finally sets you down, he pulls you close, cradling you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.

“I’m so glad you chose me,” he murmurs softly, his forehead pressing against yours. The simple joy radiates from him, a warmth and gentleness that wraps around you both. It’s a pure, unfiltered happiness that you feel too, knowing that you chose him, and he chose you.

You stay wrapped up in each other, reveling in that perfect moment, glowing with the warmth of shared love. For now, with his laughter filling the room and his arms securely around you, nothing else matters.

Jamil Viper

Jamil walks into his room, the exhaustion from managing Scarabia weighing heavily on his shoulders. But before he can even remove his shoes, you’re already there, waiting for him. Without a word, you step into his space, your arms winding around him in a gentle but firm embrace.

His body relaxes instantly, the stress of the day melting away as you run a soothing hand down his back. The warmth of your touch settles over him like a blanket, but after a few moments, he notices you haven’t let go. The silence stretches, and his concern grows.

He pulls back just slightly, searching your face with quiet intensity. “Are you okay?” His voice is soft, careful, as though bracing for something serious.

You meet his eyes with a smile, your voice tender but full of affection. “I’m fine. I just… I love you. I’m proud of everything you do. You work so hard, and I see all of it. I just wanted to be here, with you.”

A deep warmth spreads through Jamil at your words, the weight of the day almost forgotten as he pulls you back into him. This time, his hold is even tighter, more possessive, as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, this moment will vanish. His face buries itself into your neck, and he inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of you—your presence, your comfort.

For once, he allows himself to fully sink into the embrace, no longer needing to wear his usual mask.

With you, he doesn’t have to hold back his feelings. For the first time in what feels like forever, he lets his guard drop, the emotional wall he’s spent building his whole life crumbling in the warmth of your arms.

“I could stay like this forever,” he whispers, the words barely audible as he holds you close. His voice is thick with emotion, a mixture of tenderness and longing. “I never want to leave your side.”

In the comfort of your touch, Jamil realizes something. He’s never felt more at peace, more cared for, than he does in this moment. He holds you tighter, savoring the feeling of being loved so deeply, so completely. No matter what happens, he knows this is where he belongs—in your arms, and with your heart.

Vil Schoenheit

It’s been a long day, and by the time you reach Vil, all you want is to collapse into his arms. But before you can even speak, he’s already analyzing you, frowning at your slumped posture, the bags under your eyes, and the way you haven’t had time to take care of yourself. "Did you eat today? Are you even sleeping? Honestly, I can't—"

And before he can finish his lecture, you launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck.

He catches you with his usual elegance, barely flinching. His lips curl in that slight, amused way, but the concern in his eyes softens as you cling to him, not letting go.

"Darling, What's wrong?" he asks, his voice taking on a gentler tone as he instinctively pulls you closer. You can feel the smoothness of his coat beneath your fingers as you bury your face in his chest.

"I missed you," you murmur. "I'm just happy to see you. I love you. And I love that you worry about me."

Vil’s chest tightens at your words, a soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaping him. He gently strokes your back, the movement slow, deliberate. “You’re something else,” he teases, his lips twitching, but there’s warmth in his voice. “You know you should’ve eaten something, and yet here you are, throwing yourself at me.”

His hands remain on you, though, pulling you closer, stroking your back with a tenderness he rarely shows in public. He may pretend to be exasperated, but the way his fingers gently brush the length of your spine betrays his true feelings. Deep down, he’s touched by how much you put up with him.

"You should be scolded for your own good," he starts, but it’s a half-hearted attempt. There’s no real bite to his words this time. Instead, he just holds you tighter, deciding that, just for tonight, you don’t need any more lectures.

“You’ll never be rid of me now,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you’re welcome to lean on me, always.”

In the comfort of his embrace, you let go of the day’s stress, finding peace in the warmth of his arms. There’s no need for anything else, just this moment, just him.

Idia Shroud

Idia’s explaining the intricate details of a new strategy, his eyes wide with excitement. But then, suddenly, you set your controller down and throw yourself at him in an unexpected hug, effectively cutting off his speech. His hair flares a brilliant shade of pink as his brain momentarily glitches, clearly unsure of how to process what's happening.

And he is in full panic mode. His mind, always working a mile a minute, goes into overdrive trying to figure out what he did wrong, or if he's somehow messed things up.

“Uh—are you okay?” he stammers, voice filled with concern but entirely thrown off by the situation. You don’t answer with words, just a soft smile as you bury your face in his chest.

“I love you,” you whisper, “and you’re adorable.”

He’s used to being alone, to being misunderstood, to retreating into his games and hiding from the world. But here you are, in his arms, embracing him for no reason other than that you love him.

Despite his anxious thoughts swirling, he awkwardly places his arms around you, his body stiff at first, unsure of what to do. It takes him a moment before he relaxes, and as he holds you, his mind starts to clear. All those fears—of not being enough, or of being too much—slowly fade away, replaced by something that feels warm and real.

You, who listen to him ramble about things no one else would care about. You, who understand when he’s not up for going out, who accept him as he is. He feels so undeserving of someone so kind, but at the same time, something deep inside him stirs. It’s happiness. It’s love.

His arms tighten around you as he buries his face into your hair, his heart racing with a mixture of overwhelming joy and disbelief. He’ll never understand why someone like you would choose him, but as long as you’re here, he wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus stands before you, holding the gargoyle he crafted with such care, the stone masterpiece shimmering in the soft light. "This is for you," he says softly, his voice full of pride. His eyes shine with the unspoken hope that you’ll appreciate the effort.

Before he can say anything else, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a warm embrace. He freezes for a moment, unsure, before his own arms encircle you with surprising gentleness. He’s always craved touch, but the depth of affection you offer fills him with awe.

The two of you stand there, the moment stretching on in comfortable silence, until Malleus pulls back slightly, his eyes searching your face. "Are you alright?" His voice holds a hint of concern.

You smile at him softly, your words simple but filled with a warmth he rarely hears: "You mean the world to me. I love you."

Malleus's breath catches in his throat, and before he can think, his arms tighten around you. He pulls you impossibly closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away. His heart races as he feels the weight of your love, the pure acceptance and tenderness you give him. The loneliness he’s lived with for so long, the misunderstandings, the isolation—none of it matters now.

He’s here with you. You see him, not as a prince or a fae of great power, but simply as Malleus. And that, more than anything, fills him with a kind of peace he’s never known.

Malleus buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you tightly as if to make sure this moment doesn’t slip away. "I will never forget this," he murmurs softly. "I will cherish you... forever."

In your embrace, he finds something he thought was impossible—a sense of belonging. He smiles, feeling the warmth of your love seep into him, and he knows he is truly loved.

Masterlist

[madamechrissy]

Just Friends!?

-Art in the banner from nek0zuu_ on X-

Pairings- Former Nerd! Gojo and popular F! reader

Summary - Satoru Gojo was the biggest nerd EVER in high school with you, next door neighbors, study buddies, you were the best friends in the world. Never having the courage to ask you -the 'popular girl' out- you never knew he felt for you. He ended up leaving town, moving to the big city of LA- getting famous with a modeling career, and lost touch with everyone from his old life. While you're working the family pub to help out your parents, years later, he finally comes back to visit, just to have you making his drink. Everything about him is different, aside from those pretty blue eyes and the sweet grin. You feel he's so accomplished now, and you're just a small town girl, but little do you know, you've never left his mind.

Warnings - Nerdjo turned famous and cocky, but he's still just a Nerdjo deep down hehe- this chap - p in v sex, car sex, multiple positions, Satoru being possessive, oral (f! receiving) fingering, cum drinking, obsessive love, confessions of past love, EMOTIONAL, so many feelingsss, angsty in places - Tag list closed

Based HEAVILY on the 2005 Rom com Just Friends - part of my amazingg moot @indiewritesxoxo's Friday night flicks! 🌙 Comments/rbs appreciated <3

<<<Part Five - Masterlist - Playlist- Part Seven>>>

Part Six

It’s completely dark outside, aside from the brilliant stars shining overhead, and the glimmering moon. Satoru looks up at the sky then, such a far cry from the LA fog, it’s clearer here, it’s prettier. He has your hand in his, you’re both bundled up in your jackets and gloves, rushing over to the car, where he quickly starts the heat, as the two of you see your breaths.

You giggle then, and the sound melts him, he can’t help but have a million images flit through his mind.

Elementary school you, middle school you, high school you.

He never knew you in college, he had left you behind - you haven’t changed much since he last saw you physically, maybe a little more hips, a little maturity in your features, but mostly identical to that girl. The girl he fell in love with on sight, that day way back - the first day he’d gone to a new school, shy and hopelessly awkward. You had instantly befriended him.

You were just like that, too sweet for the world, fuck you’d be eaten alive in his world actually - not that he’d let it happen - but the differences are setting in. As badly as he wants every part of you, of this opportunity that seemed fated in its synchronicity, he also just as badly was afraid. Where did it all lead?

“You’re quiet, Satoru.” You murmur, giggles subsided, a serious expression on a face so pretty to him it makes him ache.

“I got a message,” he is quiet as he lets the heat warm you up, pulling your hands closer to the warmth and rubbing them when he takes your gloves off. “I have to go back after tomorrow night.”

“Oh. That soon?” Your brows knit together, he nods then, he has to be honest with you - he can never just leave like that day again.

“Yeah, I want to spend all the time I can with you.” He feels so vulnerable saying it then and there, but you lean closer, cool hand on his cheek, stinging from the frosty air outside.

“You really do?” He nods then, a hand gripping your wrist in the quiet of the humming sports car, a little oasis where it’s just him and you.

He wishes it would stay that way.

“All I can think about right now is how badly I don’t want to leave you, how fucking scared I am to, like you won’t…” He’s blinking back unexpected tears, you feel your own welling up then, swallowing nervously as you swipe one off a perfect cheekbone. “Like this is some dream.”

“It’s real, Satoru, I’m real.” You take his hand, placing it on your chest now, he feels your heart beat erratically under his palm then, as you grip his wrist, thumb brushing across it. “I’m scared too.”

“That I’ll disappear?” He finishes, feeling the weight of just some of the pain he put you through in your look.

“That, or you’ll get back to those models, and realize I’m nothing.”

“What!?”

“It’s my feelings, okay?” He scowls at you, jaw clenched as he grips your chin, your eyes are glimmering with unshed tears, lip trembling.

“Stop forgetting who the fuck you are.” He whispers, you look down for a moment.

“A failed teacher? Someone at home with her parents at twenty six? A girl who works at a bar and-”

“You’re so much more than that.” He cuts you off with a desperate kiss, which you lean into, when he pulls back his snowy lashes are lowered, darting side to side as if to catch every image of you to memory. “You chased your dreams teaching. You still do teach. You’re helping your fucking family, how is any of that not worthy of admiration?”

“Satoru-”

“No. No, I won't hear any more of it. You were the best friend I ever had, since that day… I’ve felt so empty inside.” Your tears fall rapidly, as he pulls you close against his chest, sighing and stroking your back, a hand up and down your spine over your pretty dress. “I wouldn’t admit what it was, how could I?”

“You were made fun of, you were hurt. I don’t blame you for running away, I just miss you for it.”

“Stop excusing it all.”

“But I don’t blame you.”

Satoru sighs now, breath against your lips, shaking his head. “You are the sweetest person I’ve ever known, and I hurt you. Maybe I don’t forgive myself for that, maybe I just realized what I did. I never knew you’d… miss me.”

“How could I not miss you!?” You pull back, the emotions overwhelming, the car so warm, mixing with the heat of your bodies in the night, in front of an empty movie theater parking lot from long ago, as you look into his brilliant blue eyes, eyes you missed, thought of so often. “You never let me answer how I felt.”

His heart stops then, because if you did feel more than friendship, that knife would bury deeper in his chest. But there was surely no way you…

“I didn’t cross the boundaries because you never, ever tried, even when I gave you so many hints.” You swipe at your cheeks now, sticky with your tears, as he watches with his breath caught in his throat.

“Hints?” His voice is hoarse.

“How many times did I claim my ‘feet were cold’ and needed to put them on you? You’d throw a pillow on them. And how many times did I get undressed right in front of you, but you’d hide like I was scary?” Satoru’s mind whirls with memories, as you continue, painting vivid images of you. “How many times when we cuddled, did I back right on you?”

“Shit…” He’s remembering it all now. “But you… no way that…”

“I dated other people because I wanted to push those feelings back, god Satoru I wanted you to be my first kiss. I asked you, don’t you remember?”

“You… what?!” You sigh now, shaking your head.

“I couldn’t have been more obvious. I asked if we could practice, when we got shoved in that closet for seven minutes. But you just… played your Nintendo DS, remember?” He grimaces now.

“I thought you were kidding. And I thought your feet were really cold! I thought you just enjoyed cuddling and…”

“So my hints all sucked.” You laugh then, like you’re losing it, and maybe you really fucking are, sighing now. “Prom, I tried to kiss you.”

“I thought you were drunk?”

“No. You seemed like you never, ever wanted to try more. So I decided to give you that, to be the best friend I could. I never, ever wanted to hurt you.” Satoru can’t even look at you for a moment, burying his head against his hand as the tears continue to fall right with you.

He hasn’t cried once since he left that night.

Not once.

Your trembling hand brushes his hair back, and he looks at you, vision swimming as the full truth is set upon him. As all those little moments start coming back - times you would blush being close, clinging to him on the pool a little too tightly, falling asleep in his arms and snuggling closer when he pulled back. At prom, you’d shut your eyes and leaned up, and he’d panicked, thinking someone spiked your punch.

He remembers it all, through a different light now.

“I didn’t have a crush on you,” you whisper, shaking your head now. “I loved you, as a best friend and I wanted more, but I thought you didn’t want me.”

“How could you not know? How badly I did want you?” He whispers, heads touching as your breaths mingle, as his hands press you closer, feeling your body tense and then relax, as you lean back, hair falling against his fingers.

“You never told me.”

“I thought you’d laugh or-”

“I would have never. Satoru I was hopelessly in love, okay? I just had to move on, because I didn’t think you felt the same.”

Love.

In love.

“In love with me?” His voice breaks, and you smile sadly, nodding.

“Your cute glasses, the silly jokes you made, the way you always made me feel so beautiful. How smart you were, how thoughtful and kind, when your smile lit up your face. When you got excited about some new insect, some new theory, some star that you discovered.” He whispers your name, as if asking you to stop, but you’re not sure your heart can stop anymore.

“You’re telling me, all those years, you loved me? More than…” You nod now, exhaling nervously, you’d been too scared to ever say those words out loud. 

“I still have the letter, in a box of letters from you.”

Satoru’s heart hammers now.

Everything he thought he knew was wrong, he’d never noticed your signs, so wrapped up in his own thoughts - in his own infatuation, like you were some otherworldly being, how highly he did think of you. He never stopped to think you were just a girl, like he was just a boy back then. A girl he left behind for such stupid reasons.

What would life have been if he let you answer?

“It’s all in the past, okay? I get it, we’re not the same exactly anymore, I am okay with whatever this might be. If it’s just us… getting together, I don’t expect a white picket fence and three kids from you. I just want to be with you for now.” Satoru exhales, shaking his head then.

“That is your dream.”

“It is. But you’re here, and I don’t think I can let it slip by me.” He kisses you, his own tears swiped by your now warmed fingers gently.

“I was obsessed with you, it was beyond all of that. It was… so embarrassing.” He blushes even now, and you see the sweet boy you loved in that moment. “You were all I thought about then. All the ways I would give you your dreams, and what did I end up doing?”

“You’re here now.” He moans, kissing you deeper and deeper, it’s desperate and messy, poured with every feeling the two of you ever had. Tongues slipping together, teeth clicking, when he pulls back for a gasp of air, his eyes so dilated they’re black in the night.

“If we don’t stop now, I can’t stop. I want to bury my fucking self inside you,” he whispers, hands slipping down each side of your waist. “I’ll always fucking want you, as bad as then, worse. I’ll always think you’re the most beautiful girl that walks the fucking earth.”

“Satoru…”

“I will, I do. I always have. Don’t you know no one has compared to the girl whose picture is in my pocket?” His words end any resolve, and care for getting hurt then, how can you not be with him in this moment?

“Promise you won’t forget me.” You whisper, he sighs then, shaking his head.

“I never, ever forgot you. How could I forget you?” He yanks you on his lap then, you’re grinding against him, hungry and messy in the front of the car, hands enwrapping in his silken white locks as he pulls back, looking up at you, thumbs brushing against your nipples, making you moan. “You really liked me back?”

“Like wasn’t the word, Toru.” The old nickname melts him completely, as the girl he left behind gives him chances he doesn’t deserve.

“You shouldn’t even talk to me.”

“Toru-”

“You shouldn’t. But I can’t help but be greedy with every moment,” he’s kissing down your neck, mouth sucking at the base of it, moaning as he feels your heat against his cock over the layers. “I could never forget you.”

“Y-you’ll keep in touch?” He hates the fear in your voice, lips pulling back, angry you’re insecure when you look and feel like this.

Everything he’s ever had is just a blur now.

“I want more than this, I don’t know how the fuck it works, okay? I don’t know how we… make it happen. But I will never leave you like that. I will never hurt you like that again.”

You lean close, sighing now. “Then show me how badly you wanted me all those years.”

Satoru whimpers at that, hungry and desperate and needy when he slips your dress up your hips, you yank off your coat, tossing it in the chair, as he slips two fingers under your panties, finding you soaked. “God, you think I don’t still want you as bad as I ever did?”

“Show me, mnh!” Satoru’s sunk two fingers and curled them up, moaning as you grip him so tightly.

“Never felt anything like you, god I want you wrapped around me,” he’s looking right up at you as he curls his fingers, your back arches, head falling back, you feel the cool steering wheel against you, feel that gearshift shoving against your thigh, but all you can focus on are his eyes. “Want that, sweetheart? Me stretching her out?”

“Please, please - ngh!” Satoru’s curling them up just right in your gummy walls that grip him so good, hitting that spot his long fingers already know, when you eagerly reach down, unbuckling him, shoving his jacket.

“Cum first, then I’ll take it off.” He teases with a little smirk, and you throw your head back, whining and rolling on his hand. “Look at you.”

His husky words of devotion and his fingers hitting that spot again destroy you, you’re weak and whining, a pathetic mess as the orgasm runs through your body. You’re throbbing around nothing when he pulls them out, sucking you off him and moaning before he yanks off his jacket, and the engine hums under you both when you find his cock, biting your lip at the sight of it.

He’s pretty everywhere, of course, tip blushing pink and oozing milky beads of liquid out of it, his veins wrapping, so long, you’re stroking it slowly, from the base to the tip, watching his eyes flutter shut, hearing his whimpers for you. Supermodel, LA manwhore supreme, who’s been with actresses, models, singers, he is just your Satoru right now though.

You lap at his precum off your thumb, the action wrecking him, he’s ripped your panties now, they’re torn from his fervent grip, the sound echoing in the car, that’s when you really feel his strength, as your hands rest on his shoulders, broad and strong under your touch. You look down at the ruined material as he drags your cunt back against him, and you whine out at it.

“Condoms are in the back in a bag,” he murmurs softly, but you’re too lost now. “Sweetheart…”

“Are you good?”

“Squeaky,” he answers softly. “Are you on…”

“Yes.”

He laughs then, softly. “You know how hard it was to get them, now you’re good me fucking raw?”

“Well now I… hush. Just fuck me - ah!” Satoru needs no further urging, he’s picked you up, and slammed you down on his cock in one mean fucking stroke, making you gasp out at it, so full you can’t take it, eyes rolling back.

“God, fuck…. You’re so tight…” he moans, lifting you up and dragging you back down by your hips, your head smacks the roof and he curses, leaning his seat back to recline more, pulling you down with him. “Hang on to me.”

You do just that, clinging to him in the cramped car, when he holds your hips up and slips down in the seat, fucking up into you. “Ah! S-Satoru!” You’re screaming out, thanking god no one was in this parking lot, as he holds you up with those strong hands, pressing kisses to your neck, your cheek, anywhere he can reach, fucking more of his length up in your hole.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moans now, flipping you before you can blink, lifting a thigh up high and sliding his length back in your cunt, eager and greedy she swallows him, as he stuffs her more and more full. The sounds are filthy, your mind whirling, tummy tensing as he slams his cock deeper, harder. “Never felt anything like you, fuck you take me so well.”

“T-Toru…” You can’t form a proper thought any longer, you’re writhing under him, struggling to take his cock, when his tip kisses your cervix you’re shattering, cumming so hard you can’t see.

“That’s it, cum for me. Just me.” He huffs, feeling you grip and spasm around his thick cock, groaning as he pauses, rolling his hips, letting you ride your orgasm out until you have pretty tears falling from your eyes. “That’s it, you’re so good for me.”

“Toru…” It’s all you can keep murmuring, he lets your thigh fall just a bit as your aftershocks pulse around him, moaning as he leans down, kissing you, drinking in the mix of your tears and your sweet saliva.

Mine.

The thoughts keep swirling in his mind.

Mine, mine, mine. He wants you to be only his.

He doesn’t think he can ever leave, he doesn’t know if he can get on that fucking plane, wait weeks in between seeing you. He’s brushing back your hair as your thighs grip his hips, and you’re clinging to him while he slows his strokes, hands running down your body slowly, lips pressing against yours again, drinking all your moans in. You’re so warm, so wet, so perfect.

You are perfect.

Satoru leans over as he yanks you further up in that laid back leather seat, slamming his cock inside you in a brutal stroke, so good you can’t take it, losing yourself in his ardent kisses, his desperate strokes of his huge cock, stretching your cunt out just for him. Your hands slip under his sweater, nails pressing into his skin and earning a husky groan as he pulls back, tip leaking against your cervix.

“Wanna know how many times I stroked my cock, picturing this?” His words are against your ear, making you tremble as images fill your head, him in his glasses stroking it to you.

“How m-many times?” He groans softly, burying his head against your neck, silky white locks brushing against your cheek, you whine out when you feel him thicken inside of you, so full of him, so much pressure it’s unbearably sweet.

“Every day since I knew how to,” you giggle a bit, breathless, but your cunt is just soaking him more as he pulls back, snowy lashes low over his beautiful eyes as they study you, so bright it’s intense. “I thought of it - ah - so many times. Having you.”

“Live up t-to your… mnh… expec-” He cuts you off with a hard stroke, one that has your mouth open in a slutty O, as you gasp out and he drinks in the sight of you, stroking his thick, veiny cock in you again.

“Couldn’t have imagined how good you feel,” he whispers, your eyes are rolled back in your skull, sweat dripping on your brow from the heat of the car and his body over you. “Nothing feels this good.”

“Toru…” You drag his face down for a kiss, it’s so full of everything you’ve always wanted to say, the fear of losing him and the longing for him, while Satoru’s tongue sweeps inside your mouth, a hand cupping your face.

“Wanna cum inside you, fuck,” he’s whispering, mind short circuiting at having the girl of his teenage dreams under him, but it’s so much more than that. “Fill you up, huh? Bring you back with me?”

“Shh, crazy.” He just whines out when you kiss across his neck, teeth nipping an earlobe, his hand entangles hard at the nape of your neck, the other leaving bruises on your thigh as he fucks so deep. “C-can’t just go.”

“I’ll shove you - ah - in the luggage.” You giggle, as he does, breathless, slowing those strokes and eyeing you with a serious expression then, unreadable. “Can’t just be once.”

You nod nervously, too fucked out to really comprehend the future- unwilling to actually, dragging him back down for his kisses, ones you can’t get enough of, ones you dreamt of. How many days did you look at those plump, glossy lips? How many times did you look at those long, elegant fingers and picture them inside you? That body on top of you?

“T-touched myself to you,” your whisper earns his look of shock, he shakes his head just a bit. A supermodel, still just a little insecure, did he not realize how hot he was then, too?

He feels more human like this, when you brush his cheek, biting your lower lip as he rolls his hips achingly slow, crying out as your walls clench him. “You d-didn’t.”

“Y-yes I did, mnh!” Satoru exhales now, leaning up, so tall his head is right against the hood of the car, when he slips your fingers down between the two of you, right where he’s engulfed in your messy, slick cunt. “Ah!”

“Show me, sweetheart. Wanna see.” You blush so cute he can’t stand it, and he watches your little fingers swirl on your clit, moaning at the sight, making you clench around his cock so tight. Your eyes dilate, lids heavy as you look up at him, crying out as he lifts your hood up, pressing your fingers against your clit more firmly. “Like that, for me?”

“Y-yes, for you. You were hot then, too okay- mmm!” You’re jerking under him, hips bucking up.

“Cum one more time, lemme feel her.” You are already pushed over the edge, when he fucks a mean stroke, his tip slipping against your walls, hitting just that spot as your fingers hit your clit just so, and you’re falling apart. “Beautiful, fuck,” his words barely register, you’re lost in your pleasure, hand falling weakly, only for him to grab your fingers, sucking it into his pouty mouth.

“Please,” you’re whispering, watching him suck your juices off you like he’s starved for you, with eyes that are feral and so bright they’re blinding in the dark little car. “Cum in me.”

He pauses then, and you should question yourself, but all you can think of is how bad you want it inside you. “Y-you sure?” His soft, vulnerable words bring together the two Satorus you know, as he nuzzles your palm, whining out as your walls are pulsing around him.

“I want it, please.” He moans now, slamming his lips against yours, hands gripping your hips and lifting you up, arching your hips so he can hit deeper, bottoming out and stuffing your hole. “Toru!”

“Gonna fill you up so fucking good,” he whispers through his teeth, cock pulsing inside your slutty little hole, balls smacking on your ass, while he holds you pinned like that, thumbs pressing into your pelvis. “Ready, can you take it?”

Your answer is a little nod - how are you expected to talk, head shoved back, neck at the weirdest angle in the car, and Satoru is fucking you so hard you can’t see or think, everything is blurry, swirling. He’s sweating, it makes his pale skin glow with a shimmery sheen as it drips onto you, and you just cling to his waist desperately, gasping as he finally busts.

He’s crying out, whimpering as he cums so deep, filling you - no flooding you - with so much cum it’s ridiculous, you feel the hot spurts of it just gushing, as he finally slows, exhaling and looking right at you. His expression is one of utter devotion, when he eases his hold, slowing and looking down at the twitchy mess your thighs are, while you push cum down his length in swirls of white.

“Fuck, sweetheart, my god…” He’s shaking his head, trying to form a word, while his heart pounds, at the sight of filling you up - something he’s never done, but that he couldn’t imagine not doing with you.

He’d give you three kids and a mansion on the fucking beach if he could just look at you like this again, fucked out and so pretty, whining when he eases his cock out, still mostly hard, squelching sound filling the space. He pushes it back in your slick, tight entrance, groaning at the sight, while you’re fluttering your eyes shut.

“Sore.”

“Shit, sorry,” he pulls out and you wince.

“More sore.” He frowns, inspecting your puffy cunt now, opening your lips to watch his cum pouring out in a creamy white string, making him want to shove it right back inside you, fuck three more loads in, it does something insane to him.

“Was I too rough?” You shake your head, he brushes kisses along your brow as he eases you down just a bit. “You sure? Not enough prep?”

“No I wanted it, just it’s been a long time. I think I have bats in there.” He laughs then, so hard he snorts, bringing you back to your little nerd you loved, and you giggle with him.

“Pussy is elite, bats and cobwebs aside.”

“Hey!” You smack at his chest and he laughs again, cupping your face sweetly. “You were eating those cobwebs last night.”

“They’re yummy cobwebs.”

“Really!” He’s laughing again, and it all hits him suddenly, making him falter, lips pressing together then frowning. You look at him with concern now. “Toru?”

He hasn’t been happy.

He didn’t realize it - laughing and acting a fool, joking around with his colleagues and ‘friends’. Has he ever been happy without you, a free moment, a silly moment? Not comfortable enough with anyone, to do more than make conceited, mocking little comments for shits and giggles, when the girl who loved him all along was left here, the missing piece of him.

You’re what’s always been missing, and he caused it.

“Toru,” you’re murmuring that name, the one only you and his mom call him, it’s how deeply you’re ingrained with his life. How deep a part you are, that he set aside for eight years. “Are you okay? Is it… was this too soon?”

“Too soon?” He laughs without humor, resting his head against yours, sensing your confusion. “Waited my whole life for this moment.”

“Don’t say that, please, it’ll hurt more.” He sighs, eyes shutting, drunk and fucked up off you as he was, the self loathing was eating at him.

“I mean it.” Satoru helps you up, adjusting you carefully, and soon you’re in the passenger seat, a flustered mess.

“You don’t have-”

“I’ve never wanted anyone like you.” You look away nervously, slipping back on your jacket, his cum is hot and sticky and dripping, a feeling you’ve never had before, so intimate you can hardly think properly as he says your name, earning your look, he leans over the center console, long fingers fixing your hair carefully. “Where do we go to sleep tonight? I want to hold you.”

“You do?” He nods, swallowing nervously.

“I can get us a suite, or we can go to my room and snuggle in the twin.” You giggle, shaking your head.

“My room, you haven’t been there in years.” He nods then, and soon the two of you are sneaking in your house, tiptoeing like a couple teenagers, it reminds you of all the nights he used to come sleep over, or when you did, those nights you’d try to drop your hints to your oblivious bestie.

“Will your parents get mad?” He teases, earning your shush as you two head up the stairs, your fingers on your lips.

“They might get very mad, bringing a boy home,” your whisper almost ends him, your fingers now entwined as he follows you, feeling like he’s in a dream again, especially when you open your door, and he sees your room. “It’s the same, too.”

“Shit…” He takes it all in, the Sailor Moon posters all over, pictures decorating a corkboard with little fairy lights, the same white daybed and dresser he always remembers you having. A fluffy rainbow rug that screams you back in high school, little Hello Kitty plushies all along your mattress. “God, nothing changed.”

“No, it’s temporary living here, so. I just got rid of my old clothes though, this ass isn’t getting in those jeans.” He snorts at you, gripping your ass then and making you gasp.

“Yeah, no one is complaining about that, though it was always nice. I know, I studied it carefully.”

“Oh, did you?” You look back at him, while he eyes your reflection in your mirror, and then sees his pictures in the corners, swallowing nervously as he reaches over, brushing his fingers against them.

“You had these on your mirror? You didn’t… take them down when you moved back home?” His voice is hoarse, but you shake your head, leaning over to take off your earrings, feeling the tension in him behind you as you bend over, slipping off your bracelets now, they clink as they hit your little glass tray.

“Why would I? I always missed you.” You hate the emotion in your voice, you try to hide it but fail, as he walks to the corkboard, seeing the endless pictures of the two of you together.

He notices you had other pictures of friends, but Satoru was front and center, braces and glasses next to you - a fucking bombshell in a cheerleader outfit. “You wanted that, huh?” He tenses when you smack his arm, hard.

“Don’t talk shit about him.”

“Him?”

You sigh, walking back over to the dresser now, hands brushing the vintage chalk painted wood softly. “It’s hard to connect you two, sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he touches that cheerleader picture of you now, smiling. “You were always such a perky little thing.”

“Perky huh? I don’t feel perky lately.” You mumble a bit, taking off your heels now, when he walks back toward you.

“You’ve been through a lot.” His voice is a husky caress, brushing your hair to the side now, his hands slipping across your bare skin. “And I wasn’t here.”

“You didn’t even know.” Your eyes catch his reflection of him towering over you, so different from the lanky boy you took selfies with in this very mirror, throwing peace signs and laughing. Now he is grown, buff and so huge behind you, self sure hands dancing across your shoulder blades.

“I should have known. I don’t know how you forgive it all,” he sighs, arm wrapping around your waist now, resting his chin on top of your head. “I am sorry you went through it alone.”

You swipe away tears, it feels so perfect in his arms, you want to forget anything that’s coming when tomorrow is the last night with him. “Unzip me?”

He pauses at your whisper, swallowing nervously. At this point he’s seen most of your body, just not fully, the full picture of you. He unzips you slowly, exposing the smooth expanse of your back inch by inch, sighing as more and more of your skin is revealed, down to those dimples on your back. The backs of his fingers brush against your spine, raising goosebumps as they do.

Your eyes lock again, as you let the dress fall to your feet, and Satoru sees your breasts bounce just slightly as the dress falls, and you step out of it, naked for his hungry gaze. He moans softly, slipping his hands up the curves of your body, the sides of your breasts, squishing them in his huge hands in the mirror, making you gasp, your head falling back against his chest.

“God you’re beautiful,” his words have you flustered, his devoted touches, the way his eyes devour you. “Always have been.”

“Toru…”

“Shh.” He steps back, slipping up his sweater, revealing the thick, corded muscles of his arms, the cuts and lines of his perfect abdomen, the lines of his ribs in your softly lit room, reflecting warm light across the planes of it. You have seen most of him, but when he’s down to his boxers, and you’re about to turn, he halts you. “Keep looking at your pretty face.”

You’re overheated again, when he’s on his knees suddenly, grabbing your ass and yanking it to his face. “Ah!”

“Gonna wake your parents, shh.” He teases, chuckling as he laps at your slit, tip of his tongue sliding from your little clit along your slit, up to your ass, filthy licks and sucks, drinking all his cum out of your hole. You can hardly stand it, arching back against him, seeing your flushed, fucked out face in the mirror as he fucking hums against you.

“Mmm!” You cover your mouth with one hand, leaning over the dresser while he worships your cunt far too thoroughly, slurping sounds as he laps up all the remnants of the load he’d busted, mixing with your sweet arousal gushing. You can’t help but move against his face, feeling his chin press against your clit as his tongue fucks your hole deliciously.

His sounds are ridiculous, only making you wetter, reaching around to grip his hair, eyes rolling back at how good his face feels gliding against your cunt. “Mmm, fuck my face, yes baby,” he’s whispering, hands wrapping your thighs as you arch for him. “Keep looking.”

“C-can’t see… mnh…” You’re done for, vision blackening as he curls that wet muscle up in your walls, which quiver as he drags you further on his face, having you cum, screaming your orgasm into your palm weakly. “T-Toru!”

“Mmm,” he’s sucking each lip with a suctioned pop, coated all over his face in your slick, pressing little kisses as he watches you quiver, feels your legs giving out damn near. He finally stands, lifting one of your knees up over your dresser, the other is dangling hopelessly. “I got you.”

“You’re insane!” He’s just chuckling softly, reaching around to wrap one arm under your breasts, the other around your neck, turning your chin to face the reflection once more.

“Look at yourself,” his whisper tickles your ear, his cock slipping inside you, your eyes threaten to flutter shut, so he squeezes your throat. “Look, baby, look at your beautiful fucking face, how good you’re taking me.”

“Toru…”

“Look,” he orders again, shoving his cock up inside you, your eyes catch sight of your blurry reflection, whining out softly and bracing a hand on the mirror, touching the cool glass as you see your fucked out face. “Beautiful, say it.”

“Mmm…” you’re too lost in pleasure to speak, back arching for more of his cock, when he stretches you back out, moaning behind you, slamming up inside you so hard you fucking fall, but he’s just holding you there, arms wrapped, slamming his cock inside again as your hands grip the dresser for some sense of balance. “Satoru!? You can’t just hold me in the air!”

“Sure can, what you scared baby? I got you.” He grins like a psycho now, burying his face against your neck as he fucks into you from the back, your thighs pressing together as you lose yourself completely.

“Put me down, shit,” you’re freaking out being manhandled by this huge man, he laughs softly, placing you down on your bed, it creaks under his heavy weight, he leans over you then, lifting your thigh and laughing again. “You’re so psycho, Hollywood has you insane!?”

“Not used to being tossed around?” He murmurs now, all conceited, but he’s also sweet as he lifts your thigh again, pressing his cock into you as you catch your breath, arms wrapping his neck, fingers carding through his hair.

“Cobwebs and bats.” You whisper teasingly, he moans then, pressing a kiss along your cheek, forehead, your eyes that flutter shut, watching you whine out, back arching up.

“Feel okay, too sore?” He murmurs softly, attentive in his study as you hiss just a bit.

“I’m good, I want this,” he exhales as your words reassure him, and the two of you lose yourself in the bed. He's slow and gentle this time, so the bed doesn’t make the most obnoxious noises. “I want you.”

“I want you.” His fingers entwine, and your eyes lock together when he brings you there again, the intimacy of the moment is so much it’s beautiful then, a mix of filthy and wanton but also beautiful. He’s beautiful, over you, sinking so deep, his lips and fingers anywhere they can reach. “Wanna fill you again.”

“Want you to fill me.” He moans, filling your cunt to the brim again, pulsing so deep inside you as your walls spasm around him, like she’s milking him for all he’s got, while he loses himself in you.

Your scent, your taste, the feel of you, all his senses consumed - your beauty, your sounds, your pulse thudding quickly under his thumb as he pins your wrists up over your head, continuing to fuck his cum deeper inside you. You’re sobbing quietly from your orgasms, your mouth quivering as it meets his every kiss, in the quiet of your room scattered with memories of you both.

When he finally pulls out he’s littering your body with kisses, little apologies whispered everywhere he sees a mark, as if he’s not more than happy to leave marks, little bites all over your collarbone, finger marks bruising your thighs. He hates how good it makes him feel, that if someone came near you they would know you’re his.

Are you his?

The reality is trying to crash into his mind, to sober the beautiful moment, you’re brushing his hair back and he looks up to see they’re fucking with you too.

“I still have the yearbook,” you say softly, he sighs now, sitting up and pulling you to sit with him. “What you wrote? It was beautiful.”

“I remember every word,” he says softly, pulling you against his chest. “I want to be in our own little world, just me and you.”

“Y-yes.” Your tears brush against his neck as the fan overhead tries to cool you both down unsuccessfully. “You said you loved me.”

“I know.”

“Then you said… you didn’t mean it.”

“I know.” He sighs, cupping your face, swallowing with a dry throat, seeing your eyes that night in his head. “I was so embarrassed, I was so scared, but I never let you know - I meant them all. Every word then.”

Was it high school love? Puppy love? - Your mind races, wondering where the two of you stand.

Was this just a beautiful night? Was this another snow globe of you two, about to get shaken up with reality?

There is a knock at the door then, and you quickly dress, Satoru laughs softly as you shove a blanket over him when he throws on his boxers. You walk over to the door, and it’s your mom. “Mom… hey?”

“Oh, Satoru is…” She clears her throat now, when Satoru awkwardly waves, then looks back at you, and you blush furiously. “I thought you were… upset?”

“No, no. Not upset.”

“Well this is awkward.”

“Yep!” Your mom laughs softly, concern lacing her gaze with equal amounts of awkwardness, brushing a lock of your hair back.

“We didn’t know he came to stay too. Satoru, you need some clothes?”

“Yes please?” She heads out and you exhale, covering your face when Satoru chuckles. “You’re twenty six.”

“I know!? But still!” You soon bring him a pair of your dad’s clothes, luckily he’s pretty tall so they decently fit, though the shirt is almost a crop top, making you giggle as you see it. “Now this would be hot as a magazine cover.”

The words are lighthearted, but the deeper reality sets in. He takes the shirt off, smiling a bit. “The pants work.”

“Perfect.” Soon you’re in his arms, the second night in a row.

Was this a beautiful memory?

If you could, you’d stay there forever.

“What time do you leave?” You ask softly, looking back now, his eyes glint in the dark, moonlight streaming in gently.

“I won’t know yet, but it will not be forever. My schedule is super flexible, and I have plenty of money. It's not like I can’t get right on a plane.” Your lips falter a bit. You teach part time, work at the bar part time, in search of a better opportunity for now.

But how would you fit in his life, and would he really want you to when he goes back home?

“Sweetheart, I swear I won’t just disappear.” You put on a smile, kissing him and letting him hold you.

“My feet are cold,” you tease, he chuckles then, tugging you against him, wrapping a leg around you and letting you put your feet on his legs then. “That was what I was going for.”

“You really do have cold feet, ah.” You giggle again, the feeling far, far too perfect, but the gnawing ache in your heart won’t go away.

Would he want you when he went back to the glamour?

You drift to sleep, and Satoru hears your heavy breaths, dreading the moment he had to remove himself from this day bed too damn small for him, the peace and perfection of holding you in his arms. He gently recites the words he wrote all those years ago in your yearbook, stroking your hair like it’s a little bedtime story, until he drifts next to you.

The room is peaceful and quiet as different versions of Satoru and you coexist, smiling pictures of your childhood, awkward middle school photos, high school ones where you can clearly see the changes, and now the two of you - adults. Different worlds, holding each other in the night, not wanting to let go.

I got so into this one I rly hope you all enjoyed it :')

taglist #1- @pinkyvomit @saitamaswifey @kachowness @vraiao @artbligh @psychoartiste @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @bsenpai @simp-for-wanderer @rjreins @emonaculate @myahfig4 @casua11ycrying @psycren @blushedcheri @ureuphoriasworld @frozenmallows @kanaojacksonofc @rcveriees @xlilycoco @yukimaniac @sypnasis @tokina @sharkubi @tztuoo @hyori2 @yesdere @gradmacoco @gamerhere @seikamuzu @xinsonyax @vvaoo @angie420 @ria54sworld @blue-musingss @mysticmyth @asimpinamillion @arabellasolstice @ilovebeansyay @notme000 @emochosoluvr @iv-vee @heh123321 @fushikamo @danilovesboba @spookyy-gracee @satorusleftnut @clqxuds @femaholicc

[fawniswriting]

After I Was Too Late

This fic can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to Before I Could Say It.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: The three times Bucky saved your life, and the one time you save each other.

Word Count: 10.1k (I got carried away)

Warning(s): gn!reader (pls advise me if there's any gender-specific detail in the fic), canon typical violence, angst, fluff, near death experience(s), hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, physical injuries, it's a kinder ending this time I promise 🥺❤️ (lmk if I missed anything!!)

Author's Note: PT 2 IS FINALLY HERE Y'ALL!! I'm so sorryy for the delay, my work has been out of control lately (I legit had to go home at 9.30 PM last week 😭🙏🏼). But I've finally finished this piece, and I hope you guys like it!! I'm tagging everyone who left a comment/reblog-comment on the first part but if you prefer to keep the ending to the fic as it was, then you can just skip reading this. And if any of you want to be removed from the taglist, please just let me know!! As always, don't forget to comment, like, and reblog 💖

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

If someone were to ask you about the beginning, your mind would immediately go straight to that day.

Six years ago, your thread of fate wove into his, placing the two of you on polar ends in the middle of a highway shoot-out that revealed the face beneath the infamous Winter Soldier's mask. You recognized him from the sketches littered across Steve Roger's desk: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky, as Steve had called him. A shadow of the past, long presumed gone to the clutches of war and time. 

Yet, there he was.

Alive and breathing.

And he was trying to kill you.

After the events in D.C., you helped the Captain search for the man who had risen from the dead. You saw Bucky's apartment in Bucharest—a depressing little hole in the wall that was barely suitable for a human being to live in. It nicked at your chest, wrestled with a docile side of your heart that you hadn't entertained since they had dubbed you one of earth's mightiest heroes. And when you finally stood in front of the man—not the Soldat, not the merciless assassin who had sliced a dagger to your side two years prior—your chest tapered at the quiet war waging behind his eyes.

“I wasn't in Vienna,” Bucky told Steve. His eyes flickered briefly towards you as he said it, willing, perhaps, for at least one person in that room to put their trust in him; the man standing vulnerably in that apartment, not the weapon he was forced to become. 

“I don't do that anymore,” he added.

You believed him.

Steve did, too.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of chasing and being chased. After Zemo broke the Winter Soldier out of the facility in Berlin, you took Steve and Sam to an abandoned site you once neutralized where the three of you could keep Bucky safe from the authorities. You watched from the sideline as Steve interrogated Bucky for answers, listening intently while the Captain and the Falcon began rummaging their heads for a viable plan of action. 

Once Sam left to reach out to his contacts, Steve also excused himself from the room, muttering something about needing to make a phone call and leaving you alone with the burly man who was trying miserably to hide behind his curtain of hair.

Wordlessly, you walked towards the paper bag you kept on a rusty oil barrel, grabbing one of its contents before cautiously approaching the brooding man in the center of the room. Bucky looked up the moment you shoved the packaged croissant in his face, confusion shining with blue under the taut crease of dark eyebrows.

“Take it,” you said simply.

Bucky's frown deepened as he stared at your hand. 

You masked the sinking feeling in your stomach with a sigh, putting the package next to the makeshift chair Bucky was sitting on. 

“You haven't eaten since yesterday.” Your hands were buried in the pocket of your jeans as you spoke, hiding the tremble in them so the man in front of you wouldn't see just how much your heart was breaking for him. “We have a long journey ahead of us. And if Steve is anything to go by when it comes to a super soldier's calorie intake, you must be running on extreme deficit by now.”

Bucky stayed silent. 

You scraped the ground with the toe of your shoes, trying to fill in the quietness as you rambled, “I would've loved to prepare you a nice three-course meal, but considering half of the world is on our asses, I didn't think you'd mind a small downgrade. Believe me, I'd kill for a real croissant right now. There's a bakery near the Avengers’ old tower whose owner makes the best chocolate and butter croissants. They're fantastic. This one tastes like a foam board compared to them.”

Bucky continued to stay silent, only perusing you under his intense gaze. You rubbed the back of your neck and managed an awkward chuckle. “You know what? You don't have to eat that. It tastes terrible anyway. I'll just throw it out. Let me see if the pigeons would like some.”

You reached out to grab the plastic packaging, but Bucky stopped you in tracks, grabbing the croissant with a hesitant drag of his hand.

“Thank you,” he muttered curtly.

The sight in front of your eyes would have made you chortle under any other circumstances—the ludicrousness of seeing a Herculean with a metal arm grappling with the flimsy packaging of a factory-made pastry. The croissant was ridiculously small in Bucky’s hand, and you felt foolish for thinking it could offer anything close to sufficient sustenance for a man his size. He could probably devour the whole thing in a single bite and still be starving.

And yet, before he even savored a taste, Bucky tilted the croissant towards you in a silent proposition. An offer to share. To tear the pastry in two as if he didn't barely have enough for himself in the first place. The gesture lurched at something in your chest, winding down your ribs like overgrown vines.

You feigned a smile, feeling it crack around the sorrow you were desperately trying to quell. “That’s for you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “I have mine.”

The man nodded, hesitantly, as if the thought of having something to himself was stranger than fiction. He took a tentative bite, his forehead creasing as he chewed on the sad excuse of a pastry.

“Bad, huh?” You cringed sheepishly. “Told you. It's borderline inedible. You don't have to finish it if you don't want to.”

“I've had worse.”

You clenched your teeth. 

There was no room for doubt in your mind that he probably did have worse than an additive-laden confectionery.

“Yeah?” You didn't know why you were asking. “Like what?”

The metal fingers on Bucky's thigh whirred, like he was flexing, removing the stiffness in his joints if there had been flesh instead of vibranium. You waited with bated breath as he stared at a suspicious puddle on the ground.

“I was stuck in an underground cave system once,” Bucky began, pausing to take a tiny bite of the croissant. He looked defenseless that way. Almost like a child. “Spent a few days there. The only thing around me were bats.”

Your nose wrinkled. “You ate bats?”

Bucky didn't attempt to correct your assumption, just kept on munching on the artificial croissant as if he were a kid snacking on candy.

“Were they… good?”

Stupid.

What an incredibly, unbelievably stupid question.

“They were good enough to keep me alive.”

You didn't know what to say to that.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “just tell me if you change your mind on that croissant. I can get you something else. Remember those pigeons I mentioned? They're not bats, but they've got, you know… protein.”

Then, upon some kind of miracle, it happened.

Bucky smiled.

It was brief, an ephemeral thing that evaporated by the next time you blinked, but it was there. As clear as day, as real as the foul smell of rotten carcasses that surrounded you in that dismal place.

You willed for the excitement in your belly to die down—the last thing Bucky needed was for you to go deranged over a mere smile, probably one of the firsts he allowed himself to have after decades of drought—giving Bucky a short nod before turning around to reward him some privacy, but you didn't go far before a rough voice halted your footsteps.

When your gaze landed on him again, Bucky was tense. His shoulders curled inward as if struggling desperately to keep himself small, his fingers twitched where they were curled around the half-eaten pastry.

“Are you okay?” he eventually asked.

“Me?” Your eyebrows knitted in a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Uh, I'm fine? Well, as fine as one can be after becoming a fugitive of the law, but otherwise—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

His scrutiny roved over your figure from the distance, as though his stare could penetrate through the deepest layer of skin, lighting up a flame that licked through every inch of your bloodstream. Blue irises jerked towards the side of your abdomen, a fleeting tic, but it was enough to force the realization to dawn on you.

Bucky was talking about your wound.

The laceration wound that he—no, that the Soldat—had administered during your altercation in D.C.

Instinctively, your hand lifted, brushing against the jagged scar that you knew was seething under the cover of your shirt. The simple movement didn't escape Bucky's notice, and you chastised yourself for your lack of consideration when you saw his body fold lower towards his knees.

“Bucky—”

“I'm sorry,” he said heavily, shakily. A striking fragility from a man who was supposed to be carved out of steel.

You shook your head in urgency, crossing the distance between you and him before stopping a good six feet away from the defeated man. He didn’t even look up at your proximity, keeping his head angled to the ground, shrinking more and more with every passing second as if he wanted to disintegrate into oblivion.

With careful strides, you removed the remaining space separating you and Bucky, sinking to your knee right in front of him. You called his name softly, begging him to glance up, coaxing him out of the shell of condemnation that he had crawled himself into.

When he finally peered at you, the blue of his eyes had dimmed into a stormy gray. You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to lean forward and gather this broken man into your arms.

“Bucky,” you called his name again, resolutely this time. Firm and steady, offering no room for even an ounce of doubt or a breath of protest. “It wasn't your fault.”

Bucky fleered.

“I mean it.” You searched his gaze, commanding him to stay there, to not run away from your eyes because you needed him to hear this. You needed him to believe. “I'm not gonna hold you accountable for what happened on that highway, or for anything else you might have done in the past few decades. None of that is your fault. They used you. You couldn't even remember your own name, let alone understand what HYDRA was forcing you to do. You're also a victim here, Bucky.”

He shook his head.

Your heart shattered into tiny little pieces all over the ground.

You shifted on the ball of your knee, sighing as you felt exhaustion pulling at your limbs. 

“Steve would agree,” you said quietly.

Those three words managed to snatch Bucky's attention.

“Actually, Steve does agree.” You glimpsed towards the entrance where the Captain had disappeared through earlier, swallowing the lump that had lodged itself in your throat. “It's the reason why he's here. The reason why we all are. He is the literal embodiment of everything good in this world, Bucky. And if Steve Rogers—Captain America himself—looks at you and sees someone worth saving, someone who deserves a second chance despite all that happened, then that says everything I need to know about the kind of man you truly are.”

You waited for something to shift, for the contempt in his eyes to dissipate, for the strain in his shoulders to melt, but nothing happened. He continued to drown, making no moves to get himself out of the murky waters that were pulling him under.

“Everything that happened while you were under HYDRA’s control—the missions, the casualties—none of it is on you, Buck,” you pressed on. “The wound on my side? That wasn't your fault either. Hell, I was shooting at you, too! I didn't know who you were back then. You didn’t know me. You didn’t even know yourself. They made sure of that.”

You took a shuddering breath, physically readying yourself to voice the next conviction out loud.

“If someone has to carry the blame, it should be HYDRA,” you determined. “Not you, Bucky. Never you.”

The silence that followed was strangulating. You watched Bucky with heart in your throat, waiting for him to react, to do something or say something. Perhaps if he had cried, it would've been better. Because then, you might have been able to help, to offer him the solace of your arms, to teach him how he could peel back the guilt that was clinging to him like a second skin. 

Yet, Bucky just sat, still as a tombstone and quiet as a graveyard. 

The eerie calm before a catastrophic storm.

When he finally looked up, Bucky's eyes were a tempest—dark and turbulent, thundering with the repercussions of a hundred lifetimes he never asked to live.

“Maybe—” Bucky's voice quivered. He ran his flesh hand across his face and started over, “Maybe you're right.

Your chest staggered.

Before you could respond, Bucky's gaze dropped, teetering towards your side, as though he could see the ridges of skin underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt. The place where flesh had once split under a blade he hadn't even known he was holding.

On his knee, Bucky's fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach out, to inspect the remnant of the wound with his own flesh and skin but didn't know how to trust himself enough to do so.

His jaw tightened.

“But it was still me, wasn't it?” Bucky's breathing stammered. The words came out choked, as though the truth tasted like rust on his tongue. “I was still the one holding the knife, Sugar.”

The nickname maimed you more than one could expect. Had Bucky said it with enough cynicism, maybe you would have chalked it up to bitterness and moved on. But he hadn't said it like that—he had said it with a devastating frailness, a frayed piece of another life bleeding through the cracks. It came from a version of him that had smiled at strangers and walked dates home in the rain, a boy from Brooklyn who probably said it with a charming grin and a flirtatious warmth.

Your heart broke for him all over again.

You ransacked your brain for something to say, to convince Bucky that he was wrong, but the sound of incoming footsteps stripped you of the chance, forcing you to quickly rise to your feet just in time for Sam and Steve to enter the room. Your conversation with Bucky was shoved to the backburner as the other two apprised you of your next step, both unaware of the tension stretching taut in the air, suspended between you and Bucky like a ghost no one else could see.

The next thing you knew, your life was unraveling like a house of cards in the span of one night. It felt like you blinked, and suddenly you were standing in the middle of a tarmac, staring down faces you used to sit with during breakfast and mission briefings, others who carried the weight of loyalty you could no longer afford.

The spider-like kid who loved to crawl on things was the first one you faced. He was nimble, all limbs and chatter, a fleck of innocence to testify to his lack of experience. You tuned out his nervous jokes and wide-eyed commentary as you focused on blocking each of his strikes, breathing through the ache in your ribs, willing your body to stay sharp.

But then, your instincts faltered.

The agonized sound wasn't loud, especially compared to the surrounding chaos that had befallen the airport. Your eyes flitted towards the man anyway, as if having a mind of their own, making you lose your footing for a fraction of second as your gaze landed on him from the distance.

Bucky.

The sight of him staggering back—blood blooming across his skin like a crimson tear—rustled an unknown weight within your chest. Natasha stood just a few paces away, her favorite knife in hand, the blade gleaming in the same shade of red running in rivulets down Bucky's cheek.

The moment of distraction was fleeting. Short. But it was the only opening your opponent needed to yank you off balance and send your back straight to the ground. 

“Sorry,” the Spidey kid huffed, straddling your legs, his grip surprisingly strong for someone built like a string bean in spandex. “Big fan, though. Seriously. Hey, crazy idea. Maybe after all of this, you can sign my—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence.

With a drive of your elbow to his side, coupled with a shove of your knee to his chest, Spidey was now the one pinned to the ground—winded limbs and spayed webbing as he stared up at the clouds. You rose to your feet with a heaving chest, the ground trembling beneath your boots as you stole a moment to breathe.

You didn't even notice the light shifting in the sky.

Your reflexes awakened a second too late, stirring only when a dark shadow swept over your head. There was no time to run. Whatever protective measure you could whip up, whatever direction your feet could carry you in a matter of seconds, the end result was clear—you wouldn't be able to make it out of there unscathed.

Or at least, you should not have been able to make it out of there unscathed—but you did.

Because Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man whose name was whispered between cautions of death and terror—had saved you.

He lunged from somewhere behind the smoke, arms wrapping around your frame before shoving you forward and down. The force of the blast rocked the ground as a small aircraft detonated a few yards away, radiating a heat so raging it licked at your back. Debris rained down all around you as Bucky’s body remained curled over yours, shielding you from the worst of it, lying like a fortress between you and the explosion's aftermath.

For a moment, all you could hear was your own ragged breathing. Your ears were still ringing when Bucky finally stood up, pulling you by your elbow to your slightly unsteady feet. He examined you from head to toe, his grounding touch remaining steadfast around your forearm, eliciting goosebumps.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, still in shock. Still breathless.

“Bucky.” Your fingers convulsed, moving up to clutch his jacket and stopping once you thought better of it. “You saved me.” 

He didn't answer at first, and when he did, his eyes evaded yours, jaw clenching as his gaze meandered somewhere distant. “It's the least I could do.”

Then, that same gaze moved, lowering until it settled on your side. You didn’t need him to spell it out to know exactly what he was thinking. The wound had been his doing once, delivered by a man with the same face but none of the same mercy. The shadow of a life that felt like his own but one he gravely wished to relinquish.

You felt the phantom sting of it then, not from the wound, but from the way Bucky was assessing it—like he was measuring his worth by the depth of that scar. Like saving you had been a down payment for a debt he could never repay.

Your mouth parted, already halfway to saying something, anything, that might severe the penance he had inflicted upon himself.

But before you could say a word, the world raged again, sending ripples of a faraway explosion that rattled the earth.

You swallowed hard, grounding yourself as you imparted, “We need to get to the jet.”

Bucky nodded once, his stature straightening as if his resolve had always been intact. The two of you broke into a sprint immediately, side by side, boots striking the tarmac in tandem as the smoke closed in all around you.

That was the first time Bucky Barnes saved your life.

And you knew, as you dashed across the airport grounds, that it wouldn't be the last.

After two years in Wakanda—two years since the disastrous battle on that infamous airport—you were finally bringing Bucky back home to New York.

Tony was not happy when he greeted the two of you at the compound, and you were even less thrilled to see him after everything that went down following his support for the Sokovia Accords—which, to your delight, had officially been nullified. Tony had promised he would play nice, and that included absolving Bucky—or at least, trying to—for all of the crimes that HYDRA forced him to do. It wasn't ideal, but it was a start; a show of good faith as Tony pledged to assist Bucky's recovery in every (financial) way possible.

Still, that didn't stop you from making sure that you walked in front of Bucky while the two of you were approaching the front gate, offering yourself as a human barrier should the philanthropist do anything untoward.

The first few weeks at the compound were dedicated towards ensuring a seamless transition for Bucky. From creating his daily schedule, vouching for a potential therapist, to showing him the nooks and crannies of his new home—you tackled every single task with purpose; convincing yourself that it was about structure, routine, and reintegration, but deep down, you knew better.

It was about keeping him close. Keeping him safe.

And maybe, that was exactly why you found yourself lashing out at Steve when he told you, a few weeks later, that Bucky would be sent on his first mission as an Avenger.

“This is bullshit,” you seethed, your fingers curling around the edge of the conference table in a death grip. “It's barely been two months and already they wanna send him back out there? After everything he's been through?”

The Captain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don't like this anymore than you do—”

“Then stop it.”

“I tried!” Steve's eyebrows creased, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was a rare sight to see Captain America this upset. “The higher-ups were asking questions, and his therapist already told them that Buck is ready. I tried talking to him about it, but he's adamant to go. There's nothing else I can do.”

“There's always something,” you retorted. “Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough.”

Despite how much your words stung, Steve forced himself to move past it. He knew they hadn't come from a place of malice. Instead, it had come from a place of affection—perhaps even love—a protectiveness he also shared towards a certain super soldier with a metal arm.

“Look,” Steve began, shifting in his seat, “have you ever thought that maybe this is what Bucky needs?”

Your head snapped up.

Steve took your silence as a cue to continue, “We know he hasn't forgiven himself yet. Not fully. And that's understandable, isn't it? Maybe what he needs, right now, is the chance to make it right. Maybe going on a mission—one he actually chooses to partake in, where he knows something good will come out of it—could be Bucky's way of making his amends.”

The Captain trailed off, letting his words linger above the tense atmosphere of the conference room.

You hated how much it made sense.

With a drop of your shoulders, you pinned your stare on the faraway wall, biting the inside of your cheek before mumbling, “Fine.”

Steve smiled, ready to wrap up the conversation once and for all when your voice interrupted him, “But I'm going.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” You got up from your own chair and sauntered towards the door, flicking a firm glance towards Steve that left no room for objection. “I'm not gonna stop you from assigning Bucky to that mission. But if he's coming, then I'm coming, too. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

In the end, Steve had relented, and what was once supposed to be a three-person crew's mission became four as you, Bucky, Sam, and Maria Hill took off towards Panama City.

Interference hailed the four of you upon arrival, running you into more hostiles than the initial intel had suggested. Despite your time away in Wakanda, your instincts didn’t waver. The rhythm came back effortlessly, muscle memory filling in the gaps left by your mind without a sliver of hesitation. 

However, between every swift kick and  precise strike, your focus frayed. Not from fear, but from a certain super soldier who was never out of your sight for long. Your gaze strayed to his silhouette again and again, making you stumble more times than you cared to admit, trying desperately to stand your ground in your own fight while keeping an eye on him all at once.

It was reckless.

And it was precisely why, as you realized too late, you ended up failing to notice the grenade.

“Watch out!”

Two strong arms—one flesh and one vibranium—shoved you out of the explosion's radius, a flying shrapnel missing your head by inches as your shoulder crashed against the ground. Bucky got thrown immediately on impact, sent over the edge of the skyscraper as the ground started to crack, fragment, and disintegrate into nothing.

“No!”

Horror erupted in your stomach at the building's cession to gravity. You scampered forward, dropping to your hands and knees to lean over the skirt where floor was supposed to be. Your relief escaped in a stammered breath when you spotted Bucky a couple of stories down, still alive, dangling by his flesh arm around the corner of a deteriorating girder.

A window pane launched into the air.

Bucky's agonized scream ripped through the chaos the moment it rammed against his left shoulder.

Something in your guts twisted at the sight of artificial axons peeking out of the ripped seams of his tactical jacket. Blood soaked through the torn fabric, staining the silver beneath in unforgiving red. 

“Bucky!” Your pulse hammered. “Don't move, I'm coming to get you!”

“Don't.” Bucky's voice was stern. Final. “You gotta get outta here before the whole thing collapse.”

“I'm not leaving here without you!”

Inside your earpiece, noises began to crackle. 

“Guys?” Maria's voice emerged. The sound of punches and clatter reverberated from her end of the line. “I think I need some help over here.”

“Go help Maria,” Bucky commanded.

“But you—”

“Sugar.” 

The nickname halted you in place. Bucky was smiling as he looked up at you, although you knew that it was nothing more than a facade. Any other person would have been fooled by his performance, but you could easily pinpoint the shadow of a grimace he was trying to conceal, the exhaustion crippling his body as he struggled to hold himself up at an angle that wouldn't put additional strain to the already splintering steel beam.

Blue eyes softened. “I'm gonna be fine. You should go.”

Your throat constricted.

You crouched frozen on the ledge, the roar of distant gunfire echoing through the shattered high-rise. Fifty stories below, parts of the building's skeleton scattered on the ground. Your hand twitched towards Bucky, wanting to reach out, desperate to haul him back into your arms, but the chasm between you felt impossibly wide.

Meanwhile, Maria's grunts and struggle continued to echo in your ears as she seemed to wrestle a few assailants at once. You knew you should go to her aid. You knew this wasn’t the time for hesitation.

And yet… Bucky.

His lips were still curled into that easy smile—the same one he shared with you during clandestine moments around the compound, because this side of Bucky Barnes was one he reserved specifically for you. His knuckles had gone white from supporting his entire weight, the beam creaking under the slightest sway of his body, jerking slightly. 

“I don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do,” he said gently, as if he weren't hanging by one arm over nothing but air. “You save her.”

You could barely breathe. 

The seconds were ticking—Maria was calling for help, and Bucky was slipping.

You weren’t enough to save both of them.

“Sam,” you gasped, pressing your hand to the comms. Static was the only response, and you prayed to the heavens above that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could listen to your plea. “You’ve gotta get to Bucky. Now. He’s gonna—I can’t—just… please.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched longer than a lifetime.

Just when you began to think he wasn't going to answer, Sam's voice fizzled in, “On my way.” 

The comms fell silent again.

A violent wind tore through the air, hitting like a freight train.

The steel girder—the one remaining lifeline fastening Bucky to this world—buckled with a piercing screech.

In the blink of an eye, the girder snapped.

“BUCKY!”

A blur of silver and red swooped below him in the same breath, and before you could lunge forward to follow Bucky as he fell, Sam was there—arms locked securely around Bucky’s torso, wings flaring wide to steady the sudden addition of weight. Bucky’s head dropped against Sam’s shoulder, dazed but alive. Your whole limbs teetered towards the verge of liquefying as your lungs finally released the air you didn’t know you were holding.

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice chirped through your earpiece. “Christ, what did they feed you in Wakanda?”

A sound escaped your chest—something between a strangled sob and a wry laugh.

Gathering yourself, you pressed another hand to the comms, rising to your feet and sprinting towards the server room as you announced, “Hang on tight, Maria. I'm on my way.”

By the time you and Maria went back to the safehouse over an hour later, Sam and Bucky were already there. Bucky was lying on the couch the moment you strode in, his metal arm detached and thrown almost haphazardly on the coffee table while Sam tinkered with Redwing on the kitchen counter.

From the bandage wrapped around Bucky's shoulder, you knew that the on-site medical android had taken a look at him already, but the anxiety in your mind still wasn't pacified. It dribbled all over the floor as you marched towards him, your body shaking partly from the adrenaline still coursing through your veins, but also from the anger and dread boiling in your blood.

“Why the hell did you do that?!”

Venom leaked from your voice the moment you approached the couch. Behind you, Sam and Maria fell silent, readying themselves for the imminent confrontation ahead. Bucky's face remained impassive as he rose to a seating position, a faint tug at the corner of his lips.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Don't fucking sweetheart me.”

Your chest rose and fell in a dizzying rythm, daggers flying from your eyes towards the man in front of you. The same one who had nearly, stupidly welcomed death into his arms due to some kind of foolish heroism embedded in his principles. The one who was currently looking at you with cerulean eyes so tender it almost made you forget that he was close to slipping from your fingers a mere hour earlier.

Bucky let out a sigh. “I'm okay.”

“Quit talking to me like I'm stupid, Bucky. We all can see your ripped metal arm on the table. Your bandaged shoulder.”

 “It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing!”

“It's nothing compared to what I've suffered before.”

An incredulous laugh tore from your larynx, sharp and sardonic. It was the only thing keeping the lump inside from choking you whole. “Just because you've survived worse doesn't mean you're fucking invincible, Buck! You could've died. You almost died. If Sam hadn't got there in time, you would've—”

The words wedged in your throat.

Your eyes fell shut as you expelled the images of Bucky dangling between life and death out of your mind. 

Gentle fingers encircled your wrist. You gasped at the sudden warmth surrounding you, opening your eyes to find that Bucky had tugged you closer to stand between his parted knees. Your palms automatically landed on the column of his neck, chest pounding at the unbearable softness shining out of Bucky’s eyes. 

This was new territory—Bucky had always treated closeness like something fleeting, something borrowed. His touches, his embraces, were often hesitant, as though affection was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But now, he held you like he had done it a thousand times before, like your body against his was the very thing chaining him to reality. His hand curled firmly around your waist, anchoring himself, grounding his entire existence to the certainty of your presence.

“Hey,” Bucky said, squeezing your side lightly. “I'm right here, Sugar. I'm alright.”

Your chest burned. “We almost lost you.”

“But you didn't.”

“But what if we had?!”

“Then you should take solace in the knowledge that I haven't gone in vain.”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of Bucky's shoulders, nails branding crescent moons into the skin. He didn't even flinch.

“You don't need to sacrifice your life for me, Bucky. I don't need that kind of thing on my conscience,” you spat.

“I wouldn't call it a sacrifice, sweetheart,” Bucky said firmly, resolutely. “If that's what it takes to keep you safe, then I'd gladly take the fall.”

Bucky's declaration propelled the tears you had been desperately trying to contain to the forefront. A strangled whimper shredded from your lips. You quickly tried to mask it with a scowl.

“That's the very definition of a ‘sacrifice’, you idiot.”

“Not in my book.” Bucky smiled. “Not when it's you.”

Before he could say another word, you removed the distance between you and threw yourself in his arms. The dam within you finally caved in, freeing the ragged sobs you had been trying to keep at bay. Your tears stained the collar of his undershirt, your arms locking around him tightly as though sheer willpower might fetter him to you, to life itself.

He staggered slightly under your weight, grunting from the pull on his wounded shoulder, but his hand—his only hand—immediately rose to your back, fingers splayed as they began tracing slow, calming patterns across your spine. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you whispered hoarsely. “Don’t throw yourself in front of danger for me. I don't ever want to watch you fall like that again. I can’t—”

“I know,” Bucky murmured, pressing his cheek to your temple. “I know, Sugar.”

“Promise me,” you croaked out.

He stilled for a second. “I can't,” Bucky said breathlessly. “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, sweetheart. I’ll always choose to save you.”

A fresh wave of tears surged behind your eyes. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his undershirt. You hated him for that. 

And you loved him even more because of it.

From behind you, someone cleared their throat. 

“I hate to interrupt the Notting Hill shit we’ve got going on here,” Sam said, “but is anyone else starving or is it only the guy who just saved Barnes’ ass?”

The evening wind bit your cheeks the moment you stepped out of the bar. In a chorus of jovial shrieks and mischievous laughter, your friends from the Academy all bid each other goodbye—some heading straight home, some scuttering after the next round of drinks and fun, but all equally giddy and tipsy—stumbling on the curb and crashing against unassuming lamp posts.

“Sure you're not coming?” one of your friends asked.

“No, told you I've got an early morning tomorrow,” you slurred slightly, shaking your head twice when the face in front of you began to blur around the edges.

“Okay. Text me when you get home!”

You waved them off with a lopsided smile, turning on your heel and starting the slow trek back to the station. The pavement felt oddly slanted under your feet, and you blamed the tequila for the fifth time that night. The wind swept down the empty street, nipping at your exposed skin, sending discarded wrappers tumbling aimlessly along the sidewalk.

“Hey, Gorgeous! You need a ride?” a voice called out.

You didn’t bother looking. The city was full of idiots, and you weren’t in the mood for petty confrontations when your balance already wavered like a tightrope walker with a death wish.

You were in the midst of stifling a yawn when your foot unexpectedly hit a shallow crack in the pavement, pitching your body forward, arms flailing wildly before you caught yourself mid-fall.

The voice spoke again, this time laced with a grin that lit a match in the back of your mind, “Careful, sweetheart. Steve's gonna be pissed if you break an ankle before the mission tomorrow.”

Your eyes snapped up.

Leaning against a dark motorcycle across the street, like some kind of B-list actor playing a bad boy in a trashy movie franchise, was none other than Bucky Barnes. He looked way too good for someone who just watched you nearly eat concrete—leather jacket unzipped, gloved hand resting on the handlebar, and an easy smile tugging at his lips. 

Your face broke into an instantaneous grin.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

You skipped across the street without looking. The squeal of tires resonated in the air, blaring horns and flashing headlights as you registered too late the oncoming car speeding your way. You stumbled in your haste to escape the street, to save yourself before your crushed skull and its content became the next headline for tomorrow's 6 A.M. news.

But before gravity could make a fool out of yourself, Bucky’s arms were already around you. He caught your body with ease, keeping your face from planting onto the curb, his broad frame shielding you from the splash of puddle as the honking car zipped past. 

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he muttered, his metal fingers squeezing your hip, “you lookin’ to give an old man a heart attack?”

“Sorry,” you offered sheepishly, willing the percussion in your chest to assuage. “Thanks for saving me.”

“I'd save you anytime and anywhere, Sugar.” Bucky smiled, his gaze soft and genuine despite the flirtatious nature of his words. “But it'd be nice if I didn't have to do it all the time.”

You feigned a gasp. “And here I thought you were my personal hero on call, Buck.”

The man in front of you laughed—a carefree thing with his head thrown back, ocean blue glinting under the paltry luminance of streetlights. You stepped out of his embrace with great reluctance, shivering slightly in the absence of Bucky's warmth.

The motion didn't escape Bucky's notice. “Did you not bring a jacket?”

“I did.” You wrapped yourself with your own arms, stroking the goosebumps away with your palms. “I lent it to my friend and I guess… well, I forgot to ask for it back.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

“Because everyone knows how kind, selfless, and generous I am?” You grinned.

Bucky didn't say anything in return. Instead, he made quick work shedding the jacket off his back, revealing the outline of muscles under the gorgeous cover of dusty blue henley. Your throat went dry, every nerve ending lighting up in fireworks when Bucky stepped forward, draping the leather garment around your shoulders.

“There you go. That would have to do for now,” he muttered.

His fingertips brushed your neck as he tugged the leather collar closer around you. The scent of coffee, mint, and something indistinguishably Bucky attacked your senses, stealing your breath and leaving the taste of longing on your tongue. He looked at you in that same infuriating tenderness that made your insides spume, reduced to tiny bubbles filled with hope and yearning.

“Thanks,” you breathed out once he withdrew. “By the way, how come you're here? I thought you had that mission with Nat today.”

“I did,” Bucky replied, burying his hands in his jeans’ pockets. 

Your forehead creased. “No way. Did you bail?”

“Are you crazy? Steve would have my ass.”

“Then…” 

“Came straight from the jet,” he said casually, the impish quirk of his lips giving him away before his words even landed.

“You what?” You gawked. “Are you serious? Did you even debrief with Steve before you went here?  Did you even go to the medbay? At all?”

“It was just recon.” He shrugged, far too nonchalant for your liking. “Nat can handle the debrief. She did all the sneaking around anyway, I barely lifted a finger.”

“That’s not the point.” You groaned, massaging the headache that had started gnawing at your temple. “Who cares if it was just recon, Bucky? The procedure says you're to go to the medbay after every mission. The rule is there for a reason. What if you were injured but you didn't even notice? What if you were exposed to a dangerous substance while you were on the field? It's incredibly reckless, stupid, and—”

Your words dissolved the moment his hands cupped your cheeks.

Bucky studied your countenance in silence, his eyes delicate, his thumbs gentle as they skimmed along your jaw. He smiled at you as if your soul was scribbled in a script only he could decipher. An intimate secret shared between the meager spaces the two of you occupied in this infinite universe.

Your breath hitched.

Everything around you tilted on its axis, the world dulling into a distant hum to make room for the cosmic threads tethering you both to each other. His eyes were tired as they locked onto yours, but behind the muted blue, something else shone through—something steadfast and searing, like an eternal flame trapped in the most secluded heights of the Himalayan range.

“I’m okay,” he said at last, voice low but certain. “I’m right here, and I’m okay.”

You didn't blink—you couldn't.

Your chest deflated in the aftermath of worry, the relief sweeping through you like a tide pulling back after a storm. Bucky withdrew, his hands leaving your face in a parting goodbye, and you had to fight the urge to yank him back in, to stay in the fragile moment that had cracked open between the two of you.

“‘Sides,” he drawled, a teasing glint replacing the ferocity in his eyes, “if I didn't pick you up, you'd probably end up passed out in a dumpster somewhere. Can't have you jeopardizing the mission like that, can I?”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder. “Ass.”

Bucky chuckled, rounding the bike before handing you a helmet. “C'mon, lightweight.”

You rolled your eyes, although the blooming smile on your face betrayed the faux irritation as you climbed onto the motorcycle. Bucky was warm in front of you, your arms finding purchase around his waist the second the engine roared to life, buildings and trees alike blurring past as the two of you sped through the streets of New York.

This time, you held Bucky a little tighter than usual, just in case he forgot how much it mattered that he made it home safely.

The pain was the first thing your brain registered.

Lights spilled through the all-encompassing darkness, rousing you awake, filling the gaps in your mind with an awareness of life. The ache traveled through your body in an unimaginable speed, a ravenous beast as it ate away your soul, and you could barely contain the pained whimper before it tumbled free out of your lips.

Something engulfed your hand.

Warmth.

“Sugar?”

You whimpered louder.

“Shit." There was a rustling by your side before the same voice sprouted again, “Hang on, sweetheart. I'll get the doctor.”

Time stumbled in and out of your grasp. You thought you could hear several voices conversing in the room not long after. One of them, unrecognizable in your ears but settled deeply within your chest, rose above all of them. It sounded desperate, broken, as if the person had attempted to barter with God using merely a mangled heart and a splintered spine.

“...please,” you caught him say, the end of a sentence blown by the breeze before you could curl your fingers around it.

“I understand, Barnes,” another voice spoke. “We'll take care of it. Just wait outside, will you?”

A pair of hands proceeded to roam over your body. You felt the pull of consciousness behind your eyelids, heaving you out of the void, an aimless ghost slipping violently back into flesh.

You gasped.

The world returned in a fragmented mosaic—white ceiling, antiseptic air, and a beeping monitor that echoed stubbornly beside your ear. Inside your body, a burning agony erupted. It sank into the deepest corners of your being, clutching around your lungs, turning you into nothing more than a wailing heap of muscles and bones.

“Hey, hey, easy now,” came a calm voice. 

The words arrived in the company of gentle hands, too cold for your liking, but they were a reprieve nonetheless. The face in front of you zoomed in and out of focus like moonlight dancing across shattered glass, the contours merging and sundering as they finally morphed into the features of a familiar friend. 

Dr. Helen Cho.

She pressed the back of her hand to your forehead before shining a penlight into your eyes. “Pupils reactive. That’s good. Welcome back.”

You blinked away the harsh light from your vision, wincing when the effort sent a jolt of pain through your neck and shoulder. Your lips parted in an attempt to speak, but your throat felt like it had been shoved with hot coals, shredding your voice into nothing more than a torn, fragile snivel.

“W-what… what happened?” you croaked out.

“You were shot,” Helen answered. “Do you remember?”

Just like that, the memory barreled into you like a sucker punch to the face.

Images of drab walls and ceilings, the sight of mold and moss co-existing with dead rodents’ remains filled your mind. The abandoned building once posed as the warehouse of an illegal bio-weaponry enterprise that had long ceased to operate. The Avengers’ presence on site was supposed to be a straightforward recon—gather the intel on the culpable syndicate, perhaps scour for names complicit in supplying the deadly goods in the first place—and it was implied as such on the case files given to the entire team.

No one could have predicted that the simple job would turn into an ambush.

Your mind began flipping through the pages of memory, recalling how it took you no time at all to neutralize the four agents sent your way. Under different circumstances, you might have felt offended by the measly number of hostiles assigned to you—had your thoughts, of course, not already been preoccupied with a certain super soldier. Still, any insolent disparagement your opponent once hurled at your combat abilities was indefinitely put on ice as you dashed across the site's west wing.

By the time you arrived, Bucky was already cornered.

Instinct, and something else akin to protectiveness, fueled your movements as you thundered into the room. Most of the assailants were already lying in stacks on the floor, the rest following suit with every deliberate strike you threw their way. Your chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, each breath scraping your throat as the last body hit the ground.

Across the room, Bucky rose from behind the makeshift fortress, aiming his gun before stopping dead in tracks. The corner of your mouth lifted when your gazes found each other.

“Hi, handsome. Miss me?”

Bucky let out a rough breath, his grip around the gun loosening. “Was wondering when you'd show up, sweetheart.”

He stood up and approached you in merely four strides, smiling so sweetly as though your presence in front of him had been God's own gift to mankind. You fought off a shudder and attempted nonchalance as your palm brushed the dust off his shoulder.

“Sorry, Sarge. You know I like to keep people on their toes.”

The grin on Bucky's face expanded. He bumped his shoulder to yours, the two of you heading for the exit as Bucky started requesting for extraction through his comms.

A split second was all it took for everything to go sideways.

You didn't know what compelled you to turn around for one last glance. Had you heard something? Felt something? Had the hairs on the back of your neck sensed the imminent danger before your brain could even begin processing it? 

It was impossible to say, but something dragged your gaze over your shoulder, an invisible hook yanking you back just in time to catch the glint of metal under the scanty light. One of the bodies on the ground, presumed dead, had begun to stir. His arm trembled as he lifted his gun from the blood-slick floor, the barrel rising with all of the inevitability of a verdict carved in stone.

Your breathing caught.

Everything in your body told you to run. To take shelter behind the wooden crate in the corner of the room, call out a warning, anything. But you knew exactly where that gun was aimed, where that bullet would go if you dared to move even an inch.

Straight into Bucky.

The whole world narrowed. What happened next wasn't a choice—it was a decision your body made under direct instructions of your heart, born not from years of training but from the gentle fondness you harbored for the man beside you. It commanded you to hold your ground, freezing your limbs, your chest pounding as though wishing to somehow intercept the bullet before it could write the ending you weren’t ready to read.

Then, the shot rang out.

Everything else had transpired in a blur. You remembered certain bits and pieces through the fog in your mind—the pain on your neck, the retaliation shot Bucky had fired from his gun, the look of pure terror you saw on his face as he held your crumbling body before it could shatter against the concrete ground.

The confession.

“Bucky.” His name fled your lips before you could even think about it.

Helen's gaze softened. “He's outside. He's been here the whole time. Never left your side since the surgery.”

You swallowed, throat thick with the weight of half-formed questions. “H-How long…?”

“Thirty-eight hours,” she replied. “The bullet missed your artery by millimeters. We almost lost you a couple of times. You were extremely lucky this time, Agent.”

Your eyes closed momentarily. When they opened again, your gaze found Helen with an unshakable purpose. “Could you please send him in?”

The doctor gave you a single nod, landing a reassuring pat on your knee before leaving the room silently.

Not long after, the door opened with a quiet hiss.

The sight of Bucky standing in the doorway smashed your heart into a million little pieces.

His hair was unkempt, sticking to different directions as if his fingers had run through them too many times to count. Even from the distance, you could still see how bloodshot his eyes were, how hollow and agonized they were under the harsh lighting of the room. He looked like a man who had outrun hell only to realize that it had made a home right inside his chest.

“Bucky,” you called out, slowly, gently.

His shoulders tensed at the sound of your voice.

Bucky's movement was tedious, as though it was painful for him to move, as though lifting his head required more strength than Atlas needed to carry the world on his shoulders. The moment his eyes met yours, something inside him cracked and splintered. 

“You're awake,” he said hoarsely.

“I am,” you replied, offering a soft, shaky smile. “I'm okay.”

Bucky didn't move.

He looked like he didn't even breathe.

It was as if an intangible weight had shackled itself around his ankles, stopping him in place. Bucky didn't try to fight it, to break himself out of the phantom hold he had been cast under. He just kept standing there, motionless, like he was afraid that if he came any closer, the fragile image of you in front of him—alive, breathing, and speaking—would vanish.

Your throat tightened.

“Buck,” you tried again, a tremor in your voice now, too. “Come here.”

His fingers twitched.

“Please.”

It was that single word that finally did it—the plea that fell onto him like a torrent on scorched earth.

He took one step, then another, erasing the distance between him and the bed with a slowness that might convince someone he was walking barefoot on shards of glass. You watched every inch of him draw nearer, his pain thick in the atmosphere of the room, heavier than the oxygen nesting in your lungs.

The hesitation returned when he reached your bedside, keeping him a good six inches away from you. He hovered in the space around the bed, uncertain, both of his hands clenching and unclenching like they wanted to hold you but were afraid you would completely dissipate like vapor under his touch.

You lifted your hand and reached out, tentatively, with the precision of someone trying to pet an easily-spooked cat. Eternity must have passed at least once or twice when your fingers finally brushed the inside of his wrist.

That was all it took.

The singular touch was all it took for Bucky Barnes—the Winter Soldier, the man with the power of a collapsing star, who had faced death and catastrophe greater than anybody else on earth could ever imagine—to entirely crumble under your palms.

A sound escaped him—something torn and guttural and not meant for human ears to hear. He fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching your hand like it was the only echo of mercy in a world that had offered him none. His head bowed against your stomach, shoulders shaking violently with the aggressive sobs he could no longer contain in his chest.

Your own tears spilled out of you in a tide stronger than the Pacific current, staining your cheeks as you brought your other hand to cradle the back of Bucky's head, threading your fingers through the short tendrils.

“I’m okay. I'm okay, Bucky, I'm fine,” you whispered, over and over, each word a balm against the searing agony inside his bloodstream. “I’m right here, darling. I'm okay now.”

“But you weren’t,” he choked, the sound of his anguish slicing your nerves deeper than the sharpest dagger ever could. “You weren’t, a-and God, I thought I lost you, sweetheart. I was holding you, tried to stop the blood—there was so much blood—and you just… you just went still. Was so cold and still and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do.”

“Bucky.” Your voice quivered. “I'm here, baby. You didn’t lose me.”

“I almost did.” 

His head rose, and your breath halted in your throat at the sight or red in Bucky’s eyes. He was not someone who cried often—perhaps it was the archaic 40s’ notion of masculinity that was still embedded in his system—and the only time you had seen him cry was back in Wakanda, when you and Ayo stood by him in the vulnerable moment that confirmed the severance of HYDRA's control over his soul.

Somehow, this Bucky—the one kneeling in front of you—looked even more shattered than the one in your memory.

“Your heart stopped, Sugar,” Bucky continued, the weight of his words pressing and twisting your ribs until you were nothing but a mire. “You weren’t breathing. So cold and stiff, and I… Shit—I didn't know if you'd make it. Had to do CPR the whole flight. Everyone told me to stop. They said y-you were gone. But I couldn't, Sugar. I just—I couldn't.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “Darling.”

“I thought I was too late,” he rasped, voice fracturing under the weight of a requiem still resonating in his chest. “I kept thinking if I'd been faster—if I’d stood closer—if I had just noticed sooner, then you… you would've…”

You cupped his face, forcing him to stop his self-torment and look up at you. To remind him that whatever horror still clawing at his being was no longer real, because you were fine, you were alive, and you were here with him. His cheeks were wet, flushed with the remnants of grief and an exhaustion that had been postponed for far too long. The pain in his eyes had dimmed the blue in his irises to gray.

“I'm fine now, Bucky,” you murmured, misty eyes and traces of salt on the tip of your tongue. “You did it. You saved me.”

“I shouldn't have had to,” he said, shaking his head as if trying to reject the truth. “You shouldn't have been in that situation in the first place. You should've been safe. I was supposed to protect you.”

“You did, Bucky. You did protect me.”

“Not enough.”

“Baby, look at me.” Your voice is firm, a lighthouse cutting through a war-born fog. Bucky's forehead furrowed as his eyes locked with yours, as if he still struggled to believe that the you in front of him weren't simply a mirage. “You brought me back, Buck. You didn’t lose me. I'm here because of you.”

His breath hitched.

His lips quivered.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead gently to his, ignoring the strain it caused to your wound because this—the man you held inside your palms, this tender moment you shared after everything the universe had put you through—was far more important than any pain you could ever feel.

“You didn't lose me,” you repeated.

There was silence in the next breath, a sacred one commonly heard in the space between lightning and thunder. You could feel his every exhale, shallow and staggered, like a beast coaxed out of fight but still bristling with a proliferate instinct.

After a stuttered heartbeat, his metal arm slithered around your waist, his flesh one wrapping around your hand again, tighter this time.

“Say it again,” he begged, barely audible. “Please.”

“You didn't lose me,” you uttered. “I'm here, I’m alive, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He crushed you against him then—still careful, still gentle—but underneath the heedfulness, his desperation bled through. Gripping you like you were the only thing that mattered in this vast universe, like he wanted to fold you into himself and keep you some place where danger and death could never lurk over you again.

You felt Bucky's lips on your skin, grazing along your shoulder, moving up the curve of your neck, your jaw, and your cheek. Worshipping you with prayers shaped as a thousand reverent kisses, moving like he was searching for the evidence that you were real, like he was memorizing a miracle while time was still ticking.

And when his mouth finally found yours, the press of his lips wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy.

It was trembling.

He kissed you as if you were the divine being who granted him life, respiring your moans and gasps as if they were the instruments needed to mend his ruptured soul. Bucky tasted like every future you were always too scared to envision for yourself—the promise of companionship, affection, and happiness that had once been too surreal for your heart to believe in. But now, in this moment with him, they all suddenly became inevitable.

You kissed him back, slowly, cradling his face between your hands to hold together all of the fractured pieces that forged his being. Time slipped away in the hush where sorrow once lived, getting you lost in everything Bucky, until eventually, your lungs had to force you to part and come up for air.

“I love you,” Bucky confessed, holding onto your wrists to keep you tethered to him. To this moment. And to life itself.

Your thumb brushed the apple of his cheek, catching a silent tear, leaning in to steal another kiss from the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, too,” you whispered.

A sound between a sob and relief escaped him, and Bucky buried his face in the unwounded crook of your neck, breathing you in like he had been suffocating for days and had finally resurfaced for air. His arms stayed enveloped around you as he murmured praises against your skin—thanking the Gods for listening to his prayers, thanking the universe, thanking you. Paying reverence for the mercy that fate had bestowed over a mangled man such as himself.

You stayed like that for a long time. His weight against your side, his heartbeats slowly steadying beneath your touch. The monitors beeped gently beside you, grounding the two of you to reality, an anchor in the otherwise stagnant room. But in that moment, the only sound that mattered—the only one you cared about—was the soft inhale and exhale of your breaths, a proof of life, shared within the modest spaces that felt more freeing than a hummingbird flying over an open field.

Gradually, the room began to fade into silence.

And in the safety of Bucky's embrace, you had never appreciated the quiet more.

Taglist: @steph88x @athenabarnes @sugarmummystuff6 @wintercrows @jay-jaystevebuckyloki @spideysimpossiblegirl @vainillacookie @mazzaroni-cheese @killerwendigo @s-r-reads @nydubs @rafeskai @unpeellievable @thisismyacc11 @rimunagenius @buckygirls @buckyslove1917 @defn0tonyourleft @buhangini @infinitymitten @lemonhead456 @thescooponsof @buckytheloveofmylife95 @mizukiqr @littlegreenjellybean @p3nis-parker @shortlikerdj @onlyheluvsme @theschoolbasketcase @jjulesii @jvanilly @seaskysunrise @minminswag04 @dameronspector @buckybarnesfic @nameless-ken @marie-sworld @silverwolfeyes @idkitsem @waiting-so-long @redtabularasa @buckyinluv @ghostytoasty17 @moreadsfic @chlovocaine @mcira @personal-fanfic-storage @spookyreads @eternalsams @the-sunflower-room

[babydoll372]

Wanda Maximoff P Links!!

(Ignore the colors for the name I had fun lol and can’t get the fonts I want since I don’t have a laptop)

Warnings: cunnilingus, fingering, thigh riding, scissoring, strap ons, some toxicity, intersex (only 1)

One night stand!wanda savoring every last taste of you in the morning before you leave

Pervert!wanda groping your breasts in your sleep

Top!wanda swearing she’d never want to be the one riding the strap

Sub!wanda begging for you to praise her while she rides your thigh

Momsbestfriend!wanda trying to shut you up while she fucks you in your childhood bedroom

Mommy!wanda coming home from a long day of work and needing to eat you out before she sleeps

Insecure!wanda worried you’d find her bush unattractive but it’s exactly the opposite

Uberdriver!wanda taking her favorite client home to eat them out

Sisters best friend!wanda sneaking into your room past midnight

Milf!wanda said she was tired of you going easy on her after the pregnancy

Jealous!wanda after finding out you slept with Natasha when you two broke up

Farmer!wanda and you scissoring on the porch early in the morning before she gets to work

Housewife!wanda sending you a video of her riding your pillow while you’re at work

Rich CEO!wanda taking you on vacation and fucking you in the hotel room

Scarlet witch!wanda putting a spell on you in your sleep and waking you up to find your cunt needy for her

Jock!wanda needing to fuck you in her car after practice

Domestic!wanda imagining breeding you, your stomach being full and your breasts leaking

Vulnerable!wanda letting toxic!r continue to come back

Divorced!wanda finally having sex for the first time in years and being more sensitive then ever

Gamer!wanda letting mommy!r take care of her

Stalker!wanda forced to listen to all the videos she took of you without consent while you fuck her from behind

Professor!wanda unable to resist fingering you when you sit on her office chair like that

Ex!wanda just can’t get enough of you

Cowgirl!wanda taking pride in knowing she’s the only one to ever make you cum

Intersex!wanda is obsessed with having your mouth on her cock

[m4rv3l-girl]

Slowly…

Bucky and Y/N have been dating for a while, but have yet to explore anything more intimate than making out like teenagers. Maybe things will change when Bucky finally faces his fears.

Warnings: smut. Oral f!recieving. Protected p in v sex. Slight fear of intimacy. Touch starved Bucky?

The hum of the Stark Tower HVAC system was basically white noise.

Bucky Barnes sat sprawled across the couch, one arm looped loosely around Y/N’s shoulders, the other cradling a steaming mug of chamomile tea. Both of them contently sleepy. The windows stretched tall across the living room wall, casting gold-tinged light from the setting sun over the exposed brick and sleek furniture, remnants of Tony’s compulsive over-design.

Y/N, nestled into Bucky’s side with a blanket tugged over both of their legs, sighed softly. Her head was tucked perfectly beneath his chin, like it belonged there. Bucky liked that. He liked that a lot more than he’d ever admit aloud. Especially since Sam would absolutely never let him live it down if he caught wind of Bucky Barnes being the little spoon. Again.

“You know,” Y/N said, voice low and thoughtful, “you’re actually not as terrifying as everyone makes you out to be.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, lifting his mug in mock salute. “Thanks, doll. I’ll make sure to update my LinkedIn.”

She laughed against his chest, the sound vibrating into his sternum and tugging a rare, genuine smile from him. “No, seriously. You’re... sweet. You hold the door open. You bring me coffee just the way I like it. You’re weirdly obsessed with The Great British Bake Off.”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“Oh, come on. You cried when Rahul won.”

He groaned, tilting his head back against the couch and covering his face with the vibranium hand. “I didn’t cry. I just - had feelings. That’s normal. Rahul is a very talented man.”

“You’re soft.”

“I’m six feet tall and made of war crimes.”

She snorted. “You’re my soft war crime.”

“Jesus Christ.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. The kind that only came after months of slow trust-building, of soft confessions over late-night tea, of tentative hand-holding and the quiet awe in Bucky’s eyes when she didn’t flinch away from the cold press of metal fingers. It wasn’t perfect, Bucky still had nights where he woke up gasping, sweat-soaked and angry at ghosts only he could see, but Y/N never left. Never treated him like he was broken or dangerous. Just… human.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed being seen as human until she came along.

“You ever think about…” Y/N began, then paused, fingers tracing idle shapes along his thigh. “Us. Like, going further?”

Bucky blinked, the words taking a second to register through the sleepy haze.

“Further?”

She tilted her head to glance up at him, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Like… more than just kissing on your couch and pretending we don’t both want more.”

Oh.

Bucky’s breath hitched, but not from discomfort. Not exactly. More like the entire world had suddenly gone still and very, very focused.

He’d thought about it. Of course he had. He was a hundred and six years old, not dead.

But there was always a wall. Not one she had built. Y/N had never rushed him, but one he’d carried with him since Hydra carved up his mind like Thanksgiving turkey. Intimacy meant vulnerability. And vulnerability had always gotten him hurt or used.

“I do think about it,” he said finally, voice soft. “All the time, actually.”

Y/N shifted slightly, giving him room to see her expression. She looked open. Patient. Like she wasn’t expecting anything except honesty. That helped. That grounded him.

“But I also think about messing it up,” he admitted. “I think about what if I freeze up? Or what if I have some flashback in the middle of it and ruin everything?”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything,” she said immediately. “You could never ruin this.”

He wanted to believe her. Hell, part of him already did. But old instincts didn’t die easily. He reached for her hand with his metal one, letting their fingers twine together. That felt real. Solid.

“I guess I just need to know you’re okay with taking it slow. That you don’t feel like you’re waiting for me to turn into someone else.”

Y/N’s smile was soft and fierce all at once. “Bucky, I didn’t fall for the Winter Soldier. I fell for the guy who leaves sticky notes on the fridge reminding me to drink water. Who calls Sam ‘bird brain’ like it’s a love language. Who watched all three Lord of the Rings movies with me even though he thought Frodo should’ve just used the eagles.”

“Don’t tell me I was wrong.”

She laughed, then leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m okay with slow. I’m okay with whatever pace you want. I’m here because I want you.”

Bucky let out a slow breath, tension he hadn’t realized he was holding bleeding from his shoulders. “Okay,” he murmured. “Then yeah. Maybe we take that step. Sometime soon.”

A beat.

The quiet stretched out like a warm blanket, thick with anticipation. Bucky’s thumb traced the line of her knuckles, and the room felt too hot and too cold at the same time. He knew he could say no. He knew she’d understand. But the way she said it - so gentle, so earnest - he couldn’t find the words to refuse.

“Soon,” she murmured, reading the hesitation in his eyes. “Whenever you’re ready. I just - I want you to know that I’m here. That I want to be there for you, every step of the way.”

Bucky nodded, his throat tight with emotions he hadn’t let himself feel in so long. It was strange, this feeling of safety, of belonging. It didn’t sit easily with him, but it was growing more familiar with every beat of her heart against his side. He swallowed hard, trying to find the right words.

“You make it easier, doll,” he said finally. “You make a lot of things easier.”

Y/N leaned into him, her arm curling around his waist. Her hair smelled faintly of coconut shampoo and mint toothpaste. The scent was comforting, like home.

“I’ll always be here for you, you know that,” she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. “For all the hard parts. And the easy ones too. For the baking shows and the bad jokes and the quiet nights just like this one. I’m all in, Bucky. Whatever it takes to help you feel whole again.”

The weight of her words settled into his chest, nestling in alongside his beating heart. It was a heavy burden, but somehow, with her, it felt lighter.

They watched the light change outside the window, the sky deepening into shades of purple and pink. The sounds of the city grew distant, swallowed up by their shared warmth. Bucky’s arm tightened around her, pulling her closer, and she curled into him, her hand coming to rest over his heart.

It was a promise. A silent vow.

He took a sip of his now lukewarm tea and sighed, the warmth of her against him a stark contrast to the cold metal of his arm. It was moments like these that made him feel alive, made him realize that maybe, just maybe, he could have a life beyond the shadows of his past.

“What’s the first thing you’d wanna do?” he asked, turning to look at her. Her eyes searched his, looking for any signs of doubt or fear. But all she’d find was the truth. The reality was that, at present, their sex life was non-existent.

Y/N thought for a moment, her expression softening into a smile. “I don’t mind….what would you want to do..?” She didn’t want to commit to something that he wasn’t comfortable with.

Bucky considered this.

"I just want to be with you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "I want to hold you, and kiss you, and just… explore. Nothing crazy, just… us. Getting to know each other that way."

Her smile grew, lighting up the room even as the shadows grew longer. "That sounds perfect," she whispered.

The air was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with desire. He could feel the pulse of her heart beneath her palm, and he knew she felt his too, a steady rhythm that grew stronger with every breath they took together.

They sat for a while longer, just watching the day turn to night. Bucky's mind raced with the possibilities of what this could mean for them, but he forced himself to stay present, to enjoy the simplicity of their entwined fingers and the warmth of her body.

Eventually, Y/N sat up, her hand slipping away from his heart to rest on his cheek. She turned to face him, her eyes searching his, looking for any trace of doubt. But all she found was a man who was ready to take the next step.

“Okay,” she said, her voice steady. “Let’s go slow. We’ll figure it out together. No pressure, just us getting to know each other more intimately. I’m here, Bucky. We’re in this together, remember?”

Bucky nodded, his pulse quickening at the thought of what lay ahead. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to be this open with someone, to let go of the fear that had become second nature. But with her, it felt possible.

They stood up, and he set the mug of tea down on the side table with a gentle clink. Y/N reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. She led him to the bedroom, her movements sure and unhurried.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn just enough to allow the fading light to cast a soft glow over the bed. Bucky felt his heart rate spike as she turned to face him, her gaze never wavering from his own. She stepped closer, her hand sliding up to his chest, then around to his neck.

Her touch was tentative at first, a gentle question. But as Bucky leaned into it, she grew bolder, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her thumb brushing against his lower lip. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath, and she leaned in to capture his mouth in a kiss that was sweet and full of promise.

Her other hand slid down his side, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt. Bucky’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, the heat between them growing with every second. The kiss deepened, and he felt the first stirrings of something he’d almost forgotten - desire, untainted by fear or duty.

When they broke apart, panting slightly, Bucky opened his eyes to find her smiling up at him. She reached for the hem of her shirt, her movements slow and deliberate. He watched as she lifted it over her head, revealing the soft curves of her body.

He took a deep breath, his metal hand hovering over her bare skin for a moment before he let it rest gently on her waist.

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for the answer to the unspoken question. Bucky nodded, his decision made.

They moved in unison, Bucky helping her to remove the rest of her clothing, his movements slow and careful, as if handling something fragile and precious. Each piece of clothing that fell away revealed more of her, and with it, a part of her soul that he hadn't seen before. Her trust in him was palpable, a silent demand that he not break her. And he knew, with a sudden fierceness, that he never would.

Her skin was warm under his touch, and she shivered as he traced the outline of her collarbone with his thumb. He felt his own heart racing, a thunderous beat that echoed in his ears.

They lay down on the bed, the mattress giving slightly under their combined weight.

Her eyes never left his, the same gentle expression on her face that had been there since the moment she’d brought it up. He felt the pressure of her hand, the softness of her skin, and the way her breath hitched as he kissed her again, his metal fingers brushing against the softness of her stomach. It was a strange sensation, this mix of cold and warm, of hard and soft, of past and present.

Bucky’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but he pushed them aside, focusing only on the here and now. He didn’t want to think about the past, didn’t want to ruin this moment with the specter of his former life. This was about them, about what they were choosing to build together.

He leaned over her, pressing tender kisses along her neck and collarbone, feeling the thrum of her pulse beneath his lips. Her skin was like silk, and her scent was intoxicating, a blend of warmth and vanilla that he’d come to associate with home. Her breathy sighs were music to his ears, each one a silent encouragement to explore further.

Her fingers danced over his shoulders, her nails lightly scraping against his skin as she guided him closer, urging him to explore. His heart hammered in his chest, a reminder of the life he had reclaimed, the humanity he had fought to keep.

Their kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if they were both trying to convey the depth of their feelings without words. Bucky’s hand traveled up her side, feeling the curve of her hip, the softness of her skin, the warmth that emanated from her core. He was acutely aware of every touch, every breath, the way she arched into his mouth when he kissed her just right. It was as if he was mapping out a new territory, one that was uncharted and full of wonder.

The room was filled with the sound of their mingled breaths, the rustle of fabric, the quiet sighs that escaped their lips. Y/N’s hand slipped under his shirt, her fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin. He stilled for a moment, waiting, but she didn’t pull away.

Bucky felt something unlock inside of him, a door that had been sealed shut for so long he’d almost forgotten it was there. It was a rush of sensation, of need, that made his head spin and his heart race. He kissed her again, harder this time, his hand sliding down to the small of her back, pressing her closer.

Y/N’s legs parted, inviting him in, and Bucky’s heart stuttered in his chest. He’d never been this intimate with someone who knew all of him, who had seen the darkest corners of his soul and chosen to stay. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He took a moment to breathe, to steady himself. He didn’t want to rush this, didn’t want to scare her away with his intensity. But when he pulled back, her eyes were dark with desire, matching the pulse in his veins. She didn’t look scared. She looked hungry.

They moved together in a dance that was both new and familiar, their bodies speaking a language that didn’t require words. He felt the heat of her skin, the softness of her curves, the way she molded against him as if they’d been made for this. It was a revelation, a reminder that he was more than the sum of his parts.

Bucky’s hand slid up her thigh, his thumb brushing against the lace of her underwear. He felt her shiver and knew that she was just as ready as he was. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. This was it. The moment he’d feared and craved in equal measure. But with her, it didn’t feel scary. It felt right.

Y/N’s hand reached for the hem of his shirt, her eyes never leaving his. He raised his arms, letting her pull it off. The cool air of the room kissed his bare skin, making him shiver. She traced the lines of his abs with her fingertips, her eyes taking in every inch of him with a mix of awe and affection.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, her voice a warm caress against his ear.

Bucky felt a blush creep up his cheeks, a rare and welcome sensation. He’d never been one for compliments, but coming from her, it felt like the most profound truth he’d ever heard. He kissed her again, his hand sliding up to cup her breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm.

They moved together, exploring each other with gentle touches and whispered sighs. Bucky’s mind was a blur of sensation, each new discovery a revelation. The way she tasted, the way she felt, the way she made him feel. It was like coming home after a long, cold war, finding warmth in the most unexpected of places.

He felt her hand on the elastic of his sweatpants, and he stilled for a moment. This was the part that had always been a minefield before. But she didn’t look up at him with fear or hesitation. Just love. So he let her continue, his breath catching in his throat as she touched him, skin to skin.

Y/N’s hand was warm and sure, and Bucky couldn’t help but gasp as she touched him, her thumb rubbing against the sensitive skin just beneath the waistband. The fabric was the last barrier between them, and the anticipation was almost too much to bear.

With a trembling hand, Bucky reached down to help her, his heart racing as he pushed his pants down. The coolness of the air against his skin was a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies, and he watched as she took him in, her eyes wide and filled with a hunger that made him feel alive in a way he hadn’t been in decades.

They kissed again, a kiss that was more than just a meeting of lips, it was a declaration of trust, of love, of the shared hope that this could be the start of something beautiful. He felt her hand slide down, her fingertips dancing against his skin, until she reached the bulge in his boxers, and he let out a soft groan that seemed to resonate through the very core of his being.

Her hand was tentative at first, exploring his hardness with gentle strokes. But as Bucky’s grip tightened on the sheets and his breathing grew ragged, she grew bolder. Her touch was a whispered promise of what was to come, a gentle reminder that she was here for him, that he wasn’t alone.

He slid his hand down to cover hers, their fingers intertwining as they found a rhythm that sent shockwaves through his body. The warmth of her hand, the softness of her skin, the way she looked at him - it was almost too much to handle. But he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, craving more.

With a tremble, Bucky reached for the clasp of her bra, his metal digits fumbling slightly. But she was patient, smiling up at him as he finally managed to free her from the garment. Her breasts were perfect in his eyes, the soft mounds fitting perfectly into his palms. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, watching as they pebbled beneath his touch, and she gasped into his mouth. The sensation of skin against skin was electric, sending currents of pleasure through him that he hadn’t felt in what felt like an eternity. He’d been so afraid of this moment, but here it was, and it was nothing like he’d feared. It was gentle, it was kind, it was everything he’d hoped for.

He broke the kiss to kiss his way down her neck, her chest, her stomach. He took his time, savoring each new inch of her that was revealed to him. Y/N’s breath hitched as his mouth reached the apex of her thighs, his tongue tracing a line along her inner thigh before dipping closer to where she was wet and waiting for him. He felt a small twist of doubt and self consciousness, he hadn’t actually done this since the 40s.

Her legs fell open to encourage him, and Bucky took a moment to breathe her in, to appreciate the trust she was giving him.

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” She assured. He kissed her gently, his tongue teasing against her slit, her taste a rich mix of sweetness and desire. Y/N’s body arched off the bed, and she let out a soft moan, her hand sliding into his hair to guide him, to show him just how she liked it.

Bucky took his cues from her, his touch gentle and explorative. He’d never been with someone who knew the extent of his past, who had seen the monster he’d been made into. But here she was, her body open to him, welcoming him in. Her thighs trembled around his head as he worked his way down. His tongue found the spot that made her gasp. She was wet, slick against his mouth and he groaned, his cock pulsing with every soft whimper she made.

He could feel the tension coiling in her, tightening like a spring. Her hips began to move in time with his strokes, her breath coming in short and sharp gasps. He didn’t know how to do this, not really. But he knew he wanted to make her feel good. So he listened to her body, her sounds, her whispers of need. He focused on her reactions, learning what she liked, what made her squirm, what made her moan.

Small, quick flicks of his tongue over her clit seemed to send her reeling.

Y/N’s hands tightened in his hair as he worked her over, her body shaking with the force of her restrained pleasure. He could feel it building, the way she moved against his mouth, her legs tightening around his head, her breaths turning to pants. Her nails scraped against his scalp, a delicious pain that only served to drive him on, to make him want more, to make her feel more.

And then she was coming, her body shuddering with the force of her orgasm, her muscles clenching around his tongue. Bucky felt a surge of pride, of accomplishment, of pure, unadulterated joy.

He pulled back, kissing his way back up her body, feeling her pulse throb against his lips. She was beautiful, so beautiful, laid out before him like this. “Bucky,” she breathed, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with pleasure. He leaned over her, his forehead touching hers. “You’re sure?” he whispered. She nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips.

Bucky reached for the bedside drawer, his hand shaking slightly as he pulled out a condom. He’d had them there for months, hopeful and terrified, but they’d remained untouched. The foil packet crinkled in the quiet room, a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the wake of their shared intimacy. Y/N watched him, her eyes never leaving his face, her trust in him unwavering. He rolled it on, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest, the echoes of fear that had haunted his every intimate moment. But as he positioned himself over her, her legs wrapping around his waist, he knew he could do this. For her, with her, he could overcome his worries.

He pushed inside her, slowly.

The world outside the window had gone dark, but the room was bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Her eyes were wide, watching him with a mix of excitement and concern, and he knew he had to get this right. For her, for them. Her heat enveloped him, and he felt his own walls crumbling, the last of his barriers falling away. He’d never felt this connected to anyone before, not like this. It was as if they were two lost pieces of a puzzle finally finding their place.

Their movements grew more frantic as the passion built, their kisses deep and desperate. Bucky felt the ghosts of his past trying to claw their way back in, but he pushed them away, focusing solely on the woman beneath him. Her nails dug into his back, her legs tightening around him as she matched his rhythm, urging him on.

The sounds of their bodies moving together filled the room, a symphony of sighs and gasps and moans. Each thrust was a declaration of his need for her, each kiss a promise to keep her safe. Bucky’s heart thudded in his chest, a drumline of hope and desire. He’d been so afraid of this moment, but here it was, and it was nothing like the horrors he’d anticipated. It was raw and real and everything he’d ever dreamed of.

Her nails scored down his back as she arched up to meet him, her breaths growing shallower, her hips rising to meet his thrusts. Bucky felt the tension in her body, the way she tightened around him, the soft mewling noises that escaped her throat. He’d never felt so alive, so present in the moment. Each stroke was a promise, a declaration that he was here, with her, and nothing else mattered.

Their bodies moved in harmony, a dance that transcended the chaos of the world outside. His metal hand found hers, their fingers entwining as if to anchor themselves in the present. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his touch, the way she clung to him as if he were her lifeline. And maybe, in a way, he was.

The world narrowed down to just the two of them, the only sounds the slap of skin and the harsh pull of their breathing. Bucky’s eyebrow was furrowed. He watched her face, the way her lip got pulled between her teeth in concentration, the softness of her cheeks flushed with passion.

Her breath hitched, her eyes fluttering closed as she neared the precipice again.

Their passion was palpable, a force that transcended the physical, reaching into the depths of their souls.

Her eyes flew open, meeting his, and in that moment, something changed. He saw her, not just the woman he desired, but the person who had seen his darkest moments and chosen to love him regardless. And she saw him, not as the damaged soldier, but as the man who had fought to survive and come back to life.

Their movements grew more deliberate. Bucky’s rhythm slowed, his strokes deepening, as if trying to etch himself into her very being. He felt her inner walls quiver, a sign that she was close, and he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. But he wanted to give her everything she needed, to show her just how much she meant to him.

Y/N’s breath was a pant on his skin, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He leaned in, pressing kisses along her jaw, her neck, the soft skin of her collarbone. They were both hurtling uncontrollably towards the edge…

Her body tensed around him, a silent plea, and Bucky knew he couldn’t hold back anymore. He thrust into her, feeling her nails dig into his back as she cried out his name, her body shattering into a thousand pieces. He watched her come undone, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure that sent him over the edge.

With a guttural groan, he followed her, his orgasm tearing through his muscles, leaving him trembling and spent. He collapsed onto her, his heart hammering against hers, their breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath. The warmth of her body was like a medicine to his soul, a gentle reminder that he was more than just a weapon, that he was loved.

They laid there for a few moments, their hearts beating in sync, the only sound in the room the gentle rustle of the blanket around them. Bucky felt the warmth of her skin, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, and the reality of what they had just shared settled heavily on him. It was a moment that had been months in the making, a moment where fear had been vanquished by love and trust.

He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at her. Her eyes were closed, a soft smile tugging at her lips. He couldn’t help but trace the curve of her cheek with the back of his hand, feeling the heated skin under his fingertips. He’d never felt more alive, more human, than he did in that moment.

“You okay?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him with a softness that made his chest ache. “More than okay,” she said, her voice a whisper.

He leaned down to kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her lips. Her hand slid up his chest, her touch featherlight and reverent. It was as if she knew just how much this meant to him, just how much of a milestone it was.

They lay there, tangled in the sheets, their bodies still slick with sweat. Bucky’s mind was racing, but in a good way. He’d done it. He’d faced his fears and come out the other side. And she was still here, her arm wrapped around his waist, her breathing evening out as she snuggled closer to him.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice still rough from their earlier exertions. Y/N opened her eyes and gave him a sleepy smile. “For what?” “For making it okay,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “For making me feel like I can do this. Like I’m not just some… some broken toy that nobody wants to play with anymore.”

Her eyes had a glassy pain in them. “Bucky, you’re so much more than that. You always have been. And I want to play with you.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, the sound low and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

——————————————————————————————————

A small gift 🎁🫶 (We’re ignoring mistakes)

[satellite-evans]

best friends

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando becomes best friends with your daughter after taking care of her when she's sick <3

Word count: 4.6k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

It was one of those rainy mornings when everything seemed to move in slow motion. The sky was a dull shade of gray, and raindrops trickled down the windowpane, blurring the outside world into a watercolor painting. The sound of distant thunder rolled through the air, a reminder that the storm had settled in for the day.

You stood in your living room, fingers wrapped around a warm cup of coffee, the steam curling up into the air like a ghost of comfort. The aroma was rich, but the exhaustion clinging to your bones made it hard to appreciate. You took a slow sip, hoping the caffeine would work some magic, but the fatigue from the sleepless night refused to loosen its grip.

On the couch, your four-year-old daughter, Sophie, was curled up beneath a thick blanket, her tiny form barely stirring. Her usually bright, mischievous eyes were shut tight, her breathing soft but uneven. Her cheeks were flushed with fever, her little hands gripping the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering her to comfort.

You exhaled, rubbing a hand over your face. The night had been long—hours spent checking her temperature, pressing cool cloths to her forehead, whispering reassurances into the dark. She had tossed and turned, whimpering in her sleep, too warm, too restless, too sick to find peace. And now, in the quiet of the morning, you were running on fumes, your body heavy with exhaustion, but there was no choice.

You couldn’t call in sick. Not again.

Your boss had been understanding the last time, but you knew there was only so much flexibility they could offer. And as much as you hated it, bills didn’t pause for feverish nights or exhausted single mothers. You had to push through. That’s what you always did.

Your gaze flickered to the clock. Less than an hour before your meeting.

Your stomach tightened as reality settled in—there was no way you could leave Sophie alone, not like this. The thought of walking out that door while she lay there, weak and vulnerable, made your chest ache with guilt. But what choice did you have?

You chewed your lip, fingers tightening around your phone. There was one person who might be able to help. Someone you weren’t sure you could ask yet.

Lando.

Your relationship was still new, fresh enough that you hesitated before burdening him with something this big. But he had always been kind, always made you feel like you weren’t alone in this, even when you were too scared to believe it. And right now, you needed help.

You took a breath and started typing.

Hey, Lando… Sophie is really sick today, and I have to go to work. I know this might be a lot, but… I don’t know who else to ask. Would you be able to help out for a bit? xxx

Your thumb hovered over the send button for a second, doubt creeping in. Was this too much? Would he feel obligated? Would this change things between you?

But there was no time to second-guess. You pressed send.

The seconds stretched unbearably as you waited for his response. You took another sip of coffee, your throat tight, your mind racing through backup plans—plans you didn’t have. Your gaze drifted back to Sophie, her small frame so fragile, her body lost in the folds of the blanket. She needed you. But she also needed the roof over her head, the food on her plate, the security you worked so hard to provide.

Then, finally, the ping of a message.

Your heart jumped as you unlocked your phone, your breath catching as you read his reply.

Don’t worry, I got you! I’ll take care of her. You’ve got nothing to stress about. I’ll be there in 10 minutes xxx

You let out a sigh of relief, but a small knot still formed in your stomach. The idea of leaving Sophie in someone else’s care, especially someone as new to your life as Lando, felt a little strange. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him—you did. He had always been kind, patient, and effortlessly good with people. But Sophie wasn’t just anyone. She was your whole world, and handing over even a sliver of responsibility for her well-being wasn’t easy.

Still, you had no choice.

Not long after, a soft knock at the door broke through your anxious thoughts. You took a deep breath before opening it, finding Lando standing there, a concerned but reassuring smile on his face. He looked effortlessly casual in a hoodie and sweats, hands tucked into his pockets as if this was just another normal day.

“Hey,” he greeted, stepping inside. “How’s our little patient doing?”

You led him into the living room, where Sophie woke up and was curled up on the couch, watching TV with tired, glassy eyes. Although she was awake, she barely moved, fully focused on what was happening indient of her. The moment she saw Lando, she peeked up at him before quickly hiding her face in the folds of fabric, too shy to say anything.

You sighed, kneeling beside her and brushing her hair back gently. Her forehead was still too warm beneath your touch. “She’s still really warm,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else. Then, turning back to Lando, you handed him a small notepad filled with your rushed, yet meticulous, handwriting. “I wrote down everything you need to know.”

Lando took the notepad, his eyes scanning over it with careful focus as you continued.

“Her medicine is here—one dose every six hours. She won’t eat much when she’s sick, but she loves toast with honey and banana slices or the tomato soup in the fridge. She also only drinks apple juice or water, but try to get her to drink more water.”

Lando nodded, already taking mental notes. “Got it. Medicine, toast with honey and bananas, apple juice, and lots of water.”

You glanced down at Sophie, who remained silent but was clearly listening. “She likes Peppa Pig, but her favorite is Bluey,” you added, lowering your voice like it was a secret just for him.

At that, Lando chuckled. “Ah, a kid with taste. Oscar loves it too. Bluey it is.”

You smiled, appreciating how quickly he was absorbing everything. “She’s really shy at first, but once she warms up, she won’t stop talking.”

He grinned. “Challenge accepted.”

Your expression softened. “She also hates loud noises when she’s sick, so keep things quiet.” You hesitated before adding, “And… just call me if anything happens. Anything at all.”

“I will,” he assured you, his voice steady and certain. “You don’t have to worry. We’re going to be just fine.”

You wanted to believe that, and maybe you did, but leaving still felt wrong.

You turned back to Sophie, kneeling beside her once more. Her tiny frame barely shifted beneath the blanket, but when you smoothed her hair away from her face, she blinked up at you, her watery eyes full of unspoken words.

“I’ll be back soon, sweetheart,” you promised, pressing a gentle kiss to her warm forehead. “Be good for Lando, okay?”

Sophie’s lower lip trembled, and she clutched the blanket tighter. “I want you to stay,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Your heart clenched painfully. You stroked her cheek, trying to fight the wave of guilt rising in your chest. “I know, baby,” you murmured. “I know. But I have to go to work, okay? Lando’s going to stay with you. He’s really nice, remember?”

She didn’t answer right away, her little fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. Then, slowly, she gave a tiny nod. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Lando crouched beside you, keeping his voice soft and light. “You know, Sophie, I was actually thinking I could use some help today.”

Sophie peeked at him through her lashes, wary but curious.

“You see,” he continued, as if sharing an important secret, “I don’t know the first thing about Bluey. And I heard you’re the expert. Think you can teach me?”

For a moment, there was nothing. But then, finally, Sophie nodded again, just a fraction more certain this time.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Giving her one last kiss on the forehead, you stood, grabbing your bag and coat. Before heading out the door, you turned to Lando one last time, meeting his gaze with quiet gratitude.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion.

His smile was warm, unwavering. “Anytime.”

For the first hour, Sophie was quiet, keeping her distance on the couch while Lando sat nearby. He didn’t push her to talk, didn’t try to force a connection—he simply sat beside her, arms resting casually on his knees, watching Bluey with an easy, relaxed expression.

The sound coming from the TV filled the quiet space between them, the rain outside creating a gentle rhythm against the windows. Every so often, he could feel her eyes on him—brief, cautious glances before she quickly looked away, burying herself deeper into her blanket.

Lando pretended not to notice at first, letting her come to him in her own time. But when he caught another quick peek out of the corner of his eye, he finally spoke, keeping his voice light and playful.

“You know,” he mused, as if sharing a secret, “I have a friend named Bluey.”

Sophie blinked at him, intrigued but skeptical. “You do?” she asked softly, her voice raspy from sleep.

“Yup,” he nodded, a grin tugging at his lips. “She’s blue, just like this Bluey, but she’s actually a little stuffed toy my friend keeps in his car for good luck.”

Sophie’s lips twitched, and then, to Lando’s delight, she giggled—a quiet, sleepy little laugh, but still, a laugh.

“That’s funny,” she murmured, curling further into the blanket.

Lando grinned, feeling the tension between them start to melt away.

A little while later, when Sophie’s tummy let out a small grumble, he took it as his cue.

“Sounds like someone’s ready for a snack,” he teased, standing up and stretching dramatically.

Sophie hesitated before nodding. “Toast,” she mumbled, rubbing at her tired eyes.

“Coming right up, ma’am,” Lando said with a playful salute, making her giggle again.

He moved into the kitchen, following the notes you had left. He spread a thin layer of honey over the warm toast, slicing up a banana just the way you had instructed. As he placed the plate in front of Sophie, he watched with amusement as she immediately picked at the crust first, nibbling at the edges before moving onto the softer center.

He tilted his head, noticing how familiar the habit seemed. Then it hit him.

“You eat your toast like your mommy does,” he remarked casually.

Sophie paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up to him in surprise. “Like mommy?”

Lando nodded. “Yup. First time I saw her do it, I thought maybe she was just being fancy. But now I know—it’s a family thing.”

Sophie seemed to like that answer because she grinned before taking another bite.

A few moments later, she pouted slightly as honey dripped onto her fingers. Lando reached for a wet napkin, handing it to her with an amused smirk.

“Sticky fingers, huh?” he teased.

She nodded solemnly, wiping her hands with small, deliberate movements. “Mommy doesn’t like sticky fingers either.”

Lando chuckled, leaning back into the couch. “You and your mommy are a lot alike, you know?”

At that, Sophie smiled—really smiled this time—and it was the kind of smile that made Lando’s chest feel unexpectedly full. She looked at him for a moment, her tiny body finally relaxing as if she had decided he was safe. Then, with a small yawn, she snuggled deeper into the blanket, inching closer to his side.

Just as her eyelids started to droop, she mumbled sleepily, “Mommy says you has pretty eyes.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. “Oh, really?”

Sophie nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “She told her best friend, Louisa. She said they’re ‘so dreamy.’”

Lando chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. “Did she now?”

Sophie made a soft noise of agreement, already half-asleep. “She likes you.”

Lando’s heart swelled at her innocent words, warmth spreading through him in a way he hadn’t expected. He glanced down at her peaceful face, looking exactly like you.

Gently, he brushed a stray curl from her forehead and whispered, “I like her too.”

As the day stretched on, Sophie’s initial shyness melted away, replaced by giggles and small moments of trust.

At first, she was cautious—watching Lando out of the corner of her eye as he sat on the floor beside her tiny play area. But with patience and gentle encouragement, he managed to pull her into small activities. They built a pillow fort in the living room, carefully stacking cushions and draping a blanket overhead to create a cozy hideout.

“This is the best castle ever,” Lando announced dramatically, lying on his back inside their creation. “I think we should declare this as The Kingdom of Sophie.”

Sophie giggled, adjusting the stuffed animals she had lined up as “guards” at the fort’s entrance. “And you can be the knight,” she declared.

Lando gasped, clutching his chest. “Me? A knight? That’s a huge responsibility.” He leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Do I get a sword?”

Sophie considered this very seriously before nodding. “But only a soft sword,” she said, picking up a plush toy and handing it to him. “No hitting, just protecting.”

Lando chuckled, accepting the stuffed animal with a solemn nod. “I will guard this kingdom with my life.”

After their castle adventures, Sophie pulled out her collection of books, choosing her favorites and snuggling into Lando’s side as he read to her. She listened intently, her little fingers playing with the hem of his hoodie while he brought each story to life with silly voices and exaggerated expressions.

“You’re funny,” she told him at one point, peeking up at him with a sleepy smile.

“I try to be,” Lando admitted. “But between you and me, I think you’re the funniest one here.”

She giggled again, clearly pleased.

Later in the afternoon, when her energy dipped, they settled at the coffee table for a quiet coloring session. Lando grabbed a handful of crayons while Sophie carefully worked on her masterpiece.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, peering over her shoulder.

Sophie held up the paper proudly, revealing a childlike drawing of three stick figures. One was clearly her, with curly scribbles for hair, another was you, and the last one—labeled “Lando” in wobbly letters—stood right beside you.

Lando’s heart clenched in the best way possible. “Wow,” he said, genuinely touched. “This might be the best drawing I’ve ever seen.”

Sophie beamed. “It’s Mommy and you! And me!”

“I love it,” he told her, nudging her playfully. “You’re a real artist, Soph.”

After a fun-filled afternoon of pillow forts, storybooks, and coloring, Lando noticed Sophie beginning to slow down. Her energy had dipped significantly, her tiny body slumping against the couch as she blinked sluggishly at the TV.

He frowned, reaching out to feel her forehead the way he had seen you do earlier. The warmth against his palm made his stomach twist uncomfortably—she was still running a fever.

“Alright, kiddo,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl away from her face. “Time for a little check-up.”

Sophie groaned, her response muffled by the blanket she had pulled up over her nose. “Noooo.”

Lando chuckled. “Come on, your mom left me very strict instructions to make sure you’re feeling okay. I don’t mess around when it comes to doctor duties.”

Sophie peeked out, her cheeks flushed from the fever. “Are you a real doctor?”

Lando gasped dramatically. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know I am Dr. Lando, and I am very serious about my job.” He reached for the thermometer you had left on the coffee table. “Now, open up, little miss.”

She pouted but obeyed, letting him slip the thermometer under her tongue. Lando sat patiently, watching the numbers climb before it beeped. He pulled it out, checking the screen.

“Not bad, but still warm, Soph,” he murmured, concern flickering in his eyes.

Sophie just hummed sleepily, curling further into her blanket.

Lando glanced at the notepad of instructions you had left, then back at her. “Alright, first order of business—water. Your mom said you have to drink some, and I’d rather not get fired on my first day as a babysitter.”

Sophie groaned but didn’t argue when he grabbed her little cup of water and held it out to her.

“Just a few sips, okay?” he coaxed. “I’ll even let you have a super exclusive VIP sip while sitting in the fort.”

That got her attention. She let out a weak giggle before reaching for the cup with small, clumsy fingers. Lando helped guide it to her lips, watching as she took a few tiny sips before wrinkling her nose.

“Bleh,” she mumbled.

Lando smirked. “Not a water fan, huh?”

She shook her head, but Lando tapped the cup gently. “I get it, but we gotta make sure you don’t turn into a little raisin.”

Sophie giggled at that, taking one more sip before handing the cup back.

“Good job, kiddo,” he praised.

Next came the medicine, which was a slightly tougher battle.

“Noooo,” Sophie whined, pulling the blanket over her head when she saw Lando grabbing the small bottle.

Lando sighed, shaking his head. “C’mon, Soph. Your mom told me you have to take this.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“Okay, what if I take some too?” Lando bargained.

Sophie peeked out, squinting at him. “You don’t have a fever.”

“Yeah, but I feel like I could be getting one,” he said with mock seriousness. “Better to be safe, right?”

She stared at him for a moment, considering his words. “…Okay.”

Lando grinned in victory and poured the correct dose into the little plastic cup. He handed it to her, watching as she took it hesitantly before scrunching her face at the taste.

“Bleh,” she groaned again.

“Yeah, medicine’s the worst,” Lando agreed, setting the cup aside. “But you’re a champ.”

Satisfied that he had followed your instructions, he helped tuck her back into the couch, adjusting the blanket so she was snug and warm.

He sat beside her, ruffling her curls lightly. “Feeling any better?”

Sophie hummed, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “A little.”

“That’s good,” he murmured, watching as she yawned and curled closer to him. He reached for the remote, lowering the TV volume. “Alright, you just rest now, okay? I got you.”

Sophie peeked up at him, blinking slowly, her eyelids heavy with sleep. “Mommy was right,” she whispered, her voice thick with drowsiness.

Lando tilted his head, raising an eyebrow as he tried to hide a small smile. “About what?” he asked softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful moment.

She yawned again, her tiny body curling further into the warmth of the blanket. “You’re nice,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. “And you’re officially my new best friend.”

A warmth spread through Lando's chest, more than just the gentle feeling of Sophie’s innocent words. He smiled to himself, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her forehead as he whispered, “That’s an honor, kiddo. You’re my new best friend too.” His voice was so soft, so sincere, and Sophie’s breathing soon evened out, signaling that she was finally drifting into a peaceful sleep.

Lando stayed where he was, right by her side. The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of Sophie’s breathing. He glanced around the room, ensuring she was comfortable—making sure the blanket was tucked just right, keeping the environment as calm and secure as possible. He knew how much you’d want this—how much you’d want her to feel safe and loved.

And just as you walked through the door, everything around you seemed still, frozen in a sense of calm that made your heart swell in a way that took you by surprise. The living room was serene. The TV played softly in the background, a nature documentary flickering in the corner, but all your attention was drawn to the sight before you. There, curled up against Lando’s side, was Sophie—utterly content, her tiny hand resting trustingly on his arm. The sight was simple but perfect. She had found comfort in Lando's presence, just like she always found in yours.

You stopped in the doorway for a long moment, frozen by the unexpected tenderness of the scene. Lando moved with such deliberate care, adjusting the blanket around Sophie’s shoulders. He tucked it in gently, making sure she was warm and settled in, completely unaware of how much it all made your heart swell.

It was a moment of quiet beauty, and you couldn’t help but feel a soft rush of emotion rise in your chest.

Lando caught the sound of your footsteps and looked up. His lips curved into a quiet smile, one that spoke volumes without needing words. “Hey,” he whispered, careful not to disturb Sophie. “She did great today.”

You set down your bag, your voice warm with admiration. “Looks like you did too.” Your gaze softened as you looked at them, the scene too peaceful not to melt your heart.

Sophie stirred, the gentle sound of your voice pulling her from the last remnants of sleep. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she blinked a few times before her tired gaze landed on you. Her little voice was still thick with sleep when she murmured, “Mommy…”

You knelt down beside her, brushing a few stray curls from her forehead. “Hey, sweetheart. Did you have a good nap?” you asked softly, your heart full.

Sophie stretched slightly, but stayed nestled against Lando, unwilling to leave the safety of his side. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep as she spoke again, her words slow and deliberate. “Lando’s funny,” she said with a yawn. “And he said Bluey is his friend.”

You chuckled softly, amused by her observations. “Did he take good care of you?” you asked, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

Sophie nodded, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “Mhm,” she murmured, her voice drowsy but content. “And…” She paused, clearly considering her next words carefully, before her face shifted into a mischievous little smile. “He has dreamy eyes. Just like you said.”

Your whole body locked up, the blood rushing to your cheeks in an instant. Your heart skipped, and your mouth went dry. Your mind raced as you scrambled for a response, but no words came out. Instead, you opened your mouth—then closed it—before finally opening it again, only to find yourself completely lost for words.

Lando, on the other hand, had zero plans of letting this moment pass without teasing you mercilessly.

His smirk spread slowly, his eyes glinting with amusement as he turned to you. “So… dreamy, huh?” he teased, his voice low and full of mischief.

You groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God, Sophie,” you whined, your voice muffled by your palms. “I’m never speaking in front of her again.”

Lando chuckled, clearly enjoying every second of your embarrassment. “No, no,” he teased, “don’t stop now. I’m very interested in this topic.” His voice was playful, but there was a warmth in it that made you feel as though he wasn't teasing in a hurtful way—just in a way that made everything feel even more genuine.

You shot him a playful glare, your cheeks still burning with heat. “I hate you,” you muttered, but the words came out softer than intended.

Lando reached over and gently took your hand in his, his fingers squeezing yours. The teasing smile faded into something warmer, something more sincere. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice low and tender. “I think it’s adorable.”

You exhaled, still flustered but unable to stop the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. It was impossible not to feel a little bit lighter with him beside you.

Lando lifted your hand and pressed a soft, playful kiss to your knuckles. “And just so you know,” he added, his voice dropping to a playful whisper, “I think your eyes are pretty dreamy too.”

Eventually, as much as you secretly didn’t want him to, Lando had to go. It was already getting late, and though Sophie had been asleep earlier, she was now awake and clinging to his hoodie with surprising strength for a four-year-old.

“Nooo,” she whined, her lower lip jutting out in the most dramatic pout. “Don’t go, stay.”

Lando smiled gently, crouching down to her level. “Hey, I’ll come back, okay? I promise.”

Sophie crossed her arms, her little face scrunching up in stubborn defiance. “Pinkie promise?”

Lando grinned, holding out his pinkie. “The strongest pinkie promise ever.”

She eyed him for a moment before looping her tiny pinkie around his. “You have to come back soon.”

“I will,” he assured her. “And next time, we’ll build an even bigger pillow fort.”

Sophie gasped as if that was the greatest thing she had ever heard. “With lights?”

Lando chuckled. “With lights. And a secret entrance. And maybe even some snacks.”

Sophie giggled, finally releasing his hoodie. “Okay… but don’t take too long.”

Lando ruffled her curls. “Deal.”

Sophie then turned to you and grabbed your hand. “Come, Mommy. You have to walk him to the door.”

Lando arched a brow, clearly amused. “Oh, do I get an escort?”

Sophie nodded seriously. “Mommy has to say goodbye properly.”

Your cheeks warmed again, but you didn’t argue, letting Sophie lead the way as the three of you walked to the door.

When you reached it, Sophie turned to Lando. “Bye-bye, Lando.”

He smiled, bending down to give her a quick hug. “Bye, kiddo. Sleep tight, okay?”

Sophie nodded before stepping back, watching intently as if she was expecting something.

Lando turned to you, his expression softening. “Thanks for trusting me with her today.”

You exhaled, offering him a small, genuine smile. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Lando took a small step closer, tilting his head slightly. “Anytime.”

For a moment, you both just stood there, caught in the quiet, comfortable tension between you.

And then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

Lando froze for half a second, his breath hitching ever so slightly—but when you pulled back, his lips stretched into the slowest, most heart-melting smile you had ever seen.

“Was that a thank-you?” he teased, though his voice was lower, warmer.

You laughed softly. “Maybe.”

His eyes flickered between yours, something unspoken passing between you, before he lifted a hand and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary.

“I really like being here,” he admitted quietly.

You swallowed, your heart skipping a beat. “I really like you being here.”

And then, before you could completely process it, Lando leaned in, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, tender kiss.

It was soft and warm, hesitant yet sure, the kind of kiss that left no doubt about where things were heading between you.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against yours, a quiet chuckle escaping him. “So… should I expect Sophie to tell you stuff about me too?”

You groaned, laughing against him. “Oh God, she totally will.”

Lando grinned, pressing one more quick kiss to your lips before pulling back. “Guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

From behind you, Sophie giggled. “Mommy likes you sooo much.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Sophie.”

Lando only laughed, giving your hand one last squeeze before stepping outside. “See you soon.”

And as he walked down the path, you stood in the doorway with Sophie, watching him go—your heart already longing for the moment he would come back.